Those who don't marry shall go into the workhouse.

It shall be a sin for the poorest not to have a pretty girl to love him.
The above reflections came to mind after taking a walk with an old comrade, Jack Spiggot by name, who is just passing into the state of old-bachelorhood, after the manly and blooming youth in which I remember him.

Jack was one of the handsomest fellows in England when we entered together in the Highland Buffs; but I quitted the Cuttykilts early, and lost sight of him for many years.
Ah! how changed he is from those days! He wears a waistband now, and has begun to dye his whiskers.

His cheeks, which were red, are now mottled; his eyes, once so bright and steadfast, are the colour of peeled plovers' eggs.
'Are you married, Jack ?' says I, remembering how consumedly in love he was with his cousin Letty Lovelace, when the Cuttykilts were quartered at Strathbungo some twenty years ago.
'Married?
no,' says he.

'Not money enough.