A bride at her second marriage does not wear a veil. She wants to

Hear now the sharp and witty words of Helen Rowland, who with keen humor laid bare the wisdom of experience: “A bride at her second marriage does not wear a veil. She wants to see what she is getting.” This saying, though wrapped in laughter, speaks with the voice of truth. It tells of the difference between innocence and experience, between the blindness of first love and the clarity that comes when one has known both joy and disappointment. Rowland, a columnist of the early twentieth century, was famed for her clever sayings about romance, and here she distills a lifetime of observation into one piercing jest.

The veil, ancient symbol of mystery, purity, and hope, conceals the bride’s face in her first marriage. It represents trust in what is unseen, faith in a promise yet untested. But in the second marriage, Rowland declares, the veil is cast aside. The woman has lived, loved, perhaps suffered, and she no longer seeks illusion. She wishes to see clearly, to judge wisely, to enter union with open eyes rather than blind hope. The veil, once sacred, becomes unnecessary, for experience has stripped away illusion.

History itself gives flesh to this truth. Consider Cleopatra of Egypt, who bound herself first to Julius Caesar and later to Mark Antony. With Caesar, her union was filled with calculation but also the allure of power. With Antony, it was not innocence but the clarity of ambition and strategy. Cleopatra, like Rowland’s bride, no longer veiled herself in mystery—she looked with sharp eyes at what she was gaining and what she was risking. Her second great union was chosen not with naiveté, but with full knowledge of the stakes.

Rowland’s wit, however, is more than about marriage alone. It is about the way experience shapes human judgment. The first time we enter into anything—a relationship, a career, a great endeavor—we are often blinded by excitement, romance, or ambition. We imagine only the best. But after failure, loss, or betrayal, we see differently. We ask harder questions, we look closer, we demand clarity where once we accepted illusion. The second attempt, whatever it may be, is made not with a veil, but with eyes open.

Yet let us not read cynicism alone in her words. There is wisdom here: to grow wiser with age, to learn from the past, to demand honesty where once we accepted appearance. It is not that the second bride despises love, but that she honors truth. She seeks not fantasy but reality, not hidden promises but open partnership. In this way, her second union may be stronger than her first, for it is built on clear vision rather than veiled illusion.

O children of tomorrow, hear the lesson: do not despise the veil of youth, for it has its beauty. But when life has taught you through trial, do not cling to illusions. Approach your second chances—whether in love, in labor, or in life—with open eyes. Learn to look closely, to discern wisely, and to walk forward with honesty. Experience is not bitterness but a lantern, lighting the road ahead so you may choose more carefully than before.

What then must you do? When love comes again, greet it not with fear, but with clarity. When opportunity arises a second time, see it for what it is, not what you wish it to be. Cast aside the veil when wisdom demands it, and embrace truth as your greatest adornment. For the veil may conceal beauty, but clarity sustains it. And in this way, as Helen Rowland taught with her sharp humor, one finds that laughter itself can carry the deepest truths: that the heart grows wiser, and that the second union—whether of love or of life—is strongest when entered with eyes wide open.