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 schemes—she never appeared so amicable—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 conversed 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 be.” OF all those undescribable things which influences the mind, and which are most apt to persuade—none is so powerful an orator—so feelingly eloquent as beauty—I bow to the all-conquering force of _Harriot’s_ eloquence—and what is the consequence? 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 _conscious virtue_ that all my independence 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 to my way, but I must leap over it. Adieu! LETTER VII. Mrs. _Holmes_ to Miss _Harrington_. _Belleview._