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