The other day he with much jocularity asked me whether the witnessing so much of conjugal felicity had not put matrimony into my head? I replied, that, on the contrary, it would probably stamp me a batchelor for life. “How so,” asked he, “Why,” answered I, “I see that in this lottery of life, there are some capital prizes; but I am too poor to hazard any part of my fund of present happiness, lest I spend my money for a blank, and I am become too ambitious to be contented with a petty prize.” He laughed, warning me, that I might change my mind. “For such things do happen,” continued he; “at your age I was in no hurry to marry, yet when turned of forty, I married, without consulting my register, or my reason. My good aunt who lived with me, perceived, I suppose, that I was thinking of changing my condition, and she was much pleased; recommending perpetually to my notice, a very worthy young woman of her acquaintance; but I know not how it fell out, after seeing two or three times my poor, artless, good humoured Lydia, I was not easy in my mind; and thought my aunt’s favourite, Miss Welldon, looked of a fretful temper, and was of too ceremonious a turn for me, though she was comely, and only six and thirty, which certainly was a more suitable age for mine, and I might have been comfortable with her. I soon found that Lydia was too young a wife for me,” continued he, thoughtfully, “but I loved her, and I well knew what kindness would do with her. She was contented, and all was peace with us, till she was perverted by bad company. Whenever, you marry, Mr. Montrose, take care to know what company the lady keeps; much depends on that; and avoid a disproportion in years: there is hazard in trusting too much, in some cases.”