_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
HOW incompetent is the force of words to express some peculiar
sensations! Expression is feeble when emotions are exquisite.
I WISH you could be here to see with what ease and dignity everything
comes from the hand of _Harriot_—I cannot give a description equivalent
to the great idea I wish to convey—You will tell me I am in love—What is
love? I have been trying to investigate its nature—to strip it of its
mere term, and consider it as it may be supported by principle—I might
as well search for the philosopher’s stone.
EVERY one is ready to praise his mistress—she is always described in her
“native simplicity,” as “an angel” with a “placid mein,” “mild,
animated,” “altogether captivating,” and at length the talk of
description is given up as altogether “undescribable.” Are not all these
in themselves bare, insignificant words? The world has so long been
accustomed to hear the sound of them, that the idea is lost. But to the
question—What is love? Unless it is answered now, perhaps it never will
be. Is it not an infinitude of graces that accompany everything said by
_Harriot_? That adorn all she does? They must not be taken
severally—they cannot be contemplated in the abstract.—If you proceed to
chymical analysis, their tenuous essence will evaporate—they are in
themselves nothing; but the aggregate is love.
WHEN an army composed of a great number of men, moves slowly on at a
distance, nobody thinks of considering a single soldier.
Adieu!