IT is impossible to taste the delights of love in perfection, but in a well assorted marriage; nothing betrays such a narrowness of mind as to be governed by words.  What though custom, for which good reasons may be assigned, has made the words husband and wife somewhat ridiculous?  A husband, in common acceptation, signifies a jealous brute, a surly tyrant; or, at best, a weak fool, who may be made to believe any thing.  A wife is a domestic termagant, who is destined to deceive or torment the poor devil of a husband.  The conduct of married people, in general, sufficiently justifies these two characters.

BUT, as I said before, why should words impose upon us?  A well regulated marriage is not like these connections of interest or ambition.  A fond couple, attached to each other by mutual affection, are two lovers who live happily together.  Though the priest pronounces certain words, though the lawyer draws up certain instruments; yet I look on these preparatives in the same light as a lover considers a rope-ladder which he fastens to his mistress’s window:  If they can but live together, what does it signify at what price, or by what means, their union is accomplished.  Where love is real, and, well founded, it is impossible to be happy but in the quiet enjoyment of the beloved object; and the price at which it is obtained, does not lessen the vivacity and delights of a passion, such as my imagination conceives.  If I was inclined to romance, I would not picture images of true happiness in Arcadia.  I am not prudish enough to confine the delicacy of affection to wishes only.  I would open my romance with the marriage of a couple united by sentiment, taste, and inclination.  Can we conceive a higher felicity, than the blending of their interests and lives in such an union?  The lover has the pleasure of giving his mistress the last testimony of esteem and confidence; and she, in return, commits her peace and liberty to his protection.  Can they exchange more dear and affectionate pledges?  Is it not natural, to give the most incontestible proofs of that tenderness with which our minds are impressed?  I am sensible, that some are so nice as to maintain, that the pleasures of love are derived from the dangers and difficulties with which it is attended; they very pertly observe, that a rose would not be a rose without thorns.  There are a thousand insipid remarks of this sort, which make so little impression on me, that I am persuaded, was I a lover, the dread of injuring my mistress would make me unhappy, if the enjoyment of her was attended with danger to herself.