I have &longs;ucceeded in my addre&longs;&longs;es to
the lovely Eliza Wharton; as far at lea&longs;t as I
had any rea&longs;on to expect from our &longs;hort acquaintance.
I find the graces of her per&longs;on and mind
ri&longs;e in my e&longs;teem; and have already enjoyed,
in her &longs;ociety, &longs;ome of the happie&longs;t hours of my
life. She is kind, affable, and conde&longs;cending;
yet I mu&longs;t own that I have not been able to infuse
into her bo&longs;om, the ardor which I feel in
my own. I know that the native mode&longs;ty of
the &longs;ex would re&longs;train the di&longs;covery; but there
is an animation of countenance, which betrays
the &longs;en&longs;ations of the heart, that I find wanting
in her on this occa&longs;ion.

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I have ju&longs;t taken leave of my fair, and propose
returning to morrow morning; to take
upon me the &longs;olemn charge, which lies with &longs;uch
weight upon my mind, that I need every support,
both human and divine. Eliza has promised
to corre&longs;pond with me. From this I anticipate
a &longs;ource of plea&longs;ure, which alone can
atone for her ab&longs;ence. I am, &c.