A well-to-do widow, was crazy to marry a man that she fancied, and who actually refused to give more than his name and hotel, and no references. On careful inquiry such a person was known by no less than two to four names,—changed to suit circumstances. The spell was broken, the match ended.
Men and women often rush into matrimony as game is run into a trap, for the little tempting bait set to catch them (a catch-as-catch-can race). They marry and risk a life-long happiness on less actual information of each other’s real nature than a good horseman would exact of his carriage horse’s pedigree. This may do in the country, but never will answer in a city. Sense and reason dictate that men and women, to enjoy each other’s society, should see well to the match beforehand. A fine hand, a small foot, a becoming hat, a twist of the head, a simper, or a half-witty saying will do well in their places; but colors must wash and wear to stand a lifetime.
Don’t marry a clown. A silly fellow that jokes on every subject never did amount to anything, and never will. All he says may be very funny, very; but how many times can he be funny?
Fun will grow stale and threadbare; one cannot live by it. Life is a trip that costs car fare, wash bills, board bills, trinkets, notions, and actual outlays. Real providers are never clowns; the clownish fellow is a favorite in school-days. He is so cute, just as cute as a cotton hat, so cunning, so witty, so nice. Is he? Wait a few years, until his nice nonsense turns to active business!
Don’t marry a dude. Of all milk-and-water specimens, a dude is the lowest,—a little removed from nothing; a dressed-up model for a tailor-shop (sometimes it’s in woman form); a street flirt, a hotel-step gazer, an eye-glass ogler, a street strut; one who finds his enjoyment in the looking-glass—a masher.
Very many are called, but few are chosen. The many that are called are ridiculed. The time will come when a tailor’s suit and a fancy outfit will no more make one respectable than it would make a gentleman of a wooden Indian in front of a cigar-stand.
Men, real men of business, and men fit to marry, are not dudes, but manly, upright beings, with sense, integrity, and genius or industry; who come upon the stage of life as real actors in its affairs, not as “supes” and sham soldiers in “Pinafore” battle-scenes, where a few parade in fancy feathers as commodores for the amusement of spectators.
Life is too earnest to spend on silly, tawdry, fancy colors or showy clothing; and the one who has the less of it is the most likely to be marked for a gentleman, and the brand will be correctly designated. With women, no less than men, is this silly street-walking habit quite prevalent. A flirting woman on a public street is a sorry picture; even one who stoops to notice her must secretly know her measure. She deceives no one, for her character, like the dude’s, is so transparent that no one mistakes its meaning. The habit of going nowhere for nothing is as foolish as it is injurious.
Character grows out of little things. It may be that being seen with a disreputable person three times, or even once, will change the whole current of our career. Don’t practise the vices of dudes nor the habits of street flirts.
Do not marry a boy or girl who is not good at home. That is the golden test of duty,—to do one’s duty alone, away from the eyes of men and the notice of the world; to be good from a right disposition.