TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN.
New-Haven.

An unu&longs;ual &longs;en&longs;ation po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;es my
brea&longs;t; a &longs;en&longs;ation, which I once thought
could never pervade it on any occa&longs;ion whatever.
It is plea&longs;ure; plea&longs;ure, 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 &longs;o it is. The melancholy,
the gloom, the condolence, which surrounded
me for a month after the death of
Mr. Haly, had depre&longs;&longs;ed my &longs;pirits, and palled
every enjoyment of life. Mr. Haly was a man
of worth; a man of real and &longs;ub&longs;tantial merit.
He is therefore deeply, and ju&longs;tly regreted by
his friends; he was cho&longs;en to be a future

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guardian, and companion for me, and was, therefore,
beloved by mine. As their choice; as a good
man, and a faithful friend, I e&longs;teemed him. But
no one acquainted with the di&longs;parity of our
tempers and di&longs;po&longs;itions, our views and designs,
can &longs;uppo&longs;e my heart much engaged in
the alliance. Both nature and education had
in&longs;tilled into my mind an implicit obedience to
the will and de&longs;ires of my parents. To them,
of cour&longs;e, I &longs;acrificed my fancy in this affair;
determined that my rea&longs;on &longs;hould coucur with
theirs; and on that to ri&longs;k my future happine&longs;s.
I was the more encouraged, as I &longs;aw, from our
fir&longs;t 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 pa&longs;&longs;ion of love for Mr.
Haly; yet a habit of conver&longs;ing with him,
of hearing daily the mo&longs;t virtuous, tender,
and affectionate &longs;entiments from his lips, inspired
emotions of the &longs;incere&longs;t friend&longs;hip, and
e&longs;teem.

He is gone. His fate is unalterably, and I
tru&longs;t, happily fixed. He lived the life, and died
the death of the righteous. O that my la&longs;t
end may be like his! This event will, I hope,
make a &longs;uitable and abiding impre&longs;&longs;ion upon
my mind; teach me the fading nature of all
&longs;ublunary enjoyments, and the little dependence
which is to be placed on earthly felicity.
Who&longs;e &longs;ituation was more agreeable; who&longs;e

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pro&longs;pects more flattering, than Mr. Haly's?
Social, dome&longs;tic, and connubial joys were
fondly anticipated, and friends, and fortune
&longs;eemed ready to crown every wi&longs;h! Yet animated
by &longs;till brighter hopes, he cheerfully bid
them all adieu. In conver&longs;ation with me, but
a few days before his exit; “There is” &longs;aid
he, “but one link in the chain of life, undissevered;
that, my dear Eliza, is my attachment
to you. But God is wife and good in all
his ways; and in this, as in all other re&longs;pects,
I would cheerfully &longs;ay, His will be done.”

You, my friend, were witne&longs;s to the concluding
&longs;cene; and therefore, I need not describe
it.

I &longs;hall only add, on the &longs;ubject, that if I have
wi&longs;dom and prudence to follow his advice and
example; if his prayers for my temporal and
eternal welfare be heard and an&longs;wered, I &longs;hall
be happy indeed.

The di&longs;po&longs;ition of mind, which I now feel,
I wi&longs;h to cultivate. Calm, placid, and &longs;erene;
thoughtful of my duty, and benevolent to all
around me, I wi&longs;h for no other connection than
that of friend&longs;hip.

This Letter is all egoti&longs;m, I have even neglected
to mention the re&longs;pectable, and happy
friends, with whom I re&longs;ide; but will do it in
my next. Write &longs;oon, and often; and believe
me &longs;incerely yours,

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