He isn't nearly so scarce as one might think, but happy is the woman
who finds him, for he is often a bit out of the beaten paths,
sometimes in the very suburbs of our modern civilisation. He is,
however, coming to the front rather slowly, to be sure, but
nevertheless he is coming.
He wouldn't do for the hero of a dime novel--he isn't melancholy in
his mien, nor Byronic in his morals. It is a frank, honest, manly face
that looks into the other end of our observation telescope when we
sweep the horizon to find something higher and better than the rank
and file of humanity.
He is a gentleman, invariably courteous and refined. He is careful in
his attire, but not foppish. He is chivalrous in his attitude toward
woman, and as politely kind to the wrinkled old woman who scrubs his
office floor as to the aristocratic belle who bows to him from her
carriage.
He is scrupulously honest in all his dealings with his fellow men, and
meanness of any sort is utterly beneath him. He has a happy way of
seeing the humorous side of life, and he is an exceedingly pleasant
companion.
When the love light shines in his eyes, kindled at the only fire where
it may be lighted, he has nothing in his past of which he need be
ashamed. He stands beside her and pleads earnestly and manfully for
the treasure he seeks. Slowly he turns the pages of his life before
her, for there is not one which can call a blush to his cheek, or to
hers.
Truth, purity, honesty, chivalry, the highest manliness--all these are
written therein, and she gladly accepts the clean heart which is
offered for her keeping.
Her life is now another open book. To him her nature seems like a harp
of a thousand strings, and every note, though it may not be strong
and high, is truth itself, and most refined in tone.
So they join hands, these two: the sweetheart becomes the wife; the
lover is the husband.
He is still chivalrous to every woman, but to his wife he pays the
gentler deference which was the sweetheart's due. He loves her, and is
not ashamed to show it. He brings her flowers and books, just as he
used to do when he was teaching her to love him. He is broad-minded,
and far-seeing--he believes in "a white life for two." He knows his
wife has the same right to demand purity in thought, word, and deed
from him, as he has to ask absolute stainlessness from her. That is
why he has kept clean the pages of his life--why he keeps the record
unsullied as the years go by.
He is tender in his feelings; if he goes home and finds his wife in
tears, he doesn't tell her angrily to "brace up," or say, "this is a
pretty welcome for a man!" He doesn't slam the door and whistle as if
nothing was the matter. But he takes her in his comforting arms and
speaks soothing words. If his comrades speak lightly of his devotion,
he simply thinks out other blessings for the little woman who presides
at his fireside.
His wife is inexpressibly dear to him, and every day he shows this,
and takes pains, also, to tell her so. He admires her pretty gowns,
and is glad to speak appreciatively of the becoming things she wears.
He knows instinctively that it is the thoughtfulness and the little
tenderness which make a woman's happiness, and he tries to make her
realise that his love for her grew brighter, instead of fading, when
the sweetheart blossomed into the wife. For every woman, old,
wrinkled, and grey, or young and charming, likes to be loved.
The ideal man will do his utmost to make his wife realise that his
devotion intensifies as the years go by.
What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they
are joined for life--to strengthen each other in all labour, to rest
upon each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain,
to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment
of the last parting?
God bless the ideal man and hasten his coming in greater numbers.