It makes me melancholy to see how like fools some verysensible people act， in the matter of choosing wives. Theyperplex their judgments by a most undue attention tolittle niceties of personal appearance， habits， disposition，and other trifles， which concern nobody but the ladyherself. An unhappy gentleman， resolving to wed nothingshort of perfection， keeps his heart and hand till bothget so old and withered， that no tolerable woman willaccept them. Now， this is the very height of absurdity.
A kind Providence has so skilfully adapted sex to sex，and the mass of individuals to each other， that， withcertain obvious exceptions， any male and female may bemoderately happy in the married state. The true rule is，to ascertain that the match is fundamentally a good one，and then to take it for granted that all minor objections，should there be such， will vanish， if you let them alone.
Only put yourself beyond hazard， as to the real basis ofmatrimonial bliss， and it is scarcely to be imagined whatmiracles， in the way of reconciling smaller incongruities，connubial love will effect.
For my own part， I freely confess， that， in my bachelorship，I was precisely such an over-curious simpleton， as Inow advise the reader not to be. My early habits hadgifted me with a feminine sensibility， and too exquisiterefinement. I was the accomplished graduate of a drygoodsstore， where， by dint of ministering to the whims offine ladies， and suiting silken hose to delicate limbs， andhandling satins， ribbons， chintzes， calicoes， tapes， gauze，and cambric needles， I grew up a very lady-like sort of agentleman. It is not assuming too much， to affirm， thatthe ladies themselves were hardly so lady-like as ThomasBullfrog. So painfully acute was my sense of femaleimperfection， and such varied excellence did I require inthe woman whom I could love， that there was an awfulrisk of my getting no wife at all， or of being driven toperpetrate matrimony with my own image in the lookingglass.
Besides the fundamental principle， already hinted at，I demanded the fresh bloom of youth， pearly teeth， glossyringlets， and the whole list of lovely items， with the utmostdelicacy of habits and sentiments， a silken texture of mind，and， above all， a virgin heart. In a word， if a young angel，just from Paradise， yet dressed in earthly fashion， hadcome and offered me her hand， it is by no means certainthat I should have taken it. There was every chance of mybecoming a most miserable old bachelor， when， by thebest luck in the world， I made a journey into another state，and was smitten by， and smote again， and wooed， won， andmarried the present Mrs. Bullfrog， all in the space of afortnight. Owing to these extempore measures， I not onlygave my bride credit for certain perfections， which havenot as yet come to light， but also overlooked a few triflingdefects， which， however， glimmered on my perception，long before the close of the honey-moon. Yet， as there wasno mistake about the fundamental principle aforesaid， Isoon learned， as will be seen， to estimate Mrs. Bullfrog’sdeficiencies and superfluities at exactly their proper value.
The same morning that Mrs. Bullfrog and I cametogether as a unit， we took two seats in the stage-coach，and began our journey towards my place of business. Therebeing no other passengers， we were as much alone， and asfree to give vent to our raptures， as if I had hired a hackfor the matrimonial jaunt. My bride looked charmingly，in a green silk calash， and riding-habit of pelisse cloth，and whenever her red lips parted with a smile， each toothappeared like an inestimable pearl. Such was my passionatewarmth， that—we had rattled out of the village， gentlereader， and were lonely as Adam and Eve in Paradise—Iplead guilty to no less freedom than a kiss！ The gentle eyeof Mrs. Bullfrog scarcely rebuked me for the profanation.
Emboldened by her indulgence， I threw back the calashfrom her polished brow， and suffered my fingers， white anddelicate as her own， to stray among those dark and glossycurls， which realized my day-dreams of rich hair.
“My love，” said Mrs. Bullfrog， tenderly， “you willdisarrange my curls.”
“Oh， no， my sweet Laura！” replied I， still playing withthe glossy ringlet. “Even your fair hand could not managea curl more delicately than mine. I propose myself thepleasure of doing up your hair in papers， every evening， atthe same time with my own.”
“Mr. Bullfrog，” repeated she， “you must not disarrangemy curls.”
This was spoken in a more decided tone than I hadhappened to hear， until then， from my gentlest of allgentle brides. At the same time， she put up her handand took mine prisoner， but merely drew it away fromthe forbidden ringlet， and then immediately released it.
Now， I am a fidgetty little man， and always love to havesomething in my fingers； so that， being debarred from mywife’s curls， I looked about me for any other plaything. Onthe front seat of the coach， there was one of those smallbaskets in which travelling ladies， who are too delicateto appear at a public table， generally carry a supply ofgingerbread， biscuits and cheese， cold ham， and other lightrefreshments， merely to sustain nature to the journey’send. Such airy diet will sometimes keep them in prettygood flesh， for a week together. Laying hold of this samelittle basket， I thrust my hand under the newspaper， withwhich it was carefully covered.
“What’s this， my dear？” cried I； for the black neck of abottle had popped out of the basket. “A bottle of Kalydor，Mr. Bullfrog，” said my wife， coolly taking the basket frommy hands， and replacing it on the front seat.
