Women Who Should Not Marry.
The woman who would rather nurse a pug dog than a baby.
The woman who thinks she can get $5,000 worth of style out of a $1,000 salary.
The woman who wants to refurnish her house every spring.
The woman who buys for the mere pleasure of buying.
The woman who does not know how many pennies, halves, quarters, dimes and nickels there are in a dollar.
The woman who thinks men are angels and demi-gods.
The woman who would die rather than wear a bonnet two seasons.
The woman who thinks that the cook and the nurse can run the house.
The woman who reads cheap novels and dreams of being a duchess or a countess.
The woman who thinks it is cheaper to buy bread than to bake it.
The woman who marries in order to have somebody pay her bills.
The woman who expects a declaration of love three times a day.
The woman who anticipates a good, easy time all her life.
The woman who cares more for the style of her winter coat than she does for the health and comfort of her children.
The woman who stays at home only because she has no place to visit.
The woman who thinks embroidered centrepieces and doylies are more important than sheets, pillow-cases and blankets.
The woman who buys bric-a-brac for her parlor and borrows kitchen utensils from her neighbors.
Men Who Should Not Marry.
On the masculine side it is the man who talks about supporting a wife when she is working fourteen hours a day, including Sunday.
The man who thinks it is all nonsense for a woman to want a ten-cent bunch of violets when she hasn’t seen a flower for five months.
A man who imagines a woman’s bonnet ought to cost about seventy-five cents.
A man who thinks his wife exists for the comfort and convenience of his mother and sisters.
The man who provides himself with a family and trusts in Providence to provide a home and something to eat.
The man who thinks all women are angels.
The man who thinks that no one but an angel is fit to be his wife.
The man who thinks a woman ought to be her own milliner, dressmaker, seamstress, cook, housemaid and nurse.
The man who cannot remember his wife’s birthday.
The man who thinks his wife is fixed for the season if she has a new gown.
The man who thinks a woman ought to give up a thousand-dollar salary and work in his kitchen for her board and a few clothes, and be glad of the chance.
The man who labors under the delusion that his wife’s money belongs to him.
The man who says, “Love me, love my dog.”
The man who thinks a parlor carpet ought to last fifteen years.
The man who has a $75 fishing tackle and cannot afford new curtains for the dining room.
The man who doesn’t know what on earth a woman wants with money when she has credit at a dry goods store.
The man who thinks a sick wife would feel a great deal better if she would get up and stir around.
The man who forgets his manners as soon as he steps across his own threshold.
The man who thinks he can keep house better than his wife does.
The man who loves to go home to grumble and growl.
The man who quotes the Apostle Paul on the “woman question” and who firmly believes that the mantle of the apostle has fallen upon him.
The man who looks upon his wife as a waste basket into which he dumps the “chips” collected during the day. –Philadelphia Inquirer.
New Castle, [PA] News, December 30 1903
Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: And there, neatly tied up in a parcel, we find nearly every cliché of the nineteenth-century Battle of the Sexes. Some are still current in the twenty-first. On wet afternoons Mrs Daffodil sometimes enjoys an agony aunt column in one of the lurid tabloids favoured by the footmen. Recently she read a cri de coeur from a lady whose husband repeatedly ignored her birthday despite her exceedingly modest request for a fairy cake or a card, and a puzzled complaint from a gentleman who has given his inamorata a car, paid her bills, bailed her “cousin” out of jail, and yet feels that the cosy intimacy he had hoped for is somehow lacking. If Mrs Daffodil has learnt anything from the annals of agony-aunting, it is that a) many people enter alliances in a rosy cloud of misplaced hope, b) those same hopeful people seem determined to repeat their mistakes, and c) there is very little in domestic relations that cannot be mended by a dose of some undetectable poison. [Disclaimer: the latter course should only be put into the capable hands of a professional. It is always disagreeable to see amateurs in the dock.]
Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes
You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.