I have been making some efforts to decide the question, not of love,
but, of duty. Love must not be permitted, till duty shall be known. I
have not satisfied myself so well as I could wish, yet my former
reasons seem invincible. Ought my father and my family to be offended?
Ought I to set an example that might be pernicious? Is it most probable
that by opposing I should correct or increase the world's mistakes? The
path before me is direct and plain; ought I to deviate?

In vain I fear should I plead his extraordinary merit. Would the plea
remove the load of affliction with which I should overwhelm those who
love me best? At present they think well, nay highly of me. I sometimes
have the power to influence them to good. What power shall I have when
they imagine I have disgraced both myself and them?

Who ever saw those treated with esteem who are themselves supposed to
be the slaves of passion? And could the world possibly be persuaded
that a marriage between me and the son of my father's steward could
ever originate, on my part, in honourable motives?

Ought I to forget the influence of example? Where is the young lady,
being desirous to marry an adventurer, or one whose mind might be as
mean as his origin, who would not suppose her favourite more than the
equal of Frank? For is not the power of discrimination lost, when the
passions are indulged? And ought my name to be cited? Ought they to be
encouraged by any act of mine?

Yet the opposing arguments are far from feeble. His feelings are too
strong to be concealed. Perhaps the only weakness I can think him
capable of is that of loving me. For if love be contradictory to
reason, it is a weakness; but should he answer that love and reason are