Men are not made for ceremonies.

And so at all the formal occasions of this life--whether it be among the great or among the lowly, in the East or the West, at weddings, christenings, and funerals--man hides in shame and leaves the affairs to woman, who leads him as an ox, even a muzzled ox, that treadeth out the corn.
"The doomed man," whispered John to Bob as the two in their black clothes stood at the head of the stair that led into the parlour of the Mason House that night, waiting for the wedding march to begin on the cabinet organ, "ate a hearty supper, consisting of beefsteak and eggs, and after shaking hands with his friends he mounted the gallows with a firm step!" Then he heard the thud of the music book on the organ, the creak of the treadle,--and when he returned to consciousness he was Mrs.
Mason's son-in-law, and proud of it.

And she,--bless her heart and the hearts of all good women who give up the joy of their lives to us poor unworthy creatures,--she stood by the wax-flower wreath under the glass case on the whatnot in the corner, and wept into her real lace handkerchief, and wished with all the earnestness of her soul that she could think of some way to let John know that his trousers leg was wrinkled over his left shoe top.

But she could not solve the problem, so she gave herself up to the consolation of her tears.

Yet it should be set down to her credit that when the preacher's amen was said, hers was the first head up, and while the others were rushing for the happy pair she was in the kitchen with her apron on dishing up the wedding supper.