How incompetent is the force of
words to expre&longs;s &longs;ome peculiar &longs;en&longs;ations!
Expre&longs;&longs;ion is &longs;eeble when emotions are exquisite.

I WISH you could be here to &longs;ee with
what ea&longs;e and dignity every thing comes
from the hand of Harriot—I cannot give a
de&longs;cription equivalent to the great idea I

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wi&longs;h to convey—You will tell me I am in
love—What is love? I have been trying to
inve&longs;tigate its nature—to &longs;trip it of its mere
term, and con&longs;ider it as it may be &longs;upported
by principle—I might as well &longs;earch for the
philo&longs;opher's &longs;tone.

EVERY one is ready to prai&longs;e his mi&longs;tre&longs;s—
&longs;he is always de&longs;cribed in her “native
&longs;implicity,” as “an angel” with a “placid
mein” “mild, animated” “altogether captivating,”
and at length the ta&longs;k of description
is given up as altogether “undescribable.”
Are not all the&longs;e in them&longs;elves bare
in&longs;ignificant words? The world has &longs;o long
been accu&longs;tomed to hear the &longs;ound of them,
that the idea is lo&longs;t. But to the que&longs;tion—
What is love? Unle&longs;s it is an&longs;wered now,

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perhaps it never will be. Is it not an infinitude
of graces that accompany every thing
&longs;aid by Harriot? That adorn all &longs;he does?
They mu&longs;t not be taken &longs;everally—they cannot
be contemplated in the ab&longs;tract.—If you
proceed to a chymical analy&longs;is, their tenuous
e&longs;&longs;ence will evaporate—they are in themselves
nothing, but the aggregate is love.

WHEN an army compo&longs;ed of a great number
of men, moves &longs;lowly on at a di&longs;tance,
nobody thinks of con&longs;idering a &longs;ingle soldier.

Adieu!

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