Imogen | Page 5

It was
Imogen with whom he wandered beside the brawling rill. It was
Imogen with whom he sat beneath the straw-built shed, and listened to
the pealing rain, and the hollow roaring of the northern blast. If a
moment of forlornness and despair fell to his lot, he wandered upon the
heath without his Imogen, and he climbed the upright precipice without
her harmonious voice to cheer and to animate him. In a word, passion
had taken up her abode in his guileless heart before he was aware of her
approach. Imogen was fair; and the eye of Edwin was enchanted.
Imogen was gentle; and Edwin loved.
Simple as was the character of the inhabitants of this happy valley, it is
not to be supposed that Edwin found many obstacles to the enjoyment
of the society of his mistress. Though strait as the pine, and beautiful as
the gold-skirted clouds of a summer morning, the parents of Imogen
had not learned to make a traffic of the future happiness of their care.
They sought not to decide who should be the fortunate shepherd that
should carry her from the sons of the plain. They left the choice to her
penetrating wit, and her tried discretion. They erected no rampart to
defend her chastity; they planted no spies to watch over her reputation.
They entrusted her honour to her own keeping. They were convinced,
that the spotless dictates of conscious innocence, and that divinity that
dwells in virtue and awes the shaggy satyr into mute admiration, were
her sufficient defence. They left to her the direction of her conduct. The
shepherdess, unsuspicious by nature, and untaught to view mankind

with a wary and a jealous eye, was a stranger to severity and caprice.
She was all gentleness and humanity. The sweetness of her temper led
her to regard with an eye of candour, and her benevolence to gratify all
the innocent wishes, of those about her. The character of a woman
undistinguishing in her favours, and whose darling employment is to
increase the number of her admirers, is in the highest degree unnatural.
Such was not the character of Imogen. She was artless and sincere. Her
tongue evermore expressed the sentiments of her heart. She drew the
attention of no swain from a rival; she employed no stratagems to
inveigle the affections; she mocked not the respect of the simple
shepherd with delusive encouragement. No man charged her with
broken vows; no man could justly accuse her of being cruel and
unkind.
It may therefore readily be supposed, that the subject of love rather
glided into the conversation of Edwin and Imogen, than was regularly
and designedly introduced. They were unknowing in the art of
disguising their feelings. When the tale spoke of peril and bravery, the
eyes of Edwin sparkled with congenial sentiments, and he was
evermore ready to start from the grassy hilloc upon which they sat.
When the little narrative told of the lovers pangs, and the tragic
catastrophe of two gentle hearts whom nature seemed to have formed
for mildness and tranquility, Imogen was melted into the softest
distress. The breast of her Edwin would heave with a sympathetic sigh,
and he would even sometimes venture, from mingled pity and
approbation, to kiss away the tear that impearled her cheek. Intrepid
and adventurous with the hero, he began also to take a new interest in
the misfortunes of love. He could not describe the passionate
complaints, the ingenuous tenderness of another, without insensibly
making the case his own. "Had the lover known my Imogen, he would
no longer have sighed for one, who could not have been so fair, so
gentle, and so lovely." Such were the thoughts of Edwin; and till now
Edwin had always expressed his thoughts. But now the words fell
half-formed from his trembling lips, and the sounds died away before
they were uttered. "Were I to speak, Imogen, who has always beheld
me with an aspect of benignity, might be offended. I should say no
more than the truth; but Imogen is modest. She does not suspect that
she possesses half the superiority over such as are called fair, which I

see in her. And who could bear to incur the resentment of Imogen?
Who would irritate a temper so amiable and mild? I should say no more
than the truth; but Imogen would think it flattery. Let Edwin be charged
with all other follies, but let that vice never find a harbour in his bosom;
let the imputation of that detested crime never blot his untarnished
name."
Edwin had received from nature the gift of an honest and artless
eloquence. His words were like the snow that falls beneath the beams
of the sun; they melted as they fell. Had it been his