genuine letters, stamped by the post-office,
rumpled by the mail-bags, consecrated by the
steam-boat, this was certainly the first. This,
indeed, was a real letter: rivers rolled, and vast
tracts of country lay, between herself and its writer,
and that writer was a friend selected on the
testimony of innate evidence. It was necessary for
Julia to pause and breathe before she could open
her letter; and by the time this was done, her busy
fancy had clothed both epistle and writer with so
much excellence, that she was prepared to peruse
the contents with a respect bordering on
enthusiasm: every word must be true--every idea
purity itself. That our readers may know how
accurately sixteen and a brilliant fancy had qualified
her to judge, we shall give them the letter entire.

"My dearest love,

"Oh, Julia! here I am, and such a place!--no town,
no churches, no Broadway, nothing that can make
life desirable; and, I may add, no friend--nobody to
see and talk with, but papa and mamma, and a
house full of brothers and sisters. You can't think
how I miss you, every minute more and more; but I
am not without hopes of persuading pa to let me
spend the winter with your aunt in town. I declare
it makes me sick every time I think of her sweet
house in Park-place. If ever I marry, and be sure I
will, it shall be a man who lives in the city, and