m a
pleasing companion.

How prone to error is the human mind! how much lighter than the breath
of zephyrs the operations of fancy! Strange, then, it should ever
preponderate over the weightier powers of the understanding.

But I will not moralize. My business here is to dissipate, not to
collect, ideas; and I must regulate myself accordingly.

I am endeavoring to prepare Eliza, by degrees, to accompany me to Boston
the ensuing winter, but think it doubtful whether I shall succeed. I
shall, however, return myself: till when, I am, &c.,

JULIA GRANBY.

LETTER LII.

TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.

BOSTON.

My dear Eliza: I received yours of the 24th ult., and thank you for it,
though it did not afford me those lively sensations of pleasure which I
usually feel at the perusal of your letters. It inspired me both with
concern and chagrin--with concern lest your dejection of mind should
affect your health, and with chagrin at your apparent indulgence of
melancholy. Indeed, my friend, your own happiness and honor require you
to dissipate the cloud which hangs over your imagination.

Rise then above it, and prove yourself superior to the adverse
occurrences which have befallen you. It is by surmounting difficulties,
not by sinking under them, that we discover our fortitude. True courage
consists not in flying from the storms of life, but in braving and
steering through them with prudence. Avoid solitude. It is the bane of a
disordered mind, though of great utility to a healthy one. Your once
favorite amusements court your attention. Refuse not their
solicitations. I have contributed my mite by sending you a few books,
such as you requested. They are of the lighter kind of reading, yet
perfectly chaste, and, if I mistake not, well adapted to your taste.

You wish to hear from our theatre. I believe it will be well supplied
with performers this winter. Come and see whether they can afford you
any entertainment. Last evening I attended a tragedy; but never will I
attend another. I have not yet been able to erase the gloom which it
impressed upon my mind. It was Romeo and Juliet. Distressing enough to
sensibility this! Are there not real woes (if not in our own families,
at least among our own friends and neighbors) sufficient to exercise our
sympathy and pity, without introducing fictitious ones into our very
diversions? How can that be a diversion which racks the soul with grief,
even though that grief be imaginary? The i