_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
ABASHED—confounded—defeated—I waited upon my beloved with my
head well furnished with ready made arguments, to prevail on her to
acquiesce in my benevolent schemes—she never appeared so amicable—grace
accompanied every word she uttered, and every action she performed.
“Think, my love,” said I, in a tone something between sighing and tears,
and took her hand in a very cordial manner,—“Think, my love, on your
present, unhappy, menial situation, in the family of Mrs. _Francis_.” I
enlarged on the violence of my passion—expatiated most metaphysically on
our future happiness; and concluded by largely answering objections.
“Shall we not,” continued I, “obey the dictates of nature, rather than
confine ourselves to the forced, unnatural rules of —— and —— and shall
the halcyon days of youth slip through our fingers unenjoyed?”
DO you think, _Worthy_, I said this to _Harriot_?—Not a syllable of it.
It was impossible—my heart had the courage to dictate, but my rebellious
tongue refused to utter a word—it faultered—stammered—hesitated.
THERE is a language of the eyes—and we conversed in that language; and
though I said not a word with my tongue, she seemed perfectly to
understand my meaning—for she looked—(and I comprehended it as well as
if she had _said_)—Is the crime of dependence to be expiated by the
sacrifice of virtue? And because I am a poor, unfortunate girl, must the
little I have be taken from me? “No, my love,” answered I, passionately,
“it shall not be.”
OF all those undescribable things which influences the mind, and which
are most apt to persuade—none is so powerful an orator—so feelingly
eloquent as beauty—I bow to the all-conquering force of _Harriot’s_
eloquence—and what is the consequence? I am now determined to continue
my addresses on a principle the most just, and the most honourable.
HOW amiable is that beauty which has its foundation in goodness! Reason
cannot contemplate its power with indifference—Wisdom cannot refrain
from enthusiasm—and the sneering exertions of Wit cannot render it
ridiculous. There is a _dignity_ in _conscious virtue_ that all my
independence cannot bring me to despise—and if it be beauty that subdues
my heart, it is this that completes the triumph—It is here my pompous
parade, and all my flimsy subterfuges, appear to me in their proper
light. In fine, I have _weighed matters maturely_, and the alternative
is—_Harriot_ must be mine, or I miserable without her.—I have so well
weighed the matter that even this idea is a flash of joy to my
heart—But, my friend, _after the lightning comes the thunder_—my father
is mortally averse to my making any matrimonial engagement at so early a
period—this is a bar to my way, but I must leap over it.
Adieu!