LETTER XLVI.
HARRINGTON to WORTHY.
I have seen her—I prest her to
my heart—I called her my Love—my Sister.
Tenderness and sorrow were in her eyes—
How am I guilty, my friend—How is this
transport a crime? My love is the most pure,
the most holy—Harriot beheld me with
tears of the most tender affection—“Why,”
said she, “why, my friend, my dear Har
rington, have I loved! but in what manner
have I been culpable? HOW WAS I TO
KNOW YOU WERE MY BROTHER?—Yes!
I might have known it—how else could you
have been so kind—so tender—so affectionate!”
—Here was all the horrour of conflicting
passions, expressed by gloomy silence—
by stifled cries—by convulsions—by sudden
floods of tears—The scene was too
much for my heart to bear—I bade her
adieu—my heart was breaking—I tore myself
from her and retired.
WHAT is human happiness? The prize
for which all strive, and so few obtain; the
more eagerly we pursue it, the farther we
stray from the object: Wherefore I have
determined within myself that we increase
in misery as we increase in age—and if there
are any happy they are those of thoughtless
childhood.
I THEN viewed the world at a distance in
perspective. I thought mankind appeared
happy in the midst of pleasures that flowed
round them. I now find it a deception,
and am tempted sometimes to wish myself a
child again. Happy are the dreams of infancy,
and happy their harmless pursuits! I
saw the ignis satuus, and have been running
after it, but now I return from the search. I
return and bring back disappointment. As
I reflect on these scenes of infantine ignorance,
I feel my heart interested, and become
sensibly affected—and however sutile these
feelings may appear as I communicate them
to you—they are feelings I venture to affert
which every one must have experienced who
is possessed of a heart of sensibility.
Adieu!
