I cannot help quoting from letters from Martha Bulloch written in July, 1853, shortly after her engagement, and again from Martha Roosevelt a little more than a year later, when she revisits her old home. She had been hard to win, but when her lover leaves Roswell at the end of his first visit, immediately following their engagement, she yields herself fully and writes: Roswell, July 26, 1853. THEE, DEAREST THEE: I promised to tell you if I cried when you left me. I had determined not to do so if possible, but when the dreadful feeling came over me that you were, indeed, gone, I could not help my tears from springing and had to rush away and be alone with myself. Everything now seems associated with you. Even when I run up the stairs going to my own room, I feel as if you were near, and turn involuntarily to kiss my hand to you. I feel, dear Thee,--as though you were part of my existence, and that I only live in your being, for now I am confident of my own deep love. When I went in to lunch today I felt very sad, for there was no one now to whom to make the request to move “just a quarter of an inch farther away”--but how foolish I am,--you will be tired of this “rhapsody....” Tom King has just been here to persuade us to join the Brush Mountain picnic tomorrow. We had refused but we are reconsidering. July 27th, ---- We have just returned after having had a most delightful time. It was almost impossible for our horses to keep a foothold, the Mountain was so steep, but we were fully repaid by the beautiful extended view from the top, and when we descended, at the bottom, the gentlemen had had planks spread and carriage cushions arranged for us to rest, and about four o’clock we had our dinner. Such appetites! Sandwiches, chicken wings, bread and cheese disappeared miraculously. Tom had a fire built and we had nice hot tea and about six o’clock we commenced our return. I had promised to ride back with Henry Stiles, so I did so, and you cannot imagine what a picturesque effect our riding party had,--not having any Habit, I fixed a bright red shawl as a skirt and a long red scarf on my head, turban fashion with long ends streaming. Lizzie Smith and Anna dressed in the same way, and we were all perfectly wild with spirits and created quite an excitement in Roswell by our gay cavalcade--But all the same I was joked all day by everybody, who said that they could see that my eyes were swollen and that I had been crying. All this in a very delicate Italian hand, and leaving her lover, I imagine, a little jealous of “Henry Stiles,” in spite of the “rhapsody” at the beginning of the letter! My father’s answer to that very letter is so full of deep joy at the “rhapsody,” in which his beautiful and occasionally capricious Southern sweetheart indulged, that I do not think he even remembered “Henry Stiles,” for he replies to her as follows: