A WEARY BENEDICT.
Of all the miseries, or vices, which are daily brought to this office for relief or correction, there are none that give the magistrates more trouble than the miseries of matrimony—and the trouble is the more painful, inasmuch as, in nine cases out of ten, it never leads to any satisfactory result. Scarcely a day passes without some connubial devilry, or other, being submitted to their judgment either by man or woman—members of the married public of this metropolis; and in almost every case their prayer is, total separation—a comfort which a magistrate has it not in his power to bestow. It is only your wealthy couples who can shake off their fetters—the needy ones must wear them for life.
A weary Benedict of this latter class—a large middle-aged man, of lachrymose physiognomy, respectful demeanour, and decent attire, presented himself before the magistrate, one gloomy December morning, to request some relief from his wedded woes. He had waited more than two hours among the crowd at the lower end of the office, whilst the ordinary business was going on without manifesting the slightest impatience; and when the hurry and bustle was over, he sedately approached the table, and told the magistrate, in a confidential under-tone, that he wished to consult him on a subject of the utmost importance—
"Speak out, Sir!" said the magistrate, "I am ready to hear you."
"Your worship, I am a married man," began the applicant—compressing his lips to keep down a rebellious sigh, which thereupon forced its way through his nostrils—rushing-ly indignant at his attempt to confine it—"I am a married man, your worship!"
"Well, Sir, and what of that?" said his worship.—"So much the better for you, if you have a good wife."
"Ah, Sir!" ejaculated the poor man, "I have been married eighteen years—and eighteen years of unmixed misery they have been to me! I thought to have lived in paradise, as it were; but I could not have been more miserable if I had lived in—the other place!"
He paused—sighed again—and then, taking out a ragged pocket handkerchief, he stood silently wiping his forehead until the magistrate roused him from his reverie by saying, "My good friend, I am very sorry for you, but what would you have me do?"
"I don't know, Sir," he replied, despondingly, "but I was told I could get some relief by applying here."
"If you wish to get divorced, I cannot do that for you," rejoined his worship:—"we should have little time for any thing else, I fear, if we could divorce all the unhappy couples who apply to us!"
"I have no doubt of it," said the man—"no doubt in the world of it! But, your worship, I don't wish to put my wife away so as to disgrace her. I would allow her a comfortable maintenance, if she would only leave me in peace."
"That you must agree upon between yourselves," observed the magistrate—"I cannot assist you in the negotiation, nor can I interfere at all between you, unless she has committed some breach of the peace—Has she struck you? or are you afraid she should attempt to take away your life?"
"I don't know whether she means to take away my life, or not," replied he, "but she is eternally beating me whenever she is tipsy; and that is almost every day!"
"Then why do you let her drink?"
"Ah! your worship, it's fine talking! I have long discontinued keeping anything drinkable in the house, except water and milk, and what is the consequence?—Why that my head is continually covered with bumps and bruises; and my chairs, tables, linen, and looking glasses, are daily converted into gin!"
"My good friend," said his worship, somewhat impatient of the subject—"my good friend, I really cannot do anything for you. You married her 'for better or for worse, to have and to hold until death shall you part,' and you must bear your misfortune as well as you can. I repeat, I—can—do—nothing for you."
"Then I am a very miserable man!" ejaculated the poor fellow, and turning from the table he heaved another sigh, so piteous and profound, that the discharge did seem to stretch his care-stuffed breast almost to bursting.