My dear reader,
It is a truth universally acknowledged (and quite wearily so) that a single woman in possession of a modest fortune must be in want of a husband—or, if she is not, her relations will be only too glad to want one for her. Matrimony, that most celebrated and scrutinised of social arrangements, is often entered into with more haste than consideration, and more nerves than judgment. Permit me, then, to offer a modest guide for the bewildered, the besotted, and the dangerously bored.
Let us begin with the Sensible Suitor—a creature regrettably rare, like a punctual carriage or a generous vicar. He may not inspire poetry, but he listens when you speak and does not talk over your harp playing to discuss crop rotation. Such a man is neither excessively handsome nor overly confident, and though his declarations may lack theatricality, they carry the quiet assurance of good sense. One does not tremble at the sight of him, but one may sleep peacefully knowing he will not sell the silver or flirt with the governess.
Now, contrast him with The Ardent Imbecile, a breed best exemplified by Mr. Collins of Kent. You may recall him as a man of the cloth (if not of tact), whose every sentence was a sermon and whose proposals felt less like invitations and more like obligations. He is the sort who believes women should be grateful to be asked, regardless of how often or how awkwardly. Should such a gentleman approach with declarations of duty and patronage, I recommend an immediate headache and, if possible, a conveniently scheduled trip to Bath.
Equally perilous is The Charming Reprobate. Ah, yes—the gentleman with the winning smile, the tragic past, and the empty pockets. He dances exquisitely, flatters shamelessly, and disappears conveniently when debts or duties arise. He is never dull, never sincere, and never around when the bill arrives. A flirtation with him may be delightful; a marriage to him would be ruinous. Do not let his eloquence outshine his character. It is easy to love a man who quotes poetry; it is far more difficult to live with one who gambles away your pin money.
Beware also The Brooding Ideal—the tall, silent type who says little, frowns often, and appears to carry the weight of the world in his waistcoat pocket. He may eventually reveal himself to be a man of deep feeling and excellent judgment (Mr. Darcy, for instance, being the exception who proves the rule), but I must advise that brooding is not, in and of itself, a virtue. If you must marry a man who scowls, let him at least scowl responsibly.
Lastly, there is The Affectionate Oddity—the man who may not fit easily into society’s mould, but whose oddities are rendered charming by their sincerity. He reads too much, forgets your second cousin’s name, and names his dog after Greek philosophers—but he listens, truly listens, and believes you capable of original thought. This man, dear reader, is worth your second dance at the Assembly.
In conclusion, let not desperation nor lace-trimmed illusions cloud your judgment. A wedding may be a day’s event, but a marriage is a life’s occupation. Choose not the man who merely asks for your hand, but the one who would also value your mind, admire your courage, and delight in your occasional impertinence.
Ever your most faithful correspondent (and champion of reason over roses),
Jane