ed 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.

Love and the Satyr.

All the stories sung by the sweet singers of all time were echoing in our
ears--stories of true love that would not run smoothly until the last
chapter; of gallant lovers strong and brave against fate; of tender
sweethearts, waiting, trusting, till love's golden crown was won; so they
married and lived happy ever after.

Then stepped briskly on the platform a stout, bald-headed man. We
greeted him with enthusiasm--it was the local low comedian. The piano
tinkled saucily. The self-confident man winked and opened wide his
mouth. It was a funny song; how we roared with laughter! The last line
of each verse was the same:

"And that's what it's like when you're married."

"Before it was 'duckie,' and 'darling,' and 'dear.' Now it's 'Take your
cold feet away, Brute! can't you hear?'

"Once they walked hand in hand: 'Me loves ickle 'oo.' Now he strides on
ahead" (imitation with aid of umbrella much appreciated; the bald-headed
man, in his enthusiasm and owing to the smallness of the platform,
sweeping the lady accompanist off her stool), "bawling: 'Come along,
do.'"

The bald-headed man interspersed side-splitting patter. The husband
comes home late; the wife is waiting for him at the top of the stairs
with a broom. He kisses the servant-girl. She retaliates by discovering
a cousin in the Guards.

The comic man retired to an enthusiastic demand for an encore. I looked
around me at the laughing faces. Miss Butcher had been compelled to
stuff her handkerchief into her mouth. Mr. Tinker was wiping his eyes;
he was not ashamed this time, they were tears of merriment. Mrs.
Apothecary's motherly bosom was shaking like a jelly. The Colonel was
grinning from ear to ear.

Later on, as I noticed in the programme, the schoolmistress, an unmarried
lady, was down to sing "Darby and Joan." She has a sy