Old John and Hannah Primrose, a prudent hardy couple, who, by many years
of peculiar labour and peculiar abstinence, were the least poor of all
the neighbouring cottagers, had an only child (who has been named before)
called Agnes: and this cottage girl was reckoned, in spite of the beauty
of the elder Miss Rymers, by far the prettiest female in the village.
Reader of superior rank, if the passions which rage in the bosom of the
inferior class of human kind are beneath your sympathy, throw aside this
little history, for Rebecca Rymer and Agnes Primrose are its heroines.
But you, unprejudiced reader, whose liberal observations are not confined
to stations, but who consider all mankind alike deserving your
investigation; who believe that there exists, in some, knowledge without
the advantage of instruction; refinement of sentiment independent of
elegant society; honourable pride of heart without dignity of blood; and
genius destitute of art to render it conspicuous--you will, perhaps,
venture to read on, in hopes that the remainder of this story may deserve
your attention, just as the wild herb of the forest, equally with the
cultivated plant in the garden, claims the attention of the botanist.
Young William saw in young Agnes even more beauty than was beheld by
others; and on those days when he felt no inclination to ride, to shoot,
or to hunt, he would contrive, by some secret device, the means to meet
with her alone, and give her tokens (if not of his love) at least of his
admiration of her beauty, and of the pleasure he enjoyed in her company.
Agnes listened, with a kind of delirious enchantment, to all her elevated
and eloquent admirer uttered; and in return for his praises of her
charms, and his equivocal replies in respect to his designs towards her,
she gave to him her most undisguised thoughts, and her whole enraptured
heart.
This harmless intercourse (as she believed it) had not lasted many weeks
before she loved him: she even confessed she did, every time that any
unwonted mark of attention from him struck with unexpected force her
infatuated senses.
It has been said by a celebrated writer, upon the affection subsisting
between the two sexes, "that there are many persons who, if they had
never heard of the passion of love, would never have felt it." Might it
not with equal truth be added, that there are many more, who, having
heard of it, and believing most firmly that they feel it, are
nevertheless mistaken? Neither of these cases was the lot of Agnes. She
experienced the sentiment before she ever heard it named in the sense
with which it had possessed her--joined with numerous other sentiments;
for genuine love, however rated as the chief passion of the human heart,
is but a poor dependent, a retainer upon other passions; admiration,
gratitude, respect, esteem, pride in the object. Divest the boasted
sensation of these, and it is not more than the impression of a twelve-
month, by courtesy, or vulgar error, termed love.
Agnes was formed by the rarest structure of the human frame, and destined
by the tenderest thrillings of the human soul, to inspire and to
experience real love: but her nice taste, her delicate thoughts, were so
refined beyond the sphere of her own station in society, that nature
would have produced this prodigy of attraction in vain, had not one of
superior education and manners assailed her affections; and had she been
accustomed to the conversation of men in William's rank of life, she had,
perhaps, treated William's addresses with indifference; but, in comparing
him with her familiar acquaintance, he was a miracle! His unremitting
attention seemed the condescension of an elevated being, to whom she
looked up with reverence, with admiration, with awe, with pride, with
sense of obligation--and all those various passions which constitute
true, and never-to-be-eradicated, love.
But in vain she felt and even avowed with her lips what every look, every
gesture, had long denoted; William, with discontent, sometimes with
anger, upbraided her for her false professions, and vowed, "that while
one tender proof, which he fervently besought, was wanting, she did but
aggravate his misery by less endearments."
Agnes had been taught the full estimation of female virtue; and if her
nature could have detested any one creature in a state of wretchedness,
it would have been the woman who had lost her honour; yet, for William,
what would not Agnes forfeit? The dignity, the peace, the serenity, the
innocence of her own mind, love soon encouraged her to fancy she could
easily forego; and this same overpowering influence at times so forcibly
possessed her, that she even felt a momentary transport in the
contemplation "of so precious a sacrifice to him." But then she loved
her parents, and their happiness she could not prevail with herself to
barter even for _his_. She wished he would demand some other pledge of
her attachment to him; for there was none but this, her ruin in no other
shape, that she would deny at his request. While thus she deliberated,
she prepared for her fall.
Bred up with strict observance both of his moral and religious character,
William did not dare to tell an unequivocal lie even to his inferiors; he
never promised Agnes he would marry her; nay, even he paid so much
respect to the forms of truth, that no sooner was it evident that he had
obtained her heart, her whole soul entire--so that loss of innocence
would be less terrifying than separation from him--no sooner did he
perceive this, than he candidly told her he "could never make her his
wife." At the same time he lamented "the difference of their births, and
the duty he owed his parents' hopes," in terms so pathetic to her partial
ear, that she thought him a greater object of compassion in his
attachment even than herself; and was now urged by pity to remove the
cause of his complainings.
One evening Henry accidentally passed the lonely spot where William and
she constantly met; he observed his cousin's impassioned eye, and her
affectionate yet fearful glance. William, he saw, took delight in the
agitation of mind, in the strong apprehension mixed with the love of
Agnes. This convinced Henry that either he or himself was not in love;
for his heart told him he would not have beheld such emotions of
tenderness, mingled with such marks of sorrow, upon the countenance of
Rebecca, for the wealth of the universe.
The first time he was alone with William after this, he mentioned his
observation on Agnes's apparent affliction, and asked "why her grief was
the result of their stolen meetings."
"Because," replied Williams, "her professions are unlimited, while her
manners are reserved; and I accuse her of loving me with unkind
moderation, while I love her to distraction."
"You design to marry her, then?"
"How can you degrade me by the supposition?"
"Would it degrade you more to marry her than to make her your companion?
To talk with her for hours in preference to all other company? To wish
to be endeared to her by still closer ties?"
"But all this is not raising her to the rank of my wife."
"It is still raising her to that rank for which wives alone were
allotted."
"You talk wildly! I tell you I love her; but not enough, I hope, to
marry her."
"But too much, I hope, to undo her?"
"That must be her own free choice--I make use of no unwarrantable
methods."
"What are the warrantable ones?"
"I mean, I have made her no false promises; offered no pretended
settlement; vowed no eternal constancy."
"But you have told her you love her; and, from that confession, has she
not reason to expect every protection which even promises could secure?"
"I cannot answer for her expectations; but I know if she should make me
as happy as I ask, and I should then forsake her, I shall not break my
word."
"Still she will be deceived, for you will falsify your looks."
"Do you think she depends on my looks?"
"I have read in some book, _Looks are the lover's sole dependence_."
"I have no objection to her interpreting mine in her favour; but then for
the consequences she will have herself, and only herself, to blame."
"Oh! Heaven!"
"What makes you exclaim so vehemently?"
"A forcible idea of the bitterness of that calamity which inflicts self-
reproach! Oh, rather deceive her; leave her the consolation to reproach
_you_ rather than _herself_."
"My honour will not suffer me."
"Exert your honour, and never see her more."
"I cannot live without her."
"Then live with her by the laws of your country, and make her and
yourself both happy."
"Am I to make my father and my mother miserable? They would disown me
for such a step."
"Your mother, perhaps, might be offended, but your father could not.
Remember the sermon he preached but last Sunday, upon--_the shortness of
this life_--_contempt of all riches and worldly honours in balance with a
quiet conscience_; and the assurance he gave us, _that the greatest
happiness enjoyed upon earth was to be found under a humble roof_, _with
heaven in prospect_."
"My father is a very good man," said William; "and yet, instead of being
satisfied with a humble roof, he looks impatiently forward to a bishop's
palace."
"He is so very good, then," said Henry, "that perhaps, seeing the dangers
to which men in exalted stations are exposed, he has such extreme
philanthropy, and so little self-love, he would rather that _himself_
should brave those perils incidental to wealth and grandeur than any
other person."
"You are not yet civilised," said William; "and to argue with you is but
to instruct, without gaining instruction."
"I know, sir," replied Henry, "that you are studying the law most
assiduously, and indulge flattering hopes of rising to eminence in your
profession: but let me hint to you--that though you may be perfect in the
knowledge how to administer the commandments of men, unless you keep in
view the precepts of God, your judgment, like mine, will be fallible."