Why is it that the bustling matron, who (having, without preference or selection, married the first man who proposed to her,) has spent her days in the unsentimental details of a household, a nursery, and a school-room, merely considering her partner as the medium through which the several departments are provided for?—why is it that the languid beauty, who has sold herself to age or folly for an opera-box, an equipage, a title?—why is it that the scold, who has jangled through a wedded life of broils and disputes—and the buxom widow, whose gay and blooming face gives the lie to her mourning garments?—why is it that they all cast a pitying glance of contempt on the “single woman of a certain…
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