, and the
gay,--from corresponding with the learned, the sentimental, and the
refined,--my heart and my pen turn with ardor and alacrity to a tender
and affectionate parent, the faithful guardian and guide of my youth,
the unchanging friend of my riper years. The different dispositions of
various associates sometimes perplex the mind which seeks direction; but
in the disinterested affection of the maternal breast we fear no
dissonance of passion, no jarring interests, no disunion of love. In
this seat of felicity is every enjoyment which fancy can form, or
friendship, with affluence, bestow; but still my mind frequently returns
to the happy shades of my nativity. I wish there to impart my pleasures,
and share the counsels of my best, my long-tried, and experienced
friend. At this time, my dear mamma, I am peculiarly solicitous for your
advice. I am again importuned to listen to the voice of love; again
called upon to accept the addresses of a gentleman of merit and
respectability. You will know the character of the man when I tell you
it is Mr. Boyer. But his situation in life! I dare not enter it. My
disposition is not calculated for that sphere. There are duties arising
from the station which I fear I should not be able to fulfil, cares and
restraints to which I could not submit. _This_ man is not disagreeable
to me; but if I must enter the connubial state, are there not _others_
who may be equally pleasing in their persons, and whose profession may
be more conformable to my taste? You, madam, have passed through this
scene of trial with honor and applause. But, alas! can your volatile
daughter ever acquire your wisdom--ever possess your resolution,
dignity, and prudence?

I hope soon to converse with you personally upon the subject, and to
profit by your precepts and example. I anticipate the hour of my return
to your bosom with impatience. My daily thoughts and nightly dreams
restore me to the society of my beloved mamma; and, till I enjoy in
reality, I subscribe myself your dutiful daughter,

ELIZA WHARTON.

LETTER XXI.

TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.

HARTFORD.

How welcome to me, my dear Eliza, are the tidings of your return! My
widowed heart has mourned your absence, and languished for the company
of its now dearest connection. When stripped of one dependence, the mind
naturally collects and rests itself in another. Your father's death
deprived me, for a while, of every enjoyment. But a reviving sense of
the