University of Virginia Library

LETTER VI.
HARRINGTON to WORTHY.

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 scheme—she never appeared so
amiable—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
converfed 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.”

OF all those undescribable things which
influence the mind, and which are most apt
to persuade—none is so powerful an orator
—so feelingly eloquent as beauty—I bow to
the allconquering force of Harriot's eloquence—and
what is the confequence?—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
confcious virtue that all my impudence 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
in my way, but I must leap over it.

Adieu!