Pretty Louisa! my first love, long since perhaps the mother of a tribe of little rustics; or sleeping, perchance, soundly in your own village churchyard! like a fairy vision, you sometimes visit me in my dreams, or, when quitting for a season the stern, hard realities which environ my manhood, I lose myself in the sweet remembrances of boyhood’s days! Well, this was my first grand love affair; now for my next, to which I deem it a fitting preliminary. Griffins, look to your hearts, for you will have some tough assaults made upon that susceptible organ on the other side of the Cape, where (owing, I am told, to the high range of the thermometer) it becomes morbidly sensitive. Take care, too, you do not have to sing, with a rather lachrymose twist of the facial muscles, “Dark is my doom!” or, led on by your sensibilities within the toils of a premature matrimonial union, you have not to inscribe over your domicile, “_spes et fortuna valete_!” The party at Mr. Hearty’s, or some of them, rode out every evening in the carriage, and I generally, like a gallant griffin, took up a position by the steps, for the purpose of handing them in—that is, the female portion. The precise amount of pressure which a young lady of sixteen (not stone, but years, be pleased to understand, for it makes a material difference) must impart to a young gentleman’s hand, when he tenders his services on occasions of this nature, in order to be in love with him, is a very nice and curious question in “Amorics” (I take credit for the invention of that scientific term). In estimating it, however, so many things may affect the accuracy of a judgment, that it is perhaps undesirable to rely on deductions therefrom, either one way or the other, as a secure basis for ulterior proceedings. Touching the case of the charming Olivia and myself, though there was certainly evidence of the _high-pressure_ system, I might long have felt at a loss to decide on the real state of her feelings, had not my hand on these occasions been accepted with a tell-tale blush, and a sweet and encouraging smile, that spoke volumes. Let me not be accused of vanity, if I say, then, that the evidence of my having made an impression on the young and susceptible heart of Olivia Jenkins was too decided to be mistaken. I felt that I was a favourite, and I burned with all the ardour of a griffin to declare that the “_sentiment si doux_” was reciprocal. The wished-for occasion was not long in presenting itself.