Mrs. Richman told me this morning that she hoped I should be as agreeably entertained this afternoon as I had been the preceding; that she expected Mr. Boyer to dine and take tea, and doubted not but he would be as attentive and sincere to me, if not as gay and polite, as the gentleman who obtruded his civilities yesterday.  I replied that I had no reason to doubt the sincerity of the one or the other, having never put them to the test, nor did I imagine I ever should.  “Your friends, Eliza,” said she, “would be very happy to see you united to a man of Mr. Boyer’s worth, and so agreeably settled as he has a prospect of being.”  “I hope,” said I, “that my friends are not so weary of my company as to wish to dispose of me.  I am too happy in my present connections to quit them for new ones.  Marriage is the tomb of friendship.  It appears to me a very selfish state.  Why do people in general, as soon as they are married, centre all their cares, their concerns, and pleasures in their own families?  Former acquaintances are neglected or forgotten; the tenderest ties between friends are weakened or dissolved; and benevolence itself moves in a very limited sphere.”  “It is the glory of the marriage state,” she rejoined, “to refine by circumscribing our enjoyments.  Here we can repose in safety.

  ’The friendships of the world are oft
  Confed’racies in vice, or leagues in pleasure: 
  Ours has the purest virtue for its basis;
  And such a friendship ends not but with life.’

True, we cannot always pay that attention to former associates which we may wish; but the little community which we superintend is quite as important an object, and certainly renders us more beneficial to the public.  True benevolence, though it may change its objects, is not limited by time or place.  Its effects are the same, and, aided by a second self, are rendered more diffusive and salutary.”

Some pleasantry passed, and we retired to dress.  When summoned to dinner, I found Mr. Boyer below.  If what is sometimes said be true, that love is diffident, reserved, and unassuming, this man must be tinctured with it.  These symptoms were visible in his deportment when I entered the room.  However, he soon recovered himself, and the conversation took a general turn.  The festive board was crowned with sociability, and we found in reality “the feast of reason and the flow of soul.”  After we rose from table, a walk in the garden was proposed—­an amusement we are all peculiarly fond of.  Mr. Boyer offered me his arm.  When at a sufficient distance from our company, he begged leave to congratulate himself on having an opportunity, which he had ardently desired for some time, of declaring to me his attachment, and of soliciting an interest in my favor; or, if he might be allowed the term, affection.  I replied, “That, sir, is indeed laying claim to an important interest.  I believe you must substitute some more indifferent epithet for the present.”