Fancy a bride now having a tooth-ache, or a
swelled face during the honeymoon--in courtship she won't show, but in
marriage she can't help it,--or a felon on her finger (it is to be
hoped she hain't given her hand to one); or fancy now; just fancy, a
hooping-cough caught in the cold church, that causes her to make a
noise like drowning, a great gurgling in-draught, and a great
out-blowing, like a young sporting porpoise, and instead of being all
alone with her own dear husband, to have to admit the horrid doctor,
and take draughts that make her breath as hot as steam, and submit to
have nauseous garlic and brandy rubbed on her breast, spine, palms of
her hands, and soles of her feet, that makes the bridegroom, every
time he comes near her to ask her how she is, sneeze, as if he was
catching it himself. He don't say to himself in an under-tone damn it,
how unlucky this is. Of course not; he is too happy to swear, if he
ain't too good, as he ought to be; and she don't say, eigh--augh, like
a donkey, for they have the hooping-cough all the year round; "dear
love, eigh--augh, how wretched this is, ain't it? eigh--augh," of
course not; how can she be wretched? Ain't it her honeymoon? and ain't
she as happy as a bride can be, though she does eigh--augh her
slippers up amost. But it won't last long, she feels sure it won't,
she is better now, the doctor says it will be soon over; yes, but the
honeymoon will be over too, and it don't come like Christmas, once
a-year.
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