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! LETTER XV. _Harrington_ to _Worthy_. _Boston._ AM I to believe my eyes—my ears-my heart!—and yet I cannot be deceived.—We are generally most stupid and incredulous in what most materially concerns us. We find the greatest difficulty in persuading ourselves of the attainments of what we most ardently desire—She loves!—I say to myself, “_Harriot_ loves me,” and I reverence myself. I THINK I may now take upon me some share of happiness—I may say I have not lived in vain—for all my heart holds dear is mine—joy and love encompass me—peace and tranquillity are before me; the prospect is fair and promising as the gilded dawn of a summer’s day—There is none to supplant me in her affections—I dread no rival, for our tempers are similar, and our hearts beat in unison together. Adieu! LETTER XVI. _Harrington_ to _Worthy_. _Boston._ LOVE softens and refines the manners—polishes the asperities of aukwardness, and fits us for the society of gentle beings. It goes further, it mends the heart, and makes us better men—it gives the fainthearted an extraordinary strength of soul, and renders them equal and frequently superior to danger and distress.