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 all his ways; and in this, as in all other respects, I would cheerfully say, His will be done.”

You, my friend, were witness to the concluding scene; and, therefore, I need not describe it.

I shall only add on the subject, that if I have wisdom and prudence to follow his advice and example, if his prayers for my temporal and eternal welfare be heard and answered, I shall be happy indeed.

The disposition of mind which I now feel I wish to cultivate.  Calm, placid, and serene, thoughtful of my duty, and benevolent to all around me, I wish for no other connection than that of friendship.

This letter is all an egotism.  I have even neglected to mention the respectable and happy friends with whom I reside, but will do it in my next.  Write soon and often; and believe me sincerely yours,

ELIZA WHARTON.

LETTER II.

TO THE SAME.

NEW HAVEN.

Time, which effaces every occasional impression, I find gradually dispelling the pleasing pensiveness which the melancholy event, the subject of my last, had diffused over my mind.  Naturally cheerful, volatile, and unreflecting, the opposite disposition I have found to contain sources of enjoyment which I was before unconscious of possessing.

My friends here are the picture of conjugal felicity.  The situation is delightful—­the visiting parties perfectly agreeable.  Every thing tends to facilitate the return of my accustomed vivacity.  I have written to my mother, and received an answer.  She praises my fortitude, and admires the philosophy which I have exerted under what she calls my heavy bereavement.  Poor woman! she little thinks that my heart was untouched; and when that is unaffected, other sentiments and passions make but a transient impression.  I have been, for a month or two, excluded from the gay world, and, indeed, fancied myself soaring above it.  It is now that I begin to descend, and find my natural propensity for mixing in the busy scenes and active pleasures of life returning.  I have received your letter—­your moral