once
thought could never pervade it on any occasion whatever. It is
_pleasure_, pleasure, my dear Lucy, on leaving my paternal roof. Could
you have believed that the darling child of an indulgent and
dearly-beloved mother would feel a gleam of joy at leaving her? But so
it is. The melancholy, the gloom, the condolence which surrounded me for
a month after the death of Mr. Haly had depressed my spirits, and palled
every enjoyment of life. Mr. Haly was a man of worth--a man of real and
substantial merit. He is, therefore, deeply and justly regretted by
_his_ friends. He was chosen to be a future guardian and companion for
me, and was, therefore, beloved by _mine_. As their choice, as a good
man, and a faithful friend, I esteemed him; but no one acquainted with
the disparity of our tempers and dispositions, our views and designs,
can suppose my heart much engaged in the alliance. Both nature and
education had instilled into my mind an implicit obedience to the will
and desires of my parents. To them, of course, I sacrificed my fancy in
this affair, determined that my reason should concur with theirs, and on
that to risk my future happiness. I was the more encouraged, as I saw,
from our first acquaintance, his declining health, and expected that the
event would prove as it has. Think not, however, that I rejoice in his
death. No; far be it from me; for though I believe that I never felt the
passion of love for Mr. Haly, yet a habit of conversing with him, of
hearing daily the most virtuous, tender, and affectionate sentiments
from his lips, inspired emotions of the sincerest friendship and esteem.

He is gone. His fate is unalterably, and I trust happily, fixed. He
lived the life, and died the death, of the righteous. O that my last end
may be like his! This event will, I hope, make a suitable and abiding
impression upon my mind, teach me the fading nature of all sublunary
enjoyments, and the little dependence which is to be placed on earthly
felicity. Whose situation was more agreeable, whose prospects more
flattering, than Mr. Haly's? Social, domestic, and connubial joys were
fondly anticipated, and friends and fortune seemed ready to crown every
wish; yet, animated by still brighter hopes, he cheerfully bade them all
adieu. In conversation with me but a few days before his exit, "There
is," said he, "but one link in the chain of life undissevered; that, my
dear Eliza, is my attachment to you. But God is wise and good in a