Marriage and the Joke of it.

Marriages are made in heaven—“but solely,” it has been added by a cynical writer, “for export.”  There is nothing more remarkable in human sociology than our attitude towards the institution of marriage.  So it came home to me the other evening as I sat on a cane chair in the ill-lighted schoolroom of a small country town.  The occasion was a Penny Reading.  We had listened to the usual overture from Zampa, played by the lady professor and the eldest daughter of the brewer; to “Phil Blood’s Leap,” recited by the curate; to the violin solo by the pretty widow about whom gossip is whispered—one hopes it is not true.  Then a pale-faced gentleman, with a drooping black moustache, walked on to the platform.  It was the local tenor.  He sang to us a song of love.  Misunderstandings had arisen; bitter words, regretted as soon as uttered, had pierced the all too sensitive spirit.  Parting had followed.  The broken-hearted one had died believing his affection unrequited.  But the angels had since told him; he knew she loved him now—the accent on the now.

I glanced around me.  We were the usual crowd of mixed humanity—tinkers, tailors, soldiers, sailors, with our cousins, and our sisters, and our wives.  So many of our eyes were wet with tears.  Miss Butcher could hardly repress her sobs.  Young Mr. Tinker, his face hidden behind his programme, pretended to be blowing his nose.  Mrs. Apothecary’s large bosom heaved with heartfelt sighs.  The retired Colonel sniffed audibly.  Sadness rested on our souls.  It might have been so different but for those foolish, hasty words!  There need have been no funeral.  Instead, the church might have been decked with bridal flowers.  How sweet she would have looked beneath her orange wreath!  How proudly, gladly, he might have responded “I will,” take her for his wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death did them part.  And thereto he might have plighted his troth.

In the silence which reigned after the applause had subsided the beautiful words of the Marriage Service seemed to be stealing through the room: that they might ever remain in perfect love and peace together.  Thy wife shall be as the fruitful vine.  Thy children like the olive branches round about thy table.  Lo! thus shall a man be blessed.  So shall men love their wives as their own bodies, and be not bitter against them, giving honour unto them as unto the weaker vessel.  Let the wife see that she reverence her husband, wearing the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit.