Narrative and Miscellaneous Papers | Page 5

a word or two upon what she
was--and how far worthy of a love more honorable to her (that was
possible) and deeper (but that was not possible) than mine. When first I
saw her, she--my Agnes--was merely a child, not much (if anything)
above sixteen. But, as in perfect womanhood she retained a most
childlike expression of countenance, so even then in absolute childhood
she put forward the blossoms and the dignity of a woman. Never yet
did my eye light upon creature that was born of woman, nor could it
enter my heart to conceive one, possessing a figure more matchless in
its proportions, more statuesque, and more deliberately and advisedly
to be characterized by no adequate word but the word magnificent, (a
word too often and lightly abused.) In reality, speaking of women, I
have seen many beautiful figures, but hardly one except Agnes that
could, without hyperbole, be styled truly and memorably magnificent.
Though in the first order of tall women, yet, being full in person, and
with a symmetry that was absolutely faultless, she seemed to the
random sight as little above the ordinary height. Possibly from the
dignity of her person, assisted by the dignity of her movements, a

stranger would have been disposed to call her at a distance a woman of
commanding presence; but never, after he had approached near enough
to behold her face. Every thought of artifice, of practised effect, or of
haughty pretension, fled before the childlike innocence, the sweet
feminine timidity, and the more than cherub loveliness of that
countenance, which yet in its lineaments was noble, whilst its
expression was purely gentle and confiding. A shade of pensiveness
there was about her; but that was in her manners, scarcely ever in her
features; and the exquisite fairness of her complexion, enriched by the
very sweetest and most delicate bloom that ever I have beheld, should
rather have allied it to a tone of cheerfulness. Looking at this noble
creature, as I first looked at her, when yet upon the early threshold of
womanhood
'With household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty'
you might have supposed her some Hebe or young Aurora of the dawn.
When you saw only her superb figure, and its promise of womanly
development, with the measured dignity of her step, you might for a
moment have fancied her some imperial Medea of the Athenian
stage--some Volumnia from Rome,
'Or ruling bandit's wife amidst the Grecian isles.'
But catch one glance from her angelic countenance--and then
combining the face and the person, you would have dismissed all such
fancies, and have pronounced her a Pandora or an Eve, expressly
accomplished and held forth by nature as an exemplary model or ideal
pattern for the future female sex:--
'A perfect woman, nobly plann'd, To warm, to comfort, to command:
And yet a spirit too, and bright With something of an angel light.'
To this superb young woman, such as I have here sketched her, I
surrendered my heart for ever, almost from my first opportunity of
seeing her: for so natural and without disguise was her character, and so
winning the simplicity of her manners, due in part to her own native
dignity of mind, and in part to the deep solitude in which she had been
reared, that little penetration was required to put me in possession of all
her thoughts; and to win her love, not very much more than to let her
see, as see she could not avoid, in connection with that chivalrous
homage which at any rate was due to her sex and her sexual perfections,
a love for herself on my part, which was in its nature as exalted a

passion and as profoundly rooted as any merely human affection can
ever yet have been.
On the seventeenth birthday of Agnes we were married. Oh! calendar
of everlasting months--months that, like the mighty rivers, shall flow
on for ever, immortal as thou, Nile, or Danube, Euphrates, or St.
Lawrence! and ye, summer and winter, day and night, wherefore do
you bring round continually your signs, and seasons, and revolving
hours, that still point and barb the anguish of local recollections, telling
me of this and that celestial morning that never shall return, and of too
blessed expectations, travelling like yourselves through a heavenly
zodiac of changes, till at once and for ever they sank into the grave!
Often do I think of seeking for some quiet cell either in the Tropics or
in Arctic latitudes, where the changes of the year, and the external signs
corresponding to them, express themselves by no features like those in
which the same seasons are invested under our temperate climes: so
that, if knowing, we cannot at least feel the identity of