The Sayings of Mrs. Solomon: being the confessions of the seven hundredth wife as revealed to Helen Rowland

In Short

This book offers a satirical, pseudo-biblical manual on the art of marriage, presented as the hard-won wisdom of a veteran wife to her daughter. Through a series of witty, irreverent "sayings," the author deconstructs the domestic life of early 20th-century America, framing men as predictable, vanity-driven creatures and women as the necessary architects of matrimonial harmony. It has lasted because its sharp, cynical humor regarding the "system" of love and the inevitable compromises of long-term partnership remains surprisingly applicable to the timeless friction between the sexes.

The Story

The narrative arc functions less as a linear plot and more as a progressive education in the "science" of managing a man. The journey begins with the foundational realization that men are not the complex, mysterious creatures they pretend to be, but rather a singular, predictable species that a woman must learn to categorize. The "instructor," a woman who claims to be the seven-hundredth wife of a Solomon-like figure, establishes her authority early: she has seen enough of men’s "goings and comings" to dismantle the illusions of romance that often blind the young.

As the instruction advances, the reader is taken through the "Book of Husbands," where marriage is presented not as a romantic fusion of souls, but as a manufacturing process. A man is "raw material" that must be trimmed, cut down, and polished to fit the domestic situation. The tone is bracingly unsentimental; the author warns that the husband who is an object of adoration before the ceremony inevitably becomes a critic or a judge afterward. The "story" of a marriage, in this view, is the transition from the thrill of the chase to the pragmatic reality of maintaining a household.

The focus then shifts to the "Book of Flirts," which catalogs the various "stunts" men employ to lure women—the platonic stunt, the impetuous stunt, and the elusive stunt. Each is exposed as a rehearsed performance. The daughter is warned against the dangers of being too intellectual or too cynical, as men prefer the comfort of a woman who makes them feel like the center of the universe. The climax of this education is the "Book of Bachelors," where the author exposes the empty, self-serving lives of men who avoid the "yoke" of matrimony, ultimately arguing that a life without a spouse is a "helpless barge without a tow-boat."

Finally, the arc concludes with the "Book of Admonitions," where the author offers her most seasoned advice. She suggests that the secret to marital longevity is not true love in the fairy-tale sense, but the cultivation of a "level head, a soft tongue, and a sense of humor." She acknowledges the weariness that sets in after years of marriage—when the husband's habits, his morning growls, and his stale apologies become a permanent landscape—but she finds a hard-won peace in the role of the "jollier." The ending is not a romantic resolution but a pragmatic one: the acceptance of the partner as a habit, a doormat, and a companion, allowing the wife to remain the "whole harem" of her husband’s life.

How It Unfolds

The anatomy of man The book opens by stripping away the mystique of the opposite sex, declaring that while every woman is a unique "Yale lock," men are all of one simple, predictable pattern. It establishes the premise that to understand one man is to understand them all, setting a tone of cynical expertise.

The process of construction The middle chapters treat the husband as a shop-made garment that requires significant alterations, such as trimming the "raw edges" of his temper and patching the holes in his disposition. This beat emphasizes that the happiest wife is not the one who finds a perfect partner, but the one who excels at manual labor in the domestic workshop.

The catalog of stunts The instruction moves to the performative nature of courtship, where every "stunt" a man uses is identified as a repeated, hollow gesture. The daughter is guided through the warning signs of "frankly devoted" men and the pitfalls of the "elusive" bachelor who thinks he is keeping a woman guessing.

The philosophy of survival The final section addresses the long-term reality of being a wife, acknowledging that the initial excitement inevitably fades into a daily routine of maintaining a husband's ego and digestion. The narrative settles into a resigned, though deeply sharp, realization that marriage is a "chemical" that transforms a lover into a critic, and a wife into a master of accommodation.

The People

The narrator, who adopts the persona of the seven-hundredth wife, is the intellectual center of the book. She is seasoned, unsentimental, and profoundly protective of her daughter, wanting to arm her with the "wisdom" that only a lifetime of observation can provide. She views men with a mix of pity and amusement, never malice.

The "Daughter" is the target of this wisdom, positioned as a naive initiate who must be saved from the "foolishness" of romantic idealism. She is the blank slate upon which the author writes her cynical observations.

The "Husband" is a composite character—a "Good Thing" that provides respectability and a "finished" look to a household. He is characterized by his vanity, his reliance on his wife for basic domestic survival, and his "morning growl." He is not a villain, but a "simple proposition" that must be managed.

The "Bachelor" serves as the cautionary tale. He is presented as a stagnant creature, a "remnant" whose illusions have been "moth-eaten" by time. He is the man who has avoided the "School of Experience" and thus remains entirely unequipped for the realities of life, ultimately becoming a "pudgy" figure of fun for those who have navigated the complexities of matrimony.

In Its Own Voice

The author highlights the inevitable gap between how a man portrays himself and his true nature in the domestic sphere:

He muttereth unto his wife, “Lo! I will go unto the corner for a cigar”--and behold, he wandereth unto many corners and returneth by a circular route.

She offers a blunt, unvarnished assessment of why a man is considered a necessary, if decorative, part of a woman's life:

Verily, he is as necessary unto thy dinner table as a centerpiece, and more impressive than cut flowers and a butler in livery.

She captures the specific, exhausting reality of the long-term marriage dynamic, where the wife must constantly adjust to the husband's shifting moods:

Behold, in matters of love, a woman is a specialist, but a man is a general practitioner.

What It's Really About

At its core, this book is an argument for pragmatism over idealism. It asserts that romance is a "chemical" that inevitably breaks down, leaving behind a partnership that must be maintained through skill, humor, and a heavy dose of irony. It treats marriage as a social institution rather than a spiritual union, suggesting that the primary role of a woman is to act as the stabilizing force for the "simple," erratic nature of man. It asks a difficult question: how does one find happiness in a lifelong commitment when the partner is essentially a creature of habit, vanity, and limited imagination? The answer, it suggests, is to stop seeking a soulmate and start building a functioning, well-maintained life.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy the biting social commentary of writers like Dorothy Parker or the sharp, observational wit of mid-century humorists will find a kindred spirit here. The book is an artifact of its time, full of period-specific metaphors—like the "Yale lock" or the "chafing-dish"—that provide a fascinating window into the expectations placed on women in the early 20th century.

However, modern readers should be prepared for the relentless, generalized cynicism regarding gender roles. The author’s insistence that all men are "cut on the bias" and that all women are either "kittens" or "cats" is a product of a rigid social era; those looking for nuanced psychological exploration will find only broad, sweeping caricatures. The pseudo-biblical, "Verily, verily" cadence of the prose is a stylistic choice that some may find delightful and others may find exhausting over its length. If you can move past the dated, occasionally patronizing tone, you will find a voice that is undeniably sharp, bracingly honest about the irritations of partnership, and often laugh-out-loud funny in its recognition of the small, repetitive failures that define human relationships. It remains a bracing, if singular, take on the "comedy of matrimony."