Chapter XV: Letter XIV: 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!