to your friends. Your own mind weakened, and peculiarly
susceptible of tender impressions, beware how you receive them from
him. Listen not a moment to his flattering professions; it is an insult
upon your understanding for him to offer them; it is derogatory to
virtue for you to hear them.

Slight not the opinion of the world. We are dependent beings; and while
the smallest traces of virtuous sensibility remain, we must feel the
force of that dependence in a greater or less degree. No female, whose
mind is uncorrupted, can be indifferent to reputation. It is an
inestimable jewel, the loss of which can never be repaired. While
retained, it affords conscious peace to our own minds, and insures the
esteem and respect of all around us.

Blessed with the company of so disinterested and faithful a friend as
Julia Granby, some deference is certainly due to her opinion and advice.
To an enlarged understanding, a cultivated taste, and an extensive
knowledge of the world, she unites the most liberal sentiments with a
benevolence and candor of disposition, which render her equally
deserving of your confidence and affection.

I cannot relinquish my claim to a visit from you this winter. Marriage
has not alienated nor weakened my regard for my friends. Come, then, to
your faithful Lucy. Have you sorrows? I will soothe and alleviate them.
Have you cares? I will dispel them. Have you pleasures? I will heighten
them. Come, then, let me fold you to my expecting heart. My happiness
will be partly suspended till your society renders it complete. Adieu.

LUCY SUMNER.

LETTER LXII.

TO MISS JULIA GRANBY.

HARTFORD.

Dear Julia: I hope Mrs. Sumner and you will excuse my writing but one
letter in answer to the number I have received from you both. Writing is
an employment which suits me not at present. It was pleasing to me
formerly, and therefore, by recalling the idea of circumstances and
events which frequently occupied my pen in happier days, it now gives me
pain. Yet I have just written a long consolatory letter to Mrs. Richman.
She has buried, her babe--her little Harriet, of whom she was dotingly
fond.

It was a custom with some of the ancients, we are told, to weep at the
birth of their children. Often should we be impelled to a compliance
with this custom, could we foresee the future incidents of their lives.
I think, at least, that the uncertainty of their conduct and condition
in more advanced age may reconcile us t