Sumner, to all the
graces and accomplishments of the gentleman, adds the still more
important and essential properties of virtue, integrity, and honor. I
was once present when a person was recommended to her for a husband. She
objected that he was a rake. "True," said the other, "he has been, but
he has reformed." "That will never do for me," rejoined she; "I wish my
future companion to need no reformation"--a sentiment worthy the
attention of our whole sex; the general adoption of which, I am
persuaded, would have a happy influence upon the manners of the other.

I hope neither you nor I, Eliza, shall ever be tried by a man of
debauched principles. Such characters I conceive to be totally unfit
for the society of women who have any claim to virtue and delicacy.

I intend to be with you in about a month. If agreeable to you, we will
visit and spend a few weeks with the afflicted Mrs. Richman. I sincerely
sympathize with her under her bereavement. I know her fondness for you
will render your company very consoling to her; and I flatter myself
that I should not be an unwelcome guest.

Make my respects to your mamma, and believe me ever yours,

JULIA GRANBY.

LETTER LXIV.

TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.

HARTFORD.

Dear madam: I have arrived in safety to the mansion of our once happy
and social friends. But I cannot describe to you how changed, how
greatly changed this amiable family appears since I left it. Mrs.
Wharton met me at the door, and, tenderly embracing, bade me a cordial
welcome. "You are come, Julia," said she, "I hope, to revive and comfort
us. We have been very solitary during your absence." "I am happy,
madam," said I, "to return; and my endeavors to restore cheerfulness and
content shall not be wanting. But where is Eliza?" By this time we had
reached the back parlor, whither Mrs. Wharton led me; and, the door
being open, I saw Eliza reclined on a settee, in a very thoughtful
posture. When I advanced to meet her, she never moved, but sat, "like
Patience on a monument, smiling at Grief."

I stopped involuntarily, and involuntarily raising my eyes to heaven,
exclaimed, "Is that Eliza Wharton?" She burst into tears, and attempted
to rise, but sank again into her seat. Seeing her thus affected, I sat
down by her, and, throwing my arm about her neck, "Why these tears?"
said I. "Why this distress, my dear friend? Let not the return of your
Julia give you pain; she comes to soothe you with the consolations of