PANEGYRIC ON MARRIAGE.
“O time roll on thy sluggish wheels, and haste the day
“When joys like these shall decorate MY way.”
If it be true, that our pleasures are chiefly of a comparative or reflected kind—How supreme must be theirs, who continually reflect on each other, the portraitures of happiness---whose amusements---
“Tho’ varied still---are still the same---in infinite progression.”
How tranquil is the state of that bosom, which has, as it were, a door perpetually open to the reception of joy, or departure of pain, by uninterrupted confidence in, and sympathy with, the object of its affection! I know of no part of the single or bachelor’s estate, more irksome than the privation we feel by it, of any friendly breast in which to pour our delights, or from whence to extract an antidote for whatever may chance to give us pain---The mind of a good man, I believe to be rather communicative than torpid:---If so, how often may a youth, of even the best principles, expose himself to very disagreeable sensations, from sentiments inadvertently dropped, or a confidence improperly reposed!---What, but silence, can be recommended to them; since, in breaking it: so much danger is incurred, among those little interested in our welfare? A good heart, it is true, need not fear the exposition of its amiable contents:---But, alas, is it always a security for us, that we mean well, when our expressions are liable to be misconstrued by such as appear to lie in wait only to pervert them to some ungenerous purpose?
The charms, then, of social life, and the sweets of domestic conversation, are no small incitements to the marriage state.—What more agreeable than the conversation of an intelligent, amiable, and interesting friend? But who more intelligent than a well-educated female? What more amiable than gentleness and sensibility itself? Or what friend more interesting than such a one as we have selected from the whole world, to be our steady companion, in every vicissitude of seasons or of life?
“Give me some companion,” says Sterne, “in my journey, be it only to remark to, how our shadows lengthen as the sun goes down; to whom I may say, how fresh is the face of nature! How sweet the flowers of the field! How delicious are these fruits!”
If either of these parties be versed in music, what a tide of innocent delight must it prove,---to soothe in adversity, to humanize in prosperity, to compose in noise, and to command serenity in every situation. If books have any charms for them, (and must they not be tasteless, if they have not) well might the poet of nature place them in company like this:
“An elegant sufficiency, content,