My Dearest Harry,—I have no excuse to offer for my protracted silence, other than I have been so very much engaged. But I know your kind heart will readily forgive my remissness when you hear all I have to say to you; therefore I must hasten to tell you, first premising that you must not be jealous. Both father and Uncle Pluribusi say that is a most detestable passion—and you know I so dislike any thing that is ugly and disagreeable.

But to my confession. There is a friend of mine at present sojourning here—a kind of relative; and a splendid fellow he is, dear Harry. In both form and face he is eminently handsome; then he is so merry—and polite to the highest degree of refinement. His discourse is a perpetual series of neat repartee, elegant compliment, bright thoughts, and happy expression. He has a beaming smile, and a pleasant word for every one; but he anticipates my thoughts, knows the meaning of every glance, and ministers to my every wish before it is formed. Is he not a very paragon? I know you will like him so much, when you become as well acquainted with him as I am. I often tell him he is second in my heart’s best affections. This seems to please him greatly; and he expresses his delight by snatching a kiss. Now, Harry, don’t be shocked! remember, he is a very old and dear friend. Although his very soul seems to be the seat of joyousness, I verily believe he possesses a tolerably large portion of sentiment; and you must not be surprised if you hear I have made a conquest of his heart. I assure you my manner toward him has been free from any thing like coquetry, but I do enjoy his society. The perpetual summer of his mind imparts a corresponding glow and animation to his manner, a lively and genial warmth to all his actions; and his very look seems to say, “Come, let us laugh at a world that only laughs at us.” Would you believe it, Harry? with him for my partner, I often find myself whirling round at some gay party, in the delicious delirium of the waltz. I know you will be charmed to hear this; for you have so often expressed a wish that I should become perfect in that delightful accomplishment. My friend is somewhat in my confidence, and knows that I am engaged to somebody; but this knowledge has not in the least changed his attention to me. He says matrimony is at best but a “divine comedy.” I suppose I have thought of it too seriously. I have promised to ride with him this afternoon, and—hark! I hear the horses at the door now; dear me! he is always so early, he will never give me time to write a letter even to you.

What delight there is in a wild gallop. I am an expert equestrian now, and often execute some daring exploits. In your absence these delightful excursions form the chief pleasure of my life; and to me there is more melody in our horses’ hoofs, as they “tramp, tramp along the land,” than I could thump out of my piano this morning. Forgive the brevity of this; I am sure you will, for this is the second time I have been interrupted by “the horses are waiting, Mary.”

You see how my time is occupied; I have scarcely an hour that I can call my own.

Having every faith in your constancy and truth, I bid you farewell.

Your ever faithful,

Mary.