3 T153 DDlb775T 2 
 
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KNEBJVORTH LIMITED EDITION 
 
 EUGENE ARAM 
 
 1 -v - 
 
 A TALE 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD BULWER LYTTON 
 
 (LORD LYTTON) 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 ESTES AND LAURIAT 
 1S91 
 

 KNEBIVORTH LIMITED EDITION. 
 
 Liiiiift'ii to One Thousand Copies. 
 
 No,396 
 
 TYPOGRAPHY, ELECTROTYPING, AND 
 PRINTING BY JOHN WILSON AND SON, 
 UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. 
 
EUGENE ARAM 
 
TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart., 
 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 Sir, — It has long been my ambition to add some humble tribute to the 
 offerings laid upon the shrine of your genius. At each succeeding book that 
 I have given to the worhi, I have paused to consider if it vi^ere worthy to be 
 inscribed witli your great name, and at each I have played the procrastinator, 
 and hoped for that morrow of better desert which never came. But dejiuat 
 amnis, — the time runs on ; and I am tired of waiting for the ford which the 
 tides refuse. I seize, then, the present opportunity, not as the best, but as 
 the only one I can be sure of commanding, to express that affectionate admir- 
 ation with which you have inspired me in common with all your contempo- 
 raries, and which a French writer has not ungracefully termed " the happiest 
 prerogative of genius." As a Poet and as a Novelist your fame has attained 
 to that height in which praise has become superfluous ; but in the character 
 of the writer there seems to me a yet higher claim to veneration than in that 
 of the writings. The example your genius sets us, who can emulate "? The 
 example your moderation bequeaths to us, who shall forget ? That nature 
 must indeed be gentle which has conciliated the envy that pursues intellect- 
 ual greatness, and left without an enemy a man who has no living equal in 
 renown. 
 
 You have gone for a while from the scenes you have immortalized, to re- 
 gain, we trust, the health which has been impaired by your noble labors or 
 by the manly struggles with adverse fortunes which have not found the 
 frame as indomitable as the mind. Take with you the prayers of all whom 
 your genius, with playful art, has soothed in sickness, or has strengthened, 
 with generous precepts, against the calamities of life.^ 
 
 " Navis qu£e tibi creditum 
 Debes Virtjilium . . . 
 Reddas incolumem ! " 2 
 
 1 Written at the time of Sir W. Scott's visit to Italy, after the great blow to his 
 health and fortunes. 
 
 2 " ship, thou owest to us Virgil ! Restore in safety him whom we intrusted to 
 thee." 
 
vi DEDICATION. 
 
 You, I feel assured, will not deem it presumptuous in one who, to that 
 bright and undying flame which now streams from the gray hills of Scotland, 
 — the last halo with which you have crowned her literary glories, — has 
 turned from his first childhood with a deep and uurelaxing devotion ; you, 1 
 feel assured, will not deem it presumptuous in him to inscribe an idle work 
 with your illustrious name, — a work which, however worthless in itself, 
 assumes something of value in his eyes when thus rendered a tribute of 
 respect to you. 
 
 The Author of " Eugene Aram." 
 
 London, December 22, 1831. 
 
PREFACE 
 TO THE EDITION OF 1831. 
 
 Since, dear Reader, I last addressed thee, in " Paul Clif- 
 ford," nearly two years have elapsed, and somewhat more 
 than four years since, in " Pelham," our familiarity first be- 
 gan. The Tale which I now submit to thee differs equally 
 from the last as from the first of those works ; for of the two 
 evils, perhaps it is even better to disappoint thee in a new 
 style than to weary thee with an old. With the facts on 
 which the tale of " Eugene Aram " is founded, I have ex- 
 ercised the common and fair license of writers of fiction : 
 it is chiefly the more homely parts of the real story that 
 have been altered ; and for what I have added, and what 
 omitted, I have the sanction of all established authorities, 
 who have taken greater liberties with characters yet more 
 recent, and far more protected by historical recollections. 
 The book was, for tlie most part, written in the early part 
 of the year, when the interest which the task created in 
 the Author was undivided by other subjects of excitement, 
 and he had leisure enough not only to be nescio quid 
 meditans nugarum, but also to be fotus in illis.^ 
 
 I originally intended to adapt the story of Eugene Aram 
 to the Stage. That design was abandoned when more than 
 half completed ; but I wished to impart to this Romance 
 something of the nature of Tragedy, — something of the 
 
 1 " Not only to be meditating I know not what of trifles, but also to be 
 wholly engaged on them." 
 
vui PREFACE. 
 
 more transferable of its qualities. Enough of this : it is 
 not the Author's wishes, but the Author's books that the 
 world will judge him by. Perhaps, then (with this I con- 
 clude), in the dull monotony of public affairs, and in these 
 long winter evenings, when we gather round the fire, pre- 
 pared for the gossip's tale, willing to indulge the fear and 
 to believe the legend, perhaps, dear Reader, thou may est 
 turn, not reluctantly, even to these pages, for at least a 
 newer excitement than the Cholera, or for momentary 
 relief from the everlasting discussion on " the Bill." ^ 
 
 London, December 22, 1831. 
 
 1 The year of the Reform Bill. 
 
PREFACE 
 TO THE EDITION OF 1840. 
 
 The strange history of Eugene Aram had excited my 
 interest and wonder long before the present work was com- 
 posed or conceived. It so happened that during Aram's 
 residence at Lynn his reputation for learning liad attracted 
 the notice of my grandfather, — a country gentleman living 
 in the same county, and of more intelligence and accom- 
 plishments than, at that day, usually characterized his class. 
 Aram frequently visited at Heydon (my grandfather's 
 house), and gave lessons — probably in no very elevated 
 branches of erudition — to the younger members of the 
 family. This I chanced to hear when I was on a visit in 
 Norfolk some two years before this novel was published ; 
 and it tended to increase the interest with which I had 
 previously speculated on the phenomena of a trial which, 
 take it altogether, is perhaps the most remarkable in the 
 register of English crime. I endeavored to collect such 
 anecdotes of Aram's life and manners as tradition and 
 hearsay still kept afloat. These anecdotes were so far uni- 
 form that they all concurred in representing him as a per- 
 son who, till the detection of the crime for which he was 
 sentenced, had appeared of the mildest character and the 
 most unexceptionable morals. An invariable gentleness 
 and patience in his mode of tuition — qualities then very 
 uncommon at school — had made him so beloved by his 
 pupils at Lynn that, in after life, there was scarcely one of 
 them who did not persist in the belief of his innocence. 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 His personal and moral peculiarities, as described in these 
 pages, are such as were related to me by persons who had 
 heard him described by his contemporaries, — the calm, 
 benign countenance ; the delicate health ; the thoughtful 
 stoop ; the noiseless step ; the custom, not uncommon with 
 scholars and absent men, of muttering to himself ; a sin- 
 gular eloquence in conversation, when once roused from 
 silence ; an active tenderness and charity to the poor, with 
 whom he was always ready to share his own scanty means ; 
 an apparent disregard for money, except when employed 
 in the purchase of books ; an utter indifference to the 
 ambition usually accompanying self-taught talent, whether 
 to better the condition or to increase the repute : these, 
 and other traits of the character portrayed in the novel, 
 are, as far as I can rely on my information, faithful to the 
 features of the original. 
 
 That a man thus described — so benevolent that he 
 would rob his own necessities to administer to those of 
 another, so humane that he would turn aside from the 
 worm in his path — should have been guilty of the foulest 
 of human crimes, namely, murder for the sake of gain ; 
 that a crime thus committed should have been so episodi- 
 cal and apart from the rest of his career that, however 
 it might rankle in his conscience, it should never have 
 hardened his nature ; that through a life of some dura- 
 tion, none of the errors, none of the vices, which would 
 seem essentially to belong to a character capable of a 
 deed so black, from motives apparently so sordid,^ should 
 have been discovered or suspected, — all this presents an 
 anomaly in human conduct so rare and surprising that it 
 would be difficult to find any subject more adapted for that 
 
 * For I put wholly out of question the excuse of jealousy, as unsupported 
 by any evidence, never hinted at by Aram himself (at least on any sufficient 
 authority), and at variance with the only fact which the trial establishes; 
 namely, that the robbery was the crime planned, and the cause, whether acci- 
 dental or otherwise, of the murder. 
 
PREFACE. XI 
 
 metaphysical speculation and analysis, in order to indulge 
 which, Fiction, whether in the drama or the higher class of 
 romance, seeks its materials and grounds its lessons in the 
 chronicles of passion and crime. 
 
 The guilt of Eugene Aram is not that of a vulgar ruffian ; 
 it leads to views and considerations vitally and wholly dis- 
 tinct from those with which profligate knavery and brutal 
 cruelty revolt and displease us in the literature of Newgate 
 and the hulks. His crime does, in fact, belong to those 
 startling paradoxes which the poetry of all countries, and 
 especially of our own, has always delighted to contem- 
 plate and examine. Whenever crime appears the aberra- 
 tion and monstrous product of a great intellect or of a 
 nature ordinarily virtuous, it becomes not only the subject 
 for genius, which deals with passions, to describe, but a 
 problem for philosophy, which deals with actions, to in- 
 vestigate and solve ; hence the Macbeths and Richards, 
 the lagos and Othellos. My regret, therefore, is not that 
 1 chose a subject unworthy of elevated fiction, but that 
 such a subject did not occur to some one capable of treat- 
 ing it as it deserves ; and I never felt this more strongly 
 than when the late Mr. Godwin (in conversing with me 
 after the publication of this romance) observed that he 
 had always thought the story of Eugene Aram peculiarly 
 adapted for fiction, and that he had more than once enter- 
 tained the notion of making it the foundation of a novel. I 
 can well conceive what depth and power that gloomy record 
 would have taken from the dark and inquiring genius of 
 the author of " Caleb Williams." In fact, the crime and 
 trial of Eugene Aram arrested the attention and engaged 
 the conjectures of many of the most eminent men of 
 his own time. His guilt or innocence was the matter of 
 strong contest ; and so keen and so enduring was the sen- 
 sation created by an event thus completely distinct from 
 the ordinary annals of human crime that even History 
 
lii PREFACE. 
 
 turned aside from the sonorous narrative of the struggles 
 of parties and the feuds of kings to commemorate the 
 learning and the guilt of the humble schoolmaster of Lynn. 
 Did I want any other answer to the animadversions of 
 commonplace criticism, it might be sufficient to say that 
 what the historian relates the novelist has little right to 
 disdain. 
 
 Before entering on this romance, I examined with some 
 care the probabilities of Aram's guilt ; for I need scarcely 
 perhaps observe that the legal evidence against him is 
 extremely deficient, — furnished almost entirely by one 
 (Houseman) confessedly an accomplice of the crime and a 
 partner in the booty, and that in the present day a man 
 tried upon evidence so scanty and suspicious would un- 
 questionably escape conviction. Nevertheless, I must 
 frankly own tlmt the moral evidence appeared to me more 
 convincing than the legal ; and though not without some 
 doubt, which, in common with many, I still entertain of 
 the real facts of the murder ,i I adopted that view which, at 
 all events, was the best suited to the higher purposes of 
 fiction. On the whole, I still think that if the crime were 
 committed by Aram, the motive was not very far removed 
 from one which led recently to a remarkable murder in 
 Spain. A priest in that country, wholly absorbed in 
 learned pursuits, and apparently of spotless life, confessed 
 that, being debarred by extreme poverty from prosecuting 
 a study which had become the sole passion of his existence, 
 he had reasoned himself into the belief that it would be 
 admissible to rob a very dissolute, worthless man if he 
 applied the money so obtained to the acquisition of a know- 
 ledge which he could not otherwise acquire, and which he 
 held to be profitable to mankind. Unfortunately, the dis- 
 solute rich man was not willing to be robbed for so excel- 
 lent a purpose ; he was armed and he resisted. A struggle 
 
 1 See Preface to the Present Edition, pp. xvii, xviii. 
 
PREFACE. xiii 
 
 ensued, and the crime of homicide was added to that of 
 robbery. The robbery was premeditated ; the murder was 
 accidental. But he who would accept some similar inter- 
 pretation of Aram's crime must, to comprehend fully the 
 lessons which belong to so terrible a picture of frenzy and 
 guilt, consider also the physical circumstances and con- 
 dition of the criminal at the time, — severe illness, intense 
 labor of the brain, poverty bordering upon famine, the 
 mind preternaturally at work devising schemes and ex- 
 cuses to arrive at the means for ends ardently desired. 
 And all this duly considered, the reader may see the crime 
 bodying itself out from the shades and chimeras of a hor- 
 rible hallucination, — the awful dream of a brief but de- 
 lirious and convulsed disease. It is thus only that we 
 can account for the contradiction of one deed at war with 
 a whole life, — blasting, indeed, forever the happiness, but 
 making little revolution in the pursuits and disposition of 
 the character. No one who has examined with care and 
 thoughtfulness the aspects of Life and Nature but must 
 allow that in the contemplation of such a spectacle, great 
 and most moral truths must force themselves on the 
 notice and sink deep into the heart. The entanglements 
 of human reasoning ; the influence of circumstance upon 
 deeds ; the perversion that may be made, by one self- 
 palter with the Fiend, of elements the most glorious ; the 
 secret effect of conscience in frustrating all for which the 
 crime was done, leaving genius without hope, knowledge 
 without fruit, deadening benevolence into mechanism, taint- 
 ing love itself with terror and suspicion, — such reflections 
 (leading, with subtler minds, to many more vast and com- 
 plicated theorems in the consideration of our nature, social 
 and individual) arise out of the tragic moral which the 
 story of Eugene Aram (were it but adequately treated) 
 could not fail to convey. 
 
 Brussels, August, 1840. 
 
PEEFACE 
 
 TO THE PRESENT EDITION. 
 
 If none of my prose works have been so attacked as 
 " Eugene Aram," none have so completely triumphed over 
 attack. It is true that, whether from real or affected ig- 
 norance of the true morality of fiction, a few critics may 
 still reiterate the old commonplace charges of " selecting 
 heroes from Newgate," or " investing murderers with in- 
 terest ; " but the firm hold which the work has established 
 in the opinion of the general public, and the favor it 
 has received in every country where English literature is 
 known, suffice to prove that, whatever its faults, it belongs 
 to that legitimate class of fiction which illustrates life 
 and truth, and only deals with crime as the recognized 
 agency of pity and terror in the conduct of tragic narrative. 
 All that I would say further on this score has been said in 
 the general defence of my writings which I put forth two 
 years ago ; and I ask the indulgence of the reader if I 
 repeat myself -. — 
 
 " Here, unlike the milder guilt of Paul Clifford, the author 
 was not to imply reform to society, nor open in this world 
 atonement and pardon to the criminal. As it would have 
 been wholly in vain to disguise, by mean tamperings with art 
 and truth, the ordinary habits of life and attributes of charac- 
 ter which all record and remembrance ascribed to Eugene Aram ; 
 as it would have defeated every end of the moral incul- 
 cated by his guilt, to portray, in the caricature of the mur- 
 derer of melodrama, a man immersed in study, of whom it 
 was noted that he turned aside from the worm in his path, — 
 
XVI PREFACE. 
 
 so I have allowed to him whatever contrasts with his inexpi- 
 able crime have been recorded on sufficient authority. But I 
 have invariably taken care that the crime itself should stand 
 stripped of every sophistry, and hideous to the perpetrator as 
 well as to the world. Allowing all by which attention to his 
 biography may explain the tremendous paradox of fearful 
 guilt in a man aspiring after knowledge, and not generally in- 
 humane ; allowing that the crime came upon him in the partial 
 insanity produced by the combining circumstances of a brain 
 overwrought by intense study, disturbed by an excited imagi- 
 nation and the fumes of a momentary disease of the reasoning 
 faculty, consumed by the desire of knowledge, unwholesome 
 and morbid, because coveted as an end, not a means, added to 
 the other physical causes of mental aberration to be found in 
 loneliness, and want verging upon famine, — all these, which 
 a biographer may suppose to have conspired to his crime, 
 have never been used by the novelist as excuses for its enor- 
 mity, nor indeed, lest they should seem as excuses, have they 
 ever been clearly presented to the view. The moral consisted 
 in showing more than the mere legal punishment at the close. 
 It was to show how the consciousness of the deed was to ex- 
 clude whatever humanity of character preceded and belied it 
 from all active exercise, all social confidence ; how the know- 
 ledge of the bar between the nunds of others and his own 
 deprived the criminal of all motive to ambition, and blighted 
 knowledge of all fruit. Miserable in his affections, barren in 
 his intellect ; clinging to solitude, yet accursed in it ; dread- 
 ing as a danger the fame he had once coveted; obscure in 
 spite of learning, hopeless in spite of love, fruitless and joy- 
 less in his life, calamitous and shameful in his end, — surely 
 such is no palliative of crime, no dalliance and toying with 
 the grimness of evil ! And surely to any ordinary compre- 
 hension and candid mind such is the moral conveyed by the 
 fiction of 'Eugene Aram.'"^ 
 
 In point of composition " Eugene Aram " is, I think, 
 entitled to rank amongst the best of my fictions. It some- 
 
 1 A Word to the Public, 1847. 
 
PREFACE. xvii 
 
 what humiliates me to acknowledge that neither practice 
 nor study has enabled me to surpass a work written at a 
 very early age, in the skilful construction and patient 
 development of plot ; and though 1 have since sought to 
 call forth higher and more subtle passions, I doubt if I 
 have ever excited the two elementary passions of tragedy, 
 — namely, pity and terror, — to the same degree. In mere 
 style, too, " Eugene Aram," in spite of certain verbal over- 
 sights, and defects in youthful taste (some of which I have 
 endeavored to remove from the present edition), appears 
 to me unexcelled by any of my later writings, — at least in 
 what I have always studied as the main essential of style 
 in narrative ; namely, its harmony with the subject selected 
 and the passions to be moved, — while it exceeds them all 
 in the minuteness and fidelity of its descriptions of external 
 nature. This indeed it ought to do, since the study of 
 external nature is made a peculiar attribute of the prin- 
 cipal character, whose fate colors the narrative. I do not 
 know whether it has been observed that the time occupied 
 by the events of the story is conveyed through the medium 
 of such descriptions. Each description is introduced, not 
 for its own sake, but to serve as a calendar marking the 
 gradual changes of the seasons as they bear on to his doom 
 the guilty worshipper of Nature. And in this conception, 
 and in the care with which it has been followed out, 1 
 recognize one of my earliest but most successful attempts 
 at the subtler principles of narrative art. 
 
 In this edition I have made one alteration somewhat 
 more important than mere verbal correction. On going, 
 with maturer judgment, over all the evidences on which 
 Aram was condemned, I have convinced myself that 
 though an accomplice in the robbery of Clarke, he was 
 free both from the premeditated design and the actual 
 deed of murder. The crime, indeed, would still rest on 
 his conscience and insure his punishment, as necessarily 
 
 b 
 
xviii PREFACE. 
 
 incidental to the robbery in which he was an accomplice, 
 with Houseman ; but finding my convictions, that in the 
 murder itself he had no share, borne out by the opinion of 
 many eminent lawyers by whom I have heard the subject 
 discussed, I have accordingly so shaped his confession to 
 Walter. 
 
 Perhaps it will not be without interest to the reader if 
 I append to this preface an authentic specimen of Eugene 
 Aram's composition, for which I am indebted to the cour- 
 tesy of a gentleman by whose grandfather it was received, 
 with other papers (especially a remarkable " Outline of a 
 New Lexicon "), during Ai'am's confinement in York prison. 
 The essay I select is, indeed, not without value in itself as 
 a very curious and learned illustration of Popular Antiqui- 
 ties, and it serves also to show not only the comprehensive 
 nature of Aram's studies and the inquisitive eagerness of 
 his mind, but also the fact that he was completely self- 
 taught ; for in contrast to much philological erudition, 
 and to passages that evince considerable mastery in the 
 higher resources of language, we may occasionally notice 
 those lesser inaccuracies from which the writings of men 
 solely self-educated are rarely free, — indeed Aram him- 
 self, in sending to a gentleman an elegy on Sir John Ar- 
 mitage, which shows much, but undisci})lined, power of 
 versification, says, " I send this elegy, which, indeed, if 
 you had not had the curiosity to desire, I could not have 
 had the assurance to offer, scarce believing I, who was 
 hardly taught to read, have any abilities to write." 
 
 THE MELSUPPER AND SHOUTING THE CHUEN. 
 
 These rural entertainments and usages were formerly more 
 general all over England than they are at present, being be- 
 come by time, necessity, or avarice, complex, confined, and 
 altered. They are commonly insisted upon by the reapers as 
 customary things, and a part of their due for the toils of the 
 
PREFACE. XIX 
 
 harvest, and complied with by their masters perhaps more 
 through regards of interest than inclination ; for should they 
 refuse them the pleasures of this much-expected time, this fes- 
 tal night, the youth especially, of both sexes would decline 
 serving them for the future, and employ their labors for others, 
 who would promise them the rustic joys of the harvest-supper, 
 mirth and music, dance and song. These feasts appear to be 
 the relics of Pagan ceremonies or of Judaism, it is hard to say 
 which, and carry in them more meaning and are of far higher 
 antiquity than is generally apprehended. It is true the sub- 
 ject is more curious than important, and I believe altogether 
 untouched ; and as it seems to be little understood, has been as 
 little adverted to. I do not remember it to have been so much 
 as the subject of a conversation. Let us make, then, a little 
 excursion into this field, for the same reason men sometimes 
 take a walk. Its traces are discoverable at a very great distance 
 of time from ours, — nay, seem as old as a sense of joy for the 
 benefit of plentiful harvests and human gratitude to the eternal 
 Creator for His munificence to men. We hear it under various 
 names in different counties, and often in the same county ; as, 
 " melsupper," '' churn-supper," " harvest-supper," " harvest- 
 home," " feast of in-gathering," etc. And perhaps this feast 
 had been long observed, and by different tribes of people, be- 
 fore it became preceptive with the Jews. However, let that 
 be as it will, the custom very lucidly appears from the follow- 
 ing passages of S. S., Exod. xxiii. 16, " And the feast of har- 
 vest, the first-fruits of thy labors, which thou hast sown in the 
 field." And its institution as a sacred rite is commanded in 
 Levit. xxiii. 39 : " When ye have gathered in the fruit of the 
 land ye shall keep a feast to the Lord." 
 
 The Jews then, as is evident from hence, celebrated the feast 
 of harvest, and that by precept ; and though no vestiges of any 
 such feast either are or can be produced before these, yet the 
 oblation of the Primitiae, of which this feast was a conse- 
 quence, is met with prior to this, for we find that " Cain 
 brought of the fruit of the ground an offering to the Lord " 
 (Gen. iv. 3). 
 
 Yet this offering of the first-fruits, it may well be supposed, 
 
XX PREFACE. 
 
 was not peculiar to the Jews either at the time of, or after, its 
 establishment by their legislator ; neither the feast in conse- 
 quence of it. Many other nations, either in imitation of the 
 Jews, or rather by tradition from their several patriarchs, 
 observed the rite of offering their Primitiae, and of solemn- 
 izing a festival after it, in religious acknowledgment for the 
 blessing of harvest, though that acknowledgment was igno- 
 rantly misapplied in being directed to a secondary, not the 
 primary, fountain of this benefit, — namely to Apollo, or the 
 Sun. 
 
 For Callimachus affirms that these Primitise were sent by 
 the people of every nation to the temple of Apollo in Delos, the 
 most distant that enjoyed the happiness of corn and harvest, 
 even by the Hyperboreans in particular, — Hymn to ApoL, 01 
 liivTOL KaXdfXTjv re Kal Upa Spdyfjiu irpihroi dcrrap^ucuF, " Bring the 
 sacred sheafs and the mystic offerings." 
 
 Herodotus also mentions this annual custom of the Hyperbo- 
 reans, remarking that those of Delos talk of 'Upd ivScSep-eva iv 
 KaXdfjir) TTvpCjv e^ 'Yirepf^opaov, " Holy things tied up in sheaf of 
 wheat conveyed from the Hyperboreans." And the Jews, by 
 the command of their law, offered also a sheaf : " And shall 
 reap the harvest thereof, then ye shall bring a sheaf of the 
 first-fruits of the harvest unto the priest." 
 
 This is not introduced in proof of any feast observed by 
 the people who had harvests, but to show the universality of 
 the custom of offering the Primitise, which preceded this feast. 
 But yet it may be looked upon as equivalent to a proof ; for 
 as the offering and the feast appear to have been always and 
 intimately connected in countries affording records, so it is 
 more than probable they were connected too in countries 
 which had none, or none that ever survived to our times. An 
 entertainment and gayety were still the concomitants of these 
 rites, which with the vulgar, one may pretty truly suppose, 
 were esteemed the most acceptable and material part of them, 
 and a great reason of their having subsisted through such a 
 length of ages, when both the populace and many of the 
 learned too have lost sight of the object to which they had 
 been originally directed. This, among many other ceremonies 
 
PREFACE. xxi 
 
 of the heathen worship, became disused in some places and re- 
 tained in otiiers, but still continued declining after the promul- 
 gation of the Gospel. In short, there seems great reason to 
 conclude that this feast, which was once sacred to Apollo, was 
 constantly maintained, when a far less valuable circumstance, 
 — i. e., " shouting the churn," — is observed to this day by the 
 reapers, and from so old an era 5 for we read of this exclama- 
 tion, Isa. xvi. 9 : " For the shouting for thy summer fruits and 
 for thy harvest is fallen ; " and again, ver. 10 : " And in the vine- 
 yards there shall be no singing, their shouting shall be no shout- 
 ing." Hence then, or from some of the Phoenician colonies, is 
 our traditionary " shouting the churn." But it seems these 
 Orientals shouted both for joy of their harvest of grapes and of 
 corn. We have no quantity of the first to occasion so much joy 
 as does our plenty of the last ; and I do not remember to have 
 heard whether their vintages abroad are attended with this cus- 
 tom. Bread or cakes compose part of the Hebrew offering 
 (Levit. xxiii. 13), and a cake thrown upon the head of the vic- 
 tim was also part of the Greek offering to Apollo (see Horn., 
 II., a), whose worship was formerly celebrated in Britain, where 
 the May-pole yet continues one remain of it. This they 
 adorned with garlands on May-day, to welcome the approach of 
 Apollo, or the Sun, towards the North, and to signify that those 
 flowers were the product of his presence and influence. But 
 upon the progress of Christianity, as was observed above, 
 Apollo lost his divinity again, and the adoration of his deity 
 subsided by degrees. Yet so permanent is custom that this 
 rite of the harvest-supper, together with that of the May-pole 
 (of which last see Voss. de Orig. and Prag. Idolatr., 1, 2), 
 have been preserved in Britain ; and what had been an- 
 ciently offered to the god, the reapers as prudently ate up 
 themselves. 
 
 At last the use of the meal of the new corn was neglected, 
 and the supper, so far as meal was concerned, was made indif- 
 ferently of old or new corn, as was most agreeable to the 
 founder. And here the usage itself accounts for the name of 
 "■ ]\Ielsupper " (where mel signifies meal, or else the instrument 
 called with us a " Mell, " wherewith antiquity reduced their 
 
xxii PREFACE. 
 
 corn to meal in a mortar, which still amounts to the same 
 thing) ; for provisions of meal, or of corn in furmety, etc., com- 
 posed by far the greatest part in these elder and country en- 
 tertainments, perfectly conformable to the simplicity of those 
 times, places, and persons, however meanly they may now be 
 looked upon. And as the harvest was last concluded with 
 several preparations of meal, or brought to be ready for the 
 "mell," this term became, in a translated signification, to mean 
 the last of otlier things ; as, when a horse comes last in the 
 race, they often say in the ISTorth, " He has got the mell." 
 
 All the other names of this country festivity sufficiently ex- 
 plain themselves, except " Churn-supper ; " and this is entirely 
 different from " Melsupper : " but they generally happen so 
 near together that they are frequently confounded. The 
 "Churn-supper" was always provided when all was shorn, but 
 the " Melsupper " after all was got in. And it was called the 
 " Churn-supper " because, from immemorial times, it was cus- 
 tomary to produce in a churn a great quantity of cream, and to 
 circulate it by dishfuls to each of the rustic company, to be 
 eaten with bread. And here sometimes very extraordinary 
 execution has been done upon cream. And though this cus- 
 tom has been disused in many places, and agreeably commuted 
 for by ale, yet it survives still, and that about Whitby and 
 Scarborough in the East, and round about Gisburn, etc., in 
 Craven, in the West. But perhaps a century or two more will 
 put an end to it, and both the thing and name shall die. Vica- 
 rious ale is now more approved, and the tankard almost every- 
 where politely preferred to the Churn. 
 
 This Churn (in our provincial pronunciation Kern) is the 
 Hebrew Kern, \'^p, or Keren, from its being circular, like most 
 horns ; and it is the Latin corona, — named so either from 
 radii, resembling horns, as on some very ancient coins, or from 
 its encircling the head : so a ring of people is called corona. 
 Also the Celtic Koren, Keren, or corn, which continues accord- 
 ing to its old pronunciation in Cornwall, etc., and our modern 
 word horn is no more than this ; the ancient hard sound of k 
 in corn being softened into the aspirate h, as has been done 
 in numberless instances. 
 
PREFACE. xxiii 
 
 The Irish Celtse also called a round stone clorjh crene, where 
 the variation is merely dialectic. Hence, too, our crane-berries, 
 — i.e., round berries, — from this Celtic adjective crene, round. 
 
 The quotations from Scripture in Aram's original MS. 
 were both in the Hebrew character, and their value in 
 English sounds. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 llBoob I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Page 
 The Village. — Its Inhabitants. — An Old Manor-House and an English 
 
 Family ; Their History, Involving a Mysterious Event .... I 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 A Publican, a Sinner, and a Stranger 10 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 A Dialogue and an Alarm. — A Student's House 21 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Soliloquy and the Character of a Recluse. — The Interruption . 31 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A Dinner at the Squire's Hall. — A Conversation between Two Re- 
 tired Men with Different Objects in Retirement. — Disturbance 
 First Introduced into a Peaceful Family . , 38 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 The Behavior of the Student. — A Summer Scene. — Aram's Conver- 
 sation with Walter, and Subsequent Colloquy with Himself . . 46 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 The Power of Love over the Resolution of the Student. — Aram 
 Becomes a Frequent Guest at the Manor-House. — A Walk.— 
 Conversation with Dame Darkmans, — Her History. — Poverty 
 and its Effects 54 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The Privilege of Genius — Lester's Satisfaction at the Aspect of 
 
 Events. — His Conversation with Walter. — A Discovery ... 6« 
 
XXVI CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 rage 
 The State of Walter's Mind. — An Angler and a Man of the World. 
 
 — A Companion Found for Walter 72 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The Lovers. — The Encounter and Quarrel of the Rivals .... 78 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 The Family Supper. — The Two Sisters in their Chamber. — A Mis- 
 understanding followed by a Confession. — Walter's Approach- 
 ing Departure, and the Corporal's Behavior thereon. — The 
 Corporal's Favorite Introduced to the Reader. — The Corporal 
 Proves Himself a Subtle Diplomatist 88 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A Strange Habit. — Walter's Interview with Madeline. — Her Generous 
 and Confiding Disposition. — Walter's Anger. — The Parting 
 Meal. — Conversation between the Uncle and Nephew. — Walter 
 Alone. — Sleep the Blessing of the Young 104 
 
 llBook II. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The Marriage Settled. — Lester's Hopes and Schemes. — Gayety of 
 Temper. — A Good Speculation. — The Truth and Fervor of 
 Aram's Love 113 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 A Favorable Specimen of a Nobleman and a Courtier. — A Man of 
 
 Some Faults and Many Accomplishments 116 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 Wherein the Earl and the Student Converse on Grave but Delightful 
 
 Matters. — The Student's Notion of the only Earthly Happiness . 121 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 A Deeper Examination into the Student's Heart. — The Visit to the 
 
 Castle. — Philosophy put to the Trial 125 
 
CONTENTS. xxvii 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Page 
 In Which the Story Returns to Walter and tlie Corporal. — The Ren- 
 contre with a Stranger, and How the Stranger i'roves to be not 
 Altogether a Stranger 137 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Sir Peter Displayed. — One Man of the World Suffers from Another. 
 
 — The Incident of the Bridle Begets the Incident of the Sad- 
 dle ; the Incident of the Saddle Begets the Incident of the Whip ; 
 the Incident of the Whip Begets What the Reader must Read to 
 
 See 147 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Walter Visits Another of His Uncle's Friends. — Mr. Courtland's Strange 
 Complaint. — Walter Learns News of His Father which Surprises 
 Him. — The Change in His Destination 152 
 
 CHxVPTER VIII. 
 
 Walter's Meditations. — The Corporal's Grief and Anger. — The Cor- 
 poral Personally Described. — An Explanation with His Master. 
 
 — The Corporal opens Himself to the Young Traveller. — His 
 Opinions of Love ; on the World ; on the Pleasure and Respecta- 
 bility of Cheating ; on Ladies, and a Particular Class of Ladies ; 
 on Authors ; on the Value of Words ; on Fighting : with Sundry 
 other Matters of Equal Delectation and Improvement. — An 
 Unexpected Event 160 
 
 llBoofe III. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Fraud and Violence Enter even Grassdale. — Peter's News. — The 
 
 Lovers' Walk. — The Reappearance 175 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 The Interview between Aram and the Stranger 181 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 Fresh Alarm in the Village. — Lester's Visit to Aram. — A Trait of 
 Delicate Kindness in the Student. — Madeline. — Her Proneness 
 to Confide. — The Conversation between Lester and Aram. — The 
 Persons by Whom it is Interrupted 190 
 
xxviii CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Page 
 
 Military Preparations. — The Commander and His Men. — Aram is 
 
 Persuaded to Pass the Night at the Mauor-House 200 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The Sisters Alone. — The Gossip of Love. — An Alarm and an Event 20 i 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Aram Alone Among the Mountains. — His Soliloquy and Project. — 
 
 Scene between Himself and Madeline 212 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Aram's Secret Expedition. — A Scene Worthy the Actors. — Aram's 
 Address and Powers of Persuasion or Hypocrisy. — Their Result. 
 — A Fearful Kignt. — Aram's Solitary Ride Homeward. — 
 "Whom He Meets by the Way, and What He Sees 220 
 
 Boofe IV. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In which We Return to Walter. — His Debt of Gratitude to Mr. Per- 
 tinax Fillgrave. — Tlie Corporal's Advice and the Corporal's 
 Victory 238 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ]Sew Traces of the Fate of Geoffrey Lester. — Walter and the Corporal 
 Proceed on a Fresh Expedition. — The Corporal is Especially 
 Sagacious on the Old Topic of the World. — His Opinions of the 
 Men who Claim Knowledge thereof ; on the Advantages Enjoyed 
 by a Valet; on the Science of Successful Love; on Virtue and 
 the Constitution ; on Qualities to be Desired in a Mistress, etc. 
 
 — A Landscape . . . • 24G 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A Scholar, but of a Different Mould from the Student of Grassdale. 
 
 — New Particulars Concerning Geoffrey Lester. — The Journey 
 Recommenced 254 
 
CONTENTS. XXIX 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Page 
 Aram's Departure. — Madeline. — Exaggeration of Sentiment Natural 
 
 in Love. — Madeline's Letter. — Walter's. — The Walk. — Two 
 
 very different Persons, yet both Inmates of the same Country 
 
 Village. — The Humors of Life and its Dark Passions are found 
 
 in Juxtaposition everywhere 264 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A Reflection New and Strange. — The Streets of London. — A Great 
 Man's Library. — A Conversation between tlie Student and an 
 Acquaintance of the Reader. — Its Results 278 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 I'he Thames at Night. — A Thought. — The Student Reseeks the 
 
 Ruffian. — A Human Feeling even in the Worst Soil 284 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Madeline, her Hopes. — A Mild Autumn Characterized. — A Land- 
 scape. — A Return 290 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 Affection : Its Godlike Nature. — The Conversation between Aram and 
 
 Madeline. — The Fatalist Forgets Fate 293 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Walter aud the Corporal on the Road. — The Evening Sets In. — The 
 Gypsy Tents. — Adventure with the Horseman. — The Corporal 
 Discomfited, and the Arrival at Knaresborough 297 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Walter's Reflections. — Mine Host. — A Gentle Character and a Green 
 Old Age. — The Garden, and That which it Teacheth. — A 
 Dialogue wherein New Hints towards the Wished-for Discovery 
 are Suggested. — The Curate. — A Visit to a Spot of Deep In- 
 terest to the Adventurer 306 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Grief in a Ruffian. — The Chamber of Early Death. — A Homely Yet 
 Momentous Confession. — The Earth's Secrets. — The Cavern. — 
 — The Accusation 323 
 
XXX CONTENTS. 
 
 IIBOOU V. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Page 
 Grassdale. — The Morning of the Marriage. — The Crones' Gossip. — 
 
 The Bride at Her Toilet. —The Arrival 335 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The Student Alone in His Chamber. — The Interruption. — Faithful 
 
 Love 340 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The Justice. — The Departure. — The Equanimity of the Corporal in 
 Bearing the Misfortunes of Other People. — The Examination ; Its 
 Result. — Aram's Conduct in Prison. — The Elasticity of ( )nr 
 Human Nature. — A Visit from the Earl. — Walter's Determina- 
 tion. — Madeline 353 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Evening Before the Trial. — The Cousins. — The Change in Made- 
 line. — Tlie Family of Grassdale meet Once More beneath One 
 Roof 370 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 The Trial 378 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 The Death. — The Prison. — An Interview. — Its Result 392 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 The Confession ; and the Fate 398 
 
 CHAPTER VIII AND LAST. 
 
 The Traveller's Return. — The Country Village Once More Visited. — 
 Its Inhabitants. — The Remembered Brook. — The Deserted 
 Manor-House. — The Church- Yard. — The Traveller Resumes His 
 Journey. — The Country Town. — A Meeting of Two Lovers after 
 Long Absence and Much Sorrow. — Conclusion 418 
 
 Advertisement ^31 
 
 Eugene Aram, A Tragedy 433 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Pack 
 
 "A Publican, a Sinner, and a Stranger" .... Frontispiece 
 
 Akam and Madeline in "The Lady's Seat" 81 
 
 Aram and Houseman in the Cave 229 
 
 The Sisters 339 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 T«. *eD, ^eD" <ppove7v as Setvhv tvQa fii] reXr} 
 \vet (ppovovvTi. 
 
 "Oj. Tt S' icxriv ; iis &dvfios etae\r]\vdas. 
 Tet. "Acpes fi is oIkovs' ^acrra yap rh a6v T6 <tv 
 Kayio SioiffO} Tou/udf, fju ffiol irldrj. 
 
 — 'OiS. Tvp. 316-321. 
 
 Tei. Alas! alas! how sad it is to be wise when it is not advantageous to 
 him who is so. 
 
 Oi. Biit what is the cause that you come hither sad? 
 Tei. Dismiss me to my house ; for both you will bear your fate easier, and 
 I mine, if you take my advice. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE VILLAGE. — ITS INHABITANTS. — AN OLD MANOR-HOUSE, 
 AND AN ENGLISH FAMILY ; THEIR HISTOKT, INVOLVING 
 A MYSTERIOUS EVENT. 
 
 Protected by the divinity they adored, supported by the earth which they 
 cultivated, and at peace with themselves, they enjoyed the sweets of life with- 
 out dreading or desiring dissolution. — Numa Pompilius. 
 
 In the county of there is a sequestered hamlet which 1 
 
 have often sought occasion to pass, and which I have never 
 left without a certain reluctance and regret. The place, indeed, 
 is associated with the memory of events that still retain a 
 singular and fearful interest ; but the scene needs not the 
 charm of legend to arrest the attention of the traveller. In no 
 part of the world which it has been my lot to visit have I seen 
 
 1 
 
2 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 a landscape of more pastoral beauty. The hamlet — to Avhich I 
 shall here give the name of Grassdale — is situated in a valley, 
 which for about the length of a mile winds among gardens and 
 orchards laden with fruit, between two chains of gentle and 
 fertile hills. 
 
 Here, singly or in pairs, are scattered cottages, which bespeak 
 a comfort and a rural luxury less often than our poets have de- 
 scribed the characteristics of the English peasantry. It has 
 been observed that wherever you see a flower in a cottage gar- 
 den, or a bird-cage at a cottage casement, you may feel sure that 
 the inmates are better and wiser than their neighbors ; and 
 such humble tokens of attention to something beyond the ster- 
 ile labor of life were (we must now revert to the past) to be 
 remarked in almost every one of the lowly abodes of Grassdale. 
 The jasmine here, — there the rose or honeysuckle, clustered 
 over the lattice and threshold, not so wildly as to testify negli- 
 gence, but rather to sweeten the air than exclude the light. 
 Each of the cottages possessed at its rear its plot of ground ap- 
 portioned to the more useful and nutritious products of Nature ; 
 while the greater part of them fenced also from the unfre- 
 quented road a little spot for a lupin, the sweet-pea, the wall- 
 flower, or the stock. And it is not unworthy of remark that 
 the bees came in greater clusters to Grassdale than to any other 
 part of that rich and cultivated district, A small piece of waste 
 land, which was intersected by a brook fringed with osier and 
 dwarf and fantastic pollards, afforded pasture for a few cows 
 and the only carrier's solitary horse. The stream itself was of 
 no ignoble repute among the gentle craft of the Angle, — the 
 brotherhood whom our associations defend in spite of our 
 mercy ; and this repute drew welcome and periodical itinerants 
 to the village, who furnished it with its scanty news of the 
 great world without, and maintained in a decorous custom the 
 little and single host-elry of the place. Not that Peter Dealtry, 
 the proprietor of The Spotted Dog, was altogether contented to 
 subsist upon the gains of his hospitable profession, — he joined 
 thereto the light cares of a small farm, held under a wealthy 
 and an easy landlord ; and being moreover honored with the 
 dignity of clerk to the parish, he was deemed by his neighbors 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 3 
 
 a person of no small accomplishments and no insignificant dis- 
 tinction. He was a little, dry, thin man, of a turn rather sen- 
 timental than jocose. A memory well-stored with fag-ends of 
 psalms and hymns (which, being less familiar than the psalms 
 to the ears of the villagers, were more than suspected to be his 
 own composition) often gave a poetic and semi-religious color- 
 ing to his conversation, which accorded rather with his dignity 
 in the church than his post at The Spotted Dog. Yet he dis- 
 liked not his joke, though it was subtle and delicate of nature ; 
 nor did he disdain to bear companionship over his own liquor 
 with guests less gifted and refined. 
 
 In the centre of the village you chanced upon a cottage which 
 had been lately whitewashed, where a certain preciseness in 
 the owner might be detected in the clipped hedge and the 
 exact and newly mended stile by which you approached the 
 habitation. Herein dwelt the beau and bachelor of the village, 
 — somewhat antiquated, it is true, but still an object of great 
 attention and some hope to the elder damsels in the vicinity, 
 and of a respectful popularity (that did not, however, prohibit a 
 joke) among the younger. Jacob Bunting — so was this gen- 
 tleman called — had been for many years in the king's service, 
 in which he had risen to the rank of corporal, and had saved 
 and pinched together a certain small independence, upon which 
 he now rented his cottage and enjoyed his leisure. He had 
 seen a good deal of the world, and profited in shrewdness by 
 his experience ; he had rubbed off, however, all superfluous de- 
 votion as he rubbed off his prejudices ; and though he drank 
 more often than any one else with the landlord of The Spotted 
 Dog, there was not a wit in the place who showed so little in- 
 dulgence to the publican's segments of psalmody. Jacob was 
 a tall, comely, and perpendicular personage ; his threadbare 
 coat was scrupulously brushed, and his hair punctiliously plas- 
 tered at the sides into two stiff, obstinate-looking curls, and at 
 the top into what he was pleased to call a feather, though it 
 was much more like a tile. His conversation had in it some- 
 thing peculiar ; generally it assumed a quick, short, abrupt 
 turn, that, retrenching all superfluities of pronoun and conjunc- 
 tion, and marching at once upon the meaning of the sentence, 
 
4 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 had in it a military and Spartan significance whicli betrayed 
 how difficult it often is for a man to forget that he has been 
 a corporal. Occasionally, indeed, — for where but in farces 
 is the phraseology of the humorist always the same ? — he es- 
 caped into a more enlarged and Christianlike method of dealing 
 with the king's English ; but that was chiefly noticeable when 
 from conversation he launched himself into lecture, — a luxury 
 the worthy soldier loved greatly to indulge : for much had he 
 seen, and somewhat had he reflected ; and valuing himself 
 — which was odd in a corporal — more on his knowledge of 
 the world than his knowledge of war, he rarely missed any 
 occasion of edifying a patient listener with the result of his 
 observations. 
 
 After you have sauntered by the veteran's door, beside 
 which you generally, if the evening were fine, or he was not 
 drinking with neighbor Dealtry, or taking his tea with gossip 
 this or master that, or teaching some emulous urchins the 
 broadsword exercise, or snaring trout in the stream, or, in 
 short, otherwise engaged, — beside which, I say, you not un- 
 frequently beheld him sitting on a rude bench, and enjoying 
 with half-shut eyes, crossed legs, but still unindulgently erect 
 posture, the luxury of his pipe, — you ventured over a little 
 wooden bridge, beneath which, clear and shallow, ran the rivu- 
 let we have before honorably mentioned, and a walk of a few 
 minutes brought you to a moderately-sized and old-fashioned 
 mansion, the manor-house of the parish. It stood at the very 
 foot of a hill ; behind, a rich, ancient, and hanging wood brought 
 into relief the exceeding freshness and verdure of the patch of 
 green meadow immediately in front. On one side, the garden 
 was bounded by the village church-yard, with its simple mounds 
 and its few scattered and humble tombs. The church was of 
 great antiquity; and it was only in one point of view that 
 you caught more than a glimpse of its gray tower and graceful 
 spire, so thickly and so darkly grouped the yew-tree and the 
 pine around the edifice. Opposite the gate by which you 
 gained the house, the view was not extended, but rich with 
 wood and pasture, backed by a hill which, less verdant than its 
 fellows, was covered with sheep ; while you saw hard by, the 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 5 
 
 rivulet darkening and stealing away till your sight, thougli not 
 your ear, lost it among the woodland. 
 
 Trained up the embrowned paling on either side of the gate 
 were bushes of rustic fruit ; and fruit and flowers (through 
 plots of which green and winding alleys had been cut with no 
 untasteful hand) testified, by their thriving and healthful looks, 
 the care bestowed upon them. The main boasts of the garden 
 were, on one side a huge horse-chestnut-tree, — the largest in 
 the village, — and on the other an arbor covered with honey- 
 suckles and tapestried within by moss. The house, a gray and 
 quaint building of the time of James I., with stone copings 
 and gable roof, could scarcely in these days have been deemed 
 a fitting residence for the lord of the manor. Nearly the whole 
 of the centre was occupied by the hall, in which the meals of 
 the family were commonly held ; only two other sitting-rooms, 
 of very moderate dimensions, had been reserved by the architect 
 for the convenience or ostentation of the proprietor. An ample 
 porch jutted from the main building, and this was covered with 
 ivy, as the sides of the windows were with jasmine and honey- 
 suckle ; while seats were ranged inside the porch carved with 
 many a rude initial and long past date. 
 
 The owner of this mansion bore the name of Rowland Les- 
 ter. His forefathers, without pretending to high antiquity of 
 family, had held the dignity of squires of Grassdale for some 
 two centuries ; and Rowland Lester was perhaps the first of 
 the race who had stirred above fifty miles from the house in 
 which each successive lord had received his birth, or the green 
 church-yard in which was yet chronicled his death. The pres- 
 ent proprietor was a man of cultivated tastes ; and abilities, 
 naturally not much above mediocrity, had been improved by 
 travel as well as study. Himself and one younger brother 
 had been early left masters of their fate and their several 
 portions. The younger, Geoffrey, testified a roving and dissi- 
 pated turn. Bold, licentious, extravagant, unprincipled, his 
 career soon outstripped the slender fortunes of a cadet in the 
 family of a country squire. He was early thrown into diffi- 
 culties, but by some means or other they never seemed to over- 
 whelm him ; an unexpected turn, a lucky adventure, presented 
 
6 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 itself at the very moment when Fortune appeared the most 
 utterly to have deserted him. 
 
 Among these more propitious fluctuations in the tide of 
 affairs was, at about the age of forty, a sudden marriage with 
 a young lady of what might be termed (for Geoffrey Lester's 
 rank of life, and the rational expenses of that day) a very 
 competent and respectable fortune. Unhappily, however, the 
 lady was neither handsome in feature nor gentle in temper ; 
 and after a few years of quarrel and contest, the faithless 
 husband, one bright morning, having collected in his proper 
 person whatever remained of their fortune, absconded from 
 the conjugal hearth without either warning or farewell. He 
 left nothing to his wife but his house, his debts, and his only 
 child, a son. From that time to the present little had been 
 known, though much had been conjectured, concerning the 
 deserter. For the first few years they traced, however, so far 
 of his fate as to learn that he had been seen once in India ; 
 and that previously he had been met in England by a relation, 
 under the disguise of assumed names, — a proof that whatever 
 his occupations, they could scarcely be very respectable. But 
 of late nothing whatsoever relating to the wanderer had tran- 
 spired. By some he was imagined dead ; by most he was 
 forgotten. Those more immediately connected with him — 
 his brother in especial — cherished a secret belief that where- 
 ever Geoffrey Lester should chance to alight, the manner of 
 alighting would (to use the significant and homely metaphor) 
 be always on his legs ; and coupling the wonted luck of the 
 scapegrace with the fact of his having been seen in India, 
 Rowland in his heart not only hoped, but fully expected, that 
 the lost one would, some day or other, return home laden with 
 the spoils of the East, and eager to shower upon his relatives, 
 m recompense of long desertion, — 
 
 "With richest hand . . . barbaric pearl and gold." 
 
 But we must return to the forsaken spouse. Left in this 
 A.brui)t destitution and distress, Mrs. Lester had only the 
 resource of applying to her brother-in-law, whom indeed the 
 fugitive had before seized many opportunities of not leaving 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 7 
 
 wholly unprepared for such an application. Rowland promptly 
 and generously obeyed the summons : he took the child and 
 the wife to his own home ; he freed the latter from the per- 
 secutions of all legal claimants ; and after selling such effects 
 as remained, he devoted the whole proceeds to the forsaken 
 family, without regarding his own expenses on their behalf, 
 ill as he was able to afford the luxury of that self-neglect. 
 The wife did not long need the asylum of his hearth, — she, 
 poor lady, died of a slow fever, produced by irritation and 
 disappointment, a few months after Geoffrey's desertion. She 
 had no need to recommend her child to his kind-hearted 
 uncle's care. And now we must glance over the elder broths 
 er's domestic fortunes. 
 
 In Rowland, the wild dispositions of his brother were so far 
 tamed that they assumed only the character of a buoyant 
 temper and a gay spirit. He had strong principles as well as 
 warm feelings, and a fine and resolute sense of honor utterly 
 impervious to attack. It was impossible to be in his company 
 an hour and not see that he was a man to be respected. It 
 was equally impossible to live with him a week and not see 
 that he was a man to be beloved. He also had married, and 
 about a year after that era in the life of his brother, but not 
 for the same advantage of fortune. He had formed an attach- 
 ment to the portionless daughter of a man in his own neigh- 
 borhood and of his own rank. He wooed and won her, and 
 for a few years he enjoyed that greatest happiness which the 
 world is capable of bestowing, — the society and the love of 
 one in whom we could wish for no change, and beyond whom 
 we have no desire. But what Evil cannot corrupt. Fate seldom 
 spares. A few months after the birth of a second daughter, 
 the young wife of Rowland Lester died. It was to a widowed 
 hearth that the wife and child of his brother came for shelter. 
 Rowland was a man of an affectionate and warm heart : if the 
 blow did not crush, at least it changed him. Naturally of a 
 cheerful and ardent disposition, his mood now became more 
 sober and sedate. He shrank from the rural gayeties and 
 companionship he had before courted and enlivened, and for 
 the first time in his life the mourner felt the holiness of soli- 
 
8 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 tude. As his nephew and his motherless daughters grew up, 
 they gave an object to his seclusion and a relief to his reflec- 
 tions. He found a pure and unfailing delight in watching the 
 growth of their young minds and guiding their differing dis- 
 positions ; and as time at length enabled them to return his 
 affection and appreciate his cares, he became once more sen- 
 sible that he had a home. 
 
 The elder of his daughters, Madeline, at the time our story 
 opens, had attained the age of eighteen. She was the beauty 
 and the boast of the whole country. Above the ordinary height, 
 her figure was richly and exquisitely formed. So translucently 
 .pure and soft was her complexion that it might have seemed 
 the token of delicate health, but for the dewy redness of her 
 lips and the freshness of teeth whiter than pearls. Her eyes, 
 of a deep blue, wore a thoughtful and serene expression ; and 
 her forehead, higher and broader than it usually is in women, 
 gave promise of a certain nobleness of intellect, and added 
 dignity — but a feminine dignity — to the more tender charac- 
 teristics of her beauty. And, indeed, the peculiar tone of 
 Madeline's mind fulfilled the indication of her features, and 
 was eminently thoughtful and high-wrought. She had early 
 testified a remarkable love for study, and not only a desire for 
 knowledge, but a veneration for those who possessed it. The 
 remote corner of the county in which they lived, and the 
 rarely broken seclusion which Lester habitually preserved 
 from the intercourse of their few and scattered neighbors, had 
 naturally cast each member of the little circle upon his or her 
 own resources. An accident, some five years ago, had confined 
 Madeline for several weeks, or rather months, to the house ; 
 and as the old Hall possessed a very respectable share of 
 books, she had then matured and confirmed that love for 
 reading and reflection which she had at a yet earlier period 
 prematurely evinced. The woman's tendency to romance 
 naturally tinctured her meditations, and thus, while they 
 dignified, they also softened her mind. Her sister EUinor, 
 younger by two years, was of a character equally gentle, but • 
 less elevated. She looked up to her sister as a superior being. 
 She felt pride, without a shadow of envy, for Madeline's su- 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 9 
 
 perior and surpassing beauty, and was unconsciously guided in 
 her pursuits and predilections by a mind which she cheerfully 
 acknowledged to be loftier than her own. And yet Ellinor 
 had also her pretensions to personal loveliness, and preten- 
 sions perhaps that would be less reluctantly acknowledged 
 by her own sex than those of her sister. The sunlight of a 
 happy and innocent heart sparkled on her face, and gave a 
 beam it gladdened you to behold to her quick hazel eye, and 
 a smile that broke out from a thousand dimples. She did 
 not possess the height of Madeline ; and though not so slen- 
 der as to be curtailed of the roundness and feminine luxuri- 
 ance of beauty, her shape was slighter, feebler, and less rich 
 in its symmetry than her sister's. And this the tendency of 
 the physical frame to require elsewhere support, nor to feel 
 secure of strength, perhaps influenced her mind, and made 
 love, and the dependence of love, more necessary to her than 
 to the thoughtful and lofty Madeline. The latter might pass 
 through life, and never see the one to whom her heart could 
 give itself away ; but every village might possess a hero whom 
 the imagination of Ellmor could clothe with unreal graces, 
 and towards whom the lovingness of her disposition might 
 bias her affections. Both, however, eminently possessed that 
 earnestness and purity of heart which would have made them, 
 perhaps in an equal degree, constant and devoted to the object 
 of an attachment once formed, in defiance of change, and to 
 the brink of death. 
 
 Their cousin Walter, Geoffrey Lester's son, was now in his 
 twenty-first year, — tall and strong of person, and with a face, 
 if not regularly handsome, striking enough to be generally 
 deemed so. High-spirited, bold, fiery, impatient ; jealous of 
 the affections of those he loved ; cheerful to outward seeming, 
 but restless, fond of change, and subject to the melancholy 
 and pining mood common to young and ardent minds : such 
 was the character of Walter Lester. The estates of Lester 
 were settled in the male line, and devolved therefore upon 
 him. Yet there were moments when he keenly felt his orphan 
 and deserted situation, and sighed to think that while his 
 father perhaps yet lived, he was a dependant for affection, if 
 
10 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 not for maintenance, on the kindness of others. This reflec- 
 tion sometimes gave an air of sullenness or petulance to his 
 character that did not really belong to it. For what in the 
 world makes a man of just pride appear so unamiable as the 
 sense of dependence ? 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 A PUBLICAN, A SINNER, AND A STKANGER. 
 
 Ah, Don Alphonso, is it you ' Agreeable accident ! Chance presents you 
 to my eyes where you were least expected. — Gil Bias. 
 
 It was an evening in the beginning of summer, and Peter 
 Dealtry and the ci-devant corporal sat beneath the sign of The 
 Spotted Dog (as it hung motionless from the bough of a friendly 
 elm), quaffing a cup of boon companionship. The reader will 
 imagine the two men very different from each other in form 
 and aspect : the one short, dry, fragile, and betraying a love 
 of ease in his unbuttoned vest, and a certain lolling, see-sawing 
 method of balancing his body upon his chair ; the other erect 
 and solemn, and as steady on his seat as if he were nailed to 
 it. It was a fine, tranquil, balmy evening ; the sun had just 
 set, and the clouds still retained the rosy tints which they had 
 caught from its parting ray. Here and there, at scattered 
 intervals, you might see the cottages peeping from the trees 
 around them, or mark the smoke that rose from their roofs, 
 — roofs green with mosses and house-leek, — in graceful and 
 spiral curls against the clear soft air. It was an English 
 scene ; and the two men, the dog at their feet (for Peter Deal- 
 try favored a wiry, stone-colored cur, which he called a ter- 
 rier), and just at the door of the little inn two old gossips 
 loitering on the threshold in familiar chat with the landlady 
 in cap and kerchief, — all together made a group equally 
 English, and somewhat picturesque, though homely enough 
 in effect. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 11 
 
 "Well, now," said Peter Dealtiy, as he pushed the brown 
 jug towards the corporal, *' this is what I call pleasant ; it puts 
 me in mind — " 
 
 *' Of what ? " quoth the corporal. 
 
 " Of those nice lines in the hymn, Master Bunting : — 
 
 " ' How fair ye are, ye little hills, 
 Ye little fields also, 
 Ye murmuring streams that sweetly run, 
 Ye willows iu a row ! ' 
 
 There is something very comfortable in sacred verses, Master 
 Bunting. But you 're a scoffer." 
 
 '' Pshaw, man ! " said the corporal, throwing out his right leg 
 and leaning back, with his eyes half shut, and his chin pro- 
 truded, as he took an unusually long inhalation from his pipe. 
 "Pshaw, man! send verses to the right-about, — fit for girls 
 going to school of a Sunday ; full-grown men more up to snuff. 
 I 've seen the world. Master Dealtry, — the world, and be d — d 
 to you ! — augh ! " 
 
 " Fie, neighbor, fie ! What 's the good of profaneness, evil 
 speaking, and slandering ? — 
 
 •" Oaths are the debts your spendthrift soul must pay; 
 All scores are chalked against the reckouiug day.' 
 
 Just wait a bit, neighbor, • — wait till I light my pipe." 
 
 " Tell you Avhat," said the corporal, after he had communi- 
 cated from his own pipe the friendly flame to his comrade's, 
 "tell you what, — talk nonsense ; the Commander-in-chief's no 
 martinet : if we 're all right in action, he '11 wink at a slip word 
 or two. Come, no humbug ; hold jaw. D' ye think God would 
 sooner have a snivelling fellow like you in his regiment than 
 a man like me, clean-limbed, straight as a dart, six feet one 
 without his shoes ? — baugh ! " 
 
 This notion of the corporal, by which he would have likened 
 the dominion of heaven to the King of Prussia's body-guard, 
 and only admitted the elect on account of their inches, so 
 tickled mine host's fancy that he leaned back in his chair and 
 indulged in a long, dry, obstreperous cachinnation. This 
 
12 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 irreverence mightily displeased the corporal. He looked at 
 the little man very sourly, and said, in his least smooth 
 accentuation, — 
 
 " What — devil — cackling at ? Always grin, grin, grin — 
 giggle, giggle, giggle — pshaw ! " 
 
 "Why really, neighbor," said Peter, composing himself, 
 "you must let a man laugh now and then." 
 
 " Man ! " said the corporal, — " man 's a noble animal ! Man 's 
 a musket primed, loaded, ready to save a friend or kill a foe, 
 — charge not to be wasted on every tom-tit. But you, — not 
 a musket, but a cracker ! Noisy, harmless, can't touch you 
 but off you go, — whiz, pop, bang in one's face ! — baugh ! " 
 
 " Well ! " said the good-humored landlord, " I should think 
 Master Aram, the great scholar who lives down the vale yon- 
 der, a man quite after your own heart. He is grave enough to 
 suit you. He does not laugh very easily, I fancy." 
 
 " After my heart ? Stoops like a bow ! " 
 
 " Indeed he does look on the ground as he walks, — when I 
 think, I do the same. But what a marvellous man it is ! I 
 hear that he reads the Psalms in Hebrew. He 's very affable 
 and meek-like for such a scholard." 
 
 " Tell you what. Seen the world. Master Dealtry, and know 
 a thing or two. Your shy dog is always a deep one. Give me 
 a man who looks me in the face as he would a cannon ! " 
 
 " Or a lass," said Peter, knowingly. 
 
 The grim corporal smiled. 
 
 " Talking of lasses," said the soldier, re-filling his pipe, 
 " what creature Miss Lester is ! Such eyes ! such nose ! Fit 
 for a colonel, by Gad ! ay, or a major-general ! " 
 
 "For my part, I think Miss Ellinor almost as handsome, — 
 not so grand-like, but more lovesome." 
 
 " Nice little thing ! " said the corporal, condescendingly. 
 " But zooks ! whom have we here ? " 
 
 This last question was applied to a man who was slowly 
 turning from the road towards the inn. The stranger, for 
 such he was, was stout, thick-set, and of middle height. His 
 dress was not without pretension to a rank higher than the 
 lowest; but it was threadbare and worn, and soiled with dust 
 
EUGENE ARAM, 13 
 
 and travel. His appearance was by no means prepossessing ; 
 small, sunken eyes of a light hazel, and a restless and rather 
 fierce expression, a thick flat nose, high cheek-bones, a large 
 bony jaw from which the flesh receded, and a bull-throat indi- 
 cative of great strength, constituted his claims to personal 
 attraction. The stately corporal, without moving, kept a vigi- 
 lant and suspicious eye upon the new-comer, muttering to 
 Peter : " Customer for you, — rum customer too, by Gad ! " 
 
 The stranger now reached the little table, and halting short, 
 took up the brown jug, without ceremony or preface, and emptied 
 it at a draught. 
 
 The corporal stared, the corporal frowned ; but before — for 
 he was somewhat slow of speech — he had time to vent his 
 displeasure, the stranger, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, 
 said, in rather a civil and apologetic tone, — 
 
 " I beg pardon, gentlemen. I have had a long march of it, 
 and very tired I am." 
 
 " Humph ! march ? " said the corporal, a little appeased : 
 "not in his Majesty's service, eh ? " 
 
 "Not now," answered the traveller; then, turning round to 
 Dealtry, he said : " Are you landlord here ? " 
 
 "At your service," said Peter, with the indifference of a 
 man well-to-do, and not ambitious of halfpence. 
 
 " Come, then, quick, budge ! " said the traveller, tapping 
 him on the back. "Bring more glasses, another jug of the 
 October, and anything or everything your larder is able to pro- 
 duce, — d' ye hear ? " 
 
 Peter, by no means pleased with the briskness of this address, 
 eyed the dusty and way-worn pedestrian from head to foot ; 
 then, looking over his shoulder towards the door, he said, as he 
 ensconced himself yet more firmly on his seat, — 
 
 " There 's my wife by the door, friend ; go, tell her what you 
 want." 
 
 " Do you know," said the traveller, in a slow and measured 
 accent, " do you know. Master Shrivel-face, that I have more 
 than half a mind to break your head for impertinence ? You 
 a landlord ! You keep an inn, indeed ! Come, sir, make off, 
 or—" 
 
14 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " Corporal, corporal ! " cried Peter, retreating hastily from his 
 seat as the brawny traveller approached menacingly towards 
 him, " you won't see the peace broken. Have a care, friend, 
 have a care. I 'm clerk to the parish, — clerk to the parish, 
 sir ; and I '11 indict you for sacrilege." 
 
 The wooden features of Bunting relaxed into a sort of grin 
 at the alarm of his friend. He puffed away, without making 
 any reply; meanwhile the traveller, taking advantage of Peter's 
 hasty abandonment of his cathedrarian accommodation, seized 
 the vacant chair, and drawing it yet closer to the table, flung 
 himself upon it, and placing his hat on the table, wiped his 
 brows with the air of a man about to make himself thoroughly 
 at home. 
 
 Peter Dealtry was assuredly a personage of peaceable disposi- 
 tion ; but then he had the proper pride of a host and a clerk. 
 His feelings were exceedingly wounded at this cavalier treat- 
 ment : before the very eyes of his wife too ! What an example ! 
 He thrust his hands deep into his breeches' pockets, and strut- 
 ting with a ferocious swagger towards the traveller, he said, — 
 
 " Hark ye, sirrah ! this is not the way folks are treated in 
 this country ; and I 'd have you to know that I 'm a man what 
 has a brother a constable." 
 
 "Well, sir!" 
 
 " Well, sir, indeed ! Well ! Sir, it 's not well, by no man- 
 ner of means ; and if you don't pay for the ale you drank, and 
 go quietly about your business, I '11 have you put in the stocks 
 for a vagrant." 
 
 This, the most menacing speech Peter Dealtry was ever 
 known to deliver, was uttered with so much spirit that the 
 corporal, who had hitherto preserved silence, — for he was too 
 strict a disciplinarian to thrust himself unnecessarily into 
 brawls, — turned approvingly round, and nodding as well as 
 his stock would suffer him at the indignant Peter, he said, 
 " Well done ! 'Fegs — you 've a soul, man ! — a soul fit for 
 the Forty-second — augh ! A soul above the inches of five 
 feet two ! " 
 
 There was something bitter and sneering in the traveller's 
 aspect as he now, regarding Dealtry, repeated, — 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 15 
 
 " Vagrant ! humph ! And pray what is a vagrant ? " 
 
 " What is a vagrant ? " echoed Peter, a little puzzled. 
 
 " Yes ! answer me that." 
 
 " Why, a vagrant is a man what wanders, and what has no 
 money." 
 
 " Truly," said the stranger, smiling, — but the smile by no 
 means improved his physiognomy, — " an excellent definition ; 
 but one which, I will convince you, does not apply to me." 
 So saying, he drew from his pocket a handful of silver coins, 
 and throwing them on the table, added : " Come, let 's have no 
 more of this. You see I can pay for what I order ; and now, 
 do recollect that I am a weary and hungry man." 
 
 No sooner did Peter behold the money than a sudden placi- 
 dity stole over his ruffled spirit, nay, — a certain benevolent com- 
 miseration for the fatigue and wants of the traveller replaced 
 at once, and as by a spell, the angry feelings that had previously 
 roused him. 
 
 '' Weary and hungry," said he, — " why did not you say that 
 before ? That would have been quite enough for Peter Dealtry. 
 Thank Heaven ! I am a man what can feel for my neighbors. 
 I have bowels, — yes, I have bowels. Weary and hungry ! — 
 you shall be served in an instant. I may be a little hasty or 
 so, but I 'm a good Christian at bottom, — ask the corporal. 
 And what says the Psalmist, Psalm 147 ? — 
 
 " ' By Him the beasts that loosely range 
 With timely food are fed; 
 He speaks the word, and what He wills 
 Is done as soon as said.' " 
 
 Animating his kindly emotions by this apt quotation, Peter 
 turned to the house. The corporal now broke silence ; the 
 sight of the money had not been without an effect upon him as 
 well as the landlord. 
 
 " Warm day, sir. Your health ! Oh ! forgot you emptied 
 jug — baugh ! You said you. were not now in his Majesty's 
 service : beg pardon, — were you ever ? " 
 
 " Why, once I was, — many years ago." 
 
 " Ah ! and what regiment ? I was in the Forty-second. 
 
16 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 Heard of the Forty-second ? Colonel's name Dysart ; captain's, 
 Trotter ; corporal's, Bunting, — at your service." 
 
 " I am much obliged by your confidence," said the traveller, 
 dryly. " I dare say you have seen much service." 
 
 " Service ! Ah ! may well say that, — twenty-three years' 
 hard work ; and not the better for it ! A man that loves his 
 country is 'titled to a pension, — that 's my mind ! But the 
 world don't smile upon corporals — augh ! " 
 
 Here Peter reappeared with a fresh supply of the October, 
 and an assurance that the cold meat would speedily follow. 
 
 " I hope yourself and this gentleman will bear me company," 
 said the travellei*, passing the jug to the corporal ; and in a 
 few moments, so well pleased grew the trio with each other 
 that the sound of their laughter came loud and frequent to the 
 ears of the good housewife within. 
 
 The traveller now seemed to the corporal and mine host a 
 right jolly, good-humored fellow. Not, however, that he bore a 
 fair share in the conversation ; he rather promoted the hilarity 
 of his new acquaintances than led it. He laughed heartily at 
 Peter's jests and the corporal's repartees ; and the latter, by 
 degrees assuming the usual sway he bore m the circles of the 
 village, contrived, before the viands were on the table, to 
 monopolize the whole conversation. 
 
 The traveller found in the repast a new excuse for silence. 
 He ate with a most prodigious and most contagious appetite ; 
 and in a few seconds the knife and fork of the corporal were 
 as busily engaged as if he had had only three minutes to spare 
 between a march and a dinner. 
 
 " This is a pretty retired spot," quoth the traveller, as at 
 length he finished his repast and threw himself back on his 
 chair, — "a very pretty spot. Whose neat old-fashioned house 
 was that I passed on the green, with the gable-ends and the 
 flower-pots in front ? " 
 
 " Oh, the squire's," answered Peter. " Squire Lester 's an 
 excellent gentleman." 
 
 " A rich man, I should think, for these parts, — the 
 best house I have seen for some miles," said the stranger, 
 carelessly. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 17 
 
 " Eich ? Yes, he 's well to do ; he does not live so as not to 
 have money to lay by." 
 
 "Any family?" 
 
 " Two daughters and a nephew." 
 
 " And the nephew does not ruin him ? Happy uncle ! Mine 
 was not so lucky ! " said the traveller. 
 
 " Sad fellows we soldiers in our young days ! " observed the 
 corporal, with a wink. "No, Squire Walter's a good young 
 man, a pride to his uncle ! " 
 
 " So," said the pedestrian, " they are not forced to keep up a 
 large establishment and ruin themselves by a retinue of ser- 
 vants ? Corporal, the jug." 
 
 " Xay," said Peter, "Squire Lester's gate is always open to the 
 poor ; but as for show, he leaves that to my lord at the castle." 
 
 " The castle ! Where 's that ? " 
 
 " About six miles off, — you 've heard of my Lord , I '11 
 
 swear." 
 
 " Ay, to be sure, — a courtier. But who else lives about 
 here, — I mean, who are the principal persons, barring the 
 corporal and yourself ? — Mr. Eelpry, I think our friend here 
 calls you." 
 
 "Dealtry, Peter Dealtry, sir, is my name. Why, the most 
 noticeable man, you must know, is a great scholard, a wonder- 
 fully learned man, — there, yonder, you may just catch a 
 glimpse of the tall what-d'ye-call-it he has built out on the 
 top of his house, that he may get nearer to the stars. He has 
 got glasses by which I 've heard that you may see the people 
 in the moon walking on their heads; but I can't say as I believe 
 all I hear." 
 
 " You are too sensible for that, I 'm sure. But this scholar, 
 I suppose, is not very rich : learning does not clothe men now- 
 adays, eh, corporal ? " 
 
 "And why should it? Zounds! can it teach a man hoAv 
 to defend his country ? Old England wants soldiers, and be 
 d — d to them ! But the man 's well enough, I must own, — 
 civil, modest — " 
 
 " And not by no means a beggar," added Peter ; " he gave as 
 much to the poor last winter as the squire himself." 
 
 2 
 
18 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " Indeed," said the stranger ; " this scholar is rich, 
 then ? " 
 
 " So, so ; neither one nor t' other. But if he were as rich as 
 my lord he could not be more respected ; the greatest folks in 
 the country come in their carriages and four to see him. Lord 
 bless you ! there is not a name more talked on in the whole 
 county than Eugene Aram." 
 
 " What ! " cried the traveller, his countenance changing as 
 he sprang from his seat. " What ! — Aram ! — did you say 
 Aram ? Great God ! how strange ! " 
 
 Peter, not a little startled by the abruptness and vehemence 
 of his guest, stared at him with open mouth, and even the 
 corporal involuntarily took his pipe from his lips. 
 
 " What ! " said the former: " you know him, do you ? You 've 
 heard of him, eh ? " 
 
 The stranger did not reply. He seemed lost in a revery ; 
 he muttered inaudible words between his teeth ; now he strode 
 two steps forward, clenching his hands ; now smiled grimly ; 
 and then, returning to his seat, threw himself on it, still in 
 silence. The soldier and the clerk exchanged looks, and now 
 outspake the corporal, — 
 
 " Rum tantrums ! Wliat the devil ! did the man eat your 
 grandmother ? " 
 
 Roused, perhaps, by so pertinent and sensible a question, the 
 stranger lifted his head from his breast and said, with a forced 
 smile, "You have done me, without knowing it, a great kind- 
 ness, my friend. Eugene Aram was an early and intimate 
 acquaintance of mine ; we have not met for many years. I 
 never guessed that he lived in these parts, — indeed I did not 
 know where he resided. I am truly glad to think I have lighted 
 upon him thus unexpectedly." 
 
 " What ! you did not know where he lived ? Well, I thought 
 all the world knew that ! Why, men from the univarsities 
 have come all the way merely to look at the spot." 
 
 " Very likely," returned the stranger ; " but I am not a 
 learned man myself, and what is celebrity in one set is ob- 
 scurity in another. Besides, I have never been in this part 
 of the world before." 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 19 
 
 Peter was about to reply, when he heard the shrill voice of 
 Ms wife behind. 
 
 " Why don't you rise, Mr. Lazyboots ? Where are your 
 eyes ? Don't you see the young ladies ? " 
 
 Dealtry's hat was off in an instant : the stiff corporal rose 
 like a musket. The stranger would have kept his seat, but 
 Dealtry gave him an admonitory tug by the collar ; accord- 
 ingly he rose, muttering a hasty oath, which certainly died on 
 his lips when he saw the cause which had thus constrained 
 him into courtesy. 
 
 Through a little gate close by Peter's house Madeline and 
 her sister had just passed on their evening walk ; and with the 
 kind familiarity for which they were both noted, they had 
 stopped to salute the landlady of The Spotted Dog as she now, 
 her labors done, sat by the threshold, within hearing of the 
 convivial group, and plaiting straw. The whole family of Les- 
 ter were so beloved that we question whether my lord himself, 
 as the great nobleman of the place was always called (as if 
 there were only one lord in the peerage), would have obtained 
 the same degree of respect that was always lavished upon 
 them. 
 
 " Don't let US disturb you, good people," said Ellinor, as 
 they now moved towards the boon companions ; when, her eye 
 suddenly falling on the stranger, she stopped short. There 
 was something in his appearance, and especially in the expres- 
 sion of his countenance at that moment, which no one could 
 have marked for the first time without apprehension and dis- 
 trust ; and it was so seldom that, in that retired spot, the young 
 ladies encountered even one unfamiliar face that the effect the 
 stranger's appearance might have produced on any one, might 
 well be increased for them to a startling and painful degree. 
 The traveller saw at once the sensation he had created ; his 
 brow lowered ; and the same unpleasant smile, or rather sneer, 
 that we have noted before, distorted his lij), as with affected 
 humility he made his obeisance. 
 
 " How, a stranger ! " said Madeline, sharing, though in a less 
 degree, the feelings of her sister ; and then, after a pause, she 
 said, as she glanced over his garb, " not in distress, I hope ? " 
 
20 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " No, madam ! " said the stranger, — " if by distress is meant 
 beggary. I am in all respects, perhaps, better than I seem." 
 
 There was a general titter from the corporal, my host, and 
 his wife at the traveller's semi-jest at his own unprepossessing 
 appearance ; but Madeline, a little disconcerted, bowed hastily 
 and drew her sister away. 
 
 " A proud quean ! " said the stranger as he reseated himself 
 and watched the sisters gliding across the green. 
 
 All mouths were opened against him immediately. He 
 found it no easy matter to make his peace ; and before he 
 had quite done it, he called for his bill and rose to depart. 
 
 " Well ! " said he, as he tendered his hand to the corporal, 
 " we may meet again, and enjoy together some more of your 
 good stories. Meanwhile, which is my way to this — this — 
 famous scholar's ? — ehem ! " 
 
 " Why," quoth Peter, " you saw the direction in which the 
 young ladies went : you must take the same. Cross the stile 
 you will find at the right, wind along the foot of the hill for 
 about three parts of a mile, and you will then see, in the middle 
 of a broad plain, a lonely gray house with a thingumbob at the 
 top, — a 'servatory they call it ; that 's Master Aram's." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 " And a very pretty walk it is too," said the dame ; " the 
 prettiest hereabouts to my liking, — till you get to the house, 
 at least. And so the young ladies think, for it 's their usual 
 walk every evening." 
 
 *' Humph ! Then I may meet them." 
 
 "Well, and if you do, make yourself look as Christian-like 
 as you can," retorted the hostess. 
 
 There was a second grin at the ill-favored traveller's expense, 
 amidst which he went his way. 
 
 " An odd chap," said Peter, looking after the sturdy form 
 of the traveller. " I wonder what he is ? He seems well 
 edicated, — makes use of good words." 
 
 "What sinnifies," said the corporal, who felt a sort of fel- 
 low-feeling for his new acquaintance's bluffness of manner ; 
 " what sinnifies what he is ? Served his country, — that 's 
 enough. Never told me, by the by, his regiment ; set me a 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 21 
 
 talking, and let out nothing himself, — old soldier every inch 
 of him ! " 
 
 " He can take care of number one," said Peter, " How he 
 emptied the jug ! And, my stars, what an appetite ! " 
 
 " Tush ! " said the corporal ; " hold jaw. Man of the world, 
 man of the world, that 's clear." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A DIALOGUE AND AN ALARM. A STUDENt's HOUSE. 
 
 A FELLOW by the hand of Nature marked, 
 Quoted, and signed, to do a deed of shame. 
 
 Shaicspeare : King John. 
 
 He is a scholar, if a man may trust 
 The liberal voice of Fame in her report. 
 
 Myself was once a student, and indeed 
 Fed with the self-same humor he is now. 
 
 Ben Jonson : Every Man in his Humor. 
 
 The two sisters pursued their walk along a scene which 
 might well be favored by their selection. No sooner had they 
 crossed the stile than the village seemed vanished into earth, 
 so quiet, so lonely, so far from the evidence of life was the 
 landscape through which they passed. On their right sloped 
 a green and silent hill, shutting out all view beyond itself, save 
 the deepening and twilight sky ; to the left, and immediately 
 along their road, lay fragments of stone covered with moss, or 
 shadowed by wild shrubs that here and there gathered into 
 copses, or breaking abruptly away from the rich sod, left fre- 
 quent spaces through which you caught long vistas of forest- 
 land, or the brooklet gliding in a noisy and rocky course and 
 breaking into a thousand tiny waterfalls or mimic eddies. So 
 secluded was the scene, and so unwitnessing of cultivation, 
 that you would not have believed that a human habitation 
 
22 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 could be at hand ; and this air of perfect solitude and quiet 
 gave an additional charm to the spot. 
 
 " But 1 assure you," said Ellinor, earnestly continuing a con- 
 versation they had begun, " I assure you I was not mistaken : 
 I saw it as plainly as I see you." 
 
 " What, in the breast-pocket ? " 
 
 " Yes ; as he drew out his handkerchief I saw the barrel of 
 the pistol quite distinctly." 
 
 " Indeed ! I think we had better tell my father as soon as 
 we get home, — it may be as well to be on our guard ; though 
 robbery, I believe, has not been heard of in Grassdale for 
 these twenty years." 
 
 " Yet for what purpose, save that of evil, could he in these 
 peaceable times and this peaceable country carry firearms 
 about him ? And what a countenance ! Did you note the 
 shy and yet ferocious eye, like that of some animal that longs 
 yet fears to spring upon you ? " 
 
 " Upon my word, Ellinor," said Madeline, smiling, " you are 
 not very merciful to strangers. After all, the man might have 
 provided himself with the pistol which you saw as a natural 
 precaution. Reflect that, as a stranger, he may well not know 
 how safe this district usually is, and he may have come from 
 London, in the neighborhood of which, they say, robberies 
 have been frequent of late. As to his looks, they are, I own, 
 unpardonable ; for so much ugliness there can be no excuse. 
 Had the man been as handsome as our cousin Walter, you 
 would not, perhaps, have been so uncharitable in your fears 
 at the pistol." 
 
 "Nonsense, Madeline," said Ellinor, blushing and turning 
 away her face : there was a moment's pause, which the 
 younger sister broke. 
 
 "We do not seem," said she, "to make much progress in 
 the friendship of our singular neighbor. I never knew my 
 father court any one so much as he has courted Mr. Aram ; 
 and yet you see how seldom he calls upon us, — nay, I often 
 think that he seeks to shun us. No great compliment to our 
 attractions, Madeline ! " 
 
 "I regret his want of sociability for his own sake," said 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 23 
 
 Madeline, " for lie seems melancholy as well as thoughtful ; 
 and he leads so secluded a life that I cannot but think my 
 father's conversation and society, if he would but encourage 
 it, might afford some relief to his solitude." 
 
 "And he always seems," observed EUinor, "to take pleasure 
 in my father's conversation, — as who would not ? How his 
 countenance lights up when he converses ! It is a pleasure to 
 watch it. I think him positively handsome when he speaks." 
 
 " Oh, more than handsome ! " said Madeline, with enthusi- 
 asm, — " witli that high pale brow, and those deep, unfathom- 
 able eyes." 
 
 Ellinor smiled, and it was now Madeline's turn to blush. 
 
 "Well," said the former, "there is something about him 
 that fills one with an indescribable interest ; and his manner, 
 if cold at times, is yet always so gentle." 
 
 "And to hear him converse," said Madeline, "it is like 
 music. His thoughts, his very words, seem so different from 
 the language and ideas of others. What a pity that he should 
 ever be silent ! " 
 
 " There is one peculiarity about his gloom, — it never in- 
 spires one with distrust," said Ellinor; "if I had observed 
 him in the same circumstances as that ill-omened traveller, I 
 should have had no apprehension." 
 
 " Ah ! that traveller still runs in your head. If we were to 
 meet him on this spot ! " 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " cried Ellinor, turning hastily round in 
 alarm ; and lo ! as if her sister had been a prophet, she saw 
 the very person in question, at some little distance behind 
 them, and walking on with rapid strides. 
 
 She uttered a faint shriek of surprise and terror, and Made- 
 line, looking back at the sound, immediately participated in 
 her alarm. The spot looked so desolate and lonely, and the 
 imagination of both had been already so worked upon by 
 Ellinor's fears and their conjectures respecting the ill-boding 
 weapon she had witnessed, that a thousand apprehensions of 
 outrage and murder crowded at once upon the minds of the 
 two sisters. Without, however, giving vent in words to their 
 alarm, they quickened their pace involuntarily, every moment 
 
24 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 stealing a glance behind, to watcli the progress of the sns 
 pected robber. They thought that he also seemed to acceler- 
 ate his movements ; and this observation increased their ter- 
 ror, and would aj)pear, indeed, to give it some more rational 
 ground. At length, as by a sudden turn of the road, they 
 lost sight of the dreaded stranger, their alarm suggested to 
 them but one resolution, and they fairly fled on as fast as the 
 fear which actuated them would allow. The nearest, and 
 indeed the only, house in that direction was Aram's ; but they 
 both imagined if they could come within sight of that, they 
 should be safe. They looked back at every interval ; now 
 they did not see their fancied pursuer, — now he emerged 
 again into view ; now — yes — he also was running. " Faster, 
 faster, Madeline, for God's sake ! He is gaining upon us ! " 
 cried Ellinor. The path grew more wild, and the trees more 
 thick and frequent: at every cluster that marked their pro- 
 gress they saw the stranger closer and closer; at length a 
 sudden break, a sudden turn in the landscape, — a broad plain 
 burst upon them, and in the midst of it the student's solitary 
 abode ! 
 
 " Thank Heaven, we are safe ! " cried Madeline. She 
 turned once more to look for the stranger ; in so doing, her 
 foot struck against a fragment of stone, and she fell with 
 great violence to the ground. She endeavored to rise, but 
 found herself, at first, unable to stir from the spot. In this 
 state, however, she looked back, and saw the traveller at 
 some little distance. But he also halted, and after a moment's 
 seeming deliberation turned aside, and was lost among the 
 bushes. 
 
 With great difficulty Ellinor now assisted Madeline to rise ; 
 her ankle was violently sprained, and she could not put her 
 foot to the ground. But though she had evinced so much 
 dread at the apparition of the stranger, she now testified an 
 almost equal degree of fortitude in bearing pain. " I am not 
 much hurt, Ellinor," she said, faintly smiling, to encourage 
 her sister, who supported her in speechless alarm ; " but what 
 is to be done ? I cannot use this foot. How shall we get 
 home ? " 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 25 
 
 " But are you sure you are not much hurt ? " said poor 
 EUinor, almost crying. " Lean on me, - — heavier, pray ! Only 
 try and reach the house, and we can then stay there till Mr, 
 Aram sends home for the carriage," 
 
 " But what will he think ? How strange it will seem ! " 
 said Madeline, the color once more visiting her cheek, which a 
 moment since had been blanched as pale as death. 
 
 '' Is this a time for scruples and ceremony ? " said Ellinor. 
 " Come ! I entreat you, come ; if you linger thus, the man may 
 take courage and attack us yet. There ! that 's right ! Is the 
 pain very great ? " 
 
 " I do not mind the pain," murmured Madeline ; " but if he 
 should think we intrude ? His habits are so reserved, so 
 secluded ; indeed I fear — " 
 
 " Intrude ! " interrupted Ellinor. " Do you think so ill of 
 him ? Do you suppose that, hermit as he is, he has lost com- 
 mon humanity ? But lean more on me, dearest ; you do not 
 know how strong I am ! " 
 
 Thus alternately chiding, caressing, and encouraging her 
 sister, Ellinor led on the sufferer till they had crossed the 
 plain, though with slowness and labor, and stood before the 
 porch of the recluse's house. They had looked back from 
 time to time, but the cause of so much alarm appeared no 
 more. This they deemed a sufficient evidence of the justice 
 of their apprehensions. 
 
 Madeline even now would fain have detained her sister's 
 hand from the bell that hung without the porch, half im- 
 bedded in ivy; but Ellinor, out of patience — as she well 
 might be — with her sister's unseasonable prudery, refused 
 any longer delay. So singularly still and solitary was the 
 plain around the house that the sound of the bell breaking 
 the silence had in it something startling, and appeared, in its 
 sudden and shrill voice, a profanation of the deep tranquillity 
 of the spot. They did not wait long ; a step was heard with- 
 in, the door was slowly unbarred, and the student himself 
 stood before them. 
 
 He was a man who might perhaps have numbered some five 
 and thirty years ; but at a hasty glance he would have seemed 
 
26 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 considerably younger. He was above the ordinary stature ; 
 though a gentle, and not ungraceful, bend in the neck, rather 
 than the shoulders, somewhat curtailed his proper advantages of 
 height. His frame was thin and slender, but well knit and fair 
 proportioned. Nature had originally cast his form in an 
 athletic mould; but sedentary habits and the wear of mind 
 seemed somewhat to have impaired her gifts. His cheek was 
 pale and delicate ; yet it was rather the delicacy of thought 
 than of weak health. His hair, which was long, and of a rich 
 and deep brown, was thrown back from his face and temples, 
 and left a broad, high, majestic forehead utterly unrelieved and 
 bare ; and on the brow there was not a single wrinkle, — it 
 was as smooth as it might have been some fifteen years ago. 
 There was a singular calmness and, so to speak, profundity of 
 thought eloquent upon its clear expanse, which suggested the 
 idea of one who had passed his life rather in contemplation 
 than emotion. It was a face that a physiognomist would 
 have loved to look upon, so much did it speak both of the re- 
 finement and the dignity of intellect. 
 
 Such was the person — if pictures convey a faithful resem- 
 blance — of a man certainly among the most eminent in his day 
 for various and profound learning, and especially for a genius 
 wholly self-taught, yet never contented to repose upon the 
 wonderful stores it had laboriously accumulated. 
 
 He now stood before the two girls silent and evidently sur- 
 prised; and it would have been no unworthy subject for a pic- 
 ture, — that ivied porch ; that still spot ; Madeline's reclining 
 and subdued form and downcast eyes ; the eager face of Ellinor, 
 about to narrate the nature and cause of their intrusion ; 
 and the pale student himself, thus suddenly aroused from 
 his solitary meditations, and converted into the protector of 
 beauty. 
 
 No sooner did Aram learn from Ellinor the outline of their 
 story and Madeline's accident than his countenance and manner 
 testified the liveliest and most eager interest. Madeline was 
 inexpressibly touched and surprised at the kindly and respect- 
 ful earnestness with which this recluse scholar, usually so 
 cold and abstracted in mood, assisted and led her into the 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 27 
 
 house, the sympathy he expressed for her pain, the sincerity 
 of his tone, the compassion of his eyes ; and as those dark and, 
 to use her own thought, unfathomable orbs bent admiringly 
 and yet so gently upon her, Madeline, even in spite of her 
 pain, felt an indescribable, a delicious thrill at her heart 
 which in the presence of no one else had she ever experienced 
 before. 
 
 Aram now summoned the only domestic his house possessed, 
 who appeared in the form of an old woman whom he seemed to 
 have selected from the whole neighborhood as the person 
 most in keeping with the rigid seclusion he preserved. She 
 was exceedingly deaf, and was a proverb in the village for her 
 extreme taciturnity. Poor old Margaret ! she was a widow, 
 and had lost ten children by early deaths. There was a time 
 when her gayety had been as noticeable as her reserve was now. 
 In spite of her infirmity, she was not slow in comprehending 
 the accident Madeline had met with ; and she busied herself 
 with a promptness which showed that her misfortunes had not 
 deadened her natural kindness of disposition, in preparing 
 fomentations and bandages for the wounded foot. 
 
 Meanwhile Aram undertook to seek the manor-house and 
 bring back the old family coach, which had dozed inactively 
 in its shelter for the last six months, to convey the sufferer 
 home. 
 
 "No, Mr. Aram," said Madeline, coloring; "pray do not go 
 yourself. Consider, the man may still be loitering on the 
 road. He is armed ; good heavens ! if he should meet 
 you ! " 
 
 " Fear not, madam," said Aram, with a faint smile. " / also 
 keep arms, even in this obscure and safe retreat; and to 
 satisfy you, I will not neglect to carry them with me." 
 
 As he spoke, he took from the wainscot, where they hung, a 
 brace of large horse-pistols, slung them round him by a leather 
 belt, and flinging over his person, to conceal weapons so alarm- 
 ing to any less dangerous passenger he might encounter, the 
 long cloak then usually worn in inclement seasons, as an outer 
 garment, he turned to depart. 
 
 " But are they loaded ? " asked EUinor. 
 
28 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 Aram answered briefly in the affirmative. It was somewhat 
 singular, but the sisters did not then remark it, that a man so 
 peaceable in his pursuits, and seemingly possessed of no valu- 
 ables that could tempt cupidity, should in that spot, where 
 crime was never heard of, use such habitual precaution. 
 
 When the door closed upon him, and while tlie old woman 
 relieved the anguish of the sprain with a light hand and 
 soothing lotions, which she had shown some skill in preparing, 
 Madeline cast glances of interest and curiosity around the 
 apartment into which she had had the rare good fortune to 
 obtain admittance. 
 
 The house had belonged to a family of some note whose 
 heirs had outstripped their fortunes. It had been long de- 
 serted and uninhabited ; and when Aram settled in those parts, 
 the proprietor was too glad to get rid of the encumbrance of 
 an empty house at a nominal rent. The solitude of the place 
 had been the main attraction to Aram ; and as he possessed 
 what would be considered a very extensive assortment of 
 books, even for a library of these days, he required a larger 
 apartment than he would have been able to obtain in an abode 
 more compact and more suitable to his fortunes and mode of 
 living. 
 
 The room in which the sisters now found themselves was 
 the most spacious in the house, and was indeed of considerable 
 dimensions. It contained in front one large window, jutting 
 from the wall. Opposite was an antique and high mantel- 
 piece of black oak. The rest of the room was walled from the 
 floor to the roof with books ; volumes of all languages, and it 
 might even be said, without much exaggeration, upon all 
 sciences, were strewed around, on the chairs, the tables, or the 
 floor. By the window stood the student's desk and a large old- 
 fashioned oak chair. A few papers, filled with astronomical 
 calculations, lay on the desk, and these were all the witnesses 
 of the result of study. Indeed, Aram does not appear to have 
 been a man much inclined to reproduce the learning he ac- 
 quired ; what he wrote was in very small proportion to what 
 he had read. 
 
 So high and grave was the scholar's reputation that the 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 29 
 
 retreat and sanctum of so many learned hours would have 
 been interesting, even to one who could not appreciate learning ; 
 but to Madeline, with her peculiar disposition and traits of 
 mind, we may readily conceive that the room presented a pow- 
 erful and pleasing charm. As the elder sister looked round in 
 silence, Ellinor attempted to draw the old woman into conver- 
 sation. She would fain have elicited some particulars of the 
 habits and daily life of the recluse ; but the deafness of their 
 attendant was so obstinate and hopeless that she was forced to 
 give up the attempt in despair. " I fear," said she at last, her 
 good-nature so far overcome by impatience as not to forbid a 
 slight yawn, " I fear we shall have a dull time of it till my 
 father arrives. Just consider ! the fat black mares, never too 
 fast, can only creep along that broken path, — for road there 
 is none ; it will be quite night before the coach arrives." 
 
 " I am sorry, dear Ellinor, my awkwardness should occasion 
 you so stupid an evening." 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Ellinor, throwing her arms around her sister's 
 neck, " it is not for myself I spoke ; and, indeed, I am de- 
 lighted to think we have got into this wizard's den and seen 
 the instruments of his art. But I do so trust Mr. Aram will 
 not meet that terrible man." 
 
 " Nay," said the prouder Madeline, " he is armed, and it is 
 but one man. I feel too high a respect for him to allow my- 
 self much fear." 
 
 " But these bookmen are not often heroes," remarked Ellinor, 
 laughing. 
 
 " For shame," said Madeline, the color mounting to her fore- 
 head. "Do you not remember how, last summer, Eugene 
 Aram rescued Dame Grenfeld's child from the bull, though at 
 the literal peril of his own life ? And who but Eugene Aram, 
 when the floods in the year before swept along the low lands 
 by Fairleigh, went day after day to rescue the persons, or even 
 to save the goods of those poor people, — at a time, too, when 
 the boldest villagers would not hazard themselves across the 
 waters ? But bless me, Ellinor, what is the matter ? You turn 
 pale, you tremble ! " 
 
 " Hush ! " said Ellinor, under her breath ; and putting her 
 
30 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 finger to her mouth, she rose and stole lightly to the window. 
 She had observed the figure of a man pass by ; and now, as she 
 gained the window, she saw him halt by the porch, and recog- 
 nized the formidable stranger. Presently the bell sounded, 
 and the old woman, familiar with its shrill sound, rose from 
 her kneeling position beside the sufferer to attend to the sum- 
 mons. EUinor sprang forward and detained her; the poor 
 old woman stared at her in amazement, wholly unable to com- 
 prehend her abrupt gestures and her rapid language. It was 
 with considerable difficulty, and after repeated efforts, that she 
 at length impressed the dulled sense of the crone with the 
 nature of their alarm and the expediency of refusing admit- 
 tance to the stranger. Meanwhile the bell had rung again, — 
 again, and the third time, with a prolonged violence which 
 testified the impatience of the applicant. As soon as the good 
 dame had satisfied herself as to Ellinor's meaning, she could 
 no longer be accused of unreasonable taciturnity ; she wrung 
 her hands, and poured forth a volley of lamentations and fears 
 which effectually relieved Ellinor from the dread of her un- 
 heeding the admonition. Satisfied at having done thus much, 
 Ellinor now herself hastened to the door, and secured the in- 
 gress with an additional bolt ; and then, as the thought flashed 
 upon her, returned to the old woman, and made her, with an 
 easier effort than before, now that her senses were sharpened 
 by fear, comprehend the necessity of securing the back entrance 
 also. Both hastened away to effect this precaution, and ]\Iade- 
 line, who herself desired Ellinor to accompany the old woman, 
 was left alone. She kept her eyes fixed on the window with a 
 strange sentiment of dread at being thus left in so helpless a 
 situation ; and though a door of no ordinary dimensions and 
 doubly locked interposed between herself and the intruder, she 
 expected in breathless terror, every instant, to see the form of 
 the ruffian burst into the apartment. As she thus sat and 
 looked, she shudderingly saw the man, tired perhaps of re- 
 peating a summons so ineffectual, come to the window and 
 look pryingly within. Their eyes met ; Madeline had not the 
 power to shriek. Would he break through the window ? That 
 was her only idea, and it deprived her of words, almost of 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 31 
 
 sense. He gazed upon her evident terror for a moment with 
 a grim smile of contempt ; he then knocked at the window, 
 and his voice broke harshly on a silence yet more dreadful 
 than the interruption. 
 
 " Ho, ho ! so there is some life stirring. I beg pardon, 
 madame, is Mr. Aram — Eugene Aram — within ? " 
 
 "No," said Madeline, faintly; and then, sensible that her 
 voice did not reach him, she reiterated the answer in a louder 
 tone. The man, as if satisfied, made a rude inclination of his 
 head, and withdrew from the window. Ellinor now returned, 
 and with difficulty JMadeline found words to explain to her 
 what had passed. It will be conceived that the two young 
 ladies waited for the arrival of their father with no lukewarm 
 expectation. The stranger, however, appeared no more ; and 
 in about an hour, to their inexpressible joy, they heard the 
 rumbling sound of the old coach as it rolled towards the 
 house. This time there was no delay in unbarring the door. 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 THE SOLILOQUY AND THE CHARACTER OF A RECLUSE. 
 
 THE INTERRUPTION. 
 
 Or let my lamp at midnight hour 
 
 Be seen in some high lonely tower, 
 
 Where I may oft outwatch the Bear, 
 
 Or thrice great Hermes, and unsphere 
 
 The spirit of Plato. — Milton ; // Penseroso. 
 
 As Aram assisted the beautiful Madeline into the carriage ; 
 as he listened to her sweet voice ; as he marked the grateful 
 expression of her soft eyes; as he felt the slight yet warm 
 pressure of her fairy hand, — that vague sensation of delight 
 which preludes love, for the first time in his sterile and soli- 
 tary life, agitated his breast. Lester held out his hand to him 
 with a frank cordiality which the scholar could not resist. 
 
32 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " Do not let us be strangers, Mr. Aram," said he, warinly. 
 " It is not often that I press for companionship out of my own 
 circle ; but in your company I should find pleasure as well as 
 instruction. Let us break the ice boldly, and at once. Come 
 and dine with me to-morrow, and Ellinor shall sing to us in 
 the evening." 
 
 The excuse died upon Aram's lips. Another glance at Made- 
 line conquered the remains of his reserve, — he accepted the 
 invitation; and he could not but mark, with an unfamiliar 
 emotion of the heart, that the eyes of Madeline sparkled as 
 he did so. 
 
 With an abstracted air, and arms folded across his breast, 
 he gazed after the carriage till the winding of the valley 
 snatched it from his view. He then, waking from his revery 
 with a start, turned into the house, and carefully closing and 
 barring the door, mounted the slow steps to the lofty chamber 
 with which, the better to indulge his astronomical researches, 
 he had crested his lonely abode. 
 
 It was now night. The heavens broadened round him in all 
 the loving yet august tranquillity of the season and the hour ; 
 the stars bathed the living atmosphere with a solemn light; 
 and above, about, around, — 
 
 " The linly time was quiet as a nun, 
 Breathless with adoration." 
 
 He looked forth upon the deep and ineffable stillness of the 
 night, and indulged the reflections that it suggested. 
 
 " Ye mystic lights," said he, soliloquizing, '' worlds upon 
 worlds, infinite, incalculable, bright defiers of rest and change, 
 rolling forever above our petty sea of mortality as, wave after 
 wave, we fret forth our little life and sink into the black abyss, 
 
 — can we look upon you, note your appointed order and your 
 unvarying courses, and not feel that we are indeed the poorest 
 puppets of an all-pervading and resistless destiny ? Shall we 
 see throughout creation each marvel fulfilling its pre-ordered 
 fate, — no wandering from its orbit, no variation in its seasons, 
 
 — and yet imagine that the Arch-ordainer will hold back the 
 tides He has sent from their unseen source, at our miserable 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 33 
 
 bidding ? Shall we think that our prayers can avert a doom 
 woven with the skein of events ? To change a particle of our 
 fate might change the destiny of millions. Shall the link for- 
 sake the chain, and yet the chain be unbroken ? Away, then, 
 with our vague repinings and our blind demands ! All must 
 walk onward to their goal ; be he the wisest who looks not one 
 step behind. The colors of our existence were doomed before 
 our birth, — our sorrows and our crimes ; millions of ages 
 back, when this hoary earth was peopled by other kinds, yea, 
 ere its atoms had formed one layer of its present soil, the 
 eternal and all-seeing Ruler of the universe, Destiny or 
 God, had here fixed the moment of our birth and the limits 
 of our career. What, then, is crime ? Fate ! What life ? 
 Submission ! " 
 
 Such were the strange and dark thoughts which, too familiar 
 to his musings, now obtruded their mournful dogmas on his 
 mind. He sought a fairer subject for meditation, and Madeline 
 Lester rose before him. 
 
 Eugene Aram was a man whose whole life seemed to have 
 been one sacrifice to knowledge. What is termed " pleasure " 
 had no attraction for him. From the mature manhood at 
 which he had arrived, he looked back along his youth, and 
 recognized no youthful folly. Love he had hitherto regarded 
 with a cold though not an incurious eye; intemperance had 
 never lured him to a momentary self-abandonment. Even the 
 innocent relaxations with which the austerest minds relieve 
 their accustomed toils had had no power to draw him from his 
 beloved researches. The delight monstrari dlgito, the gratifica- 
 tion of triumphant wisdom, the whispers of an elevated vanity, 
 existed not for his self-dependent and solitary heart. He was 
 one of those earnest and high-wrought enthusiasts Avho now 
 are almost extinct upon earth, and whom Romance has not 
 hitherto attempted to portray, — men not uncommon in the 
 last century, who were devoted to knowledge, yet disdainful 
 of its fame ; who lived for nothing else than to learn. From 
 store to store, from treasure to treasure, they proceeded in 
 exulting labor, and having accumulated all, they bestowed 
 nought; they were the arch-misers of the wealth of letters. 
 
 3 
 
34 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 Wrapped in obscurity, in some sheltered nook remote from 
 the great stir of men, they passed a life at once unprofitable 
 and glorious ; the least part of what they ransacked would 
 appall the industry of a modern student, yet the most super- 
 ficial of modern students might effect more for mankind. They 
 lived among oracles, but they gave none forth. And yet, even 
 in this very barrenness there seems something high ; it was a 
 rare and great spectacle, — men living aloof from the roar and 
 strife of the passions that raged below, devoting themselves to 
 the knowledge which is our purification and our immortality on 
 earth, and yet deaf and blind to the allurements of the van- 
 ity which generally accompanies research ; refusing the igno- 
 rant homage of their kind, making their sublime motive their 
 only meed, adoring Wisdom for her sole sake, and set apart 
 in the populous universe like those remoter stars which 
 interchange no light with earth, gild not our darkness and 
 color not our air. 
 
 From his youth to the present period, Aram had dwelt little 
 in . cities, though he had visited many ; yet he could scarcely 
 be called ignorant of mankind : there seems something intui- 
 tive in the science which teaches us the knowledge of our 
 race. Some men emerge from their seclusion, and find all at 
 once a power to dart into the minds and drag forth the mo- 
 tives of those they see : it is a sort of second sight, born with 
 them, not acquired. And Aram, it may be, rendered yet more 
 acute by his profound and habitual investigations of our meta- 
 physical frame, never quitted his solitude to mix with others 
 without penetrating into the broad traits or prevalent infirmi- 
 ties their characters possessed. In this, indeed, he differed 
 from the scholar tribe, and even in abstraction was mechani- 
 cally vigilant and observant. Much in his nature, had early 
 circumstances given it a different bias, would have fitted him 
 for worldly superiority and command. A resistless energy, 
 an unbroken perseverance, a profound and scheming and sub- 
 tle thought, a genius fertile in resources, a tongue clothed 
 with eloquence, — all, had his ambition so chosen, might have 
 given him the same empire over the physical that he had 
 now attained over the intellectual world. It could not be said 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 35 
 
 that Aram wanted benevolence, but it was dashed and mixed 
 with a certain scorn : the benevolence was the offspring of 
 his nature ; the scorn seemed the result of his pursuits. He 
 would feed the birds from his window ; he would tread aside 
 to avoid the worm on his path ; were one of his own tribe in 
 danger he would save him at the hazard of his life, — yet in 
 his heart he despised men, and believed them beyond amelio- 
 ration. Unlike the present race of schoolmen, who incline 
 to the consoling hope of human perfectibility, he saw in the 
 gloomy past but a dark prophecy of the future. As Napoleon 
 wept over one wounded soldier in the field of battle, yet 
 ordered, without emotion, thousands to a certain death, so 
 Aram would have sacrificed himself for an individual, but 
 would not have sacrificed a momentary gratification for his 
 race. And this sentiment towards men, at once of high dis- 
 dain and profound despondency, was perhaps the cause why he 
 rioted in indolence upon his extraordinary mental wealth, and 
 could not be persuaded either to dazzle the world or to serve 
 it. But by little and little his fame had broken forth from the 
 limits with which he would have walled it. A man who had 
 taught himself, under singular difficulties, nearly all the lan- 
 guages of the civilized earth; the profound mathematician, 
 the elaborate antiquarian, the abstruse philologist, uniting with 
 his graver lore the more florid accomplishments of science, 
 from the scholastic trifling of heraldry to the gentle learning 
 of herbs and flowers, — could scarcely hope for utter obscurity 
 in that day when all intellectual acquirement was held in 
 high honor, and its possessors were drawn together into a 
 sort of brotherhood by the fellowship of their pursuits. And 
 though Aram gave little or nothing to the world himself, 
 he was ever willing to communicate to others any benefit or 
 honor derivable from his researches. On the altar of science 
 he kindled no light, but the fragrant oil in the lamps of his 
 more pious brethren was largely borrowed from his stores. 
 From almost every college in Europe came to his obscure 
 abode letters of acknowledgment or inquiry, and few foreign 
 cultivators of learning visited this country without seeking 
 an interview with Aram. He received them with all the 
 
36 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 modesty and the courtesy that characterized his demeanor; but 
 it was noticeable that he never allowed these interrviptions to 
 be more than temporary. He proffered no hospitality, and 
 shrank back from all offers of friendship ; the interview 
 lasted its hour, and was seldom renewed. Patronage was not 
 less distasteful to him than sociality. Some occasional visits 
 and condescensions of the great he had received with a stern 
 haughtiness rather than his habitual subdued urbanity. The 
 precise amount of his fortune was not known ; his wants were 
 so few that what would have been poverty to others might 
 easily have been competence to him ; and the only evidence 
 he manifested of the command of money, was in his extended 
 and various library. 
 
 He had been now about two years settled in his present 
 retreat. Unsocial as he was, every one in the neighborhood 
 loved him ; even the reserve of a man so eminent, arising as 
 it was supposed to do from a painful modesty, had in it some- 
 thing winning; and he had been known to evince, on great 
 occasions, a charity and a courage in the service of others 
 which removed from the seclusion of his habits the semblance 
 of misanthropy and of avarice. The peasant threw kindly 
 pity into his respectful greeting as in his homeward walk he 
 encountered the pale and thoughtful student, with the folded 
 arms and downcast eyes which characterized the abstraction 
 of his mood; and the village maiden, as she courtesied by 
 him, stole a glance at his handsome but melancholy counte- 
 nance, and told her sweetheart she was certain the poor 
 scholar had been crossed in love ! 
 
 And thus passed the student's life ; perhaps its monotony 
 and dulness required less compassion than they received : no 
 man can judge of the happiness of another. As the moon 
 plays upon the waves, and seems to our eyes to favor with a 
 peculiar beam one long track amidst the waters, leaving the 
 rest in comparative obscurity, yet all the while she is no nig- 
 gard in her lustre, for though the rays that meet not our eyes 
 seem to us as though they were not, yet she, with an equal 
 and unfavoring loveliness, mirrors herself on every Avave, — 
 even so, perhaps, happiness falls with the same brightness 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 37 
 
 and power over the whole expanse of life, though to our 
 limited eyes it seems only to rest on those billows from 
 which the ray is reflected on our sight. 
 
 From his contemplations, of whatsoever nature, Aram was 
 now aroused by a loud summons at the door ; the clock had 
 gone eleven. Who at that late hour, when the whole village 
 was buried in sleep, could demand admittance ? He recol- 
 lected that Madeline had said the stranger who had so 
 alarmed them had inquired for him ; at that recollection his 
 cheek suddenly blanched. But again, that stranger was surely 
 only some poor traveller who had heard of his wonted charity, 
 and had called to solicit relief ; for he had not met the stran- 
 ger on the road to Lester's house, and he had naturally set 
 down the apprehensions of his fair visitants to mere female 
 timidity. Who could this be ? No humble wayfarer would 
 at that hour crave assistance, — some disaster, perhaps, in the 
 village ! From his lofty chamber he looked forth and saw 
 the stars watch quietly over the scattered cottages and the 
 dark foliage that slept breathlessly around. All Avas still as 
 death, but it seemed the stillness of innocence and security. 
 Again, the bell again ! He thought he heard his name shouted 
 without ; he strode once or twice irresolutely to and fro the 
 chamber ; and then his step grew firm and his native courage 
 returned. His pistols were still girded round him ; he looked 
 to the priming, and muttered some incoherent words ; he then 
 descended the stairs and slowly unbarred the door. Without 
 the porch, the moonlight full upon his harsh features and 
 sturdy frame, stood the ill-omened traveller. 
 
38 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A- DINNER AT THE SQUIRe's HALL. A CONVERSATION BETWEEN 
 
 TWO RETIRED MEN WITH DIFFERENT OBJECTS IN RETIRE- 
 MENT. DISTURBANCE FIRST INTRODUCED INTO A PEACE-' 
 
 FUL FAMILY. f 
 
 Can he not be sociable ? — Troilus and Cressida. 
 
 Subit qaippe etiam ipsius inertite dulcedo ; et invisa primo desidia post- 
 reino amatur.^ — Tacitus. 
 
 How use doth breed a habit in a man ! 
 
 This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, 
 
 I better brook than flourishing peopled towns. — Winter's Tale. 
 
 The next day, faithful to his appointment, Aram arrived at 
 Lester's. The good squire received him with a warm cordial- 
 ity, and Madeline with a blush and a smile that ought to have 
 been more grateful to him than acknowledgments. She was 
 still a prisoner to the sofa ; but in compliment to Aram, the 
 sofa was wheeled into the hall where they dined, so that she 
 was not absent from the repast. It was a pleasant room, that 
 old hall ! Though it was summer, more for cheerfulness than 
 warmth the log burned on the spacious hearth ; but at the 
 same time the latticed windows were thrown open, and 
 the fresh yet sunny air stole in, rich from the embrace of 
 the woodbine and clematis, which clung around the casement. 
 
 A few old pictures were panelled in the open wainscot, and 
 here and there the horns of the mighty stag adorned the 
 walls, and united with the cheeriness of comfort associations 
 of that of enterprise. The good old board was crowded with 
 the luxuries meet for a country squire, — the speckled trout 
 fresh from the stream, and the four-year-old mutton modestly 
 
 ^ " Forasmuch as the very sweetness of idleness stealthily introduces itself 
 into the mind, and the sloth, which was at first hateful, becomes at length 
 beloved." 
 
EUGENE ARAIH. 39 
 
 disclaiming its own excellent merits, by affecting the shape 
 and assuming the adjuncts of venison. Then for the confec- 
 tionery, — it was worthy of Ellinor, to whom that department 
 generally fell ; and we should scarcely be surprised to find, 
 though we venture not to affirm, that its delicate fabrication 
 owed more to her than superintendence. Then the ale, and 
 the cider with rosemary in the bowl, were incomparable pota- 
 tions ; and to the gooseberry wine, which would have filled 
 Mrs. Primrose with envy, was added the more generous 
 warmth of port which in the squire's younger days had been 
 the talk of the country, and which had now lost none of its 
 attributes save " the original brightness " of its color. 
 
 But (the wine excepted) these various dainties met with 
 slight honor from their abstemious guest ; and — for though 
 habitually reserved he was rarely gloomy — they remarked 
 that he seemed unusually fitful and sombre in his mood. 
 Something appeared to rest upon his mind from which, by 
 the excitement of wine and occasional bursts of eloquence 
 more animated than ordinary, he seemed striving to escape ; 
 and at length he apparently succeeded. Naturally enough 
 the conversation turned upon the curiosities and scenery of 
 the country round; and here Aram shone with a peculiar 
 grace. Vividly alive to the influences of Nature, and min- 
 utely acquainted with its varieties, he invested every hill 
 and glade to which remark recurred with the poetry of his 
 descriptions ; and from his research he gave even scenes the 
 most familiar a charm and interest which had been strange 
 to them till then. To this stream some romantic legend had 
 once attached itself, long forgotten and now revived ; that 
 moor, so barren to an ordinary eye, was yet productive of 
 some rare and curious herb, whose properties afforded scope 
 for lively description ; that old mound was yet rife in attrac- 
 tion to one versed in antiquities and able to explain its origin, 
 and from such explanation deduce a thousand classic or Celtic 
 episodes. 
 
 No subject was so homely or so trite but the knowledge that 
 had neglected nothing was able to render it luminous and new. 
 And as he spoke, the scholar's countenance brightened, and 
 
40 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 his voice, at first hesitating and low, compelled the attention 
 to its earnest and winning music. Lester himself, a man who 
 in his long retirement had not forgotten the attractions of 
 intellectual society, nor even neglected a certain cultivation 
 of intellectual pursuits, enjoyed a pleasure that he had not 
 experienced for years. The gay Ellinor was fascinated into 
 admiration ; and Madeline, the most silent of the group, 
 drank m every word, unconscious of the sweet poison she 
 imbibed. Walter alone seemed not carried away by the elo- 
 quence of their guest. He preserved an unadmiring and 
 sullen demeanor, and every now and then regarded Aram 
 with looks of suspicion and dislike. This was more remark- 
 able when the men were left alone ; and Lester, in surprise 
 and anger, darted significant and admonitory glances towards 
 his nephew, which at length seemed to rouse him into a more 
 hospitable bearing. As the cool of the evening now came on, 
 Lester proposed to Aram to enjoy it without, previous to 
 returning to the parlor, to which the ladies had retired. 
 Walter excused himself from joining them. The host and 
 the guest accordingly strolled forth alone. 
 
 " Your solitude," said Lester, smiling, " is far deeper and 
 less broken than mine : do you never find it irksome ? " 
 
 " Can Humanity be at all times contented ? " said Aram. 
 ^'No stream, howsoever secret or subterranean, glides on in 
 eternal tranquillity." 
 
 " You allow, then, that you feel some occasional desire for a 
 more active and animated life ? " 
 
 " Nay," answered Aram ; " that is scarcely a fair corollary 
 from my remark. I may at times feel the weariness of exist- 
 ence, — the tedium vitce; but I know well that the cause is 
 not to be remedied by a change from tranquillity to agitation. 
 The objects of the great world are to be pursued only by 
 the excitement of the passions. The passions are at once our 
 masters and our deceivers : they urge us onward, yet present 
 no limit to our progress. The farther we proceed, the more 
 dim and shadowy grows the goal. It is impossible for a man 
 who leads the life of the world, the life of the passions, ever 
 to experience content. For the life of the passions is that of 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 41 
 
 a perpetual desire ; but a state of content is the absence of all 
 desire. Thus philosophy has become another name for mental 
 quietude ; and all wisdom points to a life of intellectual indif- 
 ference as the happiest which earth can bestow." 
 
 "This may be true enough," said Lester, reluctantly; 
 "but — " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "A something at our hearts — a secret voice, an involuntary 
 impulse — rebels against it, and points to action, — action, as 
 the true sphere of man." 
 
 A slight smile curved the lip of the student; he avoided, 
 however, the argument, and remarked, — 
 
 " Yet, if you think so, the world lies before you : why not 
 return to it ? " 
 
 "Because constant habit is stronger than occasional impulse; 
 and my seclusion, after all, has its sphere of action, has its 
 object." 
 
 "All seclusion has." 
 
 "All ? Scarcely so, for me, I have my object of interest 
 in my children." 
 
 "And mine is in my books." 
 
 "And engaged in your object, does not the whisper of Fame 
 ever animate you with the desire to go forth into the world 
 and receive the homage that would await you ? " 
 
 " Listen to me, " replied Aram. " When I was a boy I went 
 once to a theatre. The tragedy of 'Hamlet' was performed, 
 — a play full of the noblest thoughts, the subtlest morality. 
 The audience listened with attention, with admiration, with 
 applause. I said to myself, when the curtain fell, 'It must be 
 a glorious thing to obtain this empire over men's intellects 
 and emotions.' Bvit now an Italian mountebank appeared on 
 the stage, — a man of extraordinary personal strength and 
 sleight of hand. He performed a variety of juggling tricks, 
 and distorted his body into a thousand surprising and unnat- 
 ural postures. The audience were transported beyond them- 
 selves; if they had felt delight in 'Hamlet,' they glowed 
 with rapture at the mountebank : they had listened with at- 
 tention to the lofty thought, but they were snatched from 
 
42 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 themselves by the marvel of the strange posture. 'Enough/ 
 said I ; ' I correct my former notion. Where is the glory of 
 ruling men's minds and commanding their admiration, when 
 a greater enthusiasm is excited by mere bodily agility than 
 was kindled by the most wonderful emanations of a genius 
 little less than divine ? ' I have never forgotten the impres- 
 sion of that evening." 
 
 Lester attempted to combat the truth of the illustration; 
 and thus conversing, they passed on through the village green, 
 when the gaunt form of Corporal Bunting arrested their 
 progress. 
 
 "Beg pardon, squire," said he, with a military salute; 
 "beg pardon, your honor," bowing to Aram. "But I wanted 
 to speak to you, squire, 'bout the rent of the bit cot yonder: 
 times very hard, pay scarce, and — " 
 
 "You desire a little delay, Bunting, eh ? Well, well, we'll 
 see about it; look up at the Hall to-morrow. Mr. Walter, I 
 know, wants to consult you about letting the water from the 
 great pond, and vou must give us your opinion of the new 
 brewing." 
 
 "Thank your honor, thank you; much obliged, I 'm sure. I 
 hope your honor liked the trout I sent up. Beg pardon. Mas- 
 ter Aram, mayhap you would condescend to accept a few fish, 
 now and then ; they 're very fine in these streams, as you 
 probably know. If you please to let me, I '11 send some up by 
 the old 'oman to-morrow, — that is, if the day 's cloudy a bit." 
 
 The scholar thanked the good Bunting, and would have pro- 
 ceeded onward; but the corporal was in a familiar mood. 
 
 "Beg pardon, beg pardon; but strange-looking dog here last 
 evening, — asked after you; said you were old friend of his; 
 trotted off in your direction. Hope all was right, master ? — 
 augh ! " 
 
 " All right ! " repeated Aram, fixing his eyes on the corpo- 
 ral, Avho had concluded his speech with a significant wink, 
 and pausing a full moment before he continued ; then, as if 
 satisfied with his survey, he added: "Ay, ay, I know whom 
 you mean : he had become acquainted with me some years ago. 
 So you saw him ! What said he to you — of me ? " 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 43 
 
 "Augh! little enough, Master Aram; he seemed to think 
 only of satisfying his own appetite, — said he 'd been a 
 soldier." 
 
 "A soldier? — true!" 
 
 "Never told me the regiment, though, — shy! Did he ever 
 desert, pray, your honor ? " 
 
 "I don't know," answered Aram, turning away; "I know 
 little, very little, about him." He was going away, but 
 stopped to add: "The man called on me last night for assist- 
 ance; the lateness of the hour a little alarmed me. I gave 
 him what I could afford, and he has now proceeded on his 
 journey." 
 
 "Oh! then he won't take up his quarters hereabouts, your 
 honor ? " said the corporal, inquiringly. 
 
 "No, no; good evening." 
 
 " What ! this singular stranger, who so frightened my poor 
 girls, is really known to you," said Lester, in surprise. 
 " Pray, is he as formidable as he seems to them ? " 
 
 "Scarcely," said Aram, with great composure; "he has 
 been a wild roving fellow all his life, but — but there is lit- 
 tle real harm in him. He is certainly ill-favored enough 
 to — " Here, interrupting himself, and breaking into a new 
 sentence, Aram added: "But at all events he will frighten 
 your daughters no more, — he has proceeded on his journey 
 northward. And now, yonder lies my way home. Good 
 evening." The abruptness of this farewell did indeed take 
 Lester by surprise. 
 
 " Why, you will not leave me yet ? The young ladies ex- 
 pect your return to them for an hour or so. What will they 
 think of such desertion? No, no; come back, my good friend, 
 and suffer me by and by to walk some part of the way home 
 with you." 
 
 "Pardon me," said Aram, "I must leave you now. As to 
 the ladies," he added, with a faint smile, half in melancholy, 
 half in scorn, " I am not one whom they could miss. Forgive 
 me if I seem unceremonious. Adieu ! " 
 
 Lester at first felt a little offended ; but when he recalled 
 the peculiar habits of the scholar he saw that the only way 
 
44 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 to hope for a continuance of that society which had so pleased 
 him was to indulge Aram at first in his unsocial inclinations, 
 rather than annoy him by a troublesome hospitality: he there- 
 fore, without further discourse, shook hands with him, and 
 they parted. 
 
 When Lester regained the little parlor he found his nephew 
 sitting, silent and discontented, by the window, Madeline 
 had taken up a book, and Ellinor, in an opposite corner, was 
 plying her needle with an air of earnestness and quiet very 
 unlike her usual playful and cheerful vivacity. There was 
 evidently a cloud over the group; the good Lester regarded 
 them with a searching, yet kindly eye. 
 
 "And what has happened?" said he. "Something of 
 mighty import, I am sure, or I should have heard my pretty 
 Ellinor's merry laugh long before I crossed the threshold," 
 
 Ellinor colored and sighed, and worked faster than ever. 
 Walter threw open the window and whistled a favorite air 
 quite out of tune. Lester smiled, and seated himself by his 
 nephew, 
 
 "Well, Walter," said he, "I feel, for the first time these 
 ten years, that I have a right to scold you. What on earth 
 could make you so inhospitable to your uncle's guest ? You 
 eyed the poor student as if you wished him among the books 
 of Alexandria ! " 
 
 " I would he were burned with them ! " answered Walter, 
 sharply. " He seems to have added the black art to his other 
 accomplishments, and bewitched my fair cousins here into a 
 forgetfulness of all but himself." 
 
 " Not me ' " said Ellinor, eagerly, and looking up. 
 
 "No, not you, that's true enough; you are too just, too 
 kind, — it is a pity that Madeline is not more like you." 
 
 " My dear Walter, " said Madeline, " what is the matter ? 
 You accuse me of what ? Being attentive to a man whom it 
 is impossible to hear without attention." 
 
 "There!" cried Walter, passionately, " you confess it. And 
 so for a stranger, — a cold, vain, pedantic egotist, you can shut 
 your ears and heart to those who have known and loved you 
 all your life, and — and — " 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 45 
 
 "Vain! " interrupted Madeline, unheeding the latter part of 
 Walter's address. 
 
 " Pedantic ! " repeated her father. 
 
 "Yes, I say vain, pedantic! " cried Walter, working himself 
 into a passion. " What on earth but the love of display could 
 make him monopolize the whole conversation? What but 
 pedantry could make him bring out those anecdotes and allu- 
 sions and descriptions, or whatever you call them, respecting 
 every old wall or stupid plant in the country ? " 
 
 "I never thought you guilty of meanness before," said 
 Lester, gravely. 
 
 " Meanness ! " 
 
 " Yes ; for is it not mean to be jealous of superior acquire- 
 ments, instead of admiring them?" 
 
 "What has been the use of those acquirements? Has he 
 benefited mankind by them? Show me the poet, the histo- 
 rian, the orator, and I will yield to none of you, — no, not to 
 Madeline herself, in homage of their genius; but the mere 
 creature of books, the dry and sterile collector of other men's 
 learning, — no, no. What should I admire in such a machine 
 of literature, except a waste of perseverance? And Madeline 
 calls him handsome too ! " 
 
 At this sudden turn from declamation to reproach, Lester 
 laughed outright; and his nephew, in high auger, rose and 
 left the room. 
 
 "Who could have thought Walter so foolish?" said 
 Madeline. 
 
 "Nay," observed Ellinor, gently, "it is the folly of a kind 
 heart, after all. He feels sore at our seeming to prefer an- 
 other — I mean another's conversation — to his! " 
 
 Lester turned round in his chair and regarded with a serious 
 look the faces of both sisters. 
 
 " My dear Ellinor, " said he, when he had finished his sur- 
 vey, "you are a kind girl, — come and kiss me! " 
 
46 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 the behavior of the student, a summer scene. 
 
 Aram's conversation with walter, and subsequent 
 colloquy with himself. 
 
 The soft season, the firmament serene, 
 
 The loun illuminate air, and firth amene 
 
 The silver scalit fishes on the grete, 
 
 O'er-thwart clear streams sprinkillond for the heat. 
 
 Gawin Douglas. 
 
 Hia subter 
 Caecum vulnus habes ; sed late balteus auro 
 Prsetegit.i — Peesics. 
 
 Several days elapsed before the family of the manor-house 
 encountered Aram again. The old woman came once or twice 
 to present the inquiries of her master as to Miss Lester's ac- 
 cident, but Aram himself did not appear. This want of in- 
 terest certainly offended Madeline, although she still drew 
 upon herself Walter's displeasure by disputing and resenting 
 the unfavorable strictures on the scholar in which that young 
 gentleman delighted to indulge. By degrees, however, as the 
 days passed without maturing the acquaintance which Walter 
 had disapproved, the youth relaxed in his attacks, and seemed 
 to yield to the remonstrances of his uncle. Lester had, in- 
 deed, conceived an especial inclination towards the recluse. 
 Any man of reflection who has lived for some time alone, 
 and who suddenly meets with one who calls forth in him, 
 and without labor or contradiction, the thoughts which have 
 sprung up in his solitude, scarcely felt in their growth, will 
 comprehend the new zest, the awakening, as it were, of the 
 mind, which Lester found in the conversation of Eugene Aram. 
 His solitary walk (for his nephew had the separate pursuits 
 of youth) appeared to him more dull than before, and he longed 
 
 1 "Yon have a wound deep hidden in your heart, but the broad belt of 
 gold conceals it." 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 47 
 
 to renew an intercourse which had given to the monotony of 
 his life both variety and relief. He called twice upon Aram; 
 but the student was, or affected to be, from home, and an in- 
 vitation that Lester sent him, though couched in friendly 
 terms, was, but with great semblance of kindness, refused. 
 
 "See, Walter," said Lester, disconcerted, as he finished 
 reading the refusal, — "see what your rudeness has effected. 
 I am quite convinced that Aram (evidently a man of suscepti- 
 ble as well as retired mind) observed the coldness of your 
 manner towards him, and that thus you have deprived me of 
 the only society which, in this wilderness of boors and sav- 
 ages, gave me any gratification." 
 
 Walter replied apologetically, but his uncle turned away 
 with a greater appearance of anger than his placid features 
 were wont to exhibit; and Walter, cursing the innocent cause 
 of his uncle's displeasure towards him, took up his fishing-rod 
 and went out alone, in no happy or exhilarated mood. 
 
 It was waxing towards eve, — an hour especia?ly lovely in 
 the month of June, and not without reason favored by the 
 angler. Walter sauntered across the rich and fragrant fields, 
 and came soon into a sheltered valley, through which the 
 brooklet wound its shadowy way. Along the margin the 
 grass sprang up long and matted, and profuse with a thousand 
 weeds and flowers, — the children of the teeming June. Here 
 the ivy-leafed bell-flower, and not far from it the common 
 enchanter's nightshade, the silver-weed, and the water-aven; 
 and by the hedges, that now and then n eared the- water, the 
 gelder-rose and the white briony, overrunning the thicket 
 with its emerald leaves and luxuriant flowers. And here and 
 there, silvering the bushes, the elder offered its snowy tribute 
 to the summer. All the insect youth were abroad, with their 
 bright wings and glancing motion; and from the lower depths 
 of the bushes the blackbird darted across, or higher and un- 
 seen the first cuckoo of the eve began its continuous and mel- 
 low note. All this cheeriness and gloss of life, which enamour 
 us with the few bright days of the English summer, make the 
 poetry in an angler's life, and convert every idler at heart 
 into a moralist, and not a gloomy one, for the time. 
 
48 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 Softened by the quiet beauty and voluptuousness around 
 him, Walter's thoughts assumed a more gentle dye, and he 
 broke out into the old lines, — 
 
 " Sweet day, so soft, so calm, so bright, 
 The bridal of the earth and sky," — 
 
 as he dipped his line into the current and drew it across the 
 shadowy hollows beneath the bank. The river-gods were not, 
 however, in a favorable mood, and after waiting in vain for 
 some time, in a spot in which he was usually successful, he 
 proceeded slowly along the margin of the brooklet, crush- 
 ing the reeds at every step into that fresh and delicious 
 odor which furnished Bacon with one of his most beautiful 
 comparisons. 
 
 He thought, as he proceeded, that beneath a tree that over- 
 hung the waters in the narrowest part of their channel, he 
 heard a voice, and as he approached he recognized it as 
 Aram's. A curve in the stream brought him close by the 
 spot, and he saw the student half -reclined beneath the tree, 
 and muttering, but at broken intervals, to himself. 
 
 The words were so scattered that Walter did not trace their 
 clew, but involuntarily he stopped short within a few feet of 
 the soliloquist; and Aram, suddenly turning round, beheld 
 him. A fierce and abrupt change broke over the scholar's 
 countenance; his cheek grew now pale, now flushed; and his 
 brows knit over his flashing and dark eyes with an intent 
 anger that was the more withering from its contrast to the 
 usual calmness of his features. Walter drew back; but Aram, 
 stalking directly up to him, gazed into his face as if he would 
 read his very soul. 
 
 "What! eavesdropping?" said he, with a ghastly smile. 
 "You overheard me, did you? Well, well, what said I? 
 What said I?" Then, pausing, and noting that Walter did 
 not reply, he stamped his foot violently, and grinding his 
 teeth, repeated in a smothered tone: "Boy, what said I?" 
 
 " Mr. Aram, " said Walter, " you forget yourself. I am not 
 one to play the listener, more especially to the learned ravings 
 of a man who can conceal nothing I care to know. Accident 
 brought me hither." 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 49 
 
 "What! surely — surely I spoke aloud, did I not, — did I 
 not?" 
 
 "You did; but so incoherently and indistinctly that I did 
 not profit by your indiscretion. I cannot plagiarize, I assure 
 you, from any scholastic designs you might have been giving 
 vent to." 
 
 Aram looked on him for a moment, and then, breathing 
 heavily, turned away. 
 
 "Pardon me," he said. "I am a poor, half-crazed man; 
 much study has unnerved me, — I should never live but with 
 my own thoughts. Forgive me, sir, I pray you." 
 
 Touched by the sudden contrition of Aram's manner, Walter 
 forgot, not only his present displeasure, but his general dis- 
 like; he stretched forth his hand to tiie student, and hastened 
 to assure him of his ready forgiveness. Aram sighed deeply 
 as he pressed the young man's hand, and Walter saAv, with 
 surprise and emotion, that his eyes were filled with tears. 
 
 "Ah!" said Aram, gently shaking his head, "it is a hard 
 life we bookmen lead ! !N'ot for us is the bright face of noon- 
 day or the smile of woman, the gay unbending of the heart, 
 the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, — the pride, pomp, 
 and circumstance of life. Our enjoyments are few and calm ; 
 our labor constant. But that is not the evil, sir, — the body 
 avenges its own neglect. We grow old before our time; we 
 wither up; the sap of youth slirinks from our veins; there is 
 no bound in our step. We look about us with dimmed eyes, 
 and our breath grows short and thick, and pains and coughs 
 and shooting aches come upon us at night. It is a bitter life, 
 — a bitter life, a joyless life ; I would I had never commenced 
 it. And yet the harsh world scowls upon us, — our nerves are 
 broken, and they wonder why we are querulous; our blood 
 curdles, and they ask why we are not gay; our brain grows 
 dizzy and indistinct (as with me just now), and shrugging 
 their shoulders, they whisper their neighbors that we are 
 mad. I wish I had worked at the plough, and known sleep, 
 and loved mirth — and — and not been what I am." 
 
 As the student uttered the last sentence he bowed his head, 
 and a few tears stole silently down his cheek. Walter was 
 
 4 
 
50 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 greatly affected, — it took him by surprise; nothing in Aram's 
 ordinary demeanor betrayed any facility to emotion; and he 
 conveyed to all the idea of a man, if not proud, at least cold. 
 
 "You do not suffer bodily pain, I trust?" asked Walter, 
 soothingly. 
 
 "Pain does not conquer me," said Aram, slowly recovering 
 himself. "I am not melted by that which I would fain de- 
 spise. Young man, I wronged you, — you have forgiven me. 
 Well, well, we will say no more on that head; it is past and 
 pardoned. Your uncle has been kind to me, and I have not 
 returned his advances : you shall tell him why. I have lived 
 thirteen years by myself, and I have contracted strange ways 
 and many humors not common to the world, — you have seen 
 an example of this. Judge for yourself if I be fit for the 
 smoothness and confidence and ease of social intercourse; I 
 am not fit, I feel it! I am doomed to be alone; tell your 
 uncle this, — tell him to suffer me to live so. I am grateful 
 for his goodness, I know his motives; but I have a certain 
 pride of mind : I cannot bear sufferance, I loathe indulgence. 
 Nay, interrupt me not, I beseech you. Look round on Na- 
 ture; behold the only company that humbles me not, — except 
 the dead whose souls speak to us from the immortality of 
 books. These herbs at your feet, — I know their secrets, I 
 watch the mechanism of their life; the winds, — they have 
 taught me their language; the stars, — I have unravelled their 
 mysteries: and these, — the creatures and ministers of God, 
 — these I offend not by my mood, to them I utter my thoughts 
 and break forth into my dreams without reserve and without 
 fear. But men disturb me, — I have nothing to learn from 
 them, I have no wish to confide in them ; they cripple the wild 
 liberty which has become to me a second nature. What its 
 shell is to the tortoise, solitude has become to me, — my pro- 
 tection ; nay, my life ! " 
 
 " But, " said Walter, " with us at least you would not have 
 to dread restraint: you might come when you would; be silent 
 or converse, according to your will." 
 
 Aram smiled faintly, but made no immediate reply. 
 
 "So, you have been angling," he said, after a short pause, 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 51 
 
 and as if willing to change the thread of conversation. " Fie ! 
 it is a treacherous pursuit; it encourages man's worst propen- 
 sities, — cruelty and deceit." 
 
 " I should have thought a lover of Nature would have been 
 more indulgent to a pastime which introduces us to her most 
 quiet retreats." 
 
 " And cannot Nature alone tempt you, without need of such 
 allurements? What! that crisped and winding stream, with 
 flowers on its very tide, — the water-violet and the water-lily, 
 — these silent brakes, the cool of the gathering evening, the 
 still and luxuriance of the universal life around you : are not 
 these enough of themselves to tempt you forth? If not, go 
 to, — your excuse is hypocrisy ! " 
 
 "I am used to these scenes," replied Walter; "I am weary 
 of the thoughts they produce in me, and long for any diver- 
 sion or excitement." 
 
 "Ay, ay, young man! The mind is restless at your age: 
 have a care! Perhaps you long to visit the world, — to quit 
 these obscure haunts which you are fatigued in admiring? " 
 
 "It may be so," said Walter, with a slight sigh. "I should 
 at least like to visit our great capital and note the contrast; 
 I should come back, I imagine, with a greater zest to these 
 scenes." 
 
 Aram laughed. "My friend," said he, "when men have 
 once plunged in the great sea of human toil and passion, they 
 soon wash away all love and zest for innocent enjoyments. 
 What once was a soft retirement will become the most intol- 
 erable monotony ; the gaming of social existence, the feverish 
 and desperate chances of honor and wealth, upon which the 
 men of cities set their hearts, render all pursuits less exciting 
 utterly insipid and dull. The brook and the angle — ha! 
 ha ! — these are not occupations for men who have once battled 
 with the world." 
 
 "I can forego them, then, without regret," said Walter, 
 with the sanguineness of his years. 
 
 Aram looked upon him wistfully; the bright eye, the 
 healthy cheek, and vigorous frame of the youth suited with 
 his desire to seek the conflict of his kind, and gave a natural 
 
52 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 grace to his ambition which was not without interest, even to 
 the recluse. 
 
 " Poor boy ! " said he, mournfully. " How gallantly the ship 
 leaves the port, — how worn and battered it will return! " 
 
 When they parted, Walter returned slowly homewards, 
 filled with pity for the singular man whom he had seen so 
 strangely overpowered, and wondering how suddenly his mind 
 had lost its former rancor to the student. Yet there mingled 
 even with these kindly feelings a little displeasure at the su- 
 perior tone which Aram had unconsciously adopted towards 
 him, and to which, from any one, the high spirit of the young 
 man was not readily willing to submit. 
 
 Meanwhile the student continued his path along the water- 
 side; and as, with his gliding step and musing air, he roamed 
 onward, it was impossible to imagine a form more suited to 
 the deep tranquillity of the scene. Even the wild birds 
 seemed to feel, by a sort of instinct, that m him there was no 
 cause for fear, and did not stir from the turf that neighbored, 
 or the spray that overhung his path. 
 
 "So," said he, soliloquizing, but not without casting fre- 
 quent and jealous glances round him, and in a murmur so in- 
 distinct as would have been inaudible even to a listener, " so, 
 I was not overheard. Well, I must cure myself of this habit; 
 our thoughts, like nuns, ought not to go abroad without a veil. 
 Ay, this tone will not betray me; I will preserve its tenor, 
 for I can scarcely altogether renounce my sole confidant, — 
 self; and thought seems more clear when uttered even thus. 
 'T is a fine youth, full of the impulse and daring of his years ; 
 / was never so young at heart. I was — Nay, what matters 
 it ? Who is answerable for his nature ? Who can say, 'I con- 
 trolled all the circumstances which made me what I am?' 
 Madeline — Heavens ! did I bring on myself this temptation? 
 Have I not fenced it from me throughout all my youth, when 
 my brain did at moments forsake me, and the veins did 
 bound? And now, when the yellow hastens on the green of 
 life, — now, for the first time, this emotion, this weakness — 
 And for whom? One I have lived with, known, beneath 
 whose eyes I have passed through all the fine gradations from 
 
♦ EUGENE ARAM. 63 
 
 liking to love, from love to passion? No, — one whom I have 
 seen but little; who, it is true, arrested my eye at the first 
 glance it caught of her two years since, but to whom, till 
 within the last few weeks, I have scarcely spoken ! Her voice 
 rings in my ear, her look dwells on my heart; when I sleep 
 she is with me; when I wake I am haunted by her image. 
 Strange, strange ! Is love, then, after all, the sudden passion 
 Avhich in every age poetry has termed it, though till now my 
 reason has disbelieved the notion? 
 
 "And now, what is the question, — to resist, or to yield? 
 Her father invites me, courts me, and I stand aloof! Will 
 this strength, this forbearance, last? Shall I encourage my 
 mind to this decision?" Here Aram paused abruptly, and 
 then renewed: "It is true! I ought to weave my lot with 
 none. Memory sets me apart and alone in the world. It 
 seems unnatural to me — a thought of dread — to bring an- 
 other being to my solitude, to set an everlasting watch on my 
 up-risings and my down -sittings; to invite eyes to my face 
 when I sleep at nights, and ears to every word that may start 
 unbidden from my lips. But if the watch be the watch of 
 love — Away! does love endure forever? He who trusts to 
 woman, trusts to the type of change. Affection may turn to 
 hatred, fondness to loathing, anxiety to dread; and, at the 
 best, woman is weak, — she is the minion to her impulses. 
 Enough! I will steel my soul, shut up the avenues of sense, 
 brand with the scathmg-iron these yet green and soft emo- 
 tions of lingering youth, and freeze and chain and curdle up 
 feeling and heart and manhood into ice and age ! " 
 
54 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 CHAPTEK Vn. 
 
 THE POWER OP LOVE OVER THE RESOLUTION OF THE STUDENT. 
 ARAM BECOMES A FREQUENT GUEST AT THE MANOR- 
 HOUSE. A WALK. CONVERSATION WITH DAME DARKMANS. 
 
 HER HISTORY. POVERTY AND ITS EFFECTS. 
 
 Mad. Then, as Time won thee frequent to our hearth. 
 Didst thou not breathe, like dreams, into my soul 
 Nature's more gentle secrets, — the sweet lore 
 Of the green herb and the bee-worshipped flower,? 
 And when deep Night did o'er the nether Earth 
 Diffuse meek quiet, and the Heart of Heaven 
 With love grew breathless, didst thou not unroll 
 The volume of the weird Chaldiean stars. 
 And of the winds, the clouds, the invisible air, 
 Make eloquent discourse, until, methought, 
 No human lip, but some diviner spirit 
 Alone, could preach such truths of things divine ' 
 And so, and so — 
 
 Aram. From Heaven we turned to Earth, 
 
 And Wisdom fathered Passion. 
 
 Aram. Wise men have praised the Peasant's thoughtless lot. 
 And learned Pride hath envied humble Toil. 
 If they were right, why let us burn our books, 
 And sit us down and play the fool with Time, 
 Mocking the prophet Wisdom's high decrees. 
 And walling this trite Present with dark clouds 
 Till Night becomes our Nature, and the ray 
 E'en of the stars but meteors that withdraw 
 The wandering spirit from the sluggish rest 
 Which makes its proper bliss. I will accost 
 This denizen of toil. — From Eugene Aram, a MS. Tragedy. 
 
 A wicked hag, and envy's self excelling 
 In mischiefe, for herself she only vext ; 
 But this same, both herself and others eke perplext. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 55 
 
 Who then can strive with strong necessity, 
 That holds the world in his still changing state ? 
 
 Then do no further go, no further stray. 
 
 But here lie down, and to thy rest betake. — Spenser. 
 
 Few men, perhaps, could boast of so masculine and firm a 
 mind as, despite his eccentricities, Aram assuredly possessed. 
 His habits of solitude had strengthened its natural hardihood; 
 for accustomed to make all the sources of happiness flow solely 
 from himself, his thoughts the only companions, his genius 
 the only vivifier, of his retreat, — the tone and faculty of his 
 spirit could not but assume that austere and vigorous energy 
 which the habit of self-dependence almost invariably produces ; 
 and yet the reader, if he be young, will scarcely feel surprised 
 that the resolution of the student to battle against incipient 
 love, from whatever reasons it might be formed, gradually and 
 reluctantly melted away. It may be noted that the enthusi- 
 asts of learning and revery have, at one time or another in 
 their lives, been, of all the tribes of men, the most keenly 
 susceptible to love, — their solitude feeds their passion; and 
 deprived, as they usually are, of the more hurried and vehe- 
 ment occupations of life, when love is once admitted to their 
 hearts there is no counter-check to its emotions and no escape 
 from its excitement. Aram, too, had just arrived at that age 
 when a man usually feels a sort of revulsion in the current of 
 his desires. At that age, those who have hitherto pursued 
 love begin to grow alive to ambition; those who have been 
 slaves to the pleasures of life awaken from the dream, and 
 direct their desire to its interests. And in the same propor- 
 tion, they who till then have wasted the prodigal fervors of 
 youth upon a sterile soil, who have served Ambition, or, like 
 Aram, devoted their hearts to Wisdom, relax from their ardor, 
 look back on the departed years with regret, and commence, 
 in their manhood, the fiery pleasures and delirious follies 
 which are only pardonable in youth. In short, as in every 
 human pursuit there is a certain vanity, and as every acquisi- 
 tion contains within itself the seed of disappointment, so there 
 is a period of life when we pause from the pursuit and are 
 
56 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 discontented with the acquisition. We then look around us 
 for something new, again follow, and are again deceived. 
 Few men throughout life are the servants to one desire. 
 When we gain the middle of the bridge of our mortality, 
 different objects from those which attracted us upward almost 
 invariably lure us down the descent. Happy they who ex- 
 haust in the former part of the journey all the foibles of ex- 
 istence! But how different is the crude and evanescent love 
 of that age when thought has not given intensity and jiower 
 to the passions, from the love which is felt, for the first time, 
 in maturer but still youthful years ! As the flame burns the 
 brighter in proportion to the resistance which it conquers, 
 this later love is the more glowing in proportion to the length 
 of time in which it has overcome temptation; all the solid 
 and concentred faculties, ripened to their full height, are 
 no longer capable of the infinite distractions, the numberless 
 caprices, of youth ; the rays of the heart, not rendered weak by 
 diversion, collect into one burning focus ; ^ the same earnest- 
 ness and unity of purpose which render what we undertake in 
 manhood so far more successful than what we would effect in 
 youth, are equally visible and equally triumphant, whether 
 directed to interest or to love. But then, as in Aram, the feel- 
 ings must be fresh as well as matured; they must not have 
 been frittered away by previous indulgence; the love must be 
 the first produce of the soil, not the languid after-growth. 
 
 The reader will remark that the first time in which our nar- 
 rative has brought Madeline and Aram together, was not the 
 first time they had met; Aram had long noted with admiration 
 a beauty which he had never seen paralleled, and certain 
 vague and unsettled feelings had preluded the deep emotion 
 that her image now excited within him. But the main cause 
 of his present and growing attachment had been in the evi- 
 dent sentiment of kindness which he could not but feel Made- 
 line bore towards him. So retiring a nature as his might 
 never have harbored love if the love bore the character of pre- 
 sumption; but that one so beautiful beyond his dreams as 
 
 ^ Love is of the nature of a burning-glass, which, kept still in one place, 
 fireth ; changed often, it doth nothing. — Letters by Sir John Suckling. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 67 
 
 Madeline Lester should deign to cherish for him a tenderness 
 that might suffer him to hope, was a thought that, when he 
 caught her eye unconsciously fixed upon him, and noted that 
 her voice grew softer and more tremulous when she addressed 
 him, forced itself upon his heart, and woke there a strange 
 and irresistible emotion, which solitude and the brooding re- 
 flection that solitude produces — a reflection so much more in- 
 tense m proportion to the paucity of living images it dwells 
 upon — soon ripened into love. Perhaps, even, he would not 
 have, resisted the impulse as he now did, had not, at this time, 
 certain thoughts connected with past events been more for- 
 cibly than of late years obtruded upon him, and thus in 
 some measure divided his heart. By degrees, however, those 
 thoughts receded from their vividness into the habitual deep, 
 but not oblivious, shade beneath which his commanding mind 
 had formerly driven them to repose ; and as they thus receded, 
 Madeline's image grew more undisturbedly present, and his 
 resolution to avoid its power more fluctuating and feeble. 
 Fate seemed bent upon bringing together these two persons, 
 already so attracted towards each other. After the conver- 
 sation recorded in our last chapter between Walter and the 
 student, the former, touched and softened, as we have seen, 
 in spite of himself, had cheerfully forborne (what before he 
 had done reluctantly) the expressions of dislike which he had 
 once lavished so profusely upon Aram ; and Lester, who, for- 
 ward as he had seemed, had nevertheless been hitherto a little 
 checked in his advances to his neighbor by the hostility of 
 his nephew, felt no scruple to deter him from urging them 
 Avith a pertinacity that almost forbade refusal. It was Aram's 
 constant habit, in all seasons, to wander abroad at certain 
 times of the day, especially towards the evening ; and if Les- 
 ter failed to win entrance to his house, he was thus enabled 
 to meet the student in his frequent rambles, and with a seem- 
 ing freedom from design. Actuated by his great benevolence 
 of character, Lester earnestly desired to win his solitary and 
 unfriended neighbor from a mood and habit which he natu- 
 rally imagined must engender a growing melancholy of mind; 
 and since Walter had detailed to him the particulars of his 
 
58 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 meeting with Aram, this desire had been considerably in- 
 creased. There is not, perhaps, a stronger feeling in the 
 world than pity, when united with admiration. When one 
 man is resolved to know another, it is almost impossible to 
 prevent it : we see daily the most remarkable instances of per- 
 severance on one side conquering distaste on the other. By 
 degrees, then, Aram relaxed from his insociability ; he seemed 
 to surrender himself to a kindness, the sincerity of which he 
 was compelled to acknowledge. If he for a long time refused 
 to accept the hospitality of his neighbor, he did not reject his 
 society when they met; and this intercourse increased by little 
 and little, until, ultimately, the recluse yielded to solicitation, 
 and became the guest as well as companion. This, at first 
 accident, grew, though not without many interruptions, into 
 habit; and at length few evenings were passed by the inmates 
 of the manor-house without the society of the student. 
 
 As his reserve wore oif, his conversation mingled with its 
 attractions a tender and affectionate tone. He seemed grate- 
 ful for the pains which had been taken to allure him to a 
 scene in which, at last, he acknowledged he found a happi- 
 ness that he had never experienced before; and those who 
 had hitherto admired him for his genius, admired him now 
 yet more for his susceptibility to the affections. 
 
 There was not in Aram anything that savored of the harsh- 
 ness of pedantry or the petty vanities of dogmatism ; his voice 
 was soft and low, and his manner always remarkable for its 
 singular gentleness and a certain dignified humility. His 
 language did, indeed, at times, assume a tone of calm and 
 patriarchal command; but it was only the command arising 
 from an intimate persuasion of the truth of what he uttered. 
 Moralizing upon our nature, or mourning over the delusions of 
 the world, a grave and solemn strain breathed throughout his 
 lofty words and the profound melancholy of his wisdom; but 
 it touched, not offended, — elevated, not hiimbled, — the lesser 
 intellect of his listeners : and even this air of unconscious su- 
 periority vanished when he was invited to teach or explain. 
 
 That task — which so few do gracefully that an accurate 
 and shrewd thinker has said, "It is always safe to learn, even 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 59 
 
 from our enemies ; seldom safe to instruct even our friends " ^ 
 — Aram performed with a meekness and simplicity that 
 charmed the vanity, even while it corrected the ignorance, of 
 the applicant ; and so various and minute was the information 
 of this accomplished man that there scarcely existed any 
 branch, even of that knowledge usually called practical, to 
 which he could not impart from his stores something valuable 
 and new. The agriculturist was astonished at the success of 
 his suggestions, and the mechanic was indebted to him for the 
 device which abridged his labor in improving its result. 
 
 It happened that the study of botany was not, at that day, 
 so favorite and common a diversion with young ladies as it is 
 now; and Ellinor, captivated by the notion of a science that 
 gave a life and a history to the loveliest of earth's offspring, 
 besought Aram to teach her its principles. 
 
 As Madeline, though she did not second the request, could 
 scarcely absent herself from sharing the lesson, this pursuit 
 brought the pair — already lovers — closer and closer together. 
 It associated them, not only at home, but in their rambles 
 throughout that enchanting country; and there is a myste- 
 rious influence in Nature which renders us, in her loveliest 
 scenes, the most susceptible to love. Then, too, how often 
 in their occupation their hands and eyes met; how often, by 
 the shady wood or the soft water-side, they found themselves 
 alone. In all times, how dangerous the connection, when of 
 different sexes, between the scholar and the teacher ! Under 
 how many pretences, in that connection, the heart finds the 
 opportunity to speak out ! 
 
 Yet it was not with ease and complacency that Aram deliv- 
 ered himself to the intoxication of his deepening attachment. 
 Sometimes he was studiously cold, or evidently wrestling 
 with the powerful passion that mastered his reason. It was 
 not without many throes and desperate resistance that love at 
 length overwhelmed and subdued him; and these alterna- 
 tions of his mood, if they sometimes offended Madeline and 
 sometimes wounded, still rather increased than lessened the 
 spell which bound her to him. The doubt and the fear, the 
 
 1 Lacon. 
 
60 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 caprice and the cliange, which agitate the surface, swell also 
 the tides, of passion. Woman, too, whose love is so much 
 the creature of her imagination, always asks something of 
 mystery and conjecture in tlie object of her affection. It is a 
 luxury to her to perplex herself with a thousand apprehen- 
 sions; and the more restlessly her lover occupies her mind, 
 the more deeply he enthralls it. 
 
 Mingling with her pure and tender attachment to Aram a 
 high and unswerving veneration, she saw, in his fitfulness 
 and occasional abstraction and contradiction of manner, a con- 
 firmation of the modest sentiment that most weighed upon her 
 fears, and imagined that at those times he thought her, as she 
 deemed herself, unworthy of his love. And this was the only 
 struggle Avhich she conceived to pass between the affection he 
 evidently bore her, and the feelings which had as yet re- 
 strained him from its open avowal. 
 
 One evening Lester and the two sisters were walking with 
 the student along the valley that led to the house of the lat- 
 ter, when they saw an old woman engaged in collecting fire- 
 wood among the bushes, and a little girl holding out her apron 
 to receive the sticks with which the crone's skinny arms un- 
 sparingly filled it. The child trembled, and seemed half -cry- 
 ing; while the old woman, in a harsh, grating croak, was 
 muttering forth mingled objurgation and complaint. 
 
 There was something in the appearance of the latter at once 
 impressive and displeasing: a dark, withered, furrowed skin 
 was drawn like parchment over harsh and aquiline features; 
 the eyes, through the rheum of age, glittered forth black and 
 malignant; and even her stooping posture did not conceal a 
 height greatly above the common stature, though gaunt and 
 shrivelled with years and poverty. It was a form and face 
 that might have recalled at once the celebrated description of 
 Otway, on a part of which we have already unconsciously 
 encroached, and the remaining part of which we shall wholly 
 borrow, — 
 
 " On her crooked shoulders had she wrapped 
 The tattered remnants of an old stript hanging 
 That served to keep her carcass from the cold ; 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 61 
 
 So there was nothing of a piece about her. 
 
 Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patched 
 
 With different-colored rags, — black, red, white, yellow,— 
 
 And seemed to speak variety of wretchedness." 
 
 "See," said Lester, "one of the eyesores of our village, — I 
 might say the only discontented person." 
 
 "What! Dame Darkmans?" said Ellinor, quickly. "Ah! 
 let us turn back. I hate to encounter that old woman; there 
 is something so evil and savage in her manner of talk. And 
 look, how she rates that poor girl whom she has dragged or 
 decoyed to assist her ! " 
 
 Aram looked curiously on the old hag. " Poverty, " said he, 
 "makes some humble, but more malignant; is it not want 
 that grafts the devil on this poor woman's nature? Come, let 
 us accost her, — I like conferring with distress." 
 
 "It is hard labor this?" said the student, gently. 
 
 The old woman looked up askant: the music of the voice 
 that addresed her sounded harsh on her ear. 
 
 " Ay, ay ! " she answered. " You fine gentlefolks can know 
 what the poor suffer: ye talk and ye talk, but ye never 
 assist." 
 
 "Say not so, dame," said Lester; "did I not send you but 
 yesterday bread and money? And when did you ever look up 
 at the Hall without obtaining relief ? " 
 
 "But the bread was as dry as a stick," growled the hag; 
 " and the money, — what was it? Will it last a week? Oh, 
 yes! Ye think as much of your doits and mites as if ye 
 stripped yourselves of a comfort to give it to us. Did ye 
 have a dish less, a 'tato less, the day ye sent me — your 
 charity I s'pose ye calls it? Och! fie! But the Bible 's the 
 130or oretur's comfort." 
 
 "I am glad to hear you say that, dame," said the good- 
 natured Lester; "and I forgive everything else you have said, 
 on account of that one sentence." 
 
 The old woman dropped the sticks she had just gathered, 
 and glowered at the speaker's benevolent countenance with a 
 malicious meaning in her dark eyes. 
 
 "An' ye do? Well, I 'm glad I please ye there. Och! yes! 
 
62 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 the Bible 's a mighty comfort; for it says as much that the 
 rich man shall not inter the kingdom of heaven ! There 's a 
 truth for you that makes the ^oor folks' heart chirp like a 
 cricket, ho! ho! /sits by the imbers of a night, and I thinks 
 and thinks as how I shall see you all burning; and ye '11 ask 
 me for a drop o' water, and I shall laugh thin from my pleasant 
 seat with the angels. Och! it 's a book for the poor that! " 
 
 The sisters shuddered. "And you think, then, that with 
 envy, malice, and all uncharitableness at your heart, you are 
 certain of heaven? For shame! Pluck the mote from your 
 own eye ! " 
 
 "What sinnifies praching? Did not the Blessed Saviour 
 come for the poor? Them as has rags and dry bread here will 
 be ixalted in the nixt world; an' if we poor folk have malice, 
 as ye calls it, whose fault's that? What do ye tache us? 
 Eh? — Answer me that. Ye keeps all the laming an' all the 
 other fine things to yoursel', and then ye scould and thritten 
 and hang us 'cause we are not as wise as you. Och! there 's 
 no jistice in the Lamb if heaven is not made for us; and the 
 iverlasting hell, with its brimstone and fire, and its gnawing 
 an' gnashing of teeth, an' its theirst, an' its torture, an' its 
 worm that niver dies, for the like o' you." 
 
 "Come, come away!" said Ellinor, pulling her father's 
 arm. 
 
 "And if," said Aram, pausing, "if I were to say to you, 
 name your want, and it shall be fulfilled, would you have no 
 charity for me also?" 
 
 " Umph ! " returned the hag, " ye are the great scholard, and 
 they say ye knows what no one else do. Till me now," and 
 she approached, and familiarly laid her bony finger on the 
 student's arm, "till me, — have ye iver, among other fine 
 things, known poverty?" 
 
 " I have, woman ! " said Aram, sternly. 
 
 "Och, ye have, thin! And did ye not sit and gloom and 
 eat up your oun heart, an' curse the sun that looked so gay, 
 an' the winged things that played so blithe-like, an' scowl at 
 the rich folk that niver wasted a thought on ye? Till me 
 now, your honor, till me I " 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 63 
 
 And the crone courtesied with a mock air of beseeching 
 humility. 
 
 " I never forgot, even in want, the love due to my fellow- 
 sufferers; for, woman, we all suffer, — the rich and the poor: 
 there are worse pangs than those of want." 
 
 "Ye think there be, do ye? That's a comfort, umph! 
 Well, I '11 till ye now, I feel a rispict for you that I don't 
 for the rest on 'em: for your face does not insult me with 
 being cheary like theirs yonder; an' I have noted ye walk in 
 the dusk with your eyes down and your arms crossed; an' I 
 have said, — that man I do not hate, somehow, for he has 
 something dark at his heart, like me ! " 
 
 "The lot of earth is woe," answered Aram, calmly, yet 
 shrinking back from the crone's touch; "judge we charitably, 
 and act we kindly to each other. There, this money is not 
 much, but it will light your hearth and heap your table with- 
 out toil for some days at least." 
 
 "Thank your honor! An' what think you T '11 do with the 
 money?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Drink, drink, drink!" cried the hag, fiercely. "There's 
 nothing like drink for the poor, for thin we fancy ourselves 
 what we wish. And," sinking her voice into a whisper, "I 
 thinks thin that I have my foot on the billies of the rich 
 folks, and my hands twisted about their intrails, and I hear 
 them shriek, and — thin I am happy." 
 
 "Go home!" said Aram, turning away; "and open the 
 Book of Life with other thoughts." 
 
 The little party proceeded; and looking back, Lester saw the 
 old woman gaze after them, till a tiirn in the winding valley 
 hid her from his sight. 
 
 "That is a strange person, Aram, — scarcely a favorable 
 specimen of the happy English peasant," said Lester, smiling. 
 
 "Yet they say," added Madeline, "that she was not always 
 the same perverse and hateful creature she is now." 
 
 "Ay," said Aram; "and what, then, is her history?" 
 
 "Why," replied Madeline, slightly blushing to find herself 
 made the narrator of a story, "some forty years ago this 
 
64 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 woman, so gaunt and hideous now, was the beauty of the vil- 
 lage. She married an Irish soldier whose regiment passed 
 through Grassdale, and was heard of no more till about ten 
 years back, when she returned to her native place, the discon- 
 tented, envious, altered being you now see her." 
 
 "She is not reserved in regard to her past life," said Lester. 
 " She is too happy to seize the attention of any one to whom 
 she can pour forth her dark and angry confidence. She saw 
 her husband, who was afterwards dismissed the service, — a 
 strong, powerful man, a giant of his tribe, — pine and waste, 
 inch by inch, from mere physical want, and at last literally 
 die from hunger. It happened that they had settled in the 
 county in which her husband was born; and in that county 
 those frequent famines which are the scourge of Ireland were 
 for two years especially severe. You may note that the old 
 woman has a strong vein of coarse eloquence at her command, 
 perhaps acquired in (for it partakes of the natural character 
 of) the country in which she lived so long; and it would lit- 
 erally thrill you with horror to hear her descriptions of the 
 misery and destitution that she witnessed, and amidst which 
 her husband breathed his last. Out of four children, not one 
 survives. One, an infant, died within a week of the father; 
 two sons were executed — one at the age of sixteen, one a 
 year older — for robbery committed under aggravated circum- 
 stances; and a fourth, a daughter, died in the hospitals of 
 London. The old woman became a wanderer and a vagrant, 
 and was at length passed to her native parish, where she has 
 since dwelt. These are the misfortunes which have turned 
 her blood to gall, and these are the causes which fill her with 
 so bitter a hatred against those whom wealth has preserved 
 from sharing or witnessing a fate similar to hers." 
 
 "Oh! " said Aram, in a low but deep tone, "when, when will 
 these hideous disparities be banished from the world? How 
 many noble natures, how many glorious hopes, how much of 
 the seraph's intellect, have been crushed into the mire or 
 blasted into guilt by the mere force of physical want! What 
 are the temptations of the rich to those of the poor? Yet see 
 how lenient we are to the crimes of the one, — how relentless 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 65 
 
 to those of the other! It is a bad world; it makes a man's 
 heart sick to look around him. The consciousness of how lit- 
 tle individual genius can do to relieve the mass, grinds out, as 
 with a stone, all that is generous in ambition, and to aspire 
 from the level of life is but to be more graspingly selfish." 
 
 " Can legislators, or the moralists that instruct legislators, 
 do so little, then, towards universal good?" said Lester, 
 doubtingly. 
 
 "Why, what can they do but forward civilization? And 
 what is civilization but an increase of human disparities? The 
 more the luxury of the few, the more startling the wants and 
 the more galling the sense of poverty. Even the dreams of 
 the philanthropist only tend towards equality; and where is 
 equality to be found but in the state of the savage? No; 
 I thought otherwise once, but I now regard the vast lazar- 
 house around us without hope of relief, — death is the sole 
 physician ! " 
 
 "Ah, no!" said the high-souled Madeline, eagerly; "do 
 not take away from us the best feeling and the highest desire 
 we can cherish. How poor, even in this beautiful world, with 
 the warm sun and fresh air about us, would be life if we 
 could not make the happiness of others ! " 
 
 Aram looked at the beautiful speaker with a soft and half- 
 mournful smile. There is one very peculiar pleasure that we 
 feel as we grow older, — it is to see embodied, in another and 
 a more lovely shape, the thoughts and sentiments we once 
 nursed ourselves ; it is as if we viewed before us the incarna- 
 tion of our own youth ; and it is no wonder that we are warmed 
 towards the object that thus seems the living apparition of 
 all that was brightest in ourselves. It was with this senti- 
 ment that Aram now gazed on Madeline. She felt the gaze, 
 and her heart beat delightedly ; but she sank at once into a 
 silence which she did not break during the rest of their walk. 
 
 " I do not say, " said Aram, after a pause, " that we are not 
 able to make the happiness of those immediately around us^ 
 I speak only of what we can effect for the mass. And it is a 
 deadening thought to mental ambition that the circle of hap- 
 piness we can create is formed more by our moral than our 
 
 5 
 
66 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 mental qualities. A warm heart, though accompanied but by 
 a mediocre understanding, is even more likely to promote 
 the happiness of tliose around, than are the absorbed and ab- 
 stract, though kindly, powers of a more elevated genius. But 
 [observing Lester about to interrupt him] let us turn from 
 this topic, — let us turn from man's weakness to the glories 
 of the Mother-Nature from which he sprang." 
 
 And kindling, as he ever did, the moment he approached a 
 subject so dear to his studies, Aram now spoke of the stars 
 which began to sparkle forth, — of the vast, illimitable career 
 which recent science had opened to the imagination, and of the 
 old, bewildering, yet eloquent theories which from age to age 
 had at once misled and elevated the conjecture of past sages. 
 All this was a theme to which his listeners loved to listen, 
 and Madeline not the least. Youth, beauty, pomp, what are 
 these, in point of attraction, to a woman's heart when com- 
 pared to eloquence? The magic of the tongue is the most 
 dangerous of all spells! 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE PRIVILEGE OF GENIUS. LESTEr's SATISFACTION AT THE 
 
 ASPECT OF EVENTS. HIS CONVERSATION WITH WALTER. 
 
 A DISCOVERY. 
 
 Ale. I am for Lidian : 
 This accident, no doubt, will draw him from his hermit's life ! 
 
 Lis. Spare my grief, and apprehend 
 What I should speak. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher : The Lover's Progress. 
 
 In the course of the various conversations our family of 
 Grassdale enjoyed with their singular neighbor, it appeared 
 that his knowledge had not been confined to the closet; at 
 times he dropped remarks which showed that he had been 
 much among cities, and travelled with the design, or at least 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 67 
 
 with the vigilance, of the observer. But he did not love to 
 be drawn into any detailed accounts of what he had seen or 
 whither he had been; an habitual, though a gentle, reserve 
 kept watch over the past, — not, indeed, that character of re- 
 serve which excites the doubt, but which inspires the interest. 
 His most gloomy moods were rather abrupt and fitful than 
 morose, and his usual bearing was calm, soft, and even tender. 
 
 There is a certain charm about great superiority of intellect 
 that winds into deep affections which a much more constant 
 and even amiability of manners in lesser men often fails to 
 reach. Genius makes many enemies, but it makes sure 
 friends, — friends who forgive much, who endure long, who 
 exact little : they partake of the character of disciples as well 
 as friends. There lingers about the human heart a strong 
 inclination to look upward, — to revere; in this inclination 
 lies the source of religion, of loyalty, and also of the worship 
 and immortality which are rendered so cheerfully to the great 
 of old. And, in truth, it is a divine pleasure ! Admiration 
 seems in some measure to appropriate to ourselves the qual- 
 ities it honors in others. We wed, we root ourselves to the 
 natures we so love to contemplate, and their life grows a part 
 of our own. Thus when a great man, who has engrossed our 
 thoughts, our conjectures, our homage, dies, a gap seems sud- 
 denly left in the world ; a wheel in the mechanism of our own 
 being appears abruptly stilled; a portion of ourselves, and 
 not our worst portion, — for how many pure, high, generous 
 sentiments it contains, — dies with him! Yes, it is this love, 
 so rare, so exalted, and so denied to all ordinary men, which 
 is the especial privilege of greatness, whether that greatness 
 be shown in wisdom, in enterprise, in virtue, or even, till the 
 world learns better, in the more daring and lofty orde? of 
 crime. A Socrates may claim it to-day, — a Napoleon to-mor- 
 row; nay, a brigand chief, illustrious in the circle in which 
 he lives, may call it forth no less powerfully than the gener- 
 ous failings of a Byron or the sublime excellence of the greater 
 Milton. 
 
 Lester saw with evident complacency the passion growing up 
 between his friend and his daughter ; he looked upon it as a 
 
68 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 tie that would permanently reconcile Aram to the hearth of 
 social and domestic life, — a tie that would constitute the hap- 
 piness of his daughter, and secure to himself a relation in the 
 man he felt most inclined, of all he knew, to honor and es- 
 teem. He remarked in the gentleness and calm temper of 
 Aram much that was calculated to ensure domestic peace; 
 and knowing the peculiar disposition of Madeline, he felt that 
 she was exactly the person, not only to bear with the pecu- 
 liarities of the student, but to venerate their source. In 
 short, the more he contemplated the idea of this alliance, the 
 more he was charmed with its probability. 
 
 Musing on this subject, the good squire was one day walk- 
 ing in his garden, when he perceived his nephew at some dis- 
 tance, and remarked that Walter, on seeing him, instead of 
 coming forward to meet him, was about to turn down an alley 
 in an opposite direction. 
 
 A little pained at this, and remembering that Walter had of 
 late seemed estranged from himself and greatly altered from 
 the high and cheerful spirits natural to his temper, Lester 
 called to his nephew; and Walter, reluctantly and slowly 
 changing his purpose of avoidance, advanced and met him. 
 
 "Why, Walter!" said the uncle, taking his arm, "this is 
 somewhat unkind to shun me : are you engaged in any pur- 
 suit that requires secrecy or haste?" 
 
 "No, indeed, sir," said Walter, with some embarrassment; 
 "but I thought you seemed wrapped in reflection, and would 
 naturally dislike being disturbed." 
 
 " Hem ! As to that, I have no reflections I wish concealed 
 from you, Walter, or which might not be benefited by your 
 advice." The youth pressed his uncle's hand, but made no 
 reply; and Lester, after a pause, continued, — 
 
 "I am delighted to think, Walter, that you seem entirely 
 to have overcome the unfavorable prepossession which at first 
 you testified towards our excellent neighbor. And, for my 
 part, I think he appears to be especially attracted towards 
 yourself, — he seeks your company; and to me he always 
 speaks of you in terms which, coming from such a quarter, 
 give me the most lively gratification." 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 69 
 
 Walter bowed his head, but not in the delighted vanity 
 with which a young man generally receives the assurance of 
 another's praise. 
 
 "I own," renewed Lester, "that I consider our friendship 
 with Aram one of the most fortunate occurrences in my life, 
 — at least," added he with a sigh, "of late years. I doubt 
 not but you must have observed the partiality with whicli 
 our dear Madeline evidently regards him, and yet more the 
 attachment to her which breaks forth from Aram, in spite of 
 his habitual reserve and self-control. You have surely noted 
 this, Walter?" 
 
 "I have," said Walter, in a low tone, and turning away his 
 head. 
 
 " And doubtless you share my satisfaction. It happens for- 
 tunately now that ]\Iadeline early contracted that studious and 
 thoughtful turn which, I must own, at one time gave me some 
 uneasiness and vexation. It has taught her to appreciate the 
 value of a mind like Aram's. Formerly, my dear boy, I hoped 
 that at one time or another she and yourself might form a 
 dearer connection than that of cousins. But I was disap- 
 pointed, and I am now consoled. And indeed I think there is 
 that in Ellinor which might be yet more calculated to render 
 you happy, — that is, if the bias of your mind should ever lean 
 that way." 
 
 " You are very good, " said Walter, bitterly. " I own I am 
 not flattered by your selection, nor do I see why the plainer 
 and less brilliant of the two sisters must necessarily be the 
 fitter for me." 
 
 "Nay," replied Lester, piqued, and jixstly angry, "I do not 
 think, even if Madeline have the advantage of her sister, 
 that you can find any fault with the personal or mental attrac- 
 tions of Ellinor. But, indeed, this is not a matter in which 
 relations should interfere. I am far from any wish to prevent 
 you from choosing throughout the world any one whom you 
 may prefer. All I hope is that your future wife will be like 
 Ellinor in kindness of heart and sweetness of temper." 
 
 " From choosing throughout the world!" repeated Walter. 
 "And how in this nook am I to see the world? " 
 
70 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " Walter, your voice is reproachful ! Do I deserve it ? " 
 
 Walter was silent. 
 
 "I have of late observed," continued Lester, "and with 
 wounded feelings, that you do not give me the same confidence 
 or meet me with the same affection that you once delighted 
 me by manifesting towards me. I know of no cause for this 
 change. Do not let us, my son, — for I may so call you, — do 
 not let us, as we grow older, grow also more apart. Time 
 divides with a sufficient demarcation the young from the old : 
 why deepen the necessary line ? You know well that I have 
 never from your childhood insisted heavily on a guardian's 
 authority. I have always loved to contribute to your enjoy- 
 ments, and shown you how devoted I ana to your interests, by 
 the very frankness with which I have consulted you on my 
 own. If there be now on your mind any secret grievance or 
 any secret wish, speak it. Walter, you are alone with the 
 friend on earth who loves you best." 
 
 Walter was wholly overcome by this address; he pressed 
 his good uncle's hand to his lips, and it was some moments 
 before he mustered self -composure sufficient to reply. 
 
 " You have ever, ever been to me all that the kindest pa- 
 rent, the tenderest friend, could have been : believe me, I am 
 not ungrateful. If of late I have been altered, the cause is 
 not in you. Let me speak freely : you encourage me to do so. 
 I am young, my temper is restless ; I have a love of enterprise 
 and adventure : is it not natural that I should long to see the 
 world ? This is the cause of my late abstraction of mind. I 
 have now told you all: it is for you to decide." 
 
 Lester looked wistfully on his nephew's countenance before 
 he replied. 
 
 "It is as I gathered," said he, "from various remarks which 
 you have lately let fall. I cannot blame your wish to leave 
 us, — it is certainly natural, — nor can I oppose it. Go, 
 Walter, when you will," 
 
 The young man turned round with a lighted eye and flushed 
 cheek. 
 
 "And why, Walter," said Lester, interrupting his thanks, 
 "why this surprise, why this long doubt of my affection? 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 71 
 
 Could you believe I should refuse a wish that, at your age, I 
 should have expressed myself ? You have wronged me ; you 
 might have saved a world of pain to us both by acquainting 
 me with your desire when it was first formed. But enough; 
 I see Madeline and Aram approach, — let us join them now, 
 and to-morrow we will arrange the time and method of your 
 departure." 
 
 "Forgive me, sir," said Walter, stopping abruptly as the 
 glow faded fi-om his cheek, "I have not yet recovered my- 
 self; I am not fit for other society than yours. Excuse my 
 joining my cousin and — " 
 
 "Walter!" said Lester, also stopping short, and looking 
 full on his nephew, "a painful thought flashes upon me! 
 Would to Heaven I may be wrong ! — Have you ever felt for 
 Madeline more tenderly than for her sister ? " 
 
 Walter literally trembled as he stood. The tears rushed 
 into Lester's eyes; he grasped his nephew's hand warmly, — 
 
 " God comfort thee, my poor boy ! " said he, with great 
 emotion; "I never dreamed of this." 
 
 Walter felt now that he was understood. He gratefully 
 returned the pressure of his uncle's hand, and then, withdraw- 
 ing his own, darted down one of the intersecting walks, and 
 was almost instantly out of sight. 
 
72 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE STATE OF WALTEr's MIND. AN ANGLER AND A MAN OF 
 
 THE WORLD. A COMPANION FOUND FOR WALTER. 
 
 This great disease for love I dre,^ 
 
 There is no tongue can tell the wo ; 
 I love the love that loves not me, 
 
 I may not mend, but mourning mo. 
 
 Tlie Mourning Maiden. 
 
 I in these flowery meads would be ; 
 
 These crystal streams should solace me, 
 
 To whose harmonious bubbling voice 
 
 I with my angle would rejoice. — Izaak Walton. 
 
 When Walter left his uncle he hurried, scarcely conscious 
 of his steps, towards his favorite haunt by the water-side. 
 From a child he had singled out that scene as the witness 
 of his early sorrows or boyish schemes; and still the soli- 
 tude of the place cherished the habits of his boyhood. 
 
 Long had he, unknown to himself, nourished an attachment 
 to his beautiful cousin; nor did he awaken to the secret of his 
 heart until, with an agonizing jealousy, he penetrated the 
 secret at her own. The reader has doubtless already perceived 
 that it was this jealousy which at the first occasioned Walter's 
 dislike to Aram : the consolation of that dislike was forbidden 
 him now. The gentleness and forbearance of the student's 
 deportment had taken away all ground of offence ; and Walter 
 had sufficient generosity to acknowledge his merits, while 
 tortured by their effect. Silently, till this day, he had gnawed 
 his heart, and found for its despair no confidant and no com- 
 fort. The only wish that he cherished was a feverish and 
 gloomy desire to leave the scene which witnessed the triumph 
 of his rival. Everything around had become hateful to his 
 eyes, and a curse had lighted upon the face of home. He 
 
 1 Bear. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 73 
 
 thought now, with a bitter satisfaction, that his escape was at 
 hand ; in a few days he might be rid of the gall and the pang 
 which every moment of his stay at Grassdale inflicted upon 
 him. The sweet voice of Madeline he should hear no more, 
 subduing its silver sound for his rival's ear; no more he 
 should watch apart, and himself unheeded, how timidly her 
 glance roved in search of another, or how vividly her cheek 
 flushed when the step of that happier one approached. Many 
 miles would at least shut out this picture from his view; and 
 in absence was it not possible that he might teach himself to 
 forget? Thus meditating, he arrived at the banks of the little 
 brooklet, and was awakened from his revery by the sound of 
 his own name. He started, and saw the old corporal seated 
 on the stump of a tree and busily employed in fixing to his 
 line the mimic likeness of what anglers, and, for aught we 
 know, the rest of the world, call the "violet-fly." 
 
 "Ha! master, at my day's work, you see, — fit for nothing 
 else now. When a musket 's half worn out, schoolboys buy 
 it, — pop it at sparrows. I be like the musket! But never 
 mind ; I have not seen the world for nothing. We get recon- 
 ciled to all things; that's my way — augh! Now, sir, you 
 shall watch me catch the finest trout you have seen this sum- 
 mer; know where he lies, — under the bush yonder. Whi-sh! 
 sir, whi-sh! " 
 
 The corporal now gave his warrior soul up to the due guid- 
 ance of the violet-fly. Now he whipped it lightly on the 
 wave; now he slid it coquettishly along the surface; now it 
 floated, like an unconscious beauty, carelessly with the tide ; 
 and now, like an artful prude, it affected to loiter by the way, 
 or to steal into designing obscurity under the shade of some 
 overhanging bank. But none of these manoeuvres captivated 
 the wary old trout on whose acquisition the corporal had set 
 his heart; and, what was especially provoking, the angler 
 could see distinctly the dark outline of the intended victim 
 as it lay at the bottom, — like some well-regulated bachelor 
 who eyes from afar the charms he has discreetly resolved to 
 neglect. 
 
 The corporal waited till he could no longer blind himself 
 
74 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 to the displeasing fact that the violet-fly was wholly ineffica- 
 cious; he then drew up his line, and replaced the contemned 
 beauty of the violet-fly with the novel attractions of the 
 yellow -dun. 
 
 "Now, sir," whispered he, lifting up his finger and nodding 
 sagaciously to Walter. Softly dropped the yellow-dun on the 
 water, and swiftly did it glide before the gaze of the latent 
 trout. And now the trout seemed aroused from his apathy; 
 behold, he moved forward, balancing himself upon his fins; 
 now he slowly ascended towards the surface : you might see 
 all the speckles of his coat. The corporal's heart stood still, 
 
 — he is now at a convenient distance from the yellow-dun; lo, 
 he surveys it steadfastly; he ponders, he see-saws himself to 
 and fro. The yellow-dun sails away in affected indifference : 
 that indifference whets the appetite of the hesitating gazer; 
 he darts forward, he is opposite the yellow-dun, he pushes his 
 nose against it with an eager rudeness, he — No, he does not 
 bite, he recoils, he gazes again with surprise and suspicion on 
 the little charmer; he fades back slowly into the deeper 
 water, and then, suddenly turning his tail towards the disap- 
 pointed bait, he makes off as fast as he can, — yonder, yonder, 
 
 — and disappears! No, that's he leaping yonder from the 
 wave. Jupiter, what a noble fellow ! What leaps he at ? A 
 real fly ! " D — n his eyes ! " growled the corporal. 
 
 "You might have caught him with a minnow," said Walter, 
 speaking for the first time. 
 
 "Minnow!" repeated the corporal, gruffly; "ask your hon- 
 or's pardon. Minnow! — I have fished with the yellow-dun 
 these twenty years, and never knew it fail before. Minnow ! 
 
 — baugh! But ask pardon; your honor is very welcome to 
 fish with a minnow, if you please it." 
 
 " Thank you. Bunting. And pray what sport have you had 
 to-day ? " 
 
 "Oh! good, good," quoth the corporal, snatching up his 
 basket and closing the cover, lest the young squire should pry 
 into it. No man is more tenacious of his secrets than your 
 true angler. "Sent the best home two hours ago, — one 
 weighed three pounds, on the faith of a man. Indeed, I 'm 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 75 
 
 satisfied now; time to give up;" and the corporal began to 
 disjoint his rod. 
 
 "Ah, sir!" said he, with a half sigh, "a pretty river this, 
 — don't mean to say it is not; but the river Lea for my 
 money. You know the Lea ? Not a morning's walk from 
 Lunnon, IVIary Gibson, my first sweetheart, lived by the 
 bridge (caught such a trout there by the by!); had beautiful 
 eyes, — black, round as a cherry; five feet eight without 
 shoes; might have 'listed in the Forty-second." 
 
 "Who, Bunting," said Walter, smiling, — "the lady, or the 
 trout ? " 
 
 " Augh ! baugh ! what ? Oh, laughing at me, your honor ! 
 you 're welcome, sir. Love 's a silly thing, — know the world 
 now; have not fallen in love these ten years. I doubt — no 
 offence, sir, no offence — I doubt whether your honor and Miss 
 Ellinor can say as much." 
 
 "I and Miss Ellinor! You forget yourself strangely, Bunt- 
 ing," said Walter, coloring with anger. 
 
 "Beg pardon, sir, beg pardon, — rough soldier; lived away 
 from the world so long, words slipped out of my mouth, — 
 absent without leave." 
 
 "But why," said Walter, smothering or conquering his 
 vexation, — "why couple me with Miss Ellinor? Did you 
 imagine that we — we were in love with each other ? " 
 
 " Indeed, sir, and if I did, 't is no more than my neighbors 
 imagine too." 
 
 "Humph! Your neighbors are very silly, then, and very 
 wrong. " 
 
 "Beg pardon, sir, again, — always getting askew. Indeed, 
 some did say it was Miss Madeline; but I says, says I, ' No! 
 I'm a man of the world, — see through a millstone: Miss 
 Madeline 's too easy like ; Miss Nelly blushes when he speaks. ' 
 Scarlet is Love's regimentals, — it was ours in the Forty- 
 second, edged with yellow; pepper-and-salt pantaloons! For 
 my part I think — But I've no business to think, howsom- 
 ever — baugh ! " 
 
 " Pray what do you think, Mr. Bunting ? Why do you 
 hesitate ? " 
 
76 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "'Fraid of offence. But I do think that Master Aram — 
 your honor understands — Howsomever, squire's daughter 
 too great a match for such as he ! " 
 
 Walter did not answer; and the garrulous old soldier, who 
 had been the young man's playmate and companion since 
 Walter was a boy, and was therefore accustomed to the fa- 
 miliarity with which he now spoke, continued, mingling with 
 his abrupt prolixity an occasional shrewdness of observation 
 which showed that he was no inattentive commentator on the 
 little and quiet world around him, — 
 
 *' Free to confess, Squire Walter, that I don't quite like this 
 larned man as much as the rest of 'em; something queer about 
 him; can't see to the bottom of him; don't think he's quite 
 so meek and lamblike as he seems. Once saw a calm dead 
 pool in foreign parts; peered down into it; by little and little 
 my eye got used to it; saw something dark at the bottom; 
 stared and stared — by Jupiter ! a great big alligator ! Walked 
 off immediately; never liked quiet pools since — augh, no!" 
 
 "An argument against quiet pools, perhaps, Bunting, but 
 scarcely against quiet people." 
 
 "Don't know as to that, your honor, — much of a muchness. 
 I have seen Master Aram, demure as he looks, start, and bite 
 his lip, and change color, and frown, — he has an ugly frown, 
 I can tell ye, — when he thought no one nigh. A man who 
 gets in a passion with himself may be soon out of temper 
 with others. Free to confess, I should not like to see him 
 married to that stately, beautiful young lady; but they do 
 gossip about it in the village. If it is not true, better put the 
 squire on his guard, — false rumors often beget truths. Beg 
 pardon, your honor, no business of mine — baugh! But I 'm 
 a lone man who have seen the world, and I thinks on the 
 things around me, and I turns over the quid, now on this 
 side, now on the other, — 'tis my way, sir, — and — But I 
 offend your honor." 
 
 "Not at all, — I know you are an honest man. Bunting, and 
 well affected to our family; at the same time, it is neither 
 prudent nor charitable to speak harshly of our neighbors with- 
 out sufficient cause. And really you seem to me to be a little 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 77 
 
 hasty in your judgment of a man so inoffensive in his habits 
 and so justly and generally esteemed as Mr. Aram." 
 
 "May be, sir, may be; very right what you say. But I 
 thinks what I thinks all the same; and, indeed, it is a 
 thing that puzzles me how that strange-looking vagabond as 
 frighted the ladies so, and who, Miss Nelly told me, — 
 for she saw them in his pocket, — carried pistols about him, 
 as if he had been among cannibals and Hottentots, instead 
 of the peaceablest county that man ever set foot in, should 
 boast of his friendship with this larned scholard, and pass 1 
 dare swear a whole night in his house ! Birds of a feather 
 flock together — augh ! — sir ! " 
 
 " A man cannot surely be answerable for the respectability 
 of all his acquaintances, even though he feel obliged to offer 
 them the accommodation of a night's shelter." 
 
 " Baugh ! " grunted the corporal. " Seen the world, sir, 
 seen the world, — young gentlemen are always so good-na- 
 tured; 'tis a pity that the more one sees the more suspicious 
 one grows. One does not have gumption till one has been 
 properly cheated; one must be made a fool very often in order 
 not to be fooled at last ! " 
 
 "Well, corporal, I shall now have opportunities enough of 
 profiting by experience. I am going io leave Grassdale in a 
 few days, and learn suspicion and wisdom in the great world." 
 
 "Augh! baugh! what!" cried the corporal, starting from 
 the contemplative air which he had hitherto assumed, "the 
 great world ? How ? when ? going away ? Who goes with 
 your honor ? " 
 
 "My honor's self; I have no companion, unless you like to 
 attend me," said Walter, jestingly; but the corporal affected, 
 with his natural shrewdness, to take the proposition in 
 earnest. 
 
 "I! Your honor 's too good; and indeed, though I say it, 
 sir, you might do worse. Not but what I should be sorry 
 to leave nice snug home here, and this stream, though the 
 trout have been shy lately, — ah! that was a mistake of yours, 
 sir, recommending the minnow, — and neighbor Dealtry, 
 though his ale 's not so good as 'twas last year; and — and. — 
 
78 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 But, in short, I always loved your honor, — dandled you on 
 my knees; you recollect the broadsword exercise? — one, two, 
 three — augh ! baugh ! And if your honor really is going, why, 
 rather than you should want a proper person, who . knows the 
 world, to brush your coat, polish your shoes, give you good 
 advice, — on the faith of a man, I '11 go with you myself! " 
 
 This alacrity on the part of the corporal was far from dis- 
 pleasing to Walter. The proposal he had at first made un- 
 thinkingly, he now seriously thought advisable ; and at length 
 it was settled that the corporal should call the next morning 
 at the manor-house, and receive instructions to conclude ar- 
 rangements for the journey, not forgetting, as the sagacious 
 Bunting delicately insinuated, "the wee settlements as to 
 wages and board-wages, — more a matter of form, like, than 
 anything else, augh ! " 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE LOVERS. THE ENCOUNTER AND QUARREL OF THE RIVALS. 
 
 Two such I saw, what time the labored ox 
 
 In his loose traces from the furrow came. — Comus. 
 
 Pedro. Now do me uoble right. 
 Rod. I '11 satisfy you, 
 But not by the sword. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher: The Pilgrim. 
 
 While Walter and the corporal enjoyed the above conversa- 
 tion, Madeline and Aram, whom Lester left to themselves, 
 were pursuing their walk along the solitary fields. Their 
 love had passed from the eye to the lip, and now found ex- 
 pression in words. 
 
 "Observe," said he, as the light touch of one who he felt 
 loved him entirely, rested on his arm, — " observe, as the later 
 summer now begins to breathe a more various and mellow 
 glory into the landscape, how singularly pure and lucid the 
 atmosphere becomes. When, two months ago, in the full flush 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 79 
 
 of June, I walked through these fields, a gray mist hid yon 
 distant hills and the far forest from my view. Now, with 
 what a transparent stillness the whole expanse of scenery 
 spreads itself before us ! And such, Madeline, is the change 
 that has come over myself since that time. Then if I looked 
 beyond the limited present, all was dim and indistinct. Now 
 the mist has faded away, the broad future extends before me 
 calm and bright with the hope which is borrowed from your 
 love!" 
 
 We will not tax the patience of the reader, who seldom en- 
 ters with keen interest into the mere dialogue of love, with 
 the blushing Madeline's reply, or with all the soft vows and 
 tender confessions which the rich poetry of Aram's mind made 
 yet more delicious to the ear of his dreaming and devoted 
 mistress. 
 
 "There is one circumstance," said Aram, "which casts a 
 momentary shade on the happiness I enjoy: my Madeline 
 probably guesses its nature. I regret to see that the blessing 
 of your love must be purchased by the misery of another, and 
 that other the nephew of my kind friend. You have doubtless 
 observed the melancholy of Walter Lester, and have long 
 since known its origin." 
 
 "Indeed, Eugene," answered Madeline, "it has given me 
 great pain to note what you refer to, for it would be a false 
 delicacy in me to deny that I have observed it. But Walter 
 is young and high-spirited ; nor do I think he is of a nature 
 to love long where there is no return." 
 
 "And what," said Aram, sorrowfully, — "what deduction 
 from reason can ever apply to love ? Love is a very contra- 
 diction of all the elements of our ordinary nature; it makes 
 the proud man meek, tlie cheerful, sad, the high-spirited, 
 tame ; our strongest resolutions, our hardiest energy, fail be- 
 fore it. Believe me, you cannot prophesy of its future effect 
 in a man from any knowledge of his past character. I grieve 
 to think that the blow falls upon one in early youth, ere the 
 world's disappointments have blunted the heart, or the world's 
 numerous interests have multiplied its resources. Men's 
 minds have been turned when they have not well sifted the 
 
80 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 cause themselves, and their fortunes marred, by one stroke 
 on the affections of their youth. So at least have I read, 
 Madeline, and so marked in others. For myself, I knew 
 nothing of love in its reality till I knew you. But who can 
 know you, and not sympathize with him who has lost you ? " 
 
 "Ah, Eugene! you at least overrate the influence which love 
 produces on men, A little resentment and a little absence will 
 soon cure my cousin of an ill-placed and ill-requited attach- 
 ment. You do not think how easy it is to forget." 
 
 "Eorget!" said Aram, stopping abruptly; "ay, forget, — it 
 is a strange truth! we do forget! The summer passes over 
 the furrow, and the corn springs up; the sod forgets the flower 
 of the past year; the battle-field forgets the blood that has 
 been spilt upon its turf; the sky forgets the storm; and the 
 water the noon-day sun that slept upon its bosom. All Na- 
 ture preaches forgetfulness. Its very order is the progress of 
 oblivion. And I — I — give me your hand, Madeline, — I, ha ! 
 ha ! I forget too ! " 
 
 As Aram spoke thus wildly, his countenance worked; but 
 his voice was slow and scarcely audible, — he seemed rather 
 conferring with himself than addressing Madeline. But when 
 his words ceased, and he felt the soft hand of his betrothed, 
 and, turning, saw her anxious and wistful eyes fixed in alarm, 
 yet in all unsuspecting confidence, on his face, his features 
 relaxed into their usual serenity, and kissing the hand he 
 clasped, he continued, in a collected and steady tone, — 
 
 "Forgive me, ray sweetest Madeline. These fitful and 
 strange moods sometimes come upon me yet. I have been so 
 long in the habit of pursuing any train of thought, however 
 wild, that presents itself to my mind that I cannot easily 
 break it, even m your presence. All studious men — the twi- 
 light eremites of books and closets — contract this ungraceful 
 custom of soliloquy. You know our abstraction is a common 
 jest and proverb: you must laugh me out of it. But stay, 
 dearest, — there is a rare herb at your feet; let me gather it. 
 So, do you note its leaves, this bending and silver flower ? 
 Let us rest on this bank, and I will tell you of its qualities. 
 Beautiful as it is, it has a poison." 
 
v^ 
 
 / 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 81 
 
 The place in which the lovers rested, is one which the vil- 
 lagers to this clay call "The Lady's Seat;" for Madeline, 
 whose history is fondly preserved in that district, was after- 
 wards wont constantly to repair to that bank (during a short 
 absence of her lover, hereafter to be noted), and subsequent 
 events stamped with interest every spot she was known to 
 have favored with resort. And when the flower had been 
 duly conned, and the study dismissed, Aram, to whom all the 
 signs of the seasons were familiar, pointed to her the thou- 
 sand symptoms of the month which are unheeded by less ob- 
 servant eyes, — not forgetting, as they thus reclined, their 
 hands clasped together, to couple each remark with some allu- 
 sion to his love, or some deduction which heightened compli- 
 ment into poetry. He bade her mark the light gossamer as 
 it floated on the air : now soaring high, high into the translu- 
 cent atmosphere; now suddenly stooping, and sailing away 
 beneath the boughs, which ever and anon it hung with a silken 
 web that by the next morn would glitter with a thousand dew- 
 drops. "And so," said he, fancifully, "does Love lead forth 
 its numberless creations, making the air its path and empire, 
 . — ascending aloft at its wild will, hanging its meshes on 
 every bough, and bidding the common grass break into a fairy 
 lustre at the beam of the daily sun ! " 
 
 He pointed to her the spot where, in the silent brake, the 
 harebells, now waxing rare and few, yet lingered, or where 
 the mystic ring on the soft turf conjured up the associations 
 of Oberon and his train. That superstition gave license and 
 play to his full memory and glowing fancy; and Shakspeare, 
 Spenser, Ariosto, the magic of each mighty master of Fairy 
 Eealm, he evoked, and poured into her transported ear. It 
 was precisely such arts, which to a gayer and more worldly na- 
 ture than Madeline's might have seemed but wearisome, that ar- 
 rested and won her imaginative and high-wrought mind. And 
 thus he, who to another might have proved but the retired 
 and moody student, became to her the very being of whom 
 her "maiden meditation" had dreamed, — the master and 
 magician of her fate. 
 
 Aram did not return to the house with Madeline; he accom- 
 
 k] LtUUAl^V 
 
 X 
 
82 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 panied lier to the garden-gate, and then, taking leave of her, 
 bent his way homeward. He had gained the entrance of the 
 little valley that led to his abode, when he saw "Walter cross 
 his path at a short distance. His heart, naturally susceptible 
 to kindly emotion, smote him as he remarked the moody list- 
 lessness of the young man's step, and recalled the buoyant 
 lightness it was once wont habitually to wear. He quickened 
 his pace, and joined Walter before the latter was aware of his 
 presence. 
 
 " Good evening," said he mildly; " if you are going my way, 
 give me the benefit of your company." 
 
 "My path lies yonder," replied Walter, somewhat sullenly; 
 "I regret that it is different from yours." 
 
 "In that case," said Aram, "I can delay my return home, 
 and will, with your leave, intrude my society upon you for 
 some few minutes." 
 
 Walter bowed his head in reluctant assent. They walked 
 on for some moments without speaking, the one unwilling, 
 the other seeking an occasion, to break the silence. 
 
 "This, to my mind," said Aram, at length, "is the most 
 pleasing landscape in the whole country : observe the bashful 
 water stealing away among the woodlands. Methinks the 
 wave is endowed with an instinctive wisdom that it thus 
 shuns the world." 
 
 "Rather," said Walter, "with the love for change which 
 exists everywhere in Nature, it does not seek the shade un- 
 til it has passed by ' towered cities ' and ' the busy hum of 
 men.' " 
 
 "I admire the shrewdness of your reply," rejoined Aram; 
 " but note how far more pure and lovely are its waters in these 
 retreats, than when washing the walls of the reeking town, 
 receiving into its breast the taint of a thousand pollutions, 
 vexed by the sound and stench and unholy perturbation of 
 men's dwelling-place. Now it glasses only what is high or 
 beautiful in Nature, — the stars or the leafy banks. The wind 
 that ruffles it is clothed with perfumes; the rivulet that swells 
 it descends from the everlasting monntains, or is formed by 
 the rains of heaven. Believe me, it is the type of a life that 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 83 
 
 glides into solitude from the weariness and fretful turmoil of 
 the world. 
 
 " ' No flattery, hate, or envy lodgeth there ; 
 
 There no suspicion walled in proved steel, 
 Yet fearful of the arms herself doth wear ; 
 
 Pride is not there ; no tyrant there we feel ! ' " 1 
 
 "I will not cope with you in simile or in poetry," said 
 Walter, as his lip curved ; " it is enough for me to think that 
 life should be spent in action. I hasten to prove if my judg- 
 ment be erroneous." 
 
 " Are you, then, about to leave us ? " inquired Aram. 
 
 "Yes, within a few days." 
 
 "Indeed! I regret to hear it." 
 
 The answer sounded jarringly on the irritated nerves of the 
 disappointed rival. 
 
 " You do me more honor than I desire, " said he, " in inter- 
 esting yourself, however lightly, in my schemes or fortune." 
 
 "Young man," replied Aram, coldly, "I never see the im- 
 petuous and yearning spirit of youth without a certain, and, it 
 may be, a painful interest. How feeble is the chance that its 
 hopes will be fulfilled! Enough if it lose not all its loftier 
 aspirings as well as its brighter expectations." 
 
 Nothing more aroused the proud and fiery temper of Walter 
 Lester than the tone of superior wisdom and superior age 
 which his rival sometimes assumed towards him. More and 
 more displeased with his present companion, he answered, in 
 no conciliatory tone, " I cannot but consider the warning and 
 the fears of one, neither my relation nor my friend, in the 
 light of a gratuitous affront." 
 
 Aram smiled as he answered, — 
 
 "There is no occasion for resentment. Preserve this hot 
 spirit and this high self-confidence till you return again to 
 these scenes, and I shall be at once satisfied and corrected." 
 
 "Sir," said Walter, coloring, and irritated more by the 
 smile than the words of his rival, " I am not aware by what 
 right or on what ground you assume towards me the superi- 
 
 * Phineas Fletcher. 
 
84 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 ority, not only of admonition, but reproof! My uncle's pref- 
 erence towards you gives you no authority over me. That 
 preference I do not pretend to share." He paused for a mo- 
 ment, thinking Aram might hasten to reply ; but as the stu- 
 dent walked on with his usual calmness of demeanor, he 
 added, stung by the indifference, which he attributed, not al- 
 together without truth, to disdain, — "And since you have 
 taken upon yourself to caution me and to forebode my inabil- 
 ity to resist the contamination, as you would term it, of the 
 world, I tell you that it may be happy for you to bear so clear 
 a conscience, so untouched a spirit, as that which I now boast, 
 and with which I trust in God and my own soul I shall return 
 to my birthplace. It is not the holy only that love solitude; 
 and men may shim the world from another motive than that 
 of philosophy." 
 
 It was now Aram's turn to feel resentment; and this was 
 indeed an insinuation not only unwarrantable in itself, but 
 one which a man of so peaceable and guileless a life, affecting 
 even an extreme and rigid austerity of morals, might well be 
 tempted to repel with scorn and indignation, — and Aram, 
 however meek and forbearing in general, testified in this in- 
 stance that his wonted gentleness arose from no lack of man's 
 natural spirit. He laid his hand commandingly on young 
 Lester's shoulder, and surveyed his countenance with a dark 
 and menacing frown. 
 
 "Boy!" said he, "were there meaning in your words, I 
 should (mark me!) avenge the insult; as it is, I despise it. 
 Go!" 
 
 So high and lofty was Aram's manner, so majestic was the 
 sternness of his rebuke and the dignity of his bearing, as, 
 waving his hand, he now turned away, that Walter lost his 
 self-possession and stood fixed to the spot, abashed, and hum- 
 bled from his late anger. It was not till Aram had moved 
 with a slow step several paces backward towards his home 
 that the bold and haughty temper of the young man re- 
 turned to his aid. Ashamed of himself for the momentary 
 weakness he had betrayed, and burning to redeem it, he has- 
 tened after the stately form of his rival, and, planting him- 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 85 
 
 self full in his path, said, in a voice half-choked with con- 
 tending emotions, — 
 
 "Hold! You have given me the opportunity I have long 
 desired; you yourself have now broken that peace which ex- 
 isted between us, and which to me was more bitter than 
 wormwood. You have dared — yes, dared — to use threaten- 
 ing language towards me ! I call on you to fulfil your threat. 
 I tell you that I meant, I desired, I thirsted, to affront you. 
 Now resent my purposed, premeditated affront as you will 
 and can." 
 
 There was something remarkable in the contrasted figures 
 of the rivals as they now stood fronting each other. The 
 elastic and vigorous form of Walter Lester, his sparkling 
 eyes, his sunburnt and glowing cheek, his clenched hands, and 
 his whole frame alive and eloquent with the energy, the heat, 
 the hasty courage, and fiery spirit of youth; on the other 
 hand, the bending frame of the student gradually rising into 
 the dignity of its full height, his pale cheek in which the wan 
 hues neither deepened nor waned, his large eye raised to meet 
 Walter's, bright, steady, and yet how calm! Nothing weak, 
 nothing irresolute, could be traced in that form or that lofty 
 countenance ; yet all resentment had vanished from his aspect. 
 He seemed at once tranquil and prepared. 
 
 "You designed to affront me! " said he: "it is well, it is a 
 noble confession; and wherefore? What do you propose to 
 gain by it ? A man whose whole life is peace you would pro- 
 ,voke to outrage. Would there be triumph in this, or dis- 
 grace ? A man whom your uncle honors and loves, you would 
 insult without cause, you would waylay, you would, after 
 watching and creating your opportunity, entrap into defending 
 himself! Is this worthy of that high spirit of which you 
 boasted ? Is this worthy a generous anger or a noble hatred ? 
 Away! you malign yourself. I shrink from no quarrel, — 
 why should 1 ? I have nothing to fear: my nerves are firm; 
 my heart is faithful to my will ; my habits may have dimin- 
 ished my strength, but it is yet equal to that of most men. 
 As to the weapons of the world, they fall not to my use. I 
 might be excused by the most punctilious for rejecting what 
 
86 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 becomes neither my station nor my habits of life; but I 
 learned thus much from books long since; 'Hold thyself pre- 
 pared for all things.' I am so prepared. And as I command 
 the spirit, I lack not the skill, to defend myself or return the 
 hostility of another." As Aram thus said, he drew a pistol 
 from his bosom and pointed it leisurely towards a tree at the 
 distance of some paces. 
 
 " Look," said he : "you note that small discolored and white 
 stain in the bark, — you can but just observe it; he who can 
 send a bullet through that spot need not fear to meet the 
 quarrel which he seeks to avoid." 
 
 Walter turned mechanically, and indignant, though silent, 
 towards the tree. Aram fired, and the ball penetrated the 
 centre of the stain. He then replaced the pistol in his bosom 
 and said, — 
 
 "Early in life I had many enemies, and I taught myself 
 these arts. From habit, I still bear about me the weapons I 
 trust and pray I may never have occasion to use. But to re- 
 turn. I have offended you; I have incurred your hatred, — 
 why ? What are my sins ? " 
 
 "Do you ask the cause?" said Walter, speaking between 
 his ground teeth. " Have you not traversed my views, blighted 
 my hopes, charmed away from me the affections which were 
 more to me than the world, and driven me to wander from my 
 home with a crushed spirit and a cheerless heart ? Are 
 these no causes for hate ? " 
 
 " Have I done this ? " said Aram, recoiling, and evidently, 
 and powerfully affected. " Have I so injured you ? It is 
 true! I know it, I perceive it, I read your heart; and — bear 
 witness, Heaven ! — I feel for the wound that I, but with no 
 guilty hand, inflict upon you. Yet be just; ask yourself, have 
 I done aught that you, in my case, would have left undone ? 
 Have I been insolent in triumph, or haughty in success? If 
 so, hate me, nay, spurn me, now." 
 
 Walter turned his head irresolutely away. 
 
 "If it please you that I accuse myself in that I, a man 
 seared and lone at heart, presumed to come within the pale of 
 human affections; that I exposed myself to cross another's 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 8( 
 
 better and brighter hopes, or dared to soften my fate with the 
 tender and endearing ties that are meet alone for a more gen- 
 ial and youthful nature; if it please you that I accuse and 
 curse myself for this, that I yielded to it with pain and with 
 self-reproach, that I shall think hereafter of what I uncon- 
 sciously cost you, with remorse, — then be consoled! " 
 
 "It is enough," said Walter; "let us part. 1 leave you 
 with more soreness at my late haste than I will acknowledge, 
 — let that content you ; for myself, I ask for no apology or — " 
 
 "But you shall have it amply," interrupted Aram, advanc- 
 ing with a cordial openness of mien not usual to him. "I 
 was all to blame; I should have remembered you were an in- 
 jured man, and suffered you to have said all you would. 
 Words at best are but a poor vent for a wronged and burning 
 heart. It shall be so in future; speak your will, attack, up- 
 braid, taunt me, I will bear it all. And, indeed, even to my- 
 self there appears some withcraft, some glamory, in what has 
 chanced. What! I favored where you love ? Is it possible ? 
 It might teach the vainest to forswear vanity. You the young, 
 the buoyant, the fresh, the beautiful ? And I, who have 
 passed the glory and zest of life between dusty walls, — I 
 who — Well, well, Fate laughs at probabilities!" 
 
 Aram now seemed relapsing into one of his more abstracted 
 moods; he ceased to speak aloud, but his lips moved, and 
 his eyes grew fixed in revery on the ground. Walter gazed at 
 him for some moments with mixed and contending sensations. 
 Once more, resentment and the bitter wrath of jealousy had 
 faded back into the remoter depths of his mind, and a certain 
 interest for his singular rival, despite of himself, crept into 
 his breast. But this mysterious and fitful nature, was it one 
 in which the devoted Madeline would certainly find happiness 
 and repose, — would she never regret her choice ? This ques- 
 tion obtruded itself upon him, and while he sought to answer 
 it, Aram, regaining his composure, turned abruptly and offered 
 him his hand. Walter did not accept it; he bowed with a 
 cold aspect. "I cannot give my hand without my heart," said 
 he; "we were foes just now: we are not friends yet. I am 
 unreasonable in this, I know, but — " 
 
88 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " Be it so, " interrupted Aram ; " I understand you. I press 
 my good-will on you no more. When this pang is forgotten, 
 when this wound is healed, and when you will have learned 
 more of him who is now your rival, we may meet again, with 
 other feelings on your side." 
 
 Thus they parted ; and the solitary lamp, which for weeks 
 past had been quenched at the wholesome hour in the stu- 
 dent's home, streamed from the casement throughout the 
 whole of that night : was it a witness of the calm and learned 
 vigil, or of the unresting heart ? 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 the family supper. the two sisters in their chamber. 
 
 a misunderstanding followed by a confession. 
 
 Walter's approaching departure, and the corporal's 
 
 BEHAVIOR THEREON. THE CORPORAl's FAVORITE INTRO- 
 DUCED TO THE READER. THE CORPORAL PROVES HIMSELF 
 
 A SUBTLE DIPLOMATIST. 
 
 So we grew together 
 Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, 
 But yet an union in partition. 
 
 A Midsummer NighVs Dream, 
 
 The corporal had not taken his measures so badly in this stroke of 
 artilleryship. — Tristram Shandy. 
 
 It was late that evening when Walter returned home ; the 
 little family were assembled at the last and lightest meal of 
 the day. Ellinor silently made room for her cousin beside 
 herself, and that little kindness touched Walter. "Why did 
 I not love her ? " thought he ; and he spoke to her in a tone 
 so affectionate that it made her heart thrill with delight. 
 Lester was, on the whole, the most pensive of the group; but 
 the old and young man exchanged looks of restored confidence, 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 89 
 
 which on the part of the former were softened by a pitying 
 tenderness. 
 
 When the cloth was removed, and the servants gone, Lester 
 took it on himself to break to the sisters the intended depart- 
 ure of their cousin. Madeline received the news with painful 
 blushes and a certain self-reproach ; for even where a woman 
 has no cause to blame herself, she in these cases feels a sort 
 of remorse at the unhappiness she occasions. But Ellinor rose 
 suddenly and left the room. 
 
 "And now," said Lester, "London will, I suppose, be your 
 first destination. I can furnish you with letters to some of 
 my old friends there, — merry fellows they were once; you 
 must take care of the prodigality of their wine. There 's 
 John Courtland, — ah! a seductive dog to drink with. Be 
 sure and let me know how honest John looks, and what he 
 says of me. I recollect him as if it were yesterday : a roguish 
 eye with a moisture in it, full cheeks, a straight nose, black 
 curled hair, and teeth as even as dies, — honest John showed 
 his teeth pretty often, too. Ha, ha! how the dog loved a 
 laugh! Well, and Peter Hales, — Sir Peter now; has his 
 uncle's baronetcy, — a generous, open-hearted fellow as ever 
 lived, will ask you very often to dinner — nay, offer you money 
 if you want it. But take care he does not lead you into ex- 
 travagances: out of debt, out of danger, Walter. It would 
 have been well for poor Peter Hales had he remembered that 
 maxim; often and often have I been to see him in the Mar- 
 shalsea. But he was the heir to good fortunes, though his 
 relations kept him close; so I suppose he is well off now. 
 
 His estates lie in shire, on your road to London; so if 
 
 he is at his country-seat you can beat up his quarters and 
 spend a month or so with him: a most hospitable fellow." 
 
 With these little sketches of his contemporaries the good 
 squire endeavored to while the time, taking, it is true, some 
 pleasure in the youthful reminiscences they excited, but 
 chiefly designing to enliven the melancholy of his nephew. 
 When, however, Madeline had retired, and they were alone, 
 he drew his chair closer to Walter's, and changed the conver- 
 sation into a more serious and anxious strain. The guardian 
 
90 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 and the ward sat up late that night; and when Walter retired 
 to rest it was with a heart more touched by his uncle's kind- 
 ness than his own sorrows. 
 
 But we are not about to close the day without a glance at 
 the chamber which the two sisters held in common. The 
 night was serene and starlit; and Madeline sat by the open 
 window, leaning her face upon her hand and gazing on the 
 lone house of her lover, which might be seen afar across the 
 landscape, the trees sleeping around it, and one pale and 
 steady light gleaming from its lofty casement like a star. 
 
 "He has broken faith," said Madeline; "I shall chide him 
 for this to-morrow. He promised me the light should be ever 
 quenched before this hour." 
 
 "Nay," said Ellinor, in a tone somewhat sharpened from its 
 native sweetness, and who now sat up in the bed, the curtain 
 of which was half -drawn aside, and the soft light of the skies 
 rested full upon her rounded neck and youthful countenance, 
 — "nay, Madeline, do not loiter there any longer; the air 
 grows sharp and cold, and the clock struck one several min- 
 utes since. Come, sister, come ! " 
 
 "I cannot sleep," replied Madeline, sighing, "and think 
 that yon light streams upon those studies which steal the 
 healthful hues from his cheek and the very life from his 
 heart." 
 
 " You are infatuated, you are bewitched by that man, " said 
 Ellinor, peevishly. 
 
 " And have I not cause, ample cause ? " returned Madeline, 
 with all a girl's beautiful enthusiasm, as the color mantled 
 her cheek and gave it the only additional loveliness it could 
 receive. "When he speaks, is it not like music ? — or, rather, 
 what music so arrests and touches the heart ? Methinks it is 
 heaven only to gaze upon him, to note the changes of that 
 majestic countenance, to set down as food for memory every 
 look and every movement. Bii*" when the look turns to me; 
 when the voice utters my name, ah! Ellinor, then it is not a 
 wonder that I love him thus much, but that any others should 
 think they have known love, and yet not loved hhn ! And, 
 indeed, I feel assured that what the world calls love is not 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 91 
 
 my love. Are there more Eugenes in the world than one ? 
 Who but Eugene could be loved as I love ? " 
 
 " What ! are there none as worthy ? " said Ellinor, half 
 smiling. 
 
 " Can you ask it ? " answered Madeline, with a simple won- 
 der in her voice. " Whom would you compare — compare ! 
 nay, place within a hundred grades of the height which 
 Eugene Aram holds in this little world ? " 
 
 "This is folly, dotage," said Ellinor, indignantly; "surely 
 there are others as brave, as gentle, as kind, and if not so 
 wise, yet more fitted for the world." 
 
 " You mock me, " replied Madeline, incredulously : " whom 
 could you select ? " 
 
 Ellinor blushed deeply, — blushed from her snowy temples 
 to her yet whiter bosom as she answered, — 
 
 " If I said Walter Lester, could you deny it ? " 
 
 "Walter!" repeated Madeline, — "he equal to Eugene 
 Aram! " 
 
 "Ay, and more than equal," said Ellinor, with spirit, and 
 a warm and angry tone. "And, indeed, Madeline," she con- 
 tinued after a pause, " I lose something of that respect which, 
 passing a sister's love, I have always borne towards you when 
 I see the unthinking and lavish idolatry you manifest to one 
 who, but for a silver tongue and florid words, would rather 
 want attractions than be the wonder you esteem him. Fie, 
 Madeline ! I blush for you when you speak ; it is unmaidenly 
 so to love any one ! " 
 
 Madeline rose from the window; but the angry word died 
 on her lips when she saw that Ellinor, who had worked her 
 mind beyond her self-control, had thrown herself back on the 
 pillow, and now sobbed aloud. 
 
 The natural temper of the elder sister had always been 
 much more calm and even than that of the younger, who 
 united with her vivacity something of the passionate caprice 
 and fitfulness of her sex. And Madeline's affection for her 
 had been tinged by that character of forbearance and soothing 
 which a superior nature often manifests to one more imper- 
 fect, and which in this instance did not desert her Shf 
 
92 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 gently closed the window, and gliding to the bed, threw hei 
 arms around her sister's neck and kissed away her tears with 
 a caressing fondness that if Ellinor resisted for one moment, 
 she returned with equal tenderness the next. 
 
 "Indeed, dearest," said Madeline, gently, "I cannot guess 
 how I hurt you, and still less how Eugene has offended 
 you ! " 
 
 "He has offended me in nothing," replied Ellinor, still 
 weeping, " if he has not stolen away all your affection from 
 me. But I was a foolish girl, — forgive me, as you always 
 do J and at this time I need your kindness, for I am very, 
 very unhappy." 
 
 " Unhappy, dearest Nell, and why ? " 
 
 Ellinor wept on without answering. 
 
 Madeline persisted in pressing for a reply; and at length 
 her sister sobbed out, — 
 
 " I know that — that — Walter only has eyes for you, and a 
 heart for you, who neglect, who despise his love ; and I — I — 
 But no matter, he is going to leave us, and of me — poor me 
 — he will think no more! " 
 
 Ellinor's attachment to their cousin, Madeline had long 
 half suspected, and she had often rallied her sister upon it; 
 indeed, it might have been this suspicion which made her at 
 the first steel her breast against Walter's evident preference 
 to herself. But Ellinor had never till now seriously confessed 
 how much her heart was affected ; and Madeline, in the natu- 
 ral engrossment of her own ardent and devoted love, had not 
 of late spared much observation to the tokens of her sister's. 
 She was therefore dismayed, if not surprised, as she now per- 
 ceived the cause of the peevishness Ellinor had just mani- 
 fested, and by the nature of the love she felt herself, she 
 judged, and perhaps somewhat overrated, the anguish that 
 Ellinor endured. 
 
 She strove to comfort her by all the arguments which the 
 fertile ingenuity of kindness could invent: she prophesied 
 Walter's speedy return, with his boyish disappointment for- 
 gotten, and with eyes no longer blinded to the attractions of 
 one sister by a bootless fancy for another. And though Elli- 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 93 
 
 nor interrupted her from time to time with assertions, now 
 of Walter's eternal constancy to his present idol, now with 
 yet more vehement declarations of the certainty of his finding 
 new objects for his affections in new scenes, she yet admitted, 
 by little and little, the persuasive powers of Madeline to creep 
 into her heart and brighten away its griefs with hope, till at 
 last, with the tears yet wet on her cheek, she fell asleep in 
 her sister's arms. 
 
 And Madeline, though she would not stir from her post lest 
 the movement should awaken her sister, was yet prevented 
 from closing her eyes in a similar repose. Ever and anon she 
 breathlessly and gently raised herself to steal a glimpse of 
 that solitary light afar; and ever as she looked, the ray greeted 
 her eyes with an unswerving and melancholy stillness, till the 
 dawn crept grayly over the heavens, and that speck of light, 
 holier to her than the stars, faded also with them beneath the 
 broader lustre of the day. 
 
 The next week was passed in preparations for Walter's de- 
 parture. At that time, and in that distant part of the coun- 
 try, it was greatly the fashion among the younger travellers 
 to perform their excursions on horseback, and it was this 
 method of conveyance that Walter preferred. The best steed 
 in the squire's stable was therefore appropriated to his ser- 
 vice, and a strong black horse, with a Roman nose and a long 
 tail, was consi^^ned to the mastery of Corporal Bunting. The 
 squire was delighted that his nephew had secured such an at- 
 tendant. For the soldier, though odd and selfish, was a man 
 of sense and experience, and Lester thought such qualities 
 might not be without their use to a young master new to the 
 common frauds and daily usages of the world he was about to 
 enter. 
 
 As for Bunting himself, he covered his secret exultation at 
 the prospect of change and board-wages with the cool sem- 
 blance of a man sacrificing his wishes to his affections. He 
 made it his peculiar study to impress upon the squire's mind 
 the extent of the sacrifice he was about to make. The bit cot 
 had been just whitewashed, the pet cat just lain in; then 
 too, who would dig, and gather seeds in the garden, defend 
 
94 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 the plants (plants! the corporal could scarce count a dozen, 
 and nine out of them were cabbages!) from the impending 
 frosts ? It was exactly, too, the time of year when the rheu^ 
 matism paid flying visits to the bones and loins of the worthy 
 corporal; and to think of his "gallivanting about the coun- 
 try " when he ought to be guarding against the sly foe, the 
 lumbago, in the fortress of his chimney-corner ! 
 
 To all these murmurs and insinuations the good Lester seri- 
 ously inclined, not with the less sympathy in that they invari- 
 ably ended in the corporal's slapping his manly thigh and 
 swearing that he loved Master Walter like gunpowder, and 
 that were it twenty times as much, he would cheerfully do it 
 for the sake of his handsome young honor. Ever at this per- 
 oration the eyes of the squire began to twinkle, and new 
 thanks were given to the veteran for his disinterested alfec 
 tion, and new promises pledged him in adequate return. 
 
 The pious Dealtry felt a little jealousy at the trust imparted 
 to his friend. He halted on his return from his farm, by the 
 spruce stile which led to the demesne of the corporal, and 
 eyed the warrior somewhat sourly as he now, in the cool of 
 the evening, sat without his door, arranging his fishing-tackle 
 and flies in various little papers, which he carefully labelled 
 by the help of a stunted pen that had seen at least as much 
 service as himself. 
 
 "Well, neighbor Bunting," said the little landlord, leaning 
 over the stile, but not passing its boundary, "and when do 
 you go ? You will have wet weather of it [looking up to the 
 skies] ; you must take care of the rumatiz. At your age it 's 
 no trifle, eh — hem." 
 
 " My age ! Should like to know what mean by that ! My 
 age, indeed! augh! bother!" grunted Bunting, looking up 
 from his occupation. Peter chuckled inly at the corporal's 
 displeasure, and continued, as in an apologetic tone, — 
 
 "Oh, I ax your pardon, neighbor. I don't mean to say you 
 are too old to travel. Why there was Hal Whitol, eighty-two 
 come next Michaelmas, took a trip to Lunnun last year, — 
 
 " ' For young and old, the stout, the poorly, 
 The eye of God be on them surely. ' " 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 95 
 
 "Bother ! " said the corporal, turning round on his seat. 
 
 *' And what do you intend doing with the brindled cat ? Put 
 'un up in the saddle-bags ? You won't surely have the heart 
 to leave 'un." 
 
 "As to that," quoth the corporal, sighing, "the poor dumb 
 animal makes me sad to think on 't." And putting down his 
 fish-hooks, he stroked the sides of an enormous cat, who now, 
 with tail on end and back bowed up, and uttering her lenes 
 susurrus, — Anglice, purr, — rubbed herself to and fro athwart 
 the corporal's legs, 
 
 " What staring there for ? Won't ye step in, man ? Can 
 climb the stile, I suppose ? augh ! " 
 
 "No, thank ye, neighbor. I do very well here, — that is if 
 you can hear me ; your deafness is not so troublesome as it 
 was last win — " 
 
 " Bother ! " interrupted the corporal, in a voice that made 
 the little landlord start bolt upright from the easy confidence 
 of his position. Nothing on earth so offended the perpendic- 
 ular Jacob Bunting as any insinuation of increasing years or 
 growing infirmities ; but at this moment, as he meditated put- 
 ting Dealtry to some use, he prudently conquered the gather- 
 ing anger, and added, like the man of the world he justly 
 plumed himself on being, in a voice gentle as a dying howl, — 
 
 "What 'fraid on ? Come in, there 's good fellow; want to 
 speak to ye. Come, do, a-u-g-h ! " the last sound being pro- 
 longed into one of unutterable coaxingness, and accompanied 
 with a beck of the hand and a wheedling wink. 
 
 These allurements the good Peter could not resist ; he clam- 
 bered the stile, and seated himself on the bench beside the 
 corporal. 
 
 "There now, fine fellow, fit for the Forty-second," said 
 Bunting, clapping him on the back. " Well, and — and — a 
 beautiful cat, is n't her ? " 
 
 " Ah ! " said Peter, very shortly ; for though a remarkably 
 mild man, Peter did not love cats. Moreover, we must now 
 inform the reader that the cat of Jacob Bunting was one more 
 feared than respected throughout the village. The corporal 
 was a cunning instructor of all animals : he could teach gold' 
 
96 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 finches tlie use of the musket; dogs the art of the broadsword; 
 horses to dance hornpipes and pick pockets; and he had re- 
 lieved the eiuiui of his solitary moments by imparting sundry 
 accomplishments to the ductile genius of his cat. Under his 
 tuition puss had learned to fetch and carry; to turn over head 
 and tail like a tumbler; to run up your shoulder when you least 
 expected it ; to fly as if she were mad at any one upon whom 
 the corporal thought fit to set her; and, above all, to rob lard- 
 ers, shelves, and tables, and bring the produce to the corporal, 
 who never failed to consider such stray waifs lawful manorial 
 acquisitions. These little feline cultivations of talent, how- 
 ever delightful to the corporal, and creditable to his powers 
 of teaching the young idea how to shoot, had nevertheless, 
 since the truth must be told, rendered the corporal's cat a 
 proverb and by-word throughout the neighborhood. Never 
 was cat in such bad odor; and the dislike in which it was 
 held was wonderfully increased by terror: for the creature 
 was singularly large and robust, and withal of so courageous 
 a temper that if you attempted to resist its invasion of your 
 property it forthwith set up its back, put down its ears, 
 opened its mouth, and bade you fully comprehend that what 
 it feloniously seized it could gallantly defend. More than 
 one gossip in the village had this notable cat hurried into pre- 
 mature parturition as, on descending at daybreak into her 
 kitchen, the dame would descry the animal perched on the 
 dresser, having entered Heaven knows how, and glaring upon 
 her with its great green eyes and a malignant brownie expres- 
 sion of countenance. 
 
 Various deputations had indeed from time to time arrived 
 at the corporal's cottage requesting the death, expulsion, or 
 perpetual imprisonment of the favorite. But the stout corpo- 
 ral received them grimly and dismissed them gruffly; and the 
 cat went on waxing in size and wickedness, and baffling, as 
 if inspired by the devil, the various gins and traps set for its 
 destruction. But never, perhaps, was there a greater disturb- 
 ance and perturbation in the little hamlet than when, some 
 three weeks since, the corporal's cat was known to be brought 
 to bed and safely delivered of a numerous offspring. The 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 97 
 
 village saw itself overrun with a race and a perpetuity of 
 corporal's cats. Perhaps, too, their teacher growing more 
 expert by practice, the descendants might attain to even 
 greater accomplishment than their nefarious progenitor. No 
 longer did the faint hope of being delivered from their tor- 
 mentor by an untimely or even natural death occur to the 
 harassed Grassdalians. Death was an incident natural to one 
 cat, however vivacious; but here was a dynasty of cats! 
 Pri7icipes mortales, respuhlica ceterna ! 
 
 Now, the corporal loved this creature better, yes, better 
 than anything in the world except travelling and board-wages ; 
 and he was sorely perplexed in his mind how he should be 
 able to dispose of her safely in his absence. He was aware 
 of the general enmity she had inspired, and trembled to anti- 
 cipate its probable result when he was no longer by to afford 
 her shelter and protection. The squire had, indeed, offered 
 her an asylum at the manor-house; but the sqviire's cook was 
 the cat's most embittered enemy, and what man can answer 
 for the peaceable behavior of his cook? The corporal, there- 
 fore, with a reluctant sigh, renounced the friendly offer; and 
 after lying awake three nights, and turning over in his mind 
 the characters, consciences, and capabilities of all his neigh- 
 bors, he came at last to the conviction that there was no one 
 with whom he could so safely intrust his cat as Peter Dealtry. 
 It is true, as we said before, that Peter was no lover of cats ; 
 and the task of persuading him to afford board and lodging to 
 a cat of all cats the most odious and malignant, was therefore 
 no easy matter. But to a man of the world what intrigue is 
 impossible ? 
 
 The finest diplomatist in Europe might have taken a lesson 
 from the corporal, as he now proceeded earnestly towards the 
 accomplishment of his project. 
 
 He took the cat, — which, by the by, we forgot to say that 
 he had thought fit to christen after himself, and to honor with 
 a name, somewhat lengthy for a cat (but, indeed, this was no 
 ordinary cat!), namely, Jacobina, — he took Jacobina then, we 
 say, upon his lap, and stroking her brindled sides with great 
 tenderness, he bade Dealtry remark how singularly quiet the 
 
 7 
 
98 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 animal was in its manners. Nay, he was not contented until 
 Peter himself had patted her with a timorous hand, and had 
 reluctantly submitted the said hand to the honor of being- 
 licked by the cat in return. Jacobina, who, to do her justice, 
 was always meek enough in the presence and at the will of 
 her master, was, fortunately, this day, on her very best 
 behavior. 
 
 "Them dumb animals be mighty grateful," quoth the 
 corporal. 
 
 "Ah!" rejoined Peter, wiping his hand with his pocket- 
 handkerchief. 
 
 " But, Lord, what scandal there be in the world ! " 
 
 " ' Though slander's breath may raise a storm, 
 It quickly does decay ! ' " 
 
 muttered Peter. 
 
 "Very well, very true, — sensible verses those," said the 
 corporal, approvingly; "and yet mischief's often done before 
 the amends come. Body o' me, it makes a man sick of his 
 kind, ashamed to belong to the race of men, to see the envy 
 that abounds in this here sublunary wale of tears ! " said the 
 corporal, lifting up his eyes. 
 
 Peter stared at him with open mouth. The hypocritical 
 rascal continued, after a pause, — 
 
 "Now, there's Jacobina: 'cause she's a good cat, a faith- 
 ful servant, the whole village is against her. Such lies as 
 they tell on her, such wappers, you 'd think she was the 
 devil in garnet! I grant, I grant," added the corporal, in a 
 tone of apologetic candor, "that she 's wild, saucy, knows her 
 friends from her foes, steals Goody Solomon's butter; but 
 what then? Goody Solomon's d — d b — h! Goody Solomon 
 sold beer in opposition to you, set up a public: you do not 
 like Goody Solomon, Peter Dealtry?" 
 
 " If that were all Jacobina had done ! " said the landlord, 
 grinning. 
 
 " All ! What else did she do ? Why she eat up John Tom- 
 kins's canary bird; and did not John Tomkins, saucy rascal! 
 say you could not sing better nor a raven ? " 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 99 
 
 " I have nothing to say against the poor creature for that, " 
 said Peter, stroking the cat of his own accord. "Cats will 
 eat birds, — 'tis the 'spensation of Providence. But what, 
 corporal ! " — and Peter, hastily withdrawing his hand, hurried 
 it into his breeches' pocket — "but what! did not she scratch 
 Joe Webster's little boy's hand into ribbons because the boy 
 tried to prevent her running off with a ball of string ? " 
 
 "And well," grunted the corporal, "that was not Jacobina's 
 doing, that was my doing. I wanted the string, — offered to 
 pay a penny for it; think of that! " 
 
 "It was priced twopence ha'penny," said Peter. 
 
 " Augh, baugh ! you would not pay Joe Webster all he asks ! 
 What 's the use of being a man of the world unless one makes 
 one's tradesmen bate a bit ? Bargaining is not cheating, I 
 hope ! " 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " said Peter. 
 
 " But as to the bit string, Jacobina took it solely for your 
 sake. Ah, she did not think you were to turn against 
 her!" 
 
 So saying, the corporal got up, walked into his house, and 
 presently came back with a little net in his hand. 
 
 "There, Peter, net for you, to hold lemons. Thank Jaco- 
 bina for that; she got the string. Says I to her one day, as 
 I was sitting, as I might be now, without the door: 'Jacobina, 
 Peter Dealtry 's a good fellow, and he keeps his lemons in a 
 bag: bad habit, — get mouldy; we'll make him a net;' and 
 Jacobina purred (stroke the poor creature, Peter !) — so Jaco- 
 bina and I took a walk, and when we came to Joe Webster's, 
 I pointed out the ball of twine to her. So, for your sake, 
 Peter, she got into this here scrape, augh." 
 
 " Ah ! " quoth Peter, laughing, " poor puss ! poor pussy ! 
 poor little pussy ! " 
 
 "And now, Peter," said the corporal, taking his friend's 
 hand, "I am going to prove friendship to you, — going to do 
 you great favor." 
 
 "Aha!" said Peter. "My good friend, I'm very much 
 obliged to you. I know your kind heart, but I really don't 
 want any — " 
 
100 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "Bother! " cried the corporal; "I 'm not the man as makes 
 much of doing a friend a kindness. Hold jaw! Tell you 
 what, tell you what : am going away on Wednesday at day- 
 break, and in my absence you shall — " 
 
 " What, my good corporal ? " 
 
 " Take charge of Jacobina ! " 
 
 " Take charge of the devil ! " cried Peter. 
 
 "Augh! baugh! What words are those ? Listen to me." 
 
 "I won't!" 
 
 " You shall ! " 
 
 "I '11 be d — d if I do! " quoth Peter, sturdily. It was the 
 first time he had been known to swear since he was parish 
 clerk. 
 
 *' Very well, very well ! " said the corporal, chucking up his 
 chin. "Jacobina can take care of herself! Jacobina knows 
 her friends and her foes as well as her master! Jacobina 
 never injvires her friends, never forgives foes. Look to your- 
 self ! look to yourself ! Insult my cat, insult me ! Swear at 
 Jacobina, indeed ! " 
 
 " If she steals my cream ! " cried Peter. 
 
 "Did she ever steal your cream?" 
 
 "No; but if— " 
 
 " Did she ever steal your cream ? " 
 
 "I can't say she ever did." 
 
 " Or anything else of yours ? " 
 
 "Not that I know of; but — " 
 
 "Never too late to mend." 
 
 "If — " 
 
 " Will you listen to me, or not ? " 
 
 "Well." 
 
 "You '11 listen?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Know, then, that I wanted to do you kindness." 
 
 "Humph!" 
 
 "Hold jaw! I taught Jacobina all she knows." 
 
 " More 's the pity ! " 
 
 " Hold jaw ! I taught her to respect her friends, never to 
 commit herself in-doors, never to steal at home, never to fly 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 101 
 
 at home, never to scratch at home, to kill mice and rats, to 
 bring all she catches to her master, to do what he tells her, 
 and to defend his house as well as a mastiff; and this inval- 
 uable creature I was going to lend you. Won't now, d — d if 
 I do!" 
 
 "Humph!" 
 
 ^'Hold jaw! When I am gone, Jacobina will have no one 
 to feed her. She'll feed herself, — will go to every larder, 
 every house in the place : yours best larder, best house ; will 
 come to you oftenest. If your wife attempts to drive her 
 away, scratch her eyes out; if you disturb her, serve you 
 worse than Joe Webster's little boy. Wanted to prevent 
 this, — won't now, d — d if I do! " 
 
 "But, corporal, how would it mend the matter to take the 
 devil in-doors ? " 
 
 " Devil ! Don't call names. Did I not tell you, only one 
 Jacobina does not hurt is her master ? Make you her master : 
 now d' ye see ? " 
 
 " It is very hard, " said Peter, grumblingly, " that the only 
 way I can defend myself from this villanous creature is to 
 take her into my house." 
 
 "Villanous! You ought to be proud of her affection. She 
 returns good for evil, — she always loved you: see how she 
 rubs herself against you; and that 's the reason why I selected 
 you from the whole village to take care of her. But you at 
 once injure yourself and refuse to do your friend a service. 
 Howsomever, you know I shall be with young squire, and 
 he '11 be master here one of these days, and I shall have an in- 
 fluence over him, — you '11 see, you '11 see. Look that there 's 
 not another Spotted Dog set up, augh ! bother ! " 
 
 "But what would my wife say if I took the cat ? She can't 
 abide its name." 
 
 " Let me alone to talk to your wife. What would she say 
 if I bring her from Lunnun town a fine silk gown, or a neat 
 shawl with a blue border, — blue becomes her, — or a tay -chest 
 that will do for you both, and would set off the little back 
 parlor ? Mahogany tay-chest, inlaid at top, initials in silver, 
 J. B. to D. and P. D. ; two boxes for tay, and a bowl for sugar 
 
102 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 in the middle. Ah! ah! Love me, love my cat! When was 
 Jacob Bvmting ungrateful ? augh ! " 
 
 "Well, well! will you talk to Dorothy about it ?" 
 " I shall have your consent, then ? Thanks, my dear, dear 
 Peter! 'Pon my soul you're a fine fellow! you see, you're 
 great man of the parish. If you protect her, none dare in- 
 jure; if you scout her, all set upon her. For, as you said, or 
 rather sung, t' other Sunday, — capital voice you were in, 
 too, — 
 
 " ' The mighty tyrants without cause 
 Conspire her blood to shed ! ' " 
 
 "I did not think you had so good a memory, corporal," said 
 Peter, smiling. The cat was now curling itself up in his lap. 
 " After all, Jacobina — what a deuce of a name ! — seems gen- 
 tle enough." 
 
 " Gentle as a lamb, soft as butter, kind as cream, and such 
 a mouser ! " 
 
 "But I don't think Dorothy — " 
 
 "I'll settle Dorothy." 
 
 " Well, when will you look up ? " 
 
 "Come and take a diSh of tay with you in half an hour, — 
 you want a new tay-chest; something new and genteel." 
 
 "I think we do," said Peter, rising, and gently depositing 
 the cat on the ground. 
 
 "Aha! we '11 see to it; we '11 see! Good-by for the present; 
 in half an hour be with you ! " 
 
 The corporal, left alone with Jacobina, eyed her intently, 
 and burst into the following pathetic address : — 
 
 " Well, Jacobina, you little know the pains I takes to serve 
 you, the lies I tells for you, — endangered my precious soul 
 for your sake, you jade ! Ah ! may well rub your sides against 
 me. Jacobina! Jacobina! you be the only thing in the world 
 that cares a button for me. I have neither kith nor kin. 
 You are daughter, friend, wife to me; if anything happened 
 to you, I should not have the heart to love anything else. 
 And body o' me, but you be as kind as any mistress, and much 
 more tractable than any wife ; but the world gives you a bad 
 name, Jacobina. Why? Is it that you do worse than the 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 103 
 
 world do ? You lias no morality in you, Jacobina; well, but 
 has the world? No! But it has humbug, — you have no 
 humbug, Jacobina. On the faith of a man, Jacobina, you be 
 better than the world, baugh! You takes care of your own 
 interest, but you takes care of your master's too ! You loves 
 me well as yourself. Few cats can say the same, Jacobina, 
 and no gossip that flings a stone at your pretty brindled skin 
 can say half as much. We must not forget your kittens, 
 Jacobina; you have four left, — they must be provided for. 
 Why not a cat's children as well as a courtier's ? I have got 
 you a comfortable home, Jacobina; take care of yourself, and 
 don't fall in love with every tom-cat in the place. Be sober, 
 and lead a single life till my return. Come, Jacobina, we 
 will lock up the house and go and see the quarters I have pro- 
 vided for you. Heigho ! " 
 
 As he finished his harangue the corporal locked the door of 
 his cottage, and Jacobina trotting by his side, he stalked with 
 his usual stateliness to The Spotted Dog. 
 
 Dame Dorothy Dealtry received him with a clouded brow; 
 but the man of the world knew whom he had to deal with. 
 On Wednesday morning Jacobina was inducted into the com-, 
 forts of the hearth of mine host, and her four little kittens 
 mewed hard by, from the sinecure of a basket lined with 
 flannel. 
 
 Reader, here is wisdom in this chapter : it is not every man 
 who knows how to dispose of his cat. 
 
104 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A STRANGE HABIT. WALTEr's INTERVIEW WITH MADELINE. 
 
 HER GENEROUS AND CONFIDING DISPOSITION. WALTEr's 
 
 ANGER. THE PARTING MEAL. CONVERSATION BETWEEN THB 
 
 UNCLE AND NEPHEW. WALTER ALONE. SLEEP THE BLESS- 
 ING OF THE YOUNG. 
 
 Fall. ■ Out, out ! unworthy to speak where he breatheth, . . . 
 
 Punt. Well, now my whole venture is forth, I will resolve to depart. 
 
 Ben Jonson: Every Man out of his Humor. 
 
 It was now the eve before Walter's departure, and on re- 
 turning home from a farewell walk among his favorite haunts, 
 he found Aram, whose visit had been made during Walter's ab- 
 sence, now standing on the threshold of the door and taking 
 leave of Madeline and her father. Aram and Walter had only 
 met twice before since the interview we recorded, and each 
 time Walter had taken care that the meeting should be but 
 of short duration. In these brief encounters Aram's manner 
 had been even more gentle than heretofore; that of Walter 
 more cold and distant. And now, as they thus unexpectedly 
 met at the door, Aram, looking at him earnestly, said, — 
 
 "Farewell, sir! You are to leave us for some time, I hear. 
 Heaven speed you ! " Then he added, in a lower tone, " Will 
 you take my hand now, in parting ? " 
 
 As he said, he put forth his hand, — it was the left. 
 
 "Let it be the right hand," observed the elder Lester, smil- 
 ing; "it is a luckier omen." 
 
 "I think not," said Aram, dryly. And Walter noted that 
 he had never remembered him to give his right hand to any 
 one, even to Madeline: the peculiarity of this habit might, 
 however, arise from an awkward early habit; it was certainly 
 scarce worth observing, and Walter had already coldly touched 
 the hand extended to him when Lester said carelessly, — 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 105 
 
 "Is there any superstition that makes you think, as some of 
 the ancients did, the left hand hickier than the right ? " 
 
 " Yes, " replied Aram ; " a superstition. Adieu!" 
 
 The student departed. Madeline slowly walked up one of 
 the garden alleys; and thither Walter, after whispering to 
 his uncle, followed her. 
 
 There is something in those bitter feelings which are the 
 offspring of disappointed love, something in the intolerable 
 anguish of well-founded jealousy, that, when the first shock 
 is over, often hardens, and perhaps elevates the character. 
 The sterner powers that we arouse within us to combat a pas- 
 sion that can no longer be worthily indulged are never after- 
 wards wholly allayed. Like the allies which a nation sum- 
 mons to its bosom to defend it from its foes, they expel 
 the enemy only to find a settlement for themselves. The 
 mind of every man who conquers an unfortunate attachment 
 becomes stronger than before ; it may be for evil, it may be 
 for good, but the capacities for either are more vigorous and 
 collected. 
 
 The last few weeks had done more for Walter's character 
 than years of ordinary, even of happy, emotion might have 
 effected. He had passed from youth to manhood; and with 
 the sadness had acquired also something of the dignity of ex- 
 perience. Not that we would say that he had subdued his 
 love, but he had made the first step towards it: he had re- 
 solved that at all hazards it should be subdued. 
 
 As he now joined Madeline, and she perceived him by her 
 side, her embarrassment was more evident than his. She 
 feared some avowal, and, from his temper, perhaps some 
 violence on his part. However, she was the first to speak: 
 women in such cases always are. 
 
 "It is a beautiful evening," said she; "and the sun set in 
 promise of a fine day for your journey to-morrow. " 
 
 Walter walked on silently ; his heart was full. " Madeline, " 
 he said at length, " dear IMadeline, give me your hand. Nay, 
 do not fear me; I know what you think, and you are right: 
 I loved — I still love you ! But I know well that I can have no 
 hope in making this confession; and when I ask you for your 
 
106 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 hand, Madeline, it is only to convince you that I have no suit 
 to press: had I, I would not dare to touch tiiat hand." 
 
 Madeline, wondering and embarrassed, gave him her hand ; 
 he held it for a moment with a trembling clasp, pressed it to 
 his lips, and then resigned it. 
 
 "Yes, Madeline, my cousin, my sweet cousin, I have loved 
 you deeply, but silently, long before my heart could unravel 
 the mystery of the feelings with which it glowed. But this, 
 all this, it were now idle to repeat. I know that the heart 
 whose possession would have made my whole life a dream, a 
 transport, is given to another. I have not sought you now, 
 Madeline, to repine at this, or to vex you by the tale of any 
 suffering I may endure ; I am come only to give you the part- 
 ing wishes, the parting blessing, of one who, wherever he goes 
 or whatever befall him, will always think of you as the bright- 
 est and loveliest of human beings. May you be happy, — yes, 
 even with another! " 
 
 "Oh, Walter!" said Madeline, affected to tears, "if I ever 
 encouraged, if I ever led you to hope for more than the warm, 
 the sisterly affection I bear you, how bitterly I should reproach 
 myself! " 
 
 " You never did, dear Madeline ; I asked for no inducement 
 to love you, — I never dreamed of seeking a motive or inquir- 
 ing if I had cause to hope. But as I am now about to quit 
 you, and as you confess you feel for me a sister's affection, 
 will you give me leave to speak to you as a brother might ? " 
 
 Madeline held out her hand to him with frank cordiality. 
 " Yes, " said she ; " speak ! " 
 
 "Then," said Walter, turning away his head in a spirit of 
 delicacy that did him honor, " is it yet all too late for me to 
 say one word of caution that relates to — Eugene Aram ?" 
 
 "Of caution! You alarm me, Walter; speak! Has aught 
 happened to him? I saw him as lately as yourself. Does 
 aught threaten him ? Speak, I implore you, quick! " 
 
 "I know of no danger to him!"" replied Walter, stung to 
 perceive the breathless anxiety with which Madeline spoke; 
 " but pause, my cousin : may there be no danger to you from 
 this man ? " 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 107 
 
 "Walter!" 
 
 "I grant him wise, learned, gentle, — nay, more than all, 
 bearing about him a spell, a fascination, by which he softens 
 or awes at will, and which even I cannot resist. But yet his 
 abstracted mood, his gloomy life, certain words that have 
 broken from him unawares, certain tell-tale emotions which 
 words of mine, heedlessly said, have fiercely aroused, all 
 united, inspire me — shall I say it ? — with fear and distrust. 
 I cannot think him altogether the calm and pure being he 
 appears. Madeline, I have asked myself again and again. Is 
 this suspicion the effect of jealousy ? Do I scan his bearing 
 with the jaundiced eye of disappointed rivalship ? And I 
 have satisfied my conscience that my judgment is not thus 
 biassed. Stay, listen yet a little while! You have a high, 
 a thoughtful mind. Exert it now. Consider, your whole 
 happiness rests on one step ! Pause, examine, compare ! Re- 
 member, you have not of Aram, as of those whom you have 
 hitherto mixed with, the eye-witness of a life. You can know 
 but little of his real temper, his secret qualities ; still less of 
 the tenor of his former existence. I only ask of you, for your 
 own sake, for my sake, your sister's sake, and your good 
 father's, not to judge too rashly! Love him, if you will; but 
 observe him ! " 
 
 "Have you done ?" said Madeline, who had hitherto with 
 difficulty contained herself. " Then hear me. Was it I — was 
 it Madeline Lester — whom you asked to play the watch, to 
 enact the spy upon the man whom she exults in loving ? 
 Was it not enough that you should descend to mark down 
 each incautious look, to chronicle every heedless word, to 
 draw dark deductions from the unsuspecting confidence of my 
 father's friend, to lie in wait, to hang with a foe's malignity 
 upon the unbendings of familiar intercourse, to extort anger 
 from gentleness itself, that you might wrest the anger into 
 crime ? Shame, shame upon you for the meanness ! And 
 must you also suppose that I, to whose trust he has given his 
 noble heart, will receive it only to play the eavesdropper to 
 its secrets ? Away ! " 
 
 The generous blood crimsoned the cheek and brow of this 
 
108 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 high-spirited girl as she uttered her galling reproof; her eyes 
 sparkled, her lip quivered, her whole frame seemed to have 
 grown larger with the majesty of indignant love. 
 
 "Cruel, unjust, ungrateful!" ejaculated Walter, pale with 
 rage, and trembling under the conflict of his roused and 
 wounded feelings. "Is it thus you answer the warning of too 
 disinterested and self-forgetful a love ? " 
 
 " Love ! " exclaimed Madeline. " Grant me patience ! Love ! 
 It was but now I thought myself honored by the affection you 
 said you bore me. At this instant I blush to have called 
 forth a single sentiment in one who knows so little what love 
 is ! Love ! Methought that word denoted all that was high 
 and noble in human nature, — confidence, hope, devotion, sac- 
 rifice of all thought of self! But you would make it the type 
 and concentration of all that lowers and debases, — suspicion, 
 cavil, fear, selfishness in all its shapes! Out on you! LoveT^ 
 
 "Enough, enough! Say no more, Madeline; say no more. 
 We part not as I had hoped ; but be it so. You are changed 
 indeed if your conscience smite you not hereafter for this in- 
 justice. Farewell! and may you never regret, not only the 
 heart you have rejected, but the friendship you have belied." 
 With these words, and choked by his emotions, Walter hastily 
 strode away. 
 
 He hurried into the house and into a little room adjoining 
 the chamber in which he slept, and which had been also ap- 
 propriated solely to his use. It was now spread with boxes 
 and trunks, some half-packed, some corded, and inscribed with 
 the address to which they were to be sent in London. All 
 these mute tokens of his approaching departure struck upon 
 his excited feelings with a suddenness that overpowered him. 
 
 "And it is thus, thus," said he, aloud, "that I am to leave, 
 for the first time, my childhood's home ! " 
 
 He threw himself on his chair, and, covering his face with 
 his hands, burst, fairly subdued and unmanned, into a parox- 
 ysm of tears. 
 
 When this emotion was over, he felt as if his love for Mad- 
 eline had also disappeared; a sore and insulted feeling was 
 all that her image now recalled to him. This idea gave him 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 109 
 
 some consolation. "Thank Heaven!" he muttered; "thank 
 Heaven, I am cured at last I " 
 
 The thanksgiving was scarcely over before the door opened 
 softly, and Ellinor, not perceiving him where he sat, entered 
 the room and laid on the table a purse which she had long 
 promised to knit him, and which seemed now designed as a 
 parting gift. 
 
 She sighed heavily as she laid it down, and he observed that 
 her eyes seemed red as with weeping. 
 
 He did not move, and Ellinor left the room without discov- 
 ering him; but he remained there till dark, musing on her 
 apparition, and before he went downstairs he took up the 
 little purse, kissed it, and put it carefully into his bosom. 
 
 He sat next to Ellinor at supper that evening; and though 
 he did not say much, his last words were more to her than 
 words had ever been before. When he took leave of her for 
 the night, he whispered, as he kissed her cheek, " God bless 
 you, dearest Ellinor! and till I return, take care of yourself, 
 for the sake of one who loves you now better than anything 
 on earth." 
 
 Lester had just left the room to write some letters for 
 Walter; and Madeline, who had hitherto sat absorbed and 
 silent by the window, approached Walter and offered him 
 her hand. 
 
 "Forgive me, my dear cousin," she said, in her softest voice. 
 " I feel that I was hasty, and to blame. Believe me, I am now 
 at least grateful, warmly grateful, for the kindness of your 
 motives." 
 
 "Not so," said Walter, bitterly; "the advice of a friend is 
 only meanness." 
 
 "Come, come, forgive me; pray do not let us part unkindly. 
 When did we ever quarrel before ? I was wrong, — griev- 
 ously wrong. I will perform any penance you may enjoin." 
 
 "Agreed, then: follow my admonitions." 
 
 "Ah! anything else," said Madeline, gravely, and coloring 
 deeply. 
 
 Walter said no more; he pressed her hand lightly, and 
 turned away. 
 
110 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " Is all forgiven ? " said she, in so bewitching a tone, ana. 
 with so bright a smile, that Walter, against his conscience, 
 answered "Yes." 
 
 The sisters left the room: I know not which of the two 
 received his last glance. 
 
 Lester now returned with the letters. " There is one charge, 
 my dear boy," said he, in concluding the moral injunctions 
 and experienced suggestions with which the young generally 
 leave the ancestral home, — "there is one charge which I need 
 not commend to your ingenuity and zeal. You know my 
 strong conviction that your father, my poor brother, still 
 lives. Is it necessary for me to tell you to exert yourself by 
 all ways and in all means to discover some clew to his fate ? 
 Who knows," added Lester, with a smile, "but that you may 
 find him a rich nabob! I confess that I should feel but little 
 surprise if it were so; but at all events you will make every 
 possible inquiry. I have written down in this paper the few 
 particulars concerning him which I have been enabled to glean 
 since he left his home, — the places where he was last seen, 
 the false names he assumed, etc. I shall wait with great anx- 
 iety for any fuller success to your researches." 
 
 "You needed not, my dear uncle, "said Walter, seriously, "to 
 have spoken to me on this subject. No one, not even your- 
 self, can have felt what I have, can have cherished the same 
 anxiety, nursed the same hope, indulged the same conjecture. 
 I have not, it is true, often of late years spoken to you on a 
 matter so near to us both; but I have spent whole hours in 
 guesses at my father's fate, and in dreams that for me was 
 reserved the proud task to discover it. I will not say, indeed, 
 that it makes at this moment the chief motive for my desire 
 to travel, but in travel it will become my chief object. Per- 
 haps I may find him, not only rich, — that, for my part, is but 
 a minor wish, — but sobered, and reformed from the errors and 
 wildness of his earlier manhood. Oh, what should be his 
 gratitude to you for all the care with which you have supplied 
 to the forsaken child the father's place; and not the least that 
 you have, in softening the colors of his conduct, taught me 
 still to prize and seek for a father's love ! " 
 
EUGENE ARAM. Ill 
 
 " You have a kind heart, Walter, " said tlie good old man, 
 pressing his nephew's hand; "and that has more than repaid 
 me for the little I have done for you. It is better to sow a 
 good heart with kindness than a field with corn; for the 
 heart's harvest is perpetual." 
 
 Many and earnest that night were the meditations of Walter 
 Lester. He was about to quit the home in which youth had 
 been passed, in which first love had been formed and blighted: 
 the world was before him; but there was something more 
 grave than pleasure, more steady than enterprise, that beck- 
 oned him to its paths. The deep mystery that for so many 
 years had hung over the fate of his parent, it might indeed 
 be his lot to pierce; and with a common Avaywardness in our 
 nature, the restless son felt his interest in that parent the 
 livelier, from the very circumstance of remembering nothing 
 of his person. Affection had been nursed by curiosity and 
 imagination ; and the bad father was thus more fortunate in 
 winning the heart of the son, than had he, perhaps, by the 
 tenderness of years, deserved that affection. 
 
 Oppressed and feverish, Walter opened the lattice of his 
 room and looked forth on the night. The broad harvest-moon 
 was in the heavens, and filled the air as with a softer and 
 holier day. At a distance its light just gave the dark outline 
 of Aram's house, and beneath the window it lay bright and 
 steady on the green, still church-yard, that adjoined the house. 
 The air and the light allayed the fitfulness at the young man's 
 heart, but served to solemnize the project and desire with 
 which it beat. Still leaning from the casement, with his eyes 
 fixed upon the tranquil scene below, he poured forth the 
 prayer that to his hands might the discovery of his lost sire 
 be granted. The prayer seemed to lift the oppression from his 
 breast; he felt cheerful and relieved, and, flinging himself on 
 his bed, soon fell into the sound and healthful sleep of youth. 
 And oh! let youth cherish that happiest of earthly boons 
 while yet it is at its command; for there cometh the day to 
 all when " neither the voice of the lute nor the birds " * shall 
 bring back the sweet slumbers that fell on their young eyes 
 
 1 Non avium citharseque, etc. — Horace. 
 
112 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 as unbidden as the dews. It is a dark epoch in a man's life 
 when sleep forsakes him; when he tosses to and fro, and 
 thought will not be silenced; when the drug and draught are 
 the courters of stupefaction, not sleep ; when the down pillow 
 is as a knotted log; when the eyelids close but with an effort, 
 and there is a drag and a weight and a dizziness in the eyes 
 at morn. Desire and grief and love, these are the young man's 
 torments; but they are the creatures of time: time removes 
 them as it brings, and the vigils we keep, "while the evil 
 days come not," if weary, are brief and few. But memory 
 and care and ambition and avarice, these are demon-gods that 
 defy the Time that fathered them. The worldlier passions 
 are the growth of mature years, and their grave is dug but in 
 our own. As the dark spirits, in the Northern tale, that 
 watch against the coming of one of a brighter and holier race, 
 lest, if he seize them unawares, he bind them prisoners in his 
 chain, they keep ward at night over the entrance of that deep 
 cave, the human heart, and scare away the angel Sleep. 
 
BOOK 11. 
 
 'A/x<pi 8' dp0p(Jb- 
 vup (ppealv d/xTrXaKiai 
 'Avapi6/j.aT0i Kpip-avrai. 
 
 TovTo 8' dfidxcfou evpeiv, 
 "Ort vvv, Kal iv reXev- 
 
 rq, (pepraTov dv8pl rvxelv. 
 
 Pindar : Ode vii, 4. 
 
 Paraphrase. 
 Innumerous, o'er their human prey, 
 
 Grim errors haug the hoarded sorrow; 
 Througii vapor gleams the preseut day. 
 
 And darkness wraps the morrow. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE MARRIAGE SETTLED. LESTEr's HOPES AND SCHEMES. 
 
 GAYETY OF TEMPER. A GOOD SPECULATION. THE TRUTH 
 
 AND FERVOR OF ARAm's LOVE. 
 
 Love is better than a pair of spectacles to make everything seem greater 
 which is seen through it. — Sir Philip Sydney: Arcadia. 
 
 Aram's affection to Madeline having now been formally 
 announced to Lester, and Madeline's consent having been 
 somewhat less formally obtained, it only remained to fix the 
 time for their wedding. Though Lester forbore to question 
 Aram as to his circumstances, the student frankly confessed 
 that if not affording what the generality of persons would 
 consider even a competence, they enabled one of his moderate 
 wants and retired life (especially in the remote and cheap 
 district in which they lived) to dispense with all fortune in a 
 wife who, like Madeline, was, equally with himself, enamoured 
 
114 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 of obscurity. The good Lester, however, proposed to bestow 
 vipon his daughter such a portion as might allow for the wants 
 of an increased family or the probable contingencies of Fate. 
 For though Fortune may often slacken her wheel, there is no 
 spot in which she suffers it to be wholly still. 
 
 It was now the middle of September, aud by the end of the 
 ensuing month it was agreed that the spousals of the lovers 
 should be held. It is certain that Lester felt one pang for his 
 nephew as he subscribed to this proposal; but he consoled 
 himself with recurring to a hope he had long cherished, namely, 
 that Walter would return home not only cured of his vain 
 attachment to Madeline, but with the disposition to admit the 
 attractions of her sister. A marriage between these two 
 cousins had for years been his favorite project. The lively 
 and ready temper of Ellinor, her household turn, her merry 
 laugh, a winning playfulness that characterized even her de- 
 fects, were all more after Lester's secret heart than the graver 
 and higher nature of his elder daughter. This miglit mainly 
 be that they were traits of disposition that more reminded him 
 of his lost wife, and were, therefore, more accordant with his 
 ideal standard of perfection; but I incline also to believe that 
 the more persons advance in years, the more, even if of staid 
 and sober temper themselves, they love gayety aud elasticity 
 in youth. I have often pleased myself by observing, in some 
 happy family circle embracing all ages, that it is the liveliest 
 and wildest child that charms the grandsire the most. And, 
 after all, it is perhaps with characters as with books, — the 
 grave and thoughtful may be more admired than the light and 
 cheerful, but they are less liked; it is not only that the former, 
 being of a more abstruse and recondite nature, find fewer 
 persons capable of judging of their merits, but also that the 
 great object of the majority of human beings is to be amused, 
 and that they naturally incline to love those the best who 
 amuse them most. And to so great a practical extent is this 
 preference pushed that I think were a nice observer to make 
 a census of all those who have received legacies or dropped 
 unexpectedly into fortunes, he would find that where one 
 grave disposition had so benefited, there would be at least 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 115 
 
 twenty gay. Perhaps, however, it may be said that I am 
 here taking the cause for the effect. 
 
 But to return from our speculative disquisitions. Lester, 
 then, who, though he had so slowly discovered his nephew's 
 passion for Madeline, had long since guessed the secret of 
 Ellinor's affection for him, looked forward with a hope rather 
 sanguine than anxious to the ultimate realization of his 
 cherished domestic scheme. And he pleased himself with 
 thinking that when all soreness would, by this double wed- 
 ding, be banished from Walter's mind, it would be impossible 
 to conceive a family group more united or more happy. 
 
 And Ellinor herself, ever since the parting words of her 
 cousin, had seemed, so far from being inconsolable for his ab- 
 sence, more bright of cheek and elastic of step than she had 
 been for months before. What a world of all feelings which 
 forbid despondence lies hoarded in the hearts of the young ! 
 As one fountain is filled by the channels that exhaust an- 
 other, we cherish wisdom at the expense of hope. It thus 
 happened, from one cause or another, that Walter's absence 
 created a less cheerless blank in the family circle than might 
 have been expected; and the approaching bridal of Madeline 
 and her lover naturally diverted, in a great measure, the 
 thoughts of each, and engrossed their conversation. 
 
 Whatever might be Madeline's infatuation as to the merits 
 of Aram, one merit — the greatest of all in the eyes of a 
 woman who loves — he at least possessed. Never was mis- 
 tress more burningly and deeply loved than she who, for the 
 first time, awoke the long-slumbering passions in the heart 
 of Eugene Aram. Every day the ardor of his affections 
 seemed to increase. With what anxiety he watched her foot- 
 steps; with what idolatry he hung upon her words; with what 
 unspeakable and yearning emotion he gazed upon the change- 
 ful eloquence of her cheek ! Now that Walter was gone, he 
 almost took up his abode at the manor-house. He came 
 thither in the early morning, and rarely returned home before 
 the family retired for the night; and even then, when all was 
 hushed, and they believed him in his solitary home, he lin- 
 gered for hours around the house to look up to Madeline's 
 
116 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 window, charmed to the spot which held the intoxication of 
 her presence. Madeline discovered this habit, and chid it; 
 but so tenderly that it was not cured. And still at times, 
 by the autumnal moon, she marked from her window his dark 
 figure gliding among the shadows of the trees, or pausing by 
 the lowly tombs in the still church-yard, — the resting-place 
 of hearts that once, perhaps, beat as wildly as his own. 
 
 It was impossible that a love of this order, and from one so 
 richly gifted as Aram, — a love which in substance was truth, 
 and yet in language poetry, — could fail wholly to subdue and 
 enthrall a girl so young, so romantic, so enthusiastic, as Made- 
 line Lester. How intense and delicious must have been her 
 sense of happiness! In the pure heart of a girl loving for 
 the first time, love is far more ecstatic than in man, inas- 
 much as it is unfevered by desire ; love, then and there, makes 
 the only state of human existence which is at once capable 
 of calmness and transport. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A FAVORABLE SPECIMEN OF A NOBLEMAN AND A COURTIER. 
 A MAN OF SOME FAULTS AND MANY ACCOMPLISHMENTS. 
 
 TiTiMus Capito is to rehearse. He is a man of an excellent disposition, 
 and to be num!)ered among the chief ornaments of his age. He cultivates 
 literature, he loves men of learning, etc. — Lord Orrery : Pliny. 
 
 About this time the Earl of , the great nobleman of 
 
 the district, and whose residence was within a few miles of 
 Grassdale, came down to pay his wonted yearly visit to his 
 country domains. He was a man well known in the history 
 of the times, though for various reasons I conceal his name. 
 He was a courtier, — deep, Avily, accomplished, but capable of 
 generous sentiments and enlarged views. Though from re- 
 gard to his interests he seized and lived as it were upon the 
 fleeting spirit of the day, the penetration of his intellect went 
 
EUGENE ARA.AI. 117 
 
 far "beyond its reach. He claims tlae merit of having been the 
 one of all his contemporaries (Lord Chesterfield alone excepted) 
 who most clearly saw and most distinctly prophesied the dark 
 and fearful storm that, at the close of the century, burst over 
 France, — visiting indeed the sins of the fathers upon the 
 sons. 
 
 From the small circle of pompous trifles in which the dwell- 
 ers of a court are condemned to live, and which he brightened 
 by his abilities and graced by his accomplishments, the saga- 
 cious and far-sighted mind of Lord comprehended the 
 
 vast field without, usually invisible to those of his habits and 
 profession. Men who the best know the little nucleus which 
 is called the world are often the most ignorant of mankind; 
 but it was the peculiar attribute of this nobleman that he 
 could not only analyze the external customs of his species, 
 but also penetrate into their deeper and more hidden interests. 
 
 The works and correspondence he has left behind him, 
 though far from voluminous, testify a consummate knowledge 
 of the varieties of human nature. The refinement of his taste 
 appears less remarkable than the vigor of his understanding. 
 It might be that he knew the vices of men better than their 
 virtues; yet he was no shallow disbeliever in the latter, — he 
 read the heart too accurately not to know that it is guided as 
 often by its affections as its interests. In his early life he 
 had incurred, not without truth, the charge of licentiousness ; 
 but even in pursuit of pleasure he had been neither weak on 
 the one hand, nor gross on the other, — neither the headlong 
 dupe nor the callous sensualist. But his graces, his rank, his 
 wealth, had made his conquests a matter of too easy purchase ; 
 and hence, like all voluptuaries, the part of his worldly know- 
 ledge which was the most fallible was that which related to the 
 sex. He judged of women by a standard too distinct from 
 that by which he judged of men, and considered those foibles 
 peculiar to the sex which in reality are incident to human 
 nature. 
 
 His natural disposition was grave and reflective; and though 
 he was not without wit, it was rarely used. He lived, neces- 
 sarily, with the frivolous and the ostentatious; yet ostenta- 
 
118 EUGENE ARAM, 
 
 tion and frivolity were charges never brought against himself. 
 As a diplomatist and a statesman, he was of the old and erro- 
 neous school of intriguers ; but his favorite policy was the sci- 
 ence of conciliation. He was one who would so far have suited 
 the present age that no man could better have steered a nation 
 from the chances of war : James the First could not have been 
 inspired with a greater affection for peace; but the peer's 
 dexterity would have made that peace as honorable as the 
 king's weakness made it degraded. Ambitious to a certain 
 extent, but neither grasping nor mean, he never obtained for 
 his genius the full and extensive field it probably deserved. 
 He loved a happy life above all things; and he knew that, 
 while activity is the spirit, fatigue is the bane, of happiness. 
 
 In his day he enjoyed a large share of that public attention 
 which generally bequeaths fame; yet from several causes (of 
 which his own moderation is not the least), his present repu- 
 tation is infinitely less great than the opinions of his most 
 distinguished contemporaries foreboded. 
 
 It is a more difficult matter for men of high rank to become 
 illustrious to posterity than for persons in a sterner and more 
 wholesome walk of life. Even the greatest among the distin- 
 guished men of the patrician order suffer in the eyes of the 
 after-age for the very qualities, chiefly dazzling defects or 
 brilliant eccentricities, which made them most popularly re- 
 markable in their day. Men forgive Burns his amours and 
 his revellings with greater ease than they will forgive Boling- 
 broke and Byron for the same offences. 
 
 Our earl was fond of the society of literary men ; he himself 
 was well, perhaps even deeply, read. Certainly his intellect- 
 ual acquisitions were more profound than they have been gen- 
 erally esteemed, though, with the common subtlety of a ready 
 genius, he could make the quick adaptation of a timely fact, 
 acquired for the occasion, appear the rich overflowing of a co- 
 pious erudition. He was a man who instantly perceived and 
 liberally acknowledged the merits of others. No connoisseur 
 had a more felicitous knowledge of the arts, or was more just 
 in the general objects of his patronage. In short, what with 
 all his advantages, he was one whom an aristocracy may boast 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 119 
 
 of, thougli a people may forget ; and if not a great man, was 
 at least a most remarkable lord. 
 
 The Earl of , in his last visit to his estates, had not 
 
 forgotten to seek out the eminent scholar who shed an honor 
 upon his neighborhood. He had been greatly struck with the 
 bearing and conversation of Aram; and with the usual felicity 
 with which the accomplished earl adapted his nature to those 
 with whom he was thrown, he had succeeded in ingratiating 
 himself with Aram in return. He could not, indeed, persuade 
 the haughty and solitary student to visit him at the castle; 
 but the earl did not disdain to seek any one from whom he 
 could obtain instruction, and he had twice or thrice volunta- 
 rily encountered Aram, and effectually drawn him from his 
 reserve. The earl now heard, with some pleasure and more 
 surprise, that the austere recluse was about to be married to 
 the beauty of the county, and he resolved to seize the first oc- 
 casion to call at the manor-house to offer his compliments and 
 congratulations to its inmates. 
 
 Sensible men of rank, who having enjoyed their dignity 
 from their birth may reasonably be expected to grow occasion- 
 ally tired of it, often like mixing with those the most who are 
 the least dazzled by the condescension, — I do not mean to say 
 with the vulgar parvenus who mistake rudeness for inde- 
 pendence; no man forgets respect to another who knows the 
 value of respect to himself. But the respect should be paid 
 easily; it is not every Grand Seigneur who, like Louis the 
 Fourteenth, is only pleased when he puts those he addresses 
 out of countenance. 
 
 There was, therefore, much in the simplicity of Lester's 
 manners and those of his daughters which rendered the family 
 
 at the manor-house especial favorites with Lord ; and 
 
 the wealthier but less honored squirearchs of the county, stiff 
 in awkward pride, and bustling with yet more awkward ven- 
 eration, heard with astonishment and anger of the numerous 
 visits which his lordship, in his brief sojourn at the castle, 
 always contrived to pay to the Lesters, and the constant invi- 
 tations which they received to his most familiar festivities. 
 
 Lord was no sportsman; and one morning, when all 
 
120 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 liis guests were engaged among the stubbles of September, he 
 mounted his quiet palfrey and gladly took his way to the 
 manor-house. 
 
 It was towards the latter end of the month, and one of the 
 earliest of the autumnal fogs hung thinly over the landscape. 
 As the earl wound along the sides of the hill on which his 
 castle was built, the scene on which he gazed below received 
 from the gray mists capriciously hovering over it a dim and 
 melancholy wildness. A broader and whiter vapor, that 
 streaked the lower part of the valley, betrayed the course of 
 the rivulet; and beyond, to the left, rose, wan and spectral, 
 the spire of the little church adjoining Lester's abode. As 
 the horseman's eye wandered to this spot, the sun suddenly 
 broke forth and lit up as by enchantment the quiet and lovely 
 hamlet embedded, as it were, beneath, — the cottages, with 
 their gay gardens and jasmined porches ; the streamlet half in 
 mist, half in light; while here and there columns of vapor 
 rose above its surface like the chariots of the water-genii, and 
 broke into a thousand hues beneath the smiles of the unex- 
 pected sun. But far to the right, the mists around it yet un- 
 broken, and the outline of its form only visible, rose the lone 
 house of the student, as if there the sadder spirits of the air 
 yet rallied their broken armament of mist and shadow. 
 
 The earl was not a man peculiarly alive to scenery, but he 
 now involuntarily checked his horse and gazed for a few mo- 
 ments on the beautiful and singular aspect which the land- 
 scape had so suddenly assumed. As he so gazed, he observed 
 in a field at some little distance three or four persons gathered 
 round a bank, and among them he thought he recognized the 
 comely form of Rowland Lester. A second inspection con- 
 vinced him that he was right in his conjecture, and turning 
 from the road through a gap in the hedge, he made towards 
 the group in question. He had not proceeded far before he 
 saw that the remainder of the party was composed of Lester's 
 daughters, the lover of the elder, and a fourth, whom he rec- 
 ognized as a celebrated French botanist who had lately arrived 
 in England, and who was now making an amateur excursion 
 throughout the more attractive districts of the island. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 121 
 
 The earl guessed rightly that Monsieur de N had not 
 
 neglected to apply to Aram for assistance in a pursuit which 
 the latter was known to have cultivated with such success, and 
 that he had been conducted hither as to a place affording some 
 specimen or another not unworthy of research. He now, giv- 
 ing his horse to his groom, joined the group. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WHEREIN THE EARL AND THE STUDENT CONVERSE ON GRAVE 
 
 BUT DELIGHTFUL MATTERS. THE STUDENt's NOTION OF THE 
 
 ONLY EARTHLY HAPPINESS. 
 
 Aram. If the witch Hope forbids ns to be wise. 
 Yet when I turn to these, Woe's ouly frieuds (pointing to his bocJcs), 
 And with their weird and eloquent voices calm 
 The stir and Babel of the world within, 
 I can but dream that my vexed years at last 
 Shall find the quiet of a hermit's cell ; 
 And, neighboring not this worn and jaded world. 
 Beneath the lambent eyes of the loved stars, 
 And with the hollow rocks and sparry caves, 
 The tides, and all the many-ninsicked winds, 
 My oracles and co-mates, watch my life 
 Glide down the Stream of Knowledge, and behold 
 Its waters with a musing stillness glass 
 The thousand hues of Nature and of Heaven. 
 
 Eugene Aram (a MS. Tragedy). 
 
 The earl continued with the party he had joined ; and when 
 their occupation was concluded, and they turned homeward, 
 he accepted the squire's frank invitation to partake of some 
 refreshment at the manor-house. It so chanced, or perhaps 
 the earl so contrived it, that Aram and himself, in their way 
 to the village, lingered a little behind the rest, and that their 
 conversation was thus, for a few minutes, not altogether 
 general. 
 
122 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "Is it I, Mr. Aram," said the earl, smiling, "or is it Fate 
 that has made you a convert ? The last time we sagely and 
 quietly conferred together, you contended that the more the 
 circle of existence was contracted, the more we ^lung to a 
 state of pure and all self-dependent intellect, the greater our 
 chance of happiness. Thus you denied that we were rendered 
 happier by our luxuries, by our ambition, or by our affections. 
 Love and its ties were banished from your solitary Utopia, 
 and you asserted that the true wisdom of life lay solely in the 
 cultivation, not of our feelings, but our faculties. You know 
 I held a different doctrine j and it is with the natural triumph 
 of a hostile partisan that I hear you are about to relinquish 
 the practice of one of your dogmas, — in consequence, may I 
 hope, of having forsworn the theor}'-?" 
 
 "Not so, my lord," answered Aram, coloring slightly; "my 
 weakness only proves that my theory is difficult, — not that it 
 is wrong. I still venture to think it true. More pain than 
 pleasure is occasioned us by others: banish others, and you 
 are necessarily the gainer. Mental activity and moral quie- 
 tude are the two states which, were they perfected and united, 
 would blend into happiness. It is such a union which consti- 
 tutes all we imagine of heaven, or conceive of the majestic 
 felicity of a God." 
 
 " Yet while you are on earth you will be, believe me, hap- 
 pier in the state you are about to choose," said the earl. 
 "Who could look at that enchanting face," the speaker di- 
 rected his eyes towards Madeline, "and not feel that it gave 
 a pledge of happiness that could not be broken ? " 
 
 It was not in the nature of Aram to like any allusion to 
 himself, and still less to his affections; he turned aside his 
 head, and remained silent. The wary earl discovered his 
 indiscretion immediately. 
 
 "But let us put aside individual cases," said he, — "the 
 meum, and the tuum forbid all general argument, — and confess 
 that there is for the majority of human beings a greater hap- 
 piness in love than in the sublime state of passionless intellect 
 to which you would so chillingly exalt us. Has not Cicero 
 said, wisely, that we ought no more to subject too slavishly our 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 123 
 
 affections than to elevate them too imperiously into our mas- 
 ters ? JSfeque se nimiuin erigere, nee subjaeere serviliter.^' 
 
 " Cicero loved philosophizing better than philosophy, " said 
 Aram, coldly. "But surely, my lord, the affections give us 
 pain as well as pleasure ? The doubt, the dread, the restless- 
 ness of love, — surely these prevent the passion from consti- 
 tuting a happy state of mind ? To me, one knowledge alone 
 seems sufficient to embitter all its enjoyments, — the know- 
 ledge that the object beloved must die. What a perpetuity 
 of fear that knowledge creates! The avalanche that may 
 crush us depends upon a single breath." 
 
 " Is not that too refined a sentiment ? Custom surely blunts 
 us to every chance, every danger, that may happen to us 
 hourly. Were the avalanche over you for a day, I grant your 
 state of torture; but had an avalanche rested over you for 
 years, and not yet fallen, you would forget that it could ever 
 fall, — you would eat, sleep, and make love as if it were not." 
 
 "Ha! my lord, you say well, you say well," said Aram, 
 with a marked change of countenance; and quickening his 
 pace, he joined Lester's side, and the thread of the previous 
 conversation was broken off. 
 
 The earl afterwards, in walking through the garden (an 
 excursion which he proposed himself, for he was somewhat of 
 an horticulturist), took an opportunity to renew the subject. 
 
 "You will pardon me," said he, "but I cannot convince 
 myself that man would be happier were he without emotions, 
 and that to enjoy life he should be solely dependent on 
 himself." 
 
 " Yet it seems to me, " said Aram, " a truth easy of proof. 
 If we love^ we place our happiness in others. The moment 
 we place our happiness in others, comes uncertainty; but un- 
 certainty is the bane of happiness. Children are the source 
 of anxiety to their parents ; his mistress to the lover. Change, 
 accident, death, all menace us in each person whom we regard. 
 Every new affection opens new channels by which grief can 
 invade us, — but, you will say, by which joy also can flow in: 
 granted. But in human life is there not more grief than joy ? 
 What is it that renders the balance even ? What makes the 
 
124 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 staple of our happiness, — endearing to us the life at which we 
 should, otherwise repine ? It is the mere passive, yet stirring, 
 consciousness of life itself; of the sun and the air; of the 
 physical being: but this consciousness every emotion disturbs. 
 Yet could you add to its tranquillity an excitement that never 
 exhausts itself, that becomes refreshed, not sated, with every 
 new possession, then you would obtain happiness. There is 
 only one excitement of this divine order, — that of intellectual 
 culture. Behold now my theory! Examine it, — it contains 
 no flaw. But if," renewed Aram, after a pause, "a man is 
 subject to fate solely in himself, not in others, he soon hardens 
 his mind against all fear, and prepares it for all events. A 
 little philosophy enables him to bear bodily pain or the com- 
 mon infirmities of flesh ; by a philosophy somewhat deeper he 
 can conquer the ordinary reverses of fortune, the dread of 
 shame, and the last calamity of death. But what philosophy 
 could ever thoroughly console him for the ingratitude of a 
 friend, the worthlessness of a child, the death of a mistress ? 
 Hence, only when he stands alone can a man's soul say to 
 Fate, 'I defy thee.'" 
 
 "You think, then," said the earl, reluctantly diverting the 
 conversation into a new channel, "that in the pursuit of 
 knowledge lies our only active road to real happiness ? Yet 
 here how eternal must be the disappointments even of the 
 most successful ! Does not Boyle tell us of a man who, after 
 devoting his whole life to the study of one mineral, confessed 
 himself, at last, ignorant of all its properties ? " 
 
 "Had the object of his study been himself, and not the 
 mineral, he would not have been so unsuccessful a student," 
 said Aram, smiling. "Yet," added he, in a graver tone, "we 
 do indeed cleave the vast heaven of Truth with a weak and 
 crippled wing, and often we are appalled in our way by a 
 dread sense of the immensity around us, and of the inadequacy 
 of our own strength. But there is a rapture in the breath of 
 the pure and difficult air, and in the progress by which we 
 compass earth, the while we draw nearer to the stars, that 
 again exalts us beyond ourselves, and reconciles the true 
 student unto all things, even to the hardest of them all, — the 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 125 
 
 conviction how feebly our performance can ever imitate the 
 grandeur of our ambition ! As you see the spark fly upward, 
 
 — sometimes not falling to earth till it be dark and quenched, 
 
 — thus soars, whither it recks not, so that the direction be 
 above, the luminous spirit of him who aspires to Truth; nor 
 will it back to the vile and heavy clay from which it sprang 
 until the light which bore it upward be no more ! " 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A DEEPER EXAMIIVATTOX INTO THE STUDENt's HEART. THE 
 
 VISIT TO THE CASTLE. PHILOSOPHY PUT TO THE TRIAL. 
 
 I WEIGH not Fortune's frown or smile, 
 
 I joy not mucli iu earthly joys ; 
 I seek not state, I seek not style, 
 
 I am not fond of Fancy's toys : 
 I rest so ])leased with what I have, 
 1 wish no more, no more I crave. 
 
 Josh LA Sylvester. 
 
 The reader will pardon me if I somewhat clog his interest 
 in my tale by the didactic character of brief conversations I 
 have just given, and which I am compelled to renew. It is 
 not only the history of his life, but the character and tone 
 of Aram's mind, that I wish to stamp upon my page. Fortu- 
 Xiately, however, the path my story assumes is of such a nature 
 that in order to effect this object I shall never have to desert, 
 and scarcely again even to linger by, the way. 
 
 Every one knows the magnificent moral of Goethe's "Faust." 
 Every one knows that sublime discontent, that chafing at the 
 bounds of human knowledge, that yearning for the intellect- 
 ual Paradise beyond, which " the sworded angel " forbids us 
 to approach, that daring yet sorrowful state of mind, that 
 sense of defeat even in conquest, which Goethe has embodied, 
 — a picture of the loftiest grief of which the soul is capable, 
 and which may remind us of the profound and august melan- 
 
126 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 choly which the Great Sculptor breathed into the repose of 
 the noblest of mythological heroes when he represented the 
 god resting after his labors, as if more convinced of their van- 
 ity than elated with their extent. 
 
 In this portrait, the grandeur of which the wild scenes that 
 follow in the drama we refer to, do not — strangely wonderful 
 as they are — perhaps altogether sustain, Goethe has be- 
 queathed to the gaze of a calmer and more practical posterity 
 the burning and restless spirit, — the feverish desire for know- 
 ledge more vague than useful, which characterized the exact 
 epoch in the intellectual history of Germany in which the 
 poem was inspired and produced. 
 
 At these bitter waters, the Marah of the streams of Wis- 
 dom, the soul of the man whom we have made the hero of 
 these pages had also, and not lightly, quaffed. The properties 
 of a mind more calm and stern than belonged to the vision- 
 aries of the Hartz and the Danube might indeed have pre- 
 served him from that thirst for the Impossible which gives so 
 peculiar a romance, not only to the poetry, but the philosophy, 
 of the German people. But if he rejected the superstitions, 
 he did not also reject the bewilderments, of the mind. He 
 loved to plunge into the dark and metaphysical subtleties 
 which human genius has called daringly forth from the reali- 
 ties of things, — 
 
 " To spin 
 A shroud of thought, to hide him from the sun 
 Of this familiar life whicli seems to be, 
 But is not, or is but quaint mockery 
 Of all we would believe ; or sadly blame 
 The jarring and inexplicable frame 
 Of this wrong world, and then anatomize 
 The purposes and thoughts of man, whose eyes 
 Were closed in distant years ; or widely guess 
 The issue of the earth's great business 
 When we shall be, as we no longer are, 
 Like babbling gossips, safe, who hear the war 
 Of winds, and sigh, but tremble not ! " 
 
 Much in him was a type, or rather forerunner, of the intel- 
 lectual spirit that broke forth among our countrymen when we 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 127 
 
 were children, and is now slowly dying away amidst the loud 
 events and absorbing struggles of the awakening world. But 
 in one respect he stood aloof from all his tribe, — in his hard 
 indifEerence to worldly ambition and his contempt of fame. 
 As some sages have considered the universe a dream, and self 
 the only reality, so in his austere and collected reliance upon 
 his own mind, — the gathering in, as it were, of his resources, 
 — he appeared to regard the pomps of the world as shadows, 
 and the life of his own spirit the only substance. He had 
 built a city and a tower within the Shinar of his own heart, 
 whence he might look forth, unscathed and unmoved, upon 
 the deluge that broke over the rest of earth. 
 
 Only in one instance, and that, as we have seen, after much 
 struggle, he had given way to the emotions that agitate his 
 kind, and had surrendered himself to the dominion of another. 
 This was against his theories, — but what theories ever resist 
 love ? In yielding, however, thus far, he seemed more on 
 his guard than ever against a broader encroachment. He had 
 admitted one "fair spirit" for his "minister," but it was only 
 with a deeper fervor to invoke "the desert" as "his dwelling- 
 place." Thus when the earl, — who, like most practical judges 
 of mankind, loved to apply to each individual the motives 
 that actuate the mass, and who only unwillingly, and some- 
 what sceptically, assented to the exceptions, and was driven 
 to search for peculiar clews to the eccentric instance, — find- 
 ing, to his secret triumph, that Aram had admitted one in- 
 truding emotion into his boasted circle of indifference, im- 
 agined that he should easily induce him (the spell once 
 broken) to receive another, he was surprised and puzzled to 
 discover himself in the wrong. 
 
 Lord at that time had been lately called into the Ad- 
 ministration, and he was especially anxious to secure the sup- 
 port of all the talent that he could enlist on his behalf. The 
 times were those in which party ran high, and in which in- 
 dividual political writings were honored with an importance 
 which the periodical press in general has now almost wholly 
 monopolized. On the side opposed to Government, writers of 
 great name and high attainments had shone with peculiar 
 
128 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 effect, and the earl was naturally desirous that they should be 
 opposed by an equal array of intellect on the side espoused by 
 himself. The name alone of Eugene Aram, at a day when 
 scholarship was renown, would have been no ordinary acquisi- 
 tion to the cause of the earl's party; but that judicious and 
 penetrating nobleman perceived tliat Aram's abilities, his va- 
 rious research, his extended views, his facility of argument, 
 and the heat and energy of his eloquence, might be rendered 
 of an importance which could not have been anticipated from 
 the name alone, however eminent, of a retired and sedentary 
 scholar. He was not, therefore, without an interested motive 
 in the attentions he now lavished upon the student, and in his 
 curiosity to put to the proof the disdain of all worldly enter- 
 prise and worldly temptation Avhich Aram affected. He could 
 not but think that, to a man poor and lowly of circumstance, 
 conscious of superior acquirements, about to increase his 
 wants by admitting to them a partner, and arrived at that age 
 when the calculations of interest and the whispers of ambition 
 have usually most weight, — he could not but think that to 
 such a man the dazzling prospects of social advancement, the 
 hope of the high fortunes and the powerful and glittering in- 
 fluence which political life in England offers to the aspirant, 
 might be rendered altogether irresistible. 
 
 He took several opportunities, in the course of the next 
 week, of renewing his conversation with Aram, and of art- 
 fully turning it into the channels which he thought most likely 
 to produce the impression he desired to create. He was 
 somewhat baffled, but by no means dispirited, in his attempts; 
 but he resolved to defer his ultimate proposition until it could 
 be made to the fullest advantage. He had engaged the Les- 
 ters to promise to pass a day at the castle; and with great 
 difficulty, and at the earnest intercession of Madeline, Aram 
 was prevailed upon to accompany them. So extreme was his 
 distaste to general society, and, from some motive or another 
 more powerful than mere constitutional reserve, so invariably 
 had he for years refused all temptations to enter it, that, 
 natural as this concession was rendered by his ai)proaching 
 marriage to one of the party, it filled him with a sort of terror 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 129 
 
 and foreboding of evil. It was as if he were passing beyond 
 the boundary of some law on which the very tenure of his 
 existence depended. After he had consented, a trembling 
 came over him, he hastily left the room, and, till the day ar- 
 rived, was observed by his friends of the manor-house to be 
 more gloomy and abstracted than they ever had known him, 
 even at the earliest period of acquaintance. 
 
 On the day itself, as they proceeded to the castle, Madeline 
 perceived, with a tearful repentance of her interference, that 
 he sat by her side cold and rapt, and that once or twice, when 
 his eyes dwelt upon her, it was with an expression of reproach 
 and distrust. 
 
 It was not till they entered the lofty hall of the castle, when 
 a viilgar diiUdence would have been most abashed, that Aram 
 recovered himself. The earl was standing, the centre of a 
 group in the recess of a window in the saloon, opening upon 
 an extensive and stately terrace. He came forward to receive 
 them with the polished and warm kindness which he be- 
 stowed upon all his inferiors in rank. He complimented the 
 sisters, he jested with Lester; but to Aram only he manifested 
 less the courtesy of kindness than of respect. He took his 
 arm, and leaning on it with a light touch, led him to the group 
 at the windoAv. It was composed of the most distinguished 
 public men in the country, and among them (the earl himself 
 was connected, through an illegitimate branch, with the reign- 
 ing monarch) was a prince of the blood royal. 
 
 To these, whom he had prepared for the introduction, he 
 severally, and with an easy grace, presented Aram ; and then 
 falling back a few steps, he watched, with a keen but seem- 
 ingly careless eye, the effect which so sudden a contact with 
 royalty itself would produce on the mind of the shy and se- 
 cluded student Avhom it Avas his object to dazzle and over- 
 power. It Avas at this moment that the native dignity of 
 Aram, which his studies, unAvorldly as they were, had cer- 
 tainly tended to increase, displayed itself, in a trial which, 
 poor as it Avas in abstract theory, was far from despicable in 
 the eyes of the sensible and practised courtier. He received 
 with his usual modesty, but not Avith his usual shrinking and 
 
 9 
 
130 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 embarrassment on such occasions, the compliments he received; 
 a certain and far from ungraceful pride was mingled with his 
 simplicity of demeanor; no fluttering of manner betrayed that 
 he was either dazzled or humbled by the presence in which he 
 stood ; and the earl could not but confess that there was never 
 a more favorable opportunity for comparing the aristocracy of 
 genius with that of birth, — it was one of those homely, every- 
 day triumphs of intellect which please us more than they 
 ought to do, for, after all, they are more common than the 
 men of courts are willing to believe. 
 
 Lord did not, however, long leave Aram to the support 
 
 of his own unassisted presence of mind and calmness of nerve; 
 he advanced, and led the conversation, with his usual tact, 
 into a course which might at once please Aram and afford him 
 the opportunity to shine. The earl had imported from Italy 
 some of the most beautiful specimens of classic sculpture 
 which this country now possesses. These were disposed in 
 niches around the magnificent apartment in which the guests 
 were assembled; and as the earl pointed them out, and illus- 
 trated each from the beautiful anecdotes and golden allusions 
 of antiquity, he felt that he was affording to Aram a gratifica- 
 tion he could never have experienced before, and in the ex- 
 pression of which the grace and copiousness of his learning 
 would find vent. Nor was he disappointed. The cheek, 
 which till then had retained its steady paleness, now caught 
 the glow of enthusiasm ; and m a few moments there was not 
 a person in the group who did not feel, and cheerfully feel, 
 the superiority of the one who, in birth and fortune, was im- 
 measurably the lowest of all. 
 
 The English aristocracy, whatever be the faults of their edu- 
 cation, have at least the merit of being alive to the possession, 
 and easily warmed to the possessor, of classical attainments, 
 — perhaps too nuich so ; for they are thus apt to judge all tal- 
 ent by a classical standard, and all theory by classical experi- 
 ence. Without — save in very rare instances — the right to 
 boast of any deep learning, they are far more susceptible than 
 the nobility of any other nation to the spirltum Cam(vnce. 
 They are easily and willingly charmed back to the studies 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 131 
 
 which, if not eagerly pursued in their youth, are still entwined 
 with all their youth's brightest recollections, the schoolboy's 
 prize, and the master's praise, the first ambition, and its first 
 reward. A felicitous quotation, a delicate allusion, are never 
 lost upon their ear; and the veneration which at Eton they 
 bore to the best verse-maker in the school, tinctures their 
 judgment of others throughout life, mixing I know not what, 
 both of liking and esteem, with their admiration of one who 
 uses his classical weapons with a scholar's dexterity, not a 
 pedant's inaptitude : for such a one there is a sort of agreeable 
 confusion in their respect; they are inclined, unconsciovisly, 
 to believe that he must necessarily be a high gentleman, — ay, 
 and something of a good fellow into the bargain. 
 
 It happened, then, that Aram could not have dwelt upon a 
 theme more likely to arrest the spontaneous interest of those 
 with whom he now conversed, — men themselves of more cul- 
 tivated minds than usual, and more capable than most (from 
 that acute perception of real talent which is produced by ha- 
 bitual political warfare) of appreciating not only his endow- 
 ments, but his facility in applying them. 
 
 "You are right, my lord," said Sir , the whipper-in of 
 
 the party, taking the earl aside ; " he would be an in- 
 estimable pamphleteer." 
 
 "Could you get him to write us a sketch of the state of 
 parties, — luminous, eloquent ? " whispered a lord of the 
 bed-chamber. 
 
 The earl answered by a bon mot, and turned to a bust of 
 Caracalla. 
 
 The hours at that time were (in the covintry, at least) not 
 late, and the earl was one of the first introducers of the pol- 
 ished fashion of France by which we testify a preference of 
 the society of the women to that of our own sex; so that in 
 leaving the dining-room, it was not so late but that the greater 
 part of the guests walked out upon the terrace and admired the 
 expanse of country which it overlooked, and along which the 
 thin veil of the twilight began now to hover. 
 
 Having safely deposited his royal guest at a whist-table, 
 and thus left himself a free agent, the earl, inviting Aram to 
 
132 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 join him, sauntered among the loiterers on the terrace for a 
 few moments, and then descended a broad flight of steps which 
 brought them into a more shaded and retired walk, on either 
 side of which rows of orange-trees gave forth their fragrance, 
 while, to the right, sudden and numerous vistas were cut 
 amidst the more regular and dense foliage, affording glimpses, 
 now of some rustic statue, now of some lonely temple, now of 
 some quaint fountain, on the play of whose waters the first 
 stars had begun to tremble. 
 
 It was one of those magnificent gardens, modelled from the 
 stately glories of Versailles, which it is now the mode to de- 
 cry, but which breathe so unequivocally of the palace. I 
 grant that they deck Nature with somewhat too prolix a grace ; 
 but is Beauty always best seen en deshabille? And with what 
 associations of the brightest traditions connected with Nature 
 they link her more luxuriant loveliness! Must we breathe 
 only the malaria of Rome to be capable of feeling the interest 
 attached to the fountain or the statue? 
 
 "I am glad," said the earl, "that you admired my bust of 
 Cicero, — it is from an original very lately discovered. What 
 grandeur in the brow; what energy in the mouth and down- 
 ward bend of the head! It is pleasant even to imagine we 
 gaze upon the likeness of so bright a spirit. And confess, at 
 least of Cicero, that in reading the aspirations and outpourings 
 of his mind you have felt your apathy to fame melting away, 
 you have shared the desire to live in the future age, — ' the 
 longing after immortality ' ! " 
 
 "Was it not that longing," replied Aram, "which gave to 
 the character of Cicero its poorest and most frivolous infirm- 
 ity? Has it not made him, glorious as he is despite of it, a 
 by-word in the mouth of every schoolboy ? Whenever you 
 mention his genius, do you not hear an appendix on his 
 vanity ? " 
 
 "Yet without that vanity, that desire for a name with ])os- 
 terity, would he have been equally great, would he equally 
 have cultivated his genius ? " 
 
 "Probably, my lord, he would not have equally cultivated 
 his genius, but in reality he might have been equally great. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 133 
 
 A man often injures his mind by the means that increase his 
 genius. You think this, my lord, a paradox; but examine 
 it. How many men of genius have been but ordinary men, 
 take them from the particular objects in which they shine! 
 Why is this, but that in cultivating one branch of intellect 
 they neglect the rest ? Nay, the very torpor of the reasoning 
 faculty has often kindled tlie imaginative. Lucretius is said 
 to have composed his sublime poem under the influence of a 
 delirium. The susceptibilities that we create or refine by the 
 pursuit of one object weaken our general reason ; and I may 
 compare, with some justice, the powers of the mind to the fac- 
 ulties of the body, in which squinting is occasioned by an in- 
 equality of strength in the eyes, and discordance of voice by 
 the same inequality in the ears." 
 
 "I believe you are right," said the earl; "yet I own I will- 
 ingly forgive Cicero for his vanity, if it contributed to the 
 production of his orations and his essays. And he is a greater 
 man, even with his vanity unconquered, than if he had con- 
 quered his foible, and, in doing so, taken away the incitements 
 to his genius." 
 
 "A greater man in the world's eye, my lord, but scarcely 
 in reality. Had Homer written his Iliad and then burned it, 
 would his genius have been less ? The world would have 
 known nothing of him ; but would he have been a less extra- 
 ordinary man on that account ? We are too apt> my lord, to 
 confound greatness and fame. 
 
 "There is one circumstance," added Aram, after a pause, 
 "that should diminish our respect for renown. Errors of life, 
 as well as foibles of character, are often the real enhancers 
 of celebrity. Without his errors, I doubt whether Henri 
 Quatre would have become the idol of a people. How many 
 Whartons has the world known, who, deprived of their frail- 
 ties, had been inglorious! The light that you so admire 
 reaches you only through the distance of time, on account 
 of the angles and unevenness of the body whence it ema- 
 nates. Were the surface of the moon smooth, it would be 
 invisible." 
 
 "I admire your illustrations/' said the earl, "but I reluc- 
 
134 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 tantly submit to your reasonings. You would then neglect 
 your powers, lest they should lead you into errors ? " 
 
 "Pardon me, my lord; it is because I think all the powers 
 should be cultivated, that I quarrel with the exclusive culti- 
 vation of one. And it is only because I would strengthen the 
 whole mind that I dissent from the reasonings of those who 
 tell you to consult your genius." 
 
 " But your genius may serve mankind more than this general 
 cultivation of intellect ? " 
 
 "My lord," replied Aram, with a mournful cloud upon his 
 countenance, " that argument may have weight with those who 
 think mankind can be effectually served, though they may be 
 often dazzled, by the labors of an individual. But, indeed, 
 this perpetual talk of * mankind ' signifies nothing; each of us 
 consults his proper happiness, and we consider him a madman 
 who ruins his own peace of mind by an everlasting fretfulness 
 of philanthropy." 
 
 This was a doctrine that half pleased, half displeased the 
 earl: it shadowed forth the most dangerous notions which 
 Aram entertained. 
 
 " Well, well, " said the noble host, as, after a short contest 
 on the ground of his guest's last remark, they left off where 
 they began, " let us drop these general discussions : I have a 
 particular proposition to unfold. We have, I trust, Mr. 
 Aram, seen enough of each other to feel that we can lay a 
 sure foundation for mutual esteem. For my part, I own 
 frankly that I have never met with one who has inspired me 
 with a sincerer admiration. I am desirous that your talents 
 and great learning should be known in the widest sphere. 
 You may despise fame, but you must permit your friends the 
 weakness to wish you justice, and themselves triumph. You 
 know my post in the present Administration. The place of 
 my secretary is one of great trust, some influence, and fair 
 emolument; I offer it to you. Accept it, and you will confer 
 upon me an honor and an obligation. You will have your own 
 separate house or apartments in mine, solely appropriated to 
 your use; your privacy will never be disturbed. Every ar- 
 rangement shall be made for yourself and your bride that 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 135 
 
 either of you can suggest. Leisure for your own pursuits you 
 will have, too, in abundance; there are others who will per- 
 form all that is toilsome in the mere details of your office. 
 In London you will see around you the most eminent living 
 men of all nations and in all pursuits. If you contract (which, 
 believe me, is possible, — it is a tempting game!) any inclina- 
 tion towards public life, you will have the most brilliant 
 opportunities afforded you, and I foretell you the most 
 signal success. Stay yet one moment: for this you will 
 owe me no thanks. Were I not sensible that I consult my 
 own interests in this proposal, I should be courtier enough to 
 suppress it." 
 
 "My lord,' said Aram, in a voice which, in spite of its calm- 
 ness, betrayed that he was affected, " it seldom happens to a 
 man of my secluded habits and lowly pursuits to have the 
 philosophy he affects put to so severe a trial. I am grateful 
 to you, deeply grateful, for an offer so munificent, so unde- 
 served; I am yet more grateful that it allows me to sound the 
 strength of my own heart, and to find that I did not too highly 
 rate it. Look, my lord, from the spot where we now stand;" 
 the moon had risen, and they had now returned to the terrace ; 
 " in the vale below, and far among those trees, lies my home. 
 More than two years ago I came thither to fix the resting- 
 place of a sad and troubled spirit. There have I centred all 
 my wishes and my hopes; and there may I breathe my last! 
 My lord, you will not think me ungrateful that my choice is 
 made, and you will not blame my motive, though you may 
 despise my wisdom." 
 
 "But," said the earl, astonished, "you cannot foresee all 
 the advantages you would renounce ? At your age, with your 
 intellect, to choose the living sepulchre of a hermitage! It 
 was wise to reconcile yourself to it, but it is not wise to i^refer 
 it! Nay, nay, consider, pause; I am in no haste for your de- 
 cision. And what advantages have you in your retreat that 
 you will not possess in a greater degree with me ? Quiet ? — 
 I pledge it to you under my roof. Solitude ? — you shall have 
 it at your will. Books ? — what are those which you, which 
 any individual may possess, to the public institutions, the 
 
136 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 magnificent collections, of the metropolis ? What else is it 
 you enjoy yonder, and cannot enjoy with me ? " 
 
 " Liberty ! " said Aram, energetically. " Liberty, the wild 
 sense of independence! Could I exchange the lonely stars 
 and the free air for the poor lights and feverish atmosphere 
 of worldly life ? Could I surrender my mood, with its thou- 
 sand eccentricities and humors, its cloud and shadow, to the 
 eyes of strangers, or veil it from their gaze by the irksome- 
 ness of an eternal hypocrisy ? No, my lord ; I am too old to 
 turn disciple to the world. You promise me solitude and 
 quiet. What charm would they have for me if I felt they 
 were held from the generosity of another ? The attraction of 
 solitude is only in its independence. You oft'er me the circle, 
 but not the magic which made it holy. Books ! They, years 
 since, would have tempted me; but those whose wisdom I 
 have already drained, have taught me now almost enough: 
 and the two books whose interest can never be exhausted, — • 
 Nature and my own heart, — will suffice for the rest of life. 
 My lord, I require no time for consideration." 
 
 "And you positively refuse me ?" 
 
 "Gratefully refuse you." 
 
 The earl peevishly walked away for one moment; but it was 
 not in his nature to lose himself for more. 
 
 "Mr. Aram," said he, frankly, and holding out his hand, 
 " you have chosen nobly, if not wisely ; and though I cannot 
 forgive you for depriving me of such a companion, I thank 
 you for teaching me such a lesson. Henceforth I Vv^ill believe 
 that philosophy may exist in practice, and that a conteimpt 
 for wealth and for honors is not the mere profession of dis- 
 content. This is the first time, in a various and experienced 
 life, that I have found a man sincerely deaf to the temptations 
 of the world, — and that man of such endowments! If ever 
 you see cause to alter a theory that I still think erroneous, 
 though lofty, remember me ; and at all times and on all occa- 
 sions," he added, with a smile, "when a friend becomes a ne- 
 cessary evil, call to mind our starlight walk on the castle 
 terrace." 
 
 Aram did not mention to Lester, or even Madeline, the 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 137 
 
 above conversation. The whole of the next day he fihut him- 
 self up at home ; and when he again appeared at the manor- 
 house he heard, with evident satisfaction, that the earl had 
 been suddenly summoned on state affairs to London. 
 
 There was an unaccountable soreness in Aram's mind which 
 made him feel a resentment, a suspicion, against all who sought 
 to lure him from his retreat. " Thank Heaven ! " thought he, 
 when he heard of the earl's departure, "we shall not meet 
 for another year ! " He was mistaken. Another year ! 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 IN WHICH THE STORY RETURNS TO WALTER AND THE CORPO- 
 RAL. THE RENCONTRE WITH A STRANGER, AND HOW THE 
 
 STRANGER PROVES TO BE NOT ALTOGETHER A STRANGER. 
 
 Being got out of town in the road to Penaflor, master of my own action 
 and forty good ducats, the first thing I did was to give my mule her head and 
 to go at what pace she pleased. 
 
 I left them in the inn and continued my journey ; I was hardly got half a 
 mile farther when I met a cavalier very genteel, etc. — GH Bias. 
 
 It was broad and sunny noon on the second day of their 
 journey as Walter Lester and the valorous attendant with 
 whom it had pleased Fate to endow him rode slowly into a 
 small town in which the corporal, in his own heart, had re- 
 solved to bait his Roman-nosed horse and refresh himself. 
 Two comely inns had the younger traveller of the two already 
 passed with an indifferent air, as if neither bait nor refresh- 
 ment made any part of the necessary concerns of this habita- 
 ble world. And in passing each of the said hostelries, the 
 Roman-nosed horse had uttered a snort of indignant surprise, 
 and the worthy corporal had responded to the quadrupedal 
 remonstrance by a loud " hem ! " It seemed, however, that 
 Walter heard neither of the above significant admonitions; 
 and now the town was nearly passed, and a steep hill, that 
 
138 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 seemed Tvinding away into eternity, already presented itself 
 to the rue.ful gaze of the corporal. 
 
 "The boy's clean mad!" grunted Bunting to himself. 
 "Must do my duty to him, — give him a hint." 
 
 Pursuant to this notable and conscientious determination. 
 Bunting jogged his horse into a trot; and coming alongside of 
 Walter, put his hand to his hat and said, — 
 
 "Weather warm, your honor; horses knocked up; next 
 town as far as hell! Halt a bit here, augh! " 
 
 "Ha! that is very true. Bunting; I had quite forgotten the 
 length of our journey. But see, there is a sign-post yonder; 
 we will take advantage of it." 
 
 "Augh! and your honor 's right, — fit for the Forty-second," 
 said the corporal, falling back; and in a few moments he and 
 his charger found themselves, to their mutual delight, enter- 
 ing the yard of a small but comfortable -looking inn. 
 
 The host, a man of a capacious stomach and a rosy cheek, — 
 in short, a host whom your heart warms to see, — stepped 
 forth immediately, held the stirrup for the young squire (for 
 the corporal's movements were too stately to be rapid), and 
 ushered him, with a bow, a smile, and a flourish of his nap- 
 kin, into one of those little quaint rooms, with cupboards 
 bright with high glasses and old china, that it pleases us still 
 to find extant in the old-fashioned inns in our remoter roads 
 and less Londonized districts. 
 
 Mine host was an honest fellow and not above his profes- 
 sion; he stirred the fire, dusted the table, brought the bill of 
 fare and a newspaper seven days old, and then bustled away 
 to order the dinner and chat with the corporal. That accom- 
 plished hero had already thrown the stables into commotion ; 
 and frightening the two hostlers from their attendance on the 
 steeds of more peaceable men, had set them both at leading 
 his own horse and his master's to and fro the yard, to be 
 cooled into comfort and appetite. 
 
 He was now busy in the kitchen, where he had seized the 
 reins of government, sent the scullion to see if the hens had 
 laid any fresh eggs, and drawn upon himself the objurgations 
 of a very thin cook with a squint. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 139 
 
 "Tell you, ma'am, you are wrong, quite wrong; seen the 
 world, old soldier, and know how to fry eggs better than any 
 she in the three kingdoms. Hold jaw ; mind your own busi- 
 ness. Where 's the frying-pan ? Baugh! " 
 
 So completely did the corporal feel himself in his element 
 while he was putting everybody else out of the way, and so 
 comfortable did he find his new quarters, that he resolved that 
 the "bait" should be at all events prolonged until his good 
 cheer had been deliberately digested and his customary pipe 
 duly enjoyed. 
 
 Accordingly, — but not till Walter had dined; for our man 
 of the world knew that it is the tendency of that meal to 
 abate our activity, while it increases our good-humor, — the 
 corporal presented himself to his master, with a grave 
 countenance. 
 
 " Greatly vexed, your honor, — who 'd have thought it ? But 
 those large animals are bad on long march." 
 
 " Why, what 's the matter now. Bunting ? " 
 
 "Only, sir, that the brown horse is so done up that I think 
 it would be as much as life 's worth to go any farther for sev- 
 eral hours." 
 
 "Very well; and if I propose staying here till the evening? 
 We have ridden far, and are in no great hurry." 
 
 "To be sure not, — sure and certain not," cried the corporal. 
 "Ah, master, you know how to command, I see! Nothing 
 like discretion, — discretion, sir, is a jewel. Sir, it is more 
 than a jewel, — it 's a pair of stirrups ! " 
 
 "A what, Bunting?" 
 
 "Pair of stirrups, your honor. Stirrups help us to get on, 
 so does discretion; to get off, ditto discretion. Men without 
 stirrups look fine, ride bold, tire soon ; men without discretion 
 cut dash, but knock up all of a crack. Stirrups — But what 
 signifies ? Could say much more, your honor, but don't love 
 chatter." 
 
 "Your simile is ingenious enough, if not poetical," said 
 Walter ; " but it does not hold good to the last. When a man 
 falls, his discretion should preserve him; but he is often 
 dragged in the mud by his stirrups." 
 
140 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "Beg pardon, you're wrong," quoth the corporal, nothing 
 taken by surprise; "spoke of the newfangled stirrups that 
 open, crank, when we fall, and let us out of the scrape." ' 
 
 Satisfied with this repartee, the corporal now (like an ex- 
 perienced jester) withdrew to leave its full effect on the admi- 
 ration of his master. A little before sunset the two travellers 
 renewed their journey. 
 
 "I have loaded the pistols, sir,"' said the corporal, pointing 
 to the holsters on Walter's saddle. " It is eighteen miles off 
 to the next town, — will be dark long before we get there," 
 
 "You did very right. Bunting; though I suppose there is not 
 much danger to be apprehended from the gentlemen of the 
 highway." 
 
 "Why, the landlord do say the revarse, your honor, — been 
 many robberies in these here parts." 
 
 "Well, we are fairly mounted, and you are a formidable- 
 looking fellow. Bunting." 
 
 "Oh! your honor," quoth the corporal, turning his head 
 stiffly away, with a modest simper, "you makes me blush, — 
 though, indeed, bating that I have the military air, and am 
 more in the prime of life, your honor is wellnigh as awkward 
 a gentleman as myself to come across." 
 
 "Much obliged for the compliment! " said Walter, pushing 
 his horse a little forward. The corporal took the hint and 
 fell back. 
 
 It was now that beautiful hour of twilight when lovers 
 grow especially tender. The young traveller every instant 
 threw his dark eyes upward, and thought — not of Madeline, 
 but her sister. The corporal himself grew pensive, and in a 
 few moments his whole soul was absorbed in contemplating 
 the forlorn state of the abandoned Jacobina. 
 
 In this melancholy and silent mood they proceeded onward 
 till the shades began to deepen; and by the light of the first 
 stars Walter beheld a small, spare gentleman riding before 
 him on an ambling nag with cropped ears and mane. The 
 rider, as he now came up to him, seemed to have passed the 
 
 ^ Of course the corporal does not speak of the patent stirrup; that would 
 be an anachronism. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 141 
 
 grand climacteric, but looked hale and vigorous; and there 
 was a certain air of staid and sober aristocracy about him 
 which involuntarily begat your respect. 
 
 He looked hard at Walter as the latter approached, and still 
 more hard at the corporal. He seemed satisfied with the 
 survey. 
 
 "Sir," said he, slightly touching his hat to Walter, and 
 with an agreeable though rather sharp intonation of voice, " I 
 am very glad to see a gentleman of your appearance travelling 
 my road. Might I request the honor of being allowed to join 
 you so far as you go ? To say the truth, I am a little afraid 
 of encountering those industrious gentlemen who have been 
 lately somewhat notorious in these parts ; and it may be better 
 for all of us to ride in as strong a party as possible." 
 
 "Sir," replied Walter, eying in his turn the speaker, and 
 in his turn also feeling satisfied with the scrutiny, "I am 
 
 going to , where I shall pass the night on my way to 
 
 town, and shall be very happy in your company." 
 
 The corporal uttered a loud " hem ! " That penetrating man 
 of the world was not too well pleased with the advances of a 
 stranger. 
 
 " What fools them boys be ! " thought he, very discon- 
 tentedly. "Howsomever, the man does seem like a decent 
 country gentleman, and we are two to one ; besides, he 's old, 
 little, and, augh, baugh, I dare say we are safe enough for all 
 that he can do." 
 
 The stranger possessed a polished and well-bred demeanor, 
 he talked freely and copiously, and his conversation was that 
 of a shrewd and cultivated man. He informed Walter that 
 not only the roads had been infested by those more daring 
 riders common at that day, and to whose merits we ourselves 
 have endeavored to do justice in a former work of blessed 
 memory, ■ but that several houses had been lately attempted, 
 and two absolutely plundered. 
 
 "For myself," he added, "I have no money to signify about 
 my person; my watch is only valuable to me for the time it 
 has been in my possession; and if the rogues robbed one civ- 
 illy, I should not so much mind encountering them- but they 
 
142 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 are a desperate set, and use violence when there is nothing to 
 be got by it. Have you travelled far to-day, sir ? " 
 
 "Some six or seven and twenty miles," replied Walter. "I 
 am proceeding to London, and not willing to distress my horses 
 by too rapid a journey." 
 
 "Very right, very good; and horses, sir, are not now what 
 they used to be when I was a young man. Ah, what wagers 
 I used to win then! Horses galloped, sir, when I was twenty; 
 they trotted when I was thirty -five : but they only amble now. 
 Sir, if it does not tax your patience too severely, let us give 
 our nags some hay and water at the half-way house yonder." 
 
 Walter assented. They stopped at a little solitary inn by 
 the side of the road, and the host came out with great obse- 
 quiousness when he heard the voice of Walter's companion. 
 
 "Ah, Sir Peter!" said he. "And how be'st your honor? 
 Fine uight, Sir Peter; hope you'll get home safe, Sir 
 Peter." 
 
 "Safe, ay! indeed, Jock, I hope so too. Has all been 
 quiet here this last night or two ? " 
 
 "Whish, sir!" whispered my host, jerking his thumb back 
 towards the house; "there be two ugly customers within I 
 does not know: they have got famous good horses, and are 
 drinking hard. I can't say as I knows anything agen 'em, 
 but I think your honors had better be jogging." 
 
 "Aha! thank ye, Jock, thank ye. Never mind the hay 
 now," said Sir Peter, pulling away the reluctant mouth of his 
 nag; and turning to Walter, "Come, sir, let us move on. 
 Why, zounds ! where is that servant of yours ? " 
 
 Walter now perceived, with great vexation, that the corpo- 
 ral had disappeared within the alehouse ; and looking through 
 the casement, on which the ruddy light of the fire played 
 cheerily, he saw the man of the world lifting a little measure 
 of "the pure creature" to his lips; and close by the hearth, at 
 a small round table, covered with glasses, pipes, etc., he be- 
 held two men eying the tall corporal very wistfully, and of no 
 prepossessing appearance themselves. One, indeed, as the 
 fire played full on his countenance, was a person of singularly 
 rugged and sinister features ; and this man, he now remarked, 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 143 
 
 was addressing himself with a grim smile to the corporal, 
 who, setting down his little "noggin," regarded him with a 
 stare which appeared to Walter to denote recognition. This 
 survey was the operation of a moment, for Sir Peter took it 
 upon himself to despatch the landlord into the house to order 
 forth the unseasonable carouser, and presently the corporal 
 stalked out; and having solemnly remounted, the whole trio 
 set onwards in a brisk trot. As soon as they were without 
 sight of the alehouse, the corporal brought the aquiline profile 
 of his gaunt steed on a level with his master's horse. 
 
 " Augh, sir ! " said he, with more than his usual energy of 
 utterance, "I see'd him! " 
 
 "Him! whom?" 
 
 "Man with ugly face what drank at Peter Dealtry's and 
 went to Master Aram's. Knew him in a crack; sure he 's a 
 Tartar!" 
 
 "What! does your servant recognize one of those suspicious 
 fellows whom Jock warned us against ? " cried Sir Peter, 
 pricking up his ears. 
 
 "So it seems, sir," said Walter; "he saw him once before, 
 many miles hence. But I fancy he knows nothing really to 
 his prejudice." 
 
 " Augh ! " cried the corporal ; " he 's d — d ugly, anyhow ! " 
 
 "That's a tall fellow of yours," said Sir Peter, jerking up 
 his chin with that peculiar motion common to the brief in 
 stature when they are covetous of elongation. "He looks 
 military: has he been in the army? Ay, I thought so, — one 
 of the King of Prussia's grenadiers, I suppose. Faith, I hear 
 hoofs behind! " 
 
 "Hem!" cried the corporal, again coming alongside of his 
 master. "Beg pardon, sir; served in the Forty-second; noth- 
 ing like regular line; stragglers always cut off; had rather 
 not straggle just now ; enemy behind ! " 
 
 Walter looked back and saw two men approaching them at 
 a hand-gallop. "We are a match at least for them, sir," said 
 he to his new acquaintance. 
 
 "lam devilish glad I met you," was Sir Peter's rather 
 selfish reply. 
 
144 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " 'T is he! 't is the devil! " grunted the corporal as the two 
 men now gained their side and pulled up; and Walter recog- 
 nized the faces he had remarked in the alehouse. 
 
 "Your servant, gentlemen," quoth the uglier of the two; 
 " you ride fast — " 
 
 "And ready, bother, baugh! " chimed in the corporal, pluck- 
 ing a gigantic pistol from his holster without any further 
 ceremony. 
 
 "Glad to hear it, sir!" said the hard-featured stranger, 
 nothing dashed. "But I can tell you a secret." 
 
 " What 's that, augh? " said the corporal, cocking his pistol. 
 
 " Whoever hurts you, friend, cheats the gallows ! " replied 
 the stranger, laughing, and spurring on his horse, to be out of 
 reach of any practical answer with which the corporal might 
 favor him. But Bunting was a prudent man, and not apt to 
 be choleric. 
 
 "Bother!" said he, and dropped his pistol, as the other 
 stranger followed his ill-favored comrade. 
 
 " You see we are too strong for them ! " cried Sir Peter, 
 gayly. "Evidently highwaymen! How very fortunate that 
 I should have fallen in with you ! " 
 
 A shower of rain noAv began to fall. Sir Peter looked 
 serious. He halted abruptly, unbuckled his cloak, which 
 had been strapped before his saddle, wrapped himself up in it, 
 buried his face in the collar, muffled his chin with a red hand- 
 kerchief which he took out of his pocket, and then turning to 
 Walter, he said to him, "What! no cloak, sir, — no wrapper 
 even ? Upon my soul I am very sorry I have not another 
 handkerchief to lend you ! " 
 
 "Man of the world, baugh! " grunted the corporal; and his 
 heart qiiite warmed to the stranger he had at first taken for 
 a robber. 
 
 "And now, sir," said Sir Peter, patting his nag and pulling 
 up his cloak-collar still higher, "let us go gently: there is no 
 occasion for hurry. Why distress our horses ? " 
 
 "Really, sir," said Walter, smiling, "though I have a great 
 regard for my horse, I have some for myself, and I should 
 rather like to be out of this rain as soon as possible." 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 145 
 
 *' Oh, ah ! you have no cloak ; I forgot that. To be sure, to 
 be sure; let us trot on, — gently, though, gently. Well, sir, 
 as I was saying, horses are not so swift as they were. The 
 breed is bought up by the French! I remember once Johnny 
 Courtland and I, after dining at my house till the champagne 
 had played the dancing-master to our brains, mounted our 
 horses and rode twenty miles for a cool thousand the winner. 
 I lost it, sir, by a hair's-breadth; but I lost it on purpose: it 
 w^ould have half ruined Johnny Courtland to have paid me, 
 and he had that delicacy, sir, he had that delicacy that he 
 would not have suffered me to refuse taking his money; so 
 what could I do but lose on purpose ? You see I had no 
 alternative." 
 
 "Pray, sir," said Walter, charmed and astonished at so rare 
 an instance of the generosity of human friendships, — "pray^ 
 sir, did I not hear you called Sir Peter by the landlord of the 
 little inn ? Can it be, since you speak so familiarly of 
 Mr. Courtland, that I have the honor to address Sir Peter 
 Hales ? " 
 
 "Indeed, that is my name," replied the gentleman, with 
 some surprise in his voice, " But I have never had the honor 
 of seeing you before." 
 
 "Perhaps my name is not unfamiliar to you," said Walter, 
 " And among my papers I have a letter addressed to you from 
 my uncle, Rowland Lester." 
 
 " God bless me ! " cried Sir Peter. " What ! Ptowy ? Well, 
 indeed I am overjoyed to hear of him. So you are his nephew? 
 Pray tell me all about him,— a wild, gay, rollicking fellow 
 still, eh? Always fencing, sa-sa! or playing at billiards, or 
 hot in a steeple-chase ? There Avas not a jollier, better-hu- 
 mored fellow in the world than Rowy Lester." 
 
 "You forget, Sir Peter," said Walter, laughing at a descrip- 
 tion so unlike his sober and steady uncle, "that some years 
 have passed since the time you speak of." 
 
 "Ah! and so there have," replied Sir Peter. "And what 
 does your uncle say of me?''' 
 
 "That when he knew you you were all generosity, frank- 
 ness, hospitality." 
 
 10 
 
146 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "Humph, humpli!" said Sir Peter, looking extremely dis- 
 concerted, — a confusion which Walter imputed solely to 
 modesty. "I was a hairbrained, foolish fellow then, — quite 
 a boy, quite a boy. But bless me, it rains sharply, and you 
 have no cloak. But we are close on the town now. An ex- 
 cellent inn is the 'Duke of Cumberland's Head; ' you will have 
 charming accommodation there." 
 
 "What, Sir Peter, you know this part of the country 
 well?" 
 
 "Pretty well, pretty well, — indeed I live near; that is to 
 say, not very far from, the town. This turn, if you please. 
 We separate here. I have brought you a little out of your 
 way, — not above a mile or two, — for fear the robbers should 
 attack me if I was left alone. I had quite forgot you had no 
 cloak. That 's your road, — this mine. Aha! so Rowy Lester 
 is still alive and hearty ? The same excellent wild fellow, no 
 doubt. Give my kindest remembrance to him when you write. 
 Adieu, sir! " 
 
 This latter speech having been delivered during a halt, the 
 corporal had heard it; he grinned delightedly as he touched 
 his hat to Sir Peter, who now trotted off, and muttered to his 
 young master, — 
 
 "Most sensible man, that, sir! " 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 147 
 
 CHAPTEK VI. 
 
 SIB PETER DISPLAYED. ONE MAN OF THE WORLD SUFFERS 
 
 FROM ANOTHER. THE INCIDENT OF THE BRIDLE BEGETS 
 
 THE INCIDENT OF THE SADDLE ; THE INCIDENT OF THE 
 SADDLE BEGETS THE INCIDENT OF THE WHIP; THE INCI- 
 DENT OF THE WHIP BEGETS WHAT THE READER MUST BEAD 
 TO SEE. 
 
 Nihil est aliud magnam quam multa minuta.^ — Vetus Auctar. 
 
 "And SO," said Walter, the next morning, to the head- 
 waiter, who was busied about their preparations for breakfast, 
 *' and so Sir Peter Hales, you say, lives within a mile of the 
 town ? " 
 
 " Scarcely a mile, sir (black, or green ?) ; you passed the 
 turn to his house last night. (Sir, the eggs are quite fresh 
 this morning.) This inn belongs to Sir Peter." 
 
 "Oh! Does Sir Peter see much company?" 
 
 The waiter smiled. 
 
 " Sir Peter gives very handsome dinners, sir, twice a-yeax. 
 A most clever gentleman. Sir Peter ! They say he is the best 
 manager of property in the whole county. Do you like York- 
 shire cake ? Toast ? Yes, sir ! " 
 
 "So, so," said Walter to himself; "a pretty true descrip- 
 tion my uncle gave me of this gentleman! 'Ask me too 
 often to dinner, indeed!' 'offer me money if I want it!' 
 'spend a month at his house!' 'most hospitable fellow in 
 the world! ' My uncle must have been dreaming." 
 
 Walter had yet to learn that the men most prodigal when 
 they have nothing but expectations are often most thrifty 
 when they know the charms of absolute possession. Besides, 
 Sir Peter had married a Scotch lady, and was blessed with 
 
 1 " Nor is there anything that hath so great a power as the aggregate of 
 small things." 
 
148 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 eleven children ! But was Sir Peter Hales much altered ? 
 Sir Peter Hales was exactly the same man in reality that he 
 always had been. Once he was selfish in extravagance; he 
 was now selfish in thrift. He had always pleased himself 
 n nd forgot other people : that was exactly what he valued him- 
 self on doing now. But the most absurd thing about Sir Peter 
 was that while he was forever extracting use from every one 
 else, he was mightily afraid of being himself put to use. He 
 was in Parliament, and noted for never giving a frank out of 
 his own family. Yet, withal. Sir Peter Hales was still an 
 agreeable fellow, — nay, he was more liked and nnich more 
 esteemed than ever. There is something conciliatory in a 
 saving disposition. But people put themselves in a great pas- 
 sion when a man is too liberal with his own; it is an insult 
 on their own prudence. " What right has he to be so extrava- 
 gant? What an example to our servants!" But your close 
 neighbor does not humble you. You love your close neighbor; 
 you respect your close neighbor; you have your harmless jest 
 against him, — but he is a most respectable man. 
 
 "A letter, sir, and a parcel from Sir Peter Hales," said the 
 waiter, entering. 
 
 The parcel was a bulky, angular, awkward packet of brown 
 paper, sealed once and tied with the smallest possible quantity 
 of string; it was addressed to Mr. James Holwell, Saddler, 
 
 Street, . The letter was to Lester, Esq., and 
 
 ran thus, written in a very neat, stiff Italian character : — 
 
 D^ S^ — 
 
 I trust you had no difficulty in find^ y^ Duke of Cumberland's Head ; 
 it is an excellent 1°. 
 
 I o;reatly reg' y' you are unavoid' oblig'd to go on to Lond° ; for other- 
 wise I sh* have had the sincerest picas*' in seeing you here at din"" & 
 introducing you to 1/ Hales. Anoth' time I trust we may be more 
 fortunate. 
 
 As you pass thro' y* lift* town of , exactly 21 miles hence, on the 
 
 road to Lond°, will you do me the fav' to allow your serv' to put the 
 little parcel I send into his pock» & drop it as direct* ? It is a bridle I 
 am forc'd to return. Country work" are such bung". 
 
 I sh* most certain' have had y* hon' to wait on you person', but the 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 149 
 
 rain has given me a m" sev« cold. Hope you have escap'd, — tho', by 
 y^ by, you had no cloak nor wrapp'' ! 
 
 My kindest regards to your m" excellent unc*. I am sure he 's the 
 same fine merr^ fell" he always was ! Tell him so 1 
 D' Sf, yours faith^ 
 
 Petei4 Grindlescrew Hales. 
 
 P. S. You know perh= y' poor Jn° Court*, your uucle's mo intim* 
 
 friend, lives in , the town in which your serv' will drop y^ brid*. 
 
 He is much alter'd, poor Jn° I 
 
 "Altered! Alteration then seems the fashion with my 
 uucle's friends!" thought Walter as he rang for the corporal 
 and consigned to his charge the unsightly parcel. 
 
 "It is to be carried twenty-one miles, at the request of the 
 gentleman we met last night, — a most sensible man, Bunting! " 
 
 " Augh, waugh, your honor ! " grunted the corporal, thrust- 
 ing the bridle very discontentedly into his pocket, where it 
 annoyed him the whole journey, by incessantly getting be- 
 tween his seat of leather and his seat of honor. It is a comfort 
 to the inexperienced when one man of the world smarts from 
 the sagacity of another; we resign ourselves more willingly 
 to our fate. Our travellers resumed their journey, and in a 
 few minutes, from the cause we have before assigned, the cor- 
 poral became thoroughly out of humor. 
 
 "Pray, Bunting," said Walter, calling his attendant to his 
 side, "do you feel sure that the man we met yesterday at 
 the alehouse is the same you saw at Grassdale some months 
 ago?" 
 
 "D — n it!" cried the corporal; quickly, and clapping his 
 hand behind. 
 
 "How, sir!" 
 
 "Beg pardon, your honor, — slip tongue; but this con- 
 founded parcel ! augh, bother ! " 
 
 "Why don't you carry it in your hand ? " 
 
 "'Tis so ungainsome, and be d — d to it! And how can I 
 hold parcel and pull in this beast, which requires two hands: 
 his mouth 's as hard as a brickbat, augh ! " 
 
 "You have not answered my question yet." 
 
150 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " Beg pardon, your honor. Yes, certain sure the man 's the 
 same; phiz not to be mistaken." 
 
 "It is strange," said Walter, musing, "that Aram should 
 know a man who, if not a highwayman, as we suspected, is at 
 least of rugged manner and disreputable appearance. It is 
 strange, too, that Aram always avoided recurring to the ac- 
 quaintance, though he confessed it." With this he broke into 
 a trot, and the corporal into an oath. 
 
 They arrived by noon at the little town specified by Sir 
 Peter, and in their way to the inn (for Walter resolved to rest 
 there) passed by the saddler's house. It so chanced that Mas- 
 ter Holwell was an adept in his craft, and that a newly in- 
 vented hunting saddle at the window caught Walter's notice. 
 The artful saddler persuaded the young traveller to dis- 
 mount and look at "the most convenientest and handsomest 
 saddle that ever was seen ; " and the corporal having lost no 
 time in getting rid of his encumbrance, Walter dismissed 
 him to the inn with the horses, and after purchasing the 
 saddle in exchange for his own, he sauntered into the shop to 
 look at a new snaffle. A gentleman's servant was in the shop 
 at the time, bargaining for a riding-whip; and the shopboy, 
 among others, showed him a large old-fashioned one, with a 
 tarnished silver handle. Grooms have no taste for antiquity, 
 and in spite of the silver handle, the servant pushed it aside 
 with some contempt. Some jest he uttered at the time chanced 
 to attract Walter's notice to the whip; he took it up carelessly, 
 and perceived, with great surprise, that it bore his own crest 
 — a bittern — on the handle. He examined it now with at- 
 tention; and underneath the crest were the letters G. L., his 
 father's initials. 
 
 " How long have you had this whip ? " said he to the sad- 
 dler, concealing the emotion which this token of his lost 
 parent naturally excited. 
 
 "Oh! a 'nation long time, sir," replied Mr. Holwell. "It 
 is a queer old thing, but really is not amiss, if the silver was 
 scrubbed up a bit and a new lash put on. You may have it a 
 bargain, sir, if so be you have taken a fancy to it." 
 
 " Can you at all recollect how you came by it ? " said Walter, 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 151 
 
 earnestly. "The fact is that I see by the crest and initials 
 that it belonged to a person whom I have some interest in 
 discovering." 
 
 "Why, let me think," said the saddler, scratching the tip 
 of his right ear; " 't is so long ago sin' I had it, I quite forget 
 how I came by it." 
 
 " Oh, is it that whip, John ? " said the wife, who had been 
 attracted from the back parlor by the sight of the handsome 
 young stranger. "Don't you remember, — it's a many year 
 ago, — a gentleman who passed a day with Squire Courtland, 
 when he first came to settle here, called and left the whip to 
 have a new thong put to it ? But I fancies he forgot it, sir 
 [turning to Walter], for he never called for it again; and the 
 squire's people says as how he was gone into Yorkshire, — so 
 there the whip 's been ever sin'. I remembers it, sir, 'cause 
 I kept it in the little parlor nearly a year, to be in the way 
 like." 
 
 "Ah! I thinks I do remember it now," said Master Hol- 
 well. " I should think it 's a matter of twelve yearn ago. I 
 suppose I may sell it without fear of the gentleman's claim- 
 ing it again." 
 
 " Not more than twelve years ! " said Walter, anxiously ; 
 for it was some seventeen years since his father had been 
 last heard of by his family. 
 
 "Why it may be thirteen, sir, or so, more or less; I can't 
 say exactly." 
 
 "More likely fourteen! " said the dame. "It can't be much 
 more, sir ; we have only been a married fifteen year come next 
 Christmas! But my old man here is ten years older nor I." 
 
 "And the gentleman, you say, was at Mr. Courtland's? " 
 
 "Yes, sir, that I'm sure of," replied the intelligent Mrs. 
 Holwell; "they said he had come lately from Ingee." 
 
 Walter, now despairing of hearing more, purchased the 
 whip; and blessing the worldly wisdom of Sir Peter Hales, 
 that had thus thrown him on a clew, which, however slight, 
 he resolved to follow up, he inquired the way to Squire Court- 
 land's, and proceeded thither at once. 
 
152 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 WALTER VISITS ANOTHER OF HIS UNCLe's FRIENDS. MR. 
 
 COURTLANd's STRANGE COMPLAINT. WALTER LEARNS NEWS 
 
 OF HIS FATHER WHICH SURPRISES HIM, THE CHANGE IN 
 
 HIS DESTINATION. 
 
 Gad 's my life ! did you ever hear the like 1 What a strange man is this ! 
 What you have possessed me withal, I '11 discharge it amply. 
 
 Ben Jonson : Every Man in his Humor. 
 
 Mr. Courtland's house was surrounded by a high wall, 
 and stood at the outskirts of the town. A little wooden door, 
 buried deep within the wall, seemed the only entrance. At 
 this Walter paused; and after twice applying to the bell, a 
 footman of a peculiarly grave and sanctimonious appearance 
 opened the door. 
 
 In reply to Walter's inquiries he informed him that Mr. 
 Courtland was very unwell, and never saw "company." Wal- 
 ter, however, producing from his pocket-book the introduc- 
 tory letter given him by his uncle, slipped it into the servant's 
 hand, accompanied by half-a-crown, and begged to be an- 
 nounced as a gentleman on very particular business. 
 
 "Well, sir, you can step in," said the servant, giving way; 
 "but my master is very poorly, very poorly indeed." 
 
 " Indeed, I am sorry to hear it • has he been long so ? " 
 
 "Going on for ten years, sir!" replied the servant, with 
 great gravity; and opening the door of the house, which stood 
 within a few paces of the wall, on a singularly flat and bare 
 grass-plot, he showed him into a room, and left him alone. 
 
 The first thing that struck Walter in this apartment was its 
 remarkable lightness. Though not large, it had no less than 
 seven windows. Two sides of the wall seemed indeed all 
 window! Nor were these admittants of the celestial beam 
 shaded by any blind or curtain, — 
 
 "The gaudy, babbling, and remorseless day " 
 
 made itself thoroughly at home in this airy chamber. Xever* 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 153 
 
 theless, though so light, it seemed to Walter anything but 
 cheerful. The sun had blistered and discolored the painting 
 of the wainscot, originally of a pale sea-green; there was- 
 little furniture in the apartment: one table in the centre, 
 some half-a-dozen chairs, and a very small Turkey carpet, 
 which did not cover one tenth part of the clean, cold, smooth 
 oak boards, constituted all the goods and chattels visible in 
 the room. But what particularly added effect to the bareness 
 of all within, was the singular and laborious bareness of all 
 without. From each of these seven windows, nothing but a 
 forlorn green flat of some extent was to be seen; there was 
 neither tree, nor shrub nor flower in the whole expanse, al- 
 though by several stumps of trees near the house, Walter per- 
 ceived that the place had not always been so destitute of 
 vegetable life. 
 
 While he was yet looking upon this singular baldness of 
 scene, the servant re-entered with his master's compliments 
 and a message that he should be happy to see any relation of 
 Mr. Lester. 
 
 Walter accordingly followed the footman into an apartment 
 possessing exactly the same peculiarities as the former one; 
 namely, a most disproportionate plurality of windows, a com- 
 modious scantiness of furniture, and a prospect without that 
 seemed as if the house had been built in the middle of Salis- 
 bury Plain. 
 
 Mr. Courtland himself, a stout man, still preserving the 
 rosy hues and comely features, though certainly not the hila- 
 rious expression, which Lester had attributed to him, sat in a 
 large chair close by the centre window, which was open. He 
 rose and shook Walter by the hand with great cordiality. 
 
 "Sir, I am delighted to see you! How is your worthy 
 uncle ? I only wish he were with you. You dine with me, 
 of course. Thomas, tell the cook to add a tongue and chicken 
 to the roast beef. No, young gentleman, I will have no 
 excuse. Sit down, sit down; pray come near the window. 
 Do you not find it dreadfully close, — not a breath of air? 
 This house is so choked up ; don't you find it so, eh ? Ah ! 
 I see, you can scarcely gasp." 
 
154 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "My dear sir, you are mistaken; I am rather cold, on tlie 
 contrary, — nor did I ever in my life see a more airy house 
 than yours." 
 
 "I try to make it so, sir, but I can't succeed. If you had 
 seen what it was when I first bought it, — a garden here, sir; 
 a copse there; a wilderness, God wot! at the back; and a row 
 of chestnut-trees in the front ! You may conceive the conse- 
 quence, sir: I had not been long here, not two years, before 
 my health was gone, sir, gone, — the d — d vegetable life sucked 
 it out of me. The trees kept away all the air; I was nearly 
 suffocated, without, at first, guessing the cause. But at length, 
 though not till I had been withering away for five years, I 
 discovered the origin of my malady. I went to work, sir: I 
 plucked up the cursed garden, I cut down the infernal chest- 
 nuts, I made a bowling-green of the diabolical wilderness. 
 But I fear it is too late; I am dying by inches, — have been 
 dying ever since. The malaria has effectually tainted my 
 constitution." 
 
 Here Mr. Courtland heaved a deep sigh, and shook his head 
 with a most gloomy expression of countenance. 
 
 "Indeed, sir," said Walter, "I should not, to look at you, 
 imagine that you suffered under any complaint. You seem 
 still the same picture of health that my uncle describes you 
 to have been when you knew him so many years ago." 
 
 "Yes, sir, yes, — the confounded malaria fixed the color to 
 my cheeks; the blood is stagnant, sir. Would to Heaven 
 I could see myself a shade paler! The blood does not flow; I 
 am like a pool in a citizen's garden, with a willow at each 
 corner. But a truce to my complaints. You see, sir, I am no 
 hypochondriac, as my fool of a doctor wants to persuade me. 
 A hypochondriac shudders at every breath of air, trembles 
 when a door is open, and looks upon a window as the entrance 
 of death. But I, sir, never can have enough air; thorough 
 draught or east wind, it is all the same to me, so that I do but 
 breathe. Is that like hypochondria ? — pshaw ! But tell me, 
 young gentleman, about your uncle: is he quite well, — stout, 
 hearty ? Does he breathe easily, — no oppression? " 
 
 "Sir, he enjoys exceedingly good health. He did please 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 155 
 
 himself with the hope that I should give him good tidings of 
 yourself and another of his old friends, whom I accidentally 
 saw yesterday, — Sir Peter Hales." 
 
 "Hales! Peter Hales! Ah! a clever little fellow that. 
 How delighted Lester's good heart will be to hear that little 
 Peter is so improved, — no longer a dissolute, harum-scarum 
 fellow, throwing away his money, and always in debt. No, 
 no ; a respectable, steady character, an excellent manager, an 
 active member of Parliament, domestic in private life. Oh! 
 a very worthy man, sir; a very worthy man! " 
 
 "He seems altered, indeed, sir," said Walter, who was 
 young enough in the world to be surprised at this eulogy, 
 "but is still agreeable and fond of anecdote. He told me of 
 his race with you for a thousand guineas." 
 
 "Ah! don't talk of those days," said Mr. Courtland, shak- 
 ing his head pensively; "it makes me melancholy. Yes, 
 Peter ought to recollect that, for he has never paid me to 
 this day, — affected to treat it as a jest, and swore he could 
 have beat me if he would. But indeed it was my fault, sir, 
 — Peter had not then a thousand farthings in the world ; and 
 when he grew rich, he became a steady character, and I did 
 not like to remind him of our former follies. Aha! can I 
 offer you a pinch of snuff? You look feverish, sir; surely 
 this room must affect you, though you are too polite to say so. 
 Pray open that door, and then this window, and put your chair 
 right between the two. You have no notion how refreshing 
 the draught is." 
 
 Walter politely declined the proffered ague; and thinking 
 he had now made sufficient progress in the acquaintance of 
 this singular non-hypochondriac to introduce the subject he 
 had most at heart, hastened to speak of his father. 
 
 "I have chanced, sir," said he, "very unexpectedly upon 
 something that once belonged to my poor father;" here he 
 showed the whip. " I find from the saddler of whom I bought 
 it that the owner was at your house some twelve or fourteen 
 years ago. I do not know whether you are aware that our 
 family have heard nothing respecting my father's fate for a 
 considerably longer time than that which has elapsed since 
 
156 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 you appear to have seen him, if at least I may hope that he 
 was your guest and the owner of this whip; and any news 
 you can give me of him, any clew by which he can possibly 
 be traced, would be to us all — to me in particular — an in- 
 estimable obligation." 
 
 "Your father!" said Mr. Courtland. "Oh, ay, — your 
 uncle's brother. What was his Christian name, — Henry?" 
 
 "Geoffrey." 
 
 " Ah, exactly ; Geoffrey ! What ! not been heard of ? His 
 family not know where he is ? A sad thing, sir; but he was 
 always a wild fellow, — now here, now there, like a flash of 
 lightning. But it is true, it is true, he did stay a day here, 
 several years ago, when I first bought the place; I can tell 
 you all about it. But you seem agitated, — do come nearer 
 the window ; there, that 's right. Well, sir, it is, as I said, 
 a great many years ago, — perhaps fourteen, — and I was 
 speaking to the landlord of the Greyhound about some hay he 
 wished to sell, when a gentleman rode into the yard full tear, 
 as your father always did ride, and in getting out of his way 
 I recognized Geoffrey Lester. I did not know him well, — far 
 from it, — but I had seen him once or twice with your uncle, 
 and though he was a strange pickle, he sang a good song and 
 was deuced amusing. Well, sir, I accosted him; and for the 
 sake of your uncle, I asked him to dine with me and take a 
 bed at my new house. Ah! I little thought what a dear 
 bargain it was to be. He accepted my invitation; for I fancy 
 — no offence, sir — there were few invitations that Mr. Geof- 
 frey Lester ever refused to accept. We dined tete-a-tete, — I 
 am an old bachelor, sir, — and very entertaining he was, 
 though his sentiments seemed to me broader than ever. He 
 was capital, however, about the tricks he had played his cred- 
 itors, — such manoeuvres, such escapes ! After dinner he asked 
 me if I ever corresponded with his brother. I told him no, 
 that we were very good friends, but never heard from each 
 other; and he then said, 'Well, I shall surprise him with a 
 visit shortly. But in case you should unexpectedly have any 
 communication with him, don't mention having seen me; for, 
 to tell you the truth, I am just returned from India, where I 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 157 
 
 should liave scraped up a little money, but that I spent it as 
 fast as I got it. However, you know that I was always pro- 
 verbially the luckiest fellow in the world [and so, sir, your 
 father was !], and while I was in India I saved an old colonel's 
 life at a tiger-hunt. He went home shortly afterwards, and 
 settled in Yorkshire ; and the other day, on my return to Eng- 
 land, to which my ill-health drove me, I learned that my old 
 colonel had died recently, and left me a handsome legacy, 
 with his house in Yorkshire. I am now going down to York- 
 shire to convert the chattels into gold, to receive my money ; 
 and I shall then seek out my good brother, my household gods, 
 and perhaps, tliough it 's not likely, settle into a sober fellow 
 for the rest of my life.' I don't tell you, young gentleman, 
 that those were your father's exact words, — one can't remem- 
 ber verbatim so many years ago ; but it was to that effect. He 
 left me the next day, and I never heard anything more of him. 
 To say the truth, he was looking wonderfully yellow, and fear- 
 fully reduced. And I fancied at the time he could not live 
 long: he was prematurely old, and decrepit in body, though 
 gay in spirit; so that I had tacitly imagined, in never hearing 
 of him more, that he had departed life. But, good heavens ! 
 did you never hear of this legacy ? " 
 
 "Xever; not a word!" said Walter, who had listened to 
 these particulars in great surprise. "And to what part of 
 Yorkshire did he say he was going ? " 
 
 "That he did not mention." 
 
 "Kor the colonel's name ? " 
 
 "Not as I remember; he might, but I think not. But I am 
 certain that the county was Yorkshire, and the gentleman, 
 whatever his name, was a colonel. Stay: I recollect one more 
 particular which it is lucky I do remember. Your father, in 
 giving me, as I said before, in his own humorous strain, the 
 history of his adventures, his hairbreadth escapes from his 
 duns, the various disguises and the numerous aliases he had 
 assumed, mentioned that the name he had borne in India, 
 and by which, he assured me, he had made quite a good char- 
 acter, was Clarke; he also said, by the way, that he still 
 kept to that name, and was very merry on the advantages of 
 
158 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 having so common a one, — ' By which,' he observed wittily, 
 ' he could father all his own sins on some other Mr. Clarke, 
 at the same time that he could seize and appropriate all the 
 merits of all his other namesakes.' Ah, no offence, but he 
 was a sad dog, that father of yours ! So you see that in all 
 probability, if he ever reached Yorkshire, it was under the 
 name of Clarke that he claimed and received his legacy." 
 
 "You have told me more," said Walter, joyfully, "than we 
 have heard since his disappearance; and I shall turn my 
 horses' heads northward to-morrow, by break of day. But 
 you say, 'If he ever reached Yorkshire.' What should pre- 
 vent him ? " 
 
 "His health!" said the non-hypochondriac. "I should not 
 be greatly surprised if — if — In short, you had better look 
 at the gravestones by the way for the name of Clarke." 
 
 "Perhaps you can give me the dates, sir," said Walter, 
 somewhat cast down by that melancholy admonition. 
 
 "Ah! I '11 see, I '11 see after dinner; the commonness of the 
 name has its disadvantages now. Poor Geoffrey ! I dare say 
 there are fifty tombs to the memory of fifty Clarkes between 
 this and York. But come, sir, there's the dinner-bell." 
 
 Whatever might have been the maladies entailed uj)on the 
 portly frame of Mr. Courtland by the vegetable life of the 
 departed trees, a want of appetite was not among the number. 
 Whenever a man is not abstinent from rule or from early 
 habit, solitude makes its votaries particularly fond of their 
 dinner. They have no other event wherewith to mark their 
 day; they think over it, they anticipate it, they nourish its 
 soft idea in their imagination : if they do look forward to any- 
 thing else more than dinner, it is — supper ! 
 
 Mr. Courtland deliberately pinned the napkin to his waist- 
 coat, ordered all the windows to be thrown open, and set to 
 work like the good canon in "Gil Bias." He still retained 
 enough of his former self to preserve an excellent cook ; and 
 though most of his viands were of the plainest, who does not 
 know what skill it requires to produce an unexceptionable 
 roast, or a blameless broil ! 
 
 Half a tureen of strong soup, three pounds at least of stewed 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 159 
 
 carp, all the under part of a sirloin of beef, three quarters of 
 a tongue, the moiety of a chicken, six pancakes and a tartlet, 
 having severally disappeared down the jaws of the invalid, — 
 
 " Et cuncta terrarum subacta 
 Prteter atrocem auimum Catonis," ^ — 
 
 he still called for two devilled biscuits and an anchovy! 
 
 When these were gone, he had the wine set on a little table 
 by the window, and declared that the air seemed closer than 
 ever. Walter was no longer surprised at the singular nature 
 of the non-hypochondriac's complaint. 
 
 Walter declined the bed that Mr. Courtland offered him, — 
 though his host kindly assured him that it had no curtains, 
 and that there was not a shutter to the house, — upon the plea 
 of starting the next morning at daybreak, and his consequent 
 unwillingness to disturb the regular establishment of the in- 
 valid; and Courtland, who was still an excellent, hospitable, 
 friendly man, suffered his friend's nephew to depart with 
 regret. He supplied him, however, by a reference to an old 
 note-book, with the date of the year, and even month, in 
 which he had been favored by a visit from Mr. Clarke, who, 
 it seemed, had also changed his Christian name from Geoffrey 
 to one beginning with D. ; but whether it was David or Daniel 
 the host remembered not. In parting with Walter, Courtland 
 shook his head and observed, — 
 
 " Untre nous, sir, I fear this may be a wild-goose chase. 
 Your father was too facetious to confine himself to fact, — ex- 
 cuse me, sir, — and perhaps the colonel and the legacy were 
 merely inventions pour passer le temps ; there was only one 
 reason, indeed, that made me fully believe the story." 
 
 " What was that, sir ? " asked Walter, blushing deeply at 
 the universality of that estimation his father had obtained. 
 
 "Excuse me, my young friend." 
 
 "Nay, sir, let me press you." 
 
 "Why, then, Mr. Geoffrey Lester did not ask me to lend 
 him any money." 
 
 The next morning, instead of repairing to the gayeties of 
 
 1 "And everything of earth subdued, except the resolute mind of Cato." 
 
160 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 the metropolis, Walter had, upon this dubious clew, altered 
 his journey northward; and with an unquiet yet sanguine 
 spirit, the adventurous son commenced his search after the 
 fate of a father evidently so unworthy of the anxiety he had 
 excited. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 Walter's meditations. — the corporal's grief and anger. 
 
 THE corporal PERSONALLY DESCRIBED. AN EXPLANA- 
 TION WITH HIS MASTER. THE CORPORAL OPENS HIMSELF 
 
 TO THE YOUNG TRAVELLER. HIS OPINIONS OF LOVE; ON 
 
 THE world; ON THE PLEASURE AND RESPECTABILITY OF 
 CHEATING; ON LADIES, AND A PARTICULAR CLASS OF LADIES; 
 ON AUTHORS; ON THE VALUE OF WORDS; ON FIGHTING: 
 WITH SUNDRY OTHER MATTERS OF EQUAL DELECTATION AND 
 IMPROVEMENT. AN UNEXPECTED EVENT. 
 
 Quale per incertam lunam sub Ince maligna 
 Est iter.i — Virgil. 
 
 The road prescribed to our travellers by the change in their 
 destination led them back over a considerable portion of the 
 ground they had already traversed; and since the corporal took 
 care that they should remain some hours in the place where 
 they dined, night fell upon them as they found themselves 
 in the midst of the same long and dreary stage in which 
 they had encountered Sir Peter Hales and the two suspected 
 highwaymen. 
 
 Walter's mind was full of the project on which he was bent. 
 The reader can fully comprehend how vivid were the emotions 
 called up by the hope of a solution of the enigma to his 
 father's fate; and sanguinely did he now indulge those in- 
 tense meditations with which the imaginative minds of the 
 young always brood over every more favorite idea, until they 
 exalt the hope into a passion. Everything connected with 
 
 1 " Even as a journey by the unpropitious light of the uncertain moon." 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 161 
 
 this strange and roving parent had possessed for the breast of 
 his son not only an anxious, but indulgent interest. The 
 judgment of a young man is always inclined to sympathize 
 with the wilder and more enterprising order of spirits; and 
 Walter had been at no loss for secret excuses wherewith to 
 defend the irregular life and reckless habits of his parent. 
 Amidst all his father's evident and utter want of principle, 
 Walter clung with a natural and self-deceptive partiality to 
 the few traits of courage or generosity which relieved, if they 
 did not redeem, his character, — traits which, with a character 
 of that stamp, are so often, though always so unprofitably 
 blended, and which generally cease with the commencement 
 of age. He now felt elated by the conviction, as he had al- 
 ways been inspired by the hope, that it was to be his lot to 
 discover one whom he still believed living, and whom he 
 trusted to find amended. The same intimate persuasion of 
 the " good luck " of Geoffrey Lester, which all who had known 
 him appeared to entertain, was felt even in a more credulous 
 and earnest degree by his son. Walter gave way now, indeed, 
 to a variety of conjectures as to the motives which could have 
 induced his father to persist in the concealment of his fate 
 after his return to England; but such of those conjectures as, 
 if the more rational, were also the more despondent, he speed- 
 ily and resolutely dismissed. Sometimes he thought that his 
 father, on learning the death of the wife he had abandoned, 
 might have been possessed with a remorse which rendered him 
 unwilling to disclose himself to the rest of his family, and a 
 feeling that the main tie of home was broken; sometimes he 
 thought that the wanderer had been disappointed in his ex- 
 pected legacy, and, dreading the attacks of his creditors, or 
 unwilling to throw himself once more on the generosity of 
 his brother, had again suddenly quitted England and entered 
 on some enterprise or occupation abroad. It was also possi- 
 ble, to one so reckless and changeful, that even, after receiv 
 ing the legacy, a proposition from some wild comrade might 
 have hurried him away on any Continental project at the mere 
 impulse of the moment, — for the impulse of the moment had 
 always been the guide of his life; and once abroad, he might 
 
 11 
 
162 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 have returned to India, and in new connections forgotten the 
 old ties at home. Letters from abroad, too, miscarry; and it 
 was not improbable that the wanderer might have written 
 repeatedly, and receiving no answer to his comnumications, 
 imagined that the dissoluteness of his life had deprived him 
 of the affections of his family; and deserving so well to have 
 the proffer of renewed intercourse rejected, believed that it 
 actually was so. These and a hundred similar conjectures 
 found favor in the eyes of the young traveller ; but the chances 
 of a fatal accident or sudden death he pertinaciously refused 
 at present to include in the number of probabilities. Had his 
 father been seized with a mortal illness on the road, was it 
 not likely that, in the remorse occasioned in the hardiest by 
 approaching death, he would have written to his brother, and, 
 recommending his child to his care, have apprised him of the 
 addition to his fortune ? Walter, then, did not meditate em- 
 barrassing his present journey by those researches among the 
 dead which the worthy Courtland had so considerately recom- 
 mended to his prudence; should his expedition, contrary to 
 his hopes, prove wholly unsuccessful, it might then be well 
 to retrace his steps and adopt the suggestion. But what man, 
 at the age of twenty-one, ever took much precaution on the 
 darker side of a question in which his heart was interested ? 
 
 With what pleasure, escaping from conjecture to a more 
 ultimate conclusion, did he, in recalling those words, in which 
 his father had more than hinted to Courtland of his future 
 amendment, contemplate recovering a parent made wise by 
 years and sober by misfortunes, and restoring him to a hearth 
 of tranquil virtues and peaceful enjoyments ! He imaged to 
 himself a scene of that domestic happiness which is so perfect 
 in our dreams, because in our dreams monotony is always 
 excluded from the picture. And in this creation of Fancy, 
 the form of Ellinor, his bright-eyed and gentle cousin, was 
 not the least conspicuous. Since his altercation with Made- 
 line, the love he had once thought so ineffaceable had faded 
 into a dim and sullen hue; and in proportion as the image of 
 Madeline grew indistinct, that of her sister became more bril- 
 liant. Often, now, as he rode slowly onward in the quiet of 
 
EUGENE ARAJ^I. 163 
 
 the deepening night, and the mellow stars softening all on 
 which they shone, he pressed the little token of Ellinor's af- 
 fection to his heart, and wondered that it was only within the 
 last few days he had discovered that her eyes were more beau- 
 tiful than Madeline's and her smile more touching. Mean- 
 while the redoubted corporal, who was by no means pleased 
 with the change in his master's plans, lingered behind, whist- 
 ling the most melancholy tune in his collection. No young 
 lady, anticipative of balls or coronets, had ever felt more 
 complacent satisfaction in a journey to London than that 
 which had cheered the athletic breast of the veteran on find- 
 ing himself at last within one day's gentle march of the me- 
 tropolis. And no young lady suddenly summoned back in the 
 first flush of her debut by an unseasonable fit of gout or econ- 
 omy in papa, ever felt more irreparably aggrieved than now 
 did the dejected corporal. His master had not yet even ac- 
 quainted him with the cause of the counter-march ; and in his 
 own heart he believed it nothing but the wanton levity and 
 unpardonable fickleness " common to all them 'ere boys afore 
 they have seen the world." He certainly considered himself 
 a singularly ill-used and injured man; and drawing himself 
 up to his full height, as if it were a matter with which Heaven 
 should be acquainted at the earliest possible opportunity, he 
 indulged, as we before said, in the melancholy consolation of 
 a whistled death-dirge, occasionally interrupted by a long- 
 drawn interlude, half sigh, half snuffle, of his favorite augh, 
 baugh ! 
 
 And here we remember that we have not as yet given to 
 our reader a fitting portrait of the corporal on horseback. 
 Perhaps no better opportunity than the present may occur; 
 and perhaps, also. Corporal Bunting, as well as Melrose 
 Abbey, may seem a yet more interesting picture when viewed 
 by the pale moonlight. 
 
 The corporal, then, wore on his head a small cocked hat 
 which had formerly belonged to the colonel of the Forty-sec- 
 ond,— the prints of my uncle Toby may serve to suggest its 
 shape; it had once boasted a feather, — that was gone: but 
 the gold lace, though tarnished, and the cockade, though bat- 
 
164 EUGEXE ARAM. 
 
 tered, still remained. From under this shade the profile of 
 the corporal assumed a particular aspect of heroism. Though 
 a good-looking man in the main, it was his air, height, and 
 complexion which made him so; and, unlike Lucian's one- 
 eyed prince, a side view was not the most favorable point in 
 which his features could be regarded. His eyes, which were 
 small and shrewd, were half hid by a pair of thick, shaggy 
 brows, which, while he whistled, he moved to and fro as a 
 horse moves his ears when he gives warning that he intends 
 to shy. His nose was straight, — so far so good: but then it 
 did not go far enough; for though it seemed no despicable 
 proboscis in front, somehow or another it appeared exceedingly 
 short in profile. To make up for this, the upper lip was of 
 a length the more striking from being exceedingly straight, — 
 it had learned to hold itself upright and make the most of its 
 length, as well as its master. His under lip, alone protruded 
 in the act of whistling, served yet more markedly to throw 
 the nose into the background. And as for the chin, — talk of 
 the upper lip being long, indeed! the chin would have made 
 two of it. Such a chin! so long, so broad, so massive, had it 
 been put on a dish it might have passed, without discredit, 
 for a round of beef; and it looked yet larger than it was, from 
 the exceeding tightness of the stiff, black-leather stock below, 
 which forced forth all the flesh it encountered into another 
 chin, — a remove to the round! The hat being somewhat too 
 small for the corporal, and being cocked knowingly in front, 
 left the hinder half of the head exposed. And the hair, 
 carried into a club according to the fashion, lay thick, and of 
 a grizzled black, on the brawny shoulders below. The vet- 
 eran was dressed in a blue coat, originally a frock; but the 
 skirts, having once, to the imminent peril of the place they 
 guarded, caught fire as the corporal stood basking himself at 
 Peter Dealtry's, had been so far amputated as to leave only 
 the stump of a tail, which just covered, and no more, that 
 part which neither Art in bipeds nor Nature in quadrupeds 
 loves to leave Avholly exposed. And that part, ah, how am- 
 ple! Had Liston seen it, he would have hid forever his di- 
 minished — opposite to head! No wonder the corporal had 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 165 
 
 been so annoyed by the parcel of the previous day ! A coat so 
 short and a — ; but no matter, pass we to the rest. It was 
 not only in its skirts that this wicked coat was deficient: the 
 corporal, who had within the last few years thriven lustily 
 in the inactive serenity of Grassdale, had outgrown it prodi- 
 giously across the chest and girth; nevertheless he managed to 
 button it up. And thus the muscular proportions of the 
 wearer, bursting forth in all quarters, gave him the ludicrous 
 appearance of a gigantic schoolboy. His wrists and large, 
 sinewy hands, both employed at the bridle of his hard-mouthed 
 charger, were markedly visible; for it was the corporal's 
 custom, whenever he came to an obscure part of the road, 
 carefully to take off and prudently to pocket a pair of scrup- 
 ulously clean white leather gloves, which smartened up his 
 appearance prodigiously in passing through the towns in their 
 route. His breeches were of yellow buckskin and ineffably 
 tight; his stockings were of gray worsted; and a i)air of laced 
 boots, that reached the ascent of a very mountainous calf, but 
 declined any farther progress, completed his attire. 
 
 Fancy, then, this figure, seated with laborious and unswerv- 
 ing perpendicularity on a demi-pique saddle ornamented with 
 a huge pair of well-stuffed saddle-bags, and holsters revealing 
 the stocks of a brace of immense pistols, the horse with its 
 obstinate mouth thrust out, and the bridle drawn as tight as 
 a bowstring, its ears laid sullenly down, as if, like the cor- 
 poral, it complained of going to Yorkshire, and its long thick 
 tail, not set up in a comely and well-educated arch, but hang- 
 ing sheepishly down, as if resolved that its buttocks should at 
 least be better covered than its master's! 
 
 And now, reader, it is not our fault if you cannot form some 
 conception of the physical perfections of the corporal and his 
 steed. 
 
 The revery of the contemplative Bunting was interrupted by 
 the voice of his master calling upon him to approach. 
 
 "Well, well," muttered he, "the younker can't expect one 
 as close at his heels as if we were trotting into Lunnon, which 
 we might be at this time, sure enough, if he had not been so 
 d — d flighty, aughl " 
 
t66 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " Bunting, I say, do you hear ? " 
 
 "Yes, your honor, yes; this 'ere horse is so 'nation sluggish." 
 
 "Sluggish! why, I thought he was too much the reverse, 
 Bunting. I thought he was one rather requiring the bridle 
 than the spur." 
 
 " Augh ! your honor, he 's slow when he should not, and fast 
 when he should not, — changes his mind from pure whim or 
 pure spite. New to the world, your honor, that 's all ; a 
 different thing if properly broke. There be a many like him! " 
 
 "You mean to be personal, Mr. Bunting," said Walter, 
 laughing at the evident ill-humor of his attendant. 
 
 "Augh! indeed, and no! — I daren't. A poor man like me 
 go for to presume to be parsonal, — unless I get hold of a 
 poorer ! " 
 
 " Why, Bunting, you do not mean to say that you would be 
 so ungenerous as to affront a man because he was poorer than 
 you ? Fie ! " 
 
 " Whaugh, your honor ! and is not that the very reason why 
 I 'd affront him ? Surely, it is not my betters I should af- 
 front, — that would be ill-bred, your honor; quite want of 
 discipline." 
 
 " But we owe it to our Great Commander, " said Walter, " to 
 love all men." 
 
 "Augh, sir! that's very good maxim, — none better; but 
 shows ignorance of the world, sir, great ! " 
 
 "Bvinting, your way of thinking is quite disgraceful. Do 
 you know, sir, that it is the Bible you were speaking of ? " 
 
 "Augh, sir! but the Bible was addressed to them Jew cret- 
 urs! Howsomever, it's an excellent book for the poor, — 
 keeps 'm in order, favors discipline; none more so." 
 
 "Hold your tongue! I called you, Bunting, because I 
 think I heard you say you had once been at York. Do you 
 know what towns we shall pass on our road thither ? " 
 
 "Not I, your honor: it 's a mighty long way. What would 
 the squire think ? Just at Lunnon, too! Could have learned 
 the whole road, sir, inns and all, if you had but gone on to 
 Lunnon first. Howsomever, young gentlemen will be hasty, 
 — no confidence in those older, and who are experienced in 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 167 
 
 the world. I knows what I knows ; " and the corporal recom- 
 menced his whistle. 
 
 " Why, Bunting, you seem quite discontented at my change 
 of journey. Are you tired of riding, or were you very eager 
 to get to town ? " 
 
 "Augh! sir, I was only thinking of what's best for your 
 honor. I — 'tis not for me to like or dislike. Howsomever, 
 the horses, poor creturs, must want rest for some days. Them 
 dumb animals can't go on forever, bumpety, bumpety, as your 
 honor and I do. Whaugh ! " 
 
 "It is very true, Bunting; and I have had some thoughts 
 of sending you home again with the horses, and travelling 
 post." 
 
 "Eh! " grunted the corporal, opening his eyes, "hopes your 
 honor be n't serious." 
 
 " Why, if you continue to look so serious, I must be serious 
 too. You understand. Bunting ? " 
 
 "Augh! and that's all, your honor," cried the corporal, 
 brightening up; "shall look merry enough to-morrow, when 
 one 's in, as it were, like, to the change of the road. But you 
 see, sir, it took me by surprise. Said I to myself, says I, It 
 is an odd thing for you, Jacob Bunting, on the faith of a man 
 it is, to go tramp here, tramp there, without knowing why or 
 wherefore, as if you were still a private in the Forty-second, 
 'stead of a retired corporal. You see, your honor, my pride 
 was a-hurt; but it 's all over now, — only spites those beneath 
 me. I knows the world at my time o' life." 
 
 " Well, Bunting, when you learn the reason of my change 
 of plan, you '11 be perfectly satisfied that I do quite right. In 
 a word, you know that my father has been long missing; I 
 have found a clew by which I yet hope to trace him. This is 
 the reason of my journey to Yorkshire." 
 
 " Augh ! " said the corporal, " and a very good reason. You 're 
 a most excellent son, sir, — and Lunnon so nigh! " 
 
 "The thought of London seems to have bewitched you. Did 
 you expect to find the streets of gold since you were there 
 last ? " 
 
 "A — well, sir, I hears they be greatly improved." 
 
168 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " Pshaw ! you talk of knowing the world, Bunting, and yet 
 you pant to enter it with all the inexperience of a boy. Why, 
 even I could set you an example." 
 
 '"Tis 'cause I knows the world," said the corporal, exceed- 
 ingly nettled, "that I wants to get back to it. 1 have heard 
 of some spoonies as never kist a girl 5 but never heard of any 
 one who had kist a girl once that did not long to be at it 
 again." 
 
 "And I suppose, Mr. Profligate, it is that longing which 
 makes you so hot for London ? " 
 
 "There have been worse longings nor that," quoth the cor- 
 poral, gravely. 
 
 " Perhaps you meditate marrying one of the London belles, 
 
 — an heiress, eh ?" 
 
 "Can't but say," said the corporal, very solemnly, "but 
 that might be 'ticed to marry a fortin, if so be she was young, 
 pretty, good-tempered, and fell desperately m love with me, — 
 best quality of all." 
 
 "You 're a modest fellow." 
 
 "Why, the longer a man lives, the more knows his value. 
 Would not sell myself a bargain now, whatever might at 
 twenty-one." 
 
 " At that rate you would be beyond all price at seventy," said 
 Walter. " But now tell me, Bunting, were you ever in love, 
 
 — really and honestly in love ?" 
 
 "Indeed, your honor," said the corporal, "I have been over 
 head and ears ; but that was afore I learnt to swim. Love 's 
 very like bathing. At first we go souse to the bottom ; but if 
 we 're not drowned then, we gather pluck, grow calm, strike 
 out gently, and make a deal pleasanter thing of it afore we 've 
 done. I '11 tell you, sir, what I thinks of love : 'twixt you and 
 me, sir, 't is not that great thing in life boys and girls want 
 to make it out to be. If 'twere one's dinner, that would be 
 summut, for one can't do without that; but lauk, sir, love's 
 all in the fancy. One does not eat it, nor drink it; and as for 
 the rest, — why, it 's bother! " 
 
 "Bunting, you're a beast," said Walter, in a rage; for 
 though the corporal had come off with a slight rebuke for his 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 169 
 
 sneer at religion, we grieve to say that an attack on the sa- 
 credness of love seemed, a crime beyond all toleration to the 
 theologian of twenty-one. 
 
 The corporal bowed, and thrust his tongue in his cheek. 
 
 There was a pause of some moments. 
 
 "And what," said Walter, for his spirits were raised, and 
 he liked recurring to the quaint shrewdness of the corporal, 
 "and what, after all, is the great charm of the world, that 
 you so much wished to return to it ? " 
 
 "Augh! " replied the corporal, "'tis a pleasant thing to 
 look about un with all one's eyes open: rogue here, rogue 
 there, — keeps one alive. Life in Lunnon, life in a village, 
 — all the difference 'twixt healthy walk and a doze in arm- 
 chair ; by the faith of a man, 't is ! " 
 
 " What ! it is pleasant to have rascals about one ? " 
 
 "SureZy yes," returned the corporal, dryly. "What so de- 
 lightful like as to feel one's cliverness and 'bility all set on 
 end, — bristling up like a porkypine ? Nothing makes a man 
 tread so light, feel so proud, breathe so briskly, as the know- 
 ledge that he has all his wits about him, that he 's a match for 
 any one, that the divil himself could not take him in ! " 
 
 Walter laughed. 
 
 " And to feel one is likely to be cheated is the pleasantest 
 way of passing one's time in town, Bunting, eh ? " 
 
 " Augh ! and in cheating too ! " answered the corporal ; 
 "'cause you sees, sir, there be two ways o' living: one to 
 cheat, — one to be cheated. 'T is pleasant enough to be cheated 
 for a little while, as the younkers are, and as you '11 be, your 
 honor; but that's a pleasure don't last long, — t'other lasts 
 all your life. Dare say your honor 's often heard rich gentle- 
 men say to their sons, 'You ought, for your own happiness 's 
 sake like, my lad, to have summut to do ; ought to have some 
 profession, be you niver so rich : ' very true, your honor ; and 
 what does that mean ? Why, it means that, 'stead of being 
 idle and cheated, the boy ought to be busy and cheat, 
 augh! " 
 
 "Must a man who follows a profession necessarily cheat, 
 then ?" 
 
170 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " Baugh ! can your honor ask that ? Does not the lawyer 
 cheat ? and the doctor cheat ? and the parson cheat more than 
 any ? And that 's the reason they all takes so much int'rest 
 in their profession, — bother! " 
 
 "But the soldier ? You say nothing of him." 
 
 "Why, the soldier," said the corporal, with dignity, — " the 
 private soldier, poor fellow, is only cheated; but when he 
 comes for to get for to be as high as a corp'ral, or a sargent, 
 he comes for to get to bully others and to cheat. Augh! then, 
 'tis not for the privates to cheat; that would be 'sumption 
 indeed, save us ! " 
 
 " The general, then, cheats more than any, I suppose ? " 
 
 "'Course, your honor: he talks to the world 'bout honor, 
 an' glory, and love of his country, and such like! Augh! 
 that's proper cheating!" 
 
 " You 're a bitter fellow, Mr. Bunting. And, pray, what 
 do you think of the ladies ? Are they as bad as the 
 men? " 
 
 "Ladies, — augh! when they're married, yes. But of all 
 them 'ere creturs, I respects the kept ladies the most; on the 
 faith of a man, I do ! Gad ! how well they knows the world, 
 — one quite envies the she-rogues; they beats the wives hol- 
 low! Augh! and your honor should see how they fawns, and 
 flatters, and butters up a man, and makes him think they 
 loves him like winkey, all the time they ruins him! They 
 kisses money out of the miser, and sits in their satins, while 
 the wife — 'drot her! — sulks in a gingham. Oh, they be di- 
 ver creturs, and they '11 do what they likes with Old Nick, 
 when they gets there, for 't is the old gentlemen they cozens 
 the best. And then," continued the corporal, waxing more 
 and more loquacious, for his appetite in talking grew with 
 what it fed on, — " then there be another set o' queer folks 
 you'll see in Lunnon, sir; that is, if you falls in with 
 'em, — hang all together, quite in a clink. I seed lots on 'em 
 when lived with the colonel, — Colonel Dysart, you knows, 
 augh! " 
 
 " And what are they ? " 
 
 "Rum ones, your honor; what they calls authors." 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 171 
 
 "Authors! what the deuce had you or the colonel to do with 
 authors ? " 
 
 "Augh! then, the colonel was a very fine gentleman, — what 
 the larned calls a my-seen-ass ; wrote little songs himself, — 
 'cross-ticks, you knows, your honor. Once he made a play, — 
 'cause why ? He lived with an actress ! " 
 
 "A very good reason indeed for emulating Shakspeare! 
 And did the play succeed ? " 
 
 " Fancy it did, your honor, for the colonel was a dab with 
 the scissors." 
 
 "Scissors! The pen, you mean." 
 
 " No, that 's what the dirty authors make plays with ; a lord 
 and a colonel, my-seen-asses, always takes the scissors." 
 
 " How ? " 
 
 "Why, the colonel's lady had lots of plays, and she marked 
 a scene here, a jest there, a line in one place, a bit of blarney 
 in t'other; and the colonel sat by with a great paper book, 
 cut 'em out,' pasted them in book. Augh! but the colonel 
 pleased the town mightily." 
 
 " Well, so he saw a great many authors : and did not they 
 please you ? " 
 
 "Why, they be so d — d quarrelsome," said the corporal, — 
 " wringle, wrangle, wrongle, snap, growl, scratch. That 's 
 not what a man of the world does : man of the world niver 
 quarrels. Then, too, these creturs always fancy you forgets 
 that their father was aclargyman; they always thinks more 
 of their family like than their writings ; and if they does not 
 get money when they wants it, they bristles up and cries, 
 ' Not treated like a gentleman, by G — ! ' Yet, after all, 
 they 've a deal of kindness in 'em, if you knows how to man- 
 age 'em, augh! but cat-kindness, — paw to-day, claw to-mor- 
 row. And then they always marries young, the poor things ! 
 and have a power of children, and live on the fame and fortin 
 they are to get one of these days; for, my eye! they be the 
 most sanguinest folks alive." 
 
 "Why, Bunting, what an observer you have been! Who 
 could ever have imagined that you had made yourself master 
 of so many varieties in men ! " 
 
172 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "Augli, your honor, I had nothing to do when I was the 
 colonel's valley but to take notes to ladies and make use of 
 my eyes. Always a 'flective man." 
 
 *' It is odd that, with all your abilities, you did not provide 
 better for yourself." 
 
 "'Twas not my fault," said the corporal, quickly; "but, 
 somehow, do what will, 't is not always the cliverest as fore- 
 sees the best. But I be young yet, your honor! " 
 
 Walter stared at the corporal, and laughed outright. The 
 corporal was exceedingly piqued. 
 
 " Augh! mayhap you thinks, sir, that 'cause not so young as 
 you, not young at all; but what's forty, or fifty, or fifty-five 
 in public life ? Never hear much of men afore then. 'T is the 
 autumn that reaps ; spring sows — augh ! bother ! " 
 
 " Very true, and very poetical. 1 see you did not live among 
 authors for nothing." 
 
 "I knows summut of language, your honor," quoth the 
 corporal, pedantically. 
 
 "It is evident." 
 
 "For to be a man of the world, sir, must know all the ins 
 and outs of speechifying ; 't is words, sir, that makes another 
 man's mare go your road. Augh! that must have been a cliver 
 man as invented language; wonders who 'twas, — mayhap 
 Moses, your honor ? " 
 
 "Never mind who it was," said Walter, gravely; "use the 
 gift discreetly." 
 
 "Umph!" said the corporal. "Yes, your honor," renewed 
 he, after a pause, "it be a marvel to think on how much a 
 man does in the way of cheating as has the gift of the gab. 
 Wants a missis, talks her over; wants your purse, talks you 
 out on it; wants a place, talks himself into it. What makes 
 the parson? — words; the lawyer? — words; the parliament 
 man ? — words. Words can ruin a country, in the big house; 
 words saves souls, in the pulpits ; words make even them 'ere 
 authors, poor creturs, in every man's mouth. Augh! sir, 
 take note of the ivords, and the things will take care of them- 
 selves — bother ! " 
 
 "Your reflections amaze me, Bunting," said Walter, smil- 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 173 
 
 ing. ** But the night begins to close in ; I trust we shall not 
 meet with any misadventure." 
 
 " 'T is an ugsome bit of road!" said the corporal, looking 
 round him. 
 
 " The pistols ? " 
 
 "Primed and loaded, your honor." 
 
 "After all, Bunting, a little skirmish would be no bad sport, 
 eh, especially to an old soldier like you ? " 
 
 "Augh! baugh! 'T is no pleasant work fighting, without 
 pay, at least. 'T is not like love and eating, your honor, — 
 the better for being what they calls 'gratis.' " 
 
 "Yet I have heard you talk of the pleasure of fighting, — 
 not for pay, Bunting, but for your king and country." 
 
 "Augh! and that 's when I wanted to cheat the poor creturs 
 at Grassdale, your honor. Don't take the liberty to talk stuff 
 to my master." 
 
 They continued thus to beguile the way till Walter again 
 sank into a revery, while the corporal, who began more and 
 more to dislike the aspect of the ground they had entered on, 
 still rode by his side. 
 
 The road was heavy, and wound down the long hill which 
 had stricken so much dismay into the corporal's stout heart 
 on the previous day, when he had beheld its commencement 
 at the extremity of the town, where but for him they had not 
 dined. They were now a little more than a mile from the 
 said town. The whole of the way was taken up by this hill, 
 and the road, very different from the smoothened declivities 
 of the present day, seemed to have been cut down the very 
 steepest part of its centre. Loose stones and deep ruts in- 
 creased the difficulty of the descent, and it was with a slow 
 pace and a guarded rein that both our travellers now continued 
 their journey. On the left side of the road was a thick and 
 lofty hedge; to the right a wild, bare, savage heath sloped 
 downward, and just afforded a glimpse of the spires and 
 chimneys of the town, at which the corpoi-al was already 
 supping in idea. That incomparable personage was, how- 
 ever, abruptly recalled to the present instant by a most vio- 
 lent stumble on the part of his hard-mouthed, Koman-nosed 
 
174 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 horse. The horse was all but down, and the corporal all but 
 over. 
 
 "D — n it," said the corporal, slowly recovering his per- 
 pendicularity; "and the way to Lunnon was as smooth as a 
 bowling-green ! " 
 
 Ere this rueful exclamation was well out of the corporal's 
 mouth, a bullet whizzed past him from the hedge. It went 
 so close to his ear that but for that lucky stumble, Jacob 
 Bunting had been as the grass of the field, which flourisheth 
 one moment and is cut down the next. 
 
 Startled by the sound, the corporal's horse made off full 
 tear down the hill, and carried him several paces beyond his 
 master ere he had power to stop its career. But Walter, 
 reining up his better-managed steed, looked round for the 
 enemy, — nor looked in vain. 
 
 Three men started from the hedge with a simultaneous 
 shout. Walter fired, but without effect; ere he could lay 
 hand on the second pistol his bridle was seized, and a violent 
 blow from a long double-handed bludgeon brought him to 
 the ground. 
 
BOOK III. 
 
 O. Aiiinj fid\L(TTa y' i} Sia<pde[.pov<r6, lie. 
 
 M. Aeti'Tj "yap i] deb^, dW S/xus, Idffifios' 
 
 0. Mavlai re — 
 
 M. ^avTacTfidroov 5^ rdde voaeh iroluiv inr6 ; 
 
 .— 'Op^o-T. 398-407. 
 
 O. Mightiest indeed is the grief consuming me. 
 
 M. Dreadful is the Divinity, but still placable. 
 
 O. The Furies also — 
 
 M. Urged by what apparitions do you rave thus ■? 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 FRAUD AND VIOLENCE ENTER EVEN GRASSDALE. PETEr's 
 
 NEWS. THE lovers' WALK. THE REAPPEARANCE. 
 
 Auf. Whence comest thou ' What wouldest thou ' — Coriolanus. 
 
 One evening Aram and Madeline were passing through the 
 village on their accustomed walk, when Peter Dealtry sallied 
 forth from The Spotted Dog, and hurried up to the lovers 
 with a countenance full of importance, and a little ruffled by 
 fear. 
 
 "Oh, sir, sir (miss, your servant!), have you heard the 
 news ? Two houses at Checkington [a small town some miles 
 distant from Grassdale] were forcibly entered last night, — 
 robbed, your honor, robbed! Squire Tibson was tied to his 
 bed, his bureau rifled, himself shockingly confused on the 
 head, and the maid-servant, Sally, — her sister lived with me; 
 a very good girl, — was locked up in the cupboard. As to the 
 other house, they carried off all the plate. There were no less 
 
176 EUGEXE ARAM. 
 
 than four men, all masked, your honor, and armed with pis- 
 tols. What if they should come here ? Such a thing was 
 never heard of before in these parts. But, sir, — but, miss, 
 — do not be afraid, do not ye, now; for I may say with the 
 Psalmist, — 
 
 " ' For wicked men shall drink the dregs 
 Which they in wrath shall wring ; 
 For / will lift my voice and make 
 Them flee while I do sing.' " 
 
 "You could not find a more effectual method of putting 
 them to flight, Peter," said Madeline, smiling; "but go and 
 talk to my father. I know we have a whole magazine of blun- 
 derbusses and guns at home : they may be useful now. But 
 you are well provided in case of attack. Have you not the 
 corporal's famous cat, Jacobina ? — surely a match for fifty 
 robbers ! " 
 
 " Ay, miss ; on the principle of set a thief to catch a thief, 
 perhaps she may be. But, really, it is no jesting matter. I 
 don't say as how I am timbersome ; but though flesh is grass, 
 I does not wish to be cut down afore my time. Ah! Mr. 
 Aram, your house is very lonesome like ; it is out of reach of 
 all your neighbors. Had n't you better, sir, take up your 
 lodgings at the squire's for the present ? " 
 
 Madeline pressed Aram's arm, and looked up fearfully in 
 his face. "Why, my good friend," said he to Dealtry, "rob- 
 bers will have little to gain in my house, unless they are 
 given to learned pursuits. It would be something new, 
 Peter, to see a gang of housebreakers making off with a tel- 
 escope, or a pair of globes, or a great folio covered with dust.'' 
 
 "Ay, your honor; but they may be the more savage for 
 being disappointed." 
 
 "Well, well, Peter, we will see," replied Aram, impatiently; 
 "meanwhile we may meet you again at the Hall. Good even- 
 ing for the present." 
 
 "Do, dearest Eugene, do, for Heaven's sake!" said Made^ 
 line, with tears in her eyes, as, turning from Dealtry, they 
 directed their steps towards the quiet valley, at the end of 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 177 
 
 which the student's house was situated, and which was now 
 more than ever Madeline's favorite walk. "Do, dearest 
 Eugene, come up to the manor-house till these wretches are 
 apprehended. Consider how open your house is to attack; 
 and surely there can be no necessity to remain in it now." 
 
 Aram's calm brow darkened for a moment. " What, dear- 
 est! " said he, "can you be affected by the foolish fears of yon 
 dotard ? How do we know as yet whether this improbable 
 story have any foundation in truth ? At all events, it is evi- 
 dently exaggerated. Perhaps an invasion of the poultry-yard, 
 in which some hungry fox was the real offender, may be the 
 true origin of this terrible tale. Nay, love, nay, do not look 
 thus reproachfully; it will be time enough for us, when we 
 have sifted the grounds of alarm, to take our precautions; 
 meanwhile, do not blame me if in your presence I cannot ad- 
 mit fear. Oh, Madeline, dear, dear Madeline, could you guess, 
 could you dream, how different life has become to me since 
 I knew you! Formerly, I will frankly own to you that dark 
 and boding apprehensions were wont to lie heavy at my heart; 
 the cloud was more familiar to me than sunshine. But now 
 I have grown a child, and can see around me nothing but 
 hope; my life was winter, — your love has breathed it into 
 spring." 
 
 " And yet, Eugene, yet — " 
 
 " Yet what, my Madeline ? " 
 
 "There are still moments when I have no power over your 
 thoughts, — moments when you break away from me ; when 
 you mutter to yourself feelings in which I have no share, 
 and which seem to steal the consciousness from your eye and 
 the color from your lip." 
 
 "Ah, indeed!" said Aram, quickly. "What! you watch 
 me so closely ? " 
 
 " Can you wonder that I do ? " said Madeline, with an ear- 
 nest tenderness in her voice. 
 
 "You must not, then, you must not," returned her lover, 
 almost fiercely ; " I cannot bear too nice and sudden a scrutiny. 
 Consider how long I have clung to a stern and solitary inde- 
 pendence of thought, which allows no watch, and forbids ac- 
 
 12 
 
178 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 count of itself to any one. Leave it to time and your love to 
 win their inevitable way. Ask not too much from me now. 
 And mark, mark, I pray you, whenever, in spite of myself, 
 these moods you refer to darken over me, heed not, listen not. 
 Leave me; solitude is their only cure ! Promise me this, love, 
 promise ! " 
 
 " It is a harsh request, Eugene, and I do not think I will 
 grant you so complete a monopoly of thought, " answered Mad- 
 eline, playfully, yet half in earnest. 
 
 "Madeline," said Aram, with a deep solemnity of manner, 
 "I ask a request on which my very love for you depends. 
 From the depths of my soul, I implore you to grant it, — yea, 
 to the very letter." 
 
 " Why, why, this is — " began Madeline ; when, encounter- 
 ing the full, the dark, the inscrutable gaze of her strange 
 lover, she broke off in a sudden fear which she could not an- 
 alyze, and only added, in a low and subdued voice, " I promise 
 to obey you." 
 
 As if a weight were lifted from his heart, Aram now bright- 
 ened at once into himself in his happiest mood. He poured 
 forth a torrent of grateful confidence, of buoyant love, that 
 soon swept from the remembance of the blushing and en- 
 chanted Madeline the momentary fear, the sudden chillness, 
 which his look had involuntarily stricken into her mind. 
 And as they now wound along the most lonely part of that 
 wild valley, his arm twined round her waist and his low but 
 silver voice giving magic to the very air she breathed, she 
 felt, perhaps, a more entire and unruffled sentiment of pres- 
 ent, and a more credulous persuasion of future, happiness 
 than she had ever experienced before. And Aram himself 
 dwelt with a more lively and detailed fulness than he was 
 wont on the prospects they were to share, and the security 
 and peace which retirement would bestow upon their life. 
 
 "Shall it not," he said, "shall it not be that we shall look 
 from our retreat upon the shifting passions and the holloAV 
 loves of tlie distant world ? We can have no petty object, 
 no vain allurement, to distract the unity of our affection; we 
 must be all in all to each other : for what else can there be to 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 179 
 
 engross our thoughts and occupy our feelings here? If, my 
 beautiful love, you have selected one whom the world might 
 deem a strange choice for youth and loveliness like yours, 
 you have at least selected one who can have no idol but your- 
 self. The poets tell you, and rightly, that solitude is the fit 
 sphere for love; but how few are the lovers whom solitude 
 does not fatigue! They rush into retirement with souls un- 
 prepared for its stern joys and its unvarying tranquillity; 
 they weary of each other, because the solitude itself to which 
 they fled palls upon and oppresses them. But to me, the free- 
 dom which low minds call obscurity is the aliment of life. I 
 do not enter the temples of Nature as a stranger, but the 
 priest; nothing can ever tire me of the lone and august altars 
 on which I sacrificed my youth. And now, what Nature, 
 what Wisdom once were to me — no, no, more, immeasurably 
 more than these — you are ! Oh, Madeline, methinks there is 
 nothing under heaven like the feeling which puts us apart 
 from all that agitates and fevers and degrades the herd of 
 men; which grants us to control the tenor of our future life, 
 because it annihilates our dependence upon others ; and while 
 the rest of earth are hurried on, blind and unconscious, by 
 the hand of Fate, leaves us the sole lords of our destiny, and 
 able, from the Past, which we have governed, to become the 
 Prophets of our Future ! " 
 
 At this moment Madeline uttered a faint shriek, and clung 
 trembling to Aram's arm. Amazed, and aroused from his en- 
 thusiasm, he looked up, and on seeing the cause of her alarm, 
 seemed himself transfixed, as by a sudden terror, to the earth. 
 
 But a few paces distant, standing amidst the long and rank 
 fern that grew on either side of their path, qiiite motionless, 
 and looking on the pair with a sarcastic smile, stood the om- 
 inous stranger whom the second chapter of our first book 
 introduced to the reader. 
 
 For one instant Aram seemed utterly appalled and over- 
 come ; his cheek grew the color of death ; and Madeline felt 
 his heart beat with a loud, a fearful force beneath the breast 
 to which she clung. But his was not the nature any earthly 
 dread could long daunt. He whispered to Madeline to come 
 
180 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 on; and slowly, and with his usual firm but gliding step, 
 continued his way. 
 
 "Good evening, Eugene Aram," said the stranger; and as 
 lie spoke, he touched his hat slightly to Madeline. 
 
 "I thank you," replied the student, in a calm voice. "Do 
 you want aught with me ? " 
 
 "Humph! yes, if it so please you." 
 
 "Pardon me, dear Madeline," said Aram, softly, and dis- 
 engaging himself from her, "but for one moment." 
 
 He advanced to the stranger; and Madeline could not but 
 note that, as Aram accosted him, his brow fell, and his man- 
 ner seemed violent and agitated : but she could not hear the 
 words of either, nor did the conference last above a minute. 
 The stranger bowed, and turning away, soon vanished among 
 the shrubs. Aram regained the side of his mistress. 
 
 " Who, " cried she, eagerly, " is that fearful man ? What is 
 his business ? What his name ? " 
 
 " He is a man whom I knew well some fourteen years ago, " 
 replied Aram, coldly, and with ease; "I did not then lead 
 quite so lonely a life, and we were thrown much together. 
 Since that time he has been in unfortunate circumstances, — 
 rejoined the army (lie was in early life a soldier, and had 
 been disbanded), entered into business, and failed; in short, 
 he has partaken of those vicissitudes inseparable from the life 
 of one driven to seek the world. When he travelled this road 
 some months ago, he accidentally heard of my residence in 
 the neighborhood, and naturally sought me. Poor as I am, I 
 was of some assistance to him. His route brings him hither 
 again, and he again seeks me: I suppose, too, that I must 
 again aid him." 
 
 " And is that indeed all ? " said Madeline, breathing more 
 freely. "Well, poor man, if he be your friend, he must be 
 inoffensive, — I have done him wrong. And does he want 
 money? I have some to give him, — here, Eugene!" And 
 the simple-hearted girl put her purse into Aram's hand. 
 
 "No, dearest," said he, shrinking back, "no, we shall not 
 require your contribution; I can easily spare him enough for 
 the present. But let us turn back, it grows chill." 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 181 
 
 "And why did he leave us, Eugene ?" 
 
 "Because I desired him to visit me at home an hour hence." 
 
 "An hour! then you will not sup with us to-night ?" 
 
 "No, not this night, dearest." 
 
 The conversation now ceased ; Madeline in vain endeavored 
 to renew it. Aram, though without relapsing into one of his 
 frequent reveries, answered her only in monosyllables. They 
 arrived at the manor-house, and Aram at the garden-gate took 
 leave of her for the night, and hastened backward towards his 
 home. Madeline, after watching his form through the deep- 
 ening shadows until it disappeared, entered the house with a 
 listless step; a nameless and thrilling presentiment crept to 
 her heart, and she could have sat down and wept, though 
 without a cause. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE INTERVIEW BETWEEN ARAM AND THE STRANGER. 
 
 The spirits I have raised abandon me ; 
 
 The spells which I have studied baffle me. — Manfred. 
 
 Meanwhile Aram strode rapidly through the village, and 
 not till he had regained the solitary valley did he relax his 
 step. 
 
 The evening had already deepened into night. Along the 
 sere and melancholy woods the autumnal winds crept with a 
 lowly but gathering moan. Where the water held its course, 
 a damp and ghostly mist clogged the air; but the skies were 
 calm, and checkered only by a few clouds that swept in long, 
 white, spectral streaks over the solemn stars. iSTow and then 
 the bat wheeled swiftly round, almost touching the figure of 
 the student as he walked musingly onward. And the owl,^ 
 that before the month waned many days would be seen no 
 more in that region, came heavily from the trees like a guilty 
 
 ^ That species called the short-eared owl. 
 
182 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 thought that deserts its shade. It was one of those nights, 
 half dim, half glorious, which mark the early decline of the 
 year. Nature seemed restless and instinct with change; there 
 were those signs in the atmosphere which leave the most 
 experienced in doubt whether the morning may rise in storm 
 or sunshine. And in this particular period, the skyey influ- 
 ences seem to tincture the animal life with their own myste- 
 rious and wayward spirit of change. The birds desert their 
 summer haunts; an unaccountable disquietude pervades the 
 brute creation; even men in this unsettled season have con- 
 sidered themselves, more than at others, stirred by the motion 
 and whisperings of their genius ; and every creature that flows 
 upon the tide of the Universal Life of Things feels upon the 
 ruffled surface the mighty and solemn change which is at work 
 within its depths. 
 
 And now Aram had nearly threaded the valley, and his own 
 abode became visible on the opening plain, when the stranger 
 emerged from the trees to the right, and suddenly stood before 
 the student. "I tarried for you here, Aram," said he, "in- 
 stead of seeking you at home at the time you fixed, for there 
 are certain private reasons which make it prudent I should 
 keep as much as possible among the owls ; and it was there- 
 fore safer, if not more pleasant, to lie here amidst the fern 
 than to make myself merry in the village yonder." 
 
 "And what," said Aram, "again brings you hither? Did 
 you not say, when you visited me some months since, that 
 you were about to settle in a different part of the country, 
 with a relation ? " 
 
 "And so I intended; but Fate, as you would say, or the 
 devil, as I should, ordered it otherwise. I had not long left 
 you when I fell in with some old friends, — bold spirits and 
 true, the brave outlaws of the road and the field. Shall I 
 have any shame in confessing that I preferred their society — 
 a society not unfamiliar to me — to the dull and solitary life 
 that I might have led in tending my old bedridden relation in 
 Wales, who, after all, may live these twenty years, and at 
 the end can scarcely leave me enough for a week's ill-luck at 
 the hazard-table ? In a word, I joined my gallant friends and 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 183 
 
 intrusted myself to their guidance. Since then, we have 
 cruised around tlie country, regaled ourselves cheerily, fright- 
 ened the timid, silenced the fractious, and by the help of 
 your fate, or my devil, have found ourselves, by accident, 
 brought to exhibit our valor in this very district, honored by 
 the dwelling-place of my learned friend Eugene Aram." 
 
 "Trifle not with me, Houseman," said Aram, sternly; "I 
 scarcely yet understand you. Do you mean to imply that 
 yourself and the lawless associates you say you have joined, 
 are lying out now for plunder in these parts?" 
 
 " You say it. Perhaps you heard of our exploits last night, 
 some four miles hence ? " 
 
 " Ha ! was that villany yours ? " 
 
 " Villany ! " repeated Houseman, in a tone of sullen offence. 
 "Come, Master Aram, these words must not pass between 
 you and me, friends of such date and on such a footing," 
 
 "Talk not of the past," replied Aram, with a livid lip, "and 
 call not those whom Destiny once, in despite of Nature, drove 
 down her dark tide in a momentary companionship, by the 
 name of friends. Friends we are not; but while we live there 
 is a tie betAveen us stronger than that of friendship." 
 
 "You speak truth and wisdom," said Houseman, sneeringly; 
 "for my part, I care not what you call us, — friends or foes." 
 
 "Foes, foes !" exclaimed Aram, abruptly; "not that. Has 
 life no medium in its ties? Pooh, pooh! not foes; we may 
 not be foes to each other." 
 
 "It were foolish, at least at present," said Houseman, 
 carelessly. 
 
 "Look you, Houseman," continued Aram, drawing his com- 
 rade from the path into a wilder part of the scene ; and as he 
 spoke, his words were couched in a more low and inward voice 
 than heretofore, — "look you, I cannot live and have my life 
 darkened thus by your presence. Is not the world wide 
 enough for us both ? Why haunt each other ? What have 
 you to gain from me ? Can the thoughts that my sight recalls 
 to you be brighter or more peaceful than those which start 
 upon me when I gaze on you ? Does not a ghastly air, a 
 charnel -breath, hover about us both ? Why perversely incur 
 
184 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 a torture it is so easy to avoid? Leave me, leave these scenes. 
 All earth spreads before you: choose your pursuits and your 
 resting-place elsewhere, but grudge me not this little spot." 
 
 " I have no wish to disturb you, Eugene Aram, but I must 
 live; and in order to live I must obey my companions: if I 
 deserted them, it would be to starve. They will not linger 
 long in this district, — a week, it may be, a fortnight at most; 
 then, like the Indian animal, they will strip the leaves and 
 desert the tree. In a word, after we have swept the country, 
 we are gone." 
 
 " Houseman, Houseman ! " said Aram, passionately, and 
 frowning till his brows almost hid his eyes, — but that part of 
 the orb which they did not hide seemed as living fire, — "I 
 now implore, but I can threaten, — beware! Silence, I say!" 
 and he stamped his foot violently on the ground, as he saw 
 Houseman about to interrupt him; "listen to me throughout. 
 Speak not to me of tarrying here, — speak not of days, of 
 weeks, every hour of which would sound upon my ear like a 
 death-knell. Dream not of a sojourn in these tranquil shades 
 upon an errand of dread and violence, — the minions of the 
 law aroused against you, girt with the chances of apprehen- 
 sion and a shameful death — " 
 
 "And a full confession of my past sins," interrupted House- 
 man, laughing wildly. 
 
 " Fiend, devil ! " cried Aram, grasping his comrade by the 
 throat, and shaking him m'ith a vehemence that Houseman, 
 though a man of great strength and sinew, impotently at- 
 tempted to resist. "Breathe but another word of such im- 
 port; dare to menace me with the vengeance of such a thing 
 as thou, — and by the Heaven above us I will lay thee dead 
 at my feet ! " 
 
 "Release my throat, or you will commit murder," gasped 
 Houseman, with difficulty, and growing already black in the 
 face. 
 
 Aram suddenly relinquished his gripe and walked away with 
 a hurried step, muttering to himself. He then returned to 
 the side of Houseman, whose flesh still quivered either with 
 rage or fear, and. his own self-possession completely restored, 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 185 
 
 stood gazing upon him with folded arms and his usual deep 
 and passionless composure of countenance; and Houseman, 
 if he could not boldly confront, did not altogether shrink 
 from, his eye. So there and thus they stood, at a little dis- 
 tance from each other, both silent, and yet with something 
 unutterably fearful in their silence. 
 
 "Houseman," said Aram at length, in a calm yet a hollow 
 voice, "it -may be that I was wrong; but there lives no man 
 on earth, save you, who could thus stir my blood, — nor you 
 with ease. And know, when you menace me, that it is not 
 your menace that subdues or shakes my spirit; but that which 
 robs my veins of their even tenor is that you should deem 
 your menace could have such power, or that you — that any 
 man — should arrogate to himself the thought that he could, 
 by the prospect of whatsoever danger, humble the soul and 
 curb the will of Eugene Aram. And now I am calm; say 
 what you will, I cannot be vexed again." 
 
 "I have done," replied Houseman, coldly. "I have noth- 
 ing to say; farewell! " and he moved away among the trees. 
 
 "Stay," cried Aram, in some agitation, "stay; we must not 
 part thus. Look you, Houseman, you say you would starve 
 should you leave your present associates. That may not be : 
 quit them this night, this moment; leave the neighborhood, 
 and the little in my power is at your will." 
 
 "As to that," said Houseman, dryly, "what is in your 
 power is, I fear me, so little as not to counterbalance the ad- 
 vantages I should lose in quitting my companions. I expect 
 to net some three hundreds before I leave these parts." 
 
 "Some three hundreds!" repeated Aram, recoiling; "that 
 were indeed beyond me. I told you when we last met 
 that it is only from an annual payment I draw the means of 
 subsistence." 
 
 "I remember it. I do not ask you for money, Eugene Aram; 
 these hands can maintain me," replied Houseman, smiling 
 grimly. " I told you at once the sum I expected to receive 
 somewhere, in order to prove that you need not vex your be- 
 nevolent heart to afford me relief. I knew well the sum I 
 named was out of your power, — unless, indeed, it be part of 
 
186 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 the marriage portion you are about to receive with your bride. 
 Fie, Aram! wliat secrets from your old friend! You see I 
 pick up tlie news of tlie place without your confidence." 
 
 Again Aram's face worked and his lip quivered; but he 
 conquered his passion with a surprising self-command, and 
 answered mildly, — 
 
 "I do not know, Houseman, whether I shall receive any 
 marriage portion whatsoever; if I do, I am willing to make 
 some arrangement by which I could engage you to molest me 
 no more. But it yet wants several days to my marriage: 
 quit the neighborhood now, and a month hence let us meet 
 again. Whatever at that time may be my resources, you 
 shall frankly know them." 
 
 "It cannot be," said Houseman. "I quit not these districts 
 without a certain sum, not in hope, but possession. But 
 why interfere with me? I seek not my hoards in your coffer. 
 Why so anxious that I should not breathe the same air as 
 yourself ? " 
 
 "It matters not," replied Aram, with a deep and ghastly 
 voice; "but when you are near me, I feel as if I were with 
 the dead: it is a spectre that I would exorcise in ridding me 
 of your presence. Yet this is not what I now speak of. You 
 are engaged, according to your own lips, in lawless and mid- 
 night schemes, in which you may (and the tide of chances 
 runs towards that bourn) be seized by the hand of Justice." 
 
 "Ho!" said Houseman, sullenly, "and was it not for say- 
 ing that you feared this, and its probable consequences, that 
 3'ou well-nigh stifled me but now ? So truth may be said one 
 moment with impunity, and the next at peril of life! These 
 are the subtleties of you wise schoolmen, I suppose. Your 
 Aristotles and your Zenos, your Platos and your Epicuruses, 
 teach you notable distinctions, truly ! " 
 
 "Peace! " said Aram; "are we at all times ourselves ? Are 
 the passions never our masters ? You maddened me into 
 anger. Behold, I am now calm; the subjects discussed be- 
 tween myself and you are of life and death : let us approach 
 them with our senses collected and prepared. What, House- 
 man, are you bent upon your own destruction, as well as 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 187 
 
 mine, that you persevere in courses which must end in a death 
 of shame ? " 
 
 " What else can I do ? I will not work, and I cannot live 
 like you in a lone wilderness on a crust of bread. Nor is my 
 name, like yours, mouthed by the praise of honest men, — my 
 character is marked; those who once welcomed me shun me 
 now. I have no resource for society (for /cannot face myself 
 alone) but in the fellowship of men like myself, whom the 
 world has thrust from its pale. I have no resource for bread 
 save in the pursuits that are branded by justice and accompa- 
 nied with snares and danger. What would you have me do ? " 
 
 "Is it not better," said Aram, "to enjoy peace and safety 
 upon a small but certain pittance than to live thus from hand 
 to mouth, — vibrating from wealth to famine, and the rope 
 around your neck, sleeping and awake ? Seek your relation, 
 — in that quarter you yourself said your character was not 
 branded, — live with him, and know the quiet of easy days; 
 and I promise you that if aught be in my power to make your 
 lot more suitable to your wants, so long as you lead the life 
 of honest men it shall be freely yours. Is not this better, 
 Houseman, than a short and sleepless career of dread ? " 
 
 "Aram," answered Houseman, "are you, in truth, calm 
 enough to hear me speak ? I warn you that if again you for- 
 get yourself and lay hands on me — " 
 
 "Threaten not, threaten not," interrupted Aram, "but pro- 
 ceed; all within me is now still and cold as ice. Proceed 
 without fear or scriiple." 
 
 " Be it so. We do not love one another : you have affected 
 contempt for me ; and I — I — no matter — I am not a stone 
 or a stick, that I should not feel. You have scorned me, you 
 have outraged me, you have not assumed towards me even the 
 decent hypocrisies of prudence; yet now you would ask of me 
 the conduct, the sympathy, the forbearance, the concession 
 of friendship. You wish that I should quit these scenes, 
 where to my judgment a certain advantage awaits me, solely 
 that I may lighten your breast of its selfish fears. You dread 
 the dangers that await me on your own account. And in my 
 apprehension you forbode your own doom. You ask me — 
 
188 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 nay, not ask, you would command, you would awe me — to 
 sacrifice my will and wishes in order to soothe your anxieties 
 and strengthen your own safety. Mark me, Eugene Aram, I 
 have been treated as a tool, and I will not be governed as a 
 friend. I will not stir from the vicinity of your home till 
 my designs be fulfilled; I enjoy, I hug myself in your tor- 
 ments. I exult in the terror with which you will hear of 
 each new enterprise, each new daring, each new triumph of 
 myself and my gallant comrades. And now I am avenged for 
 the affront you put upon me." 
 
 Though Aram trembled with suppressed passions from limb 
 to limb, his voice was still calm, and his lip even wore a smile 
 as he answered, — 
 
 "I was prepared for this. Houseman; you utter nothing 
 that surprises or appals me. You hate me : it is natural ; men 
 united as we are, rarely look on each other with a friendly or 
 a pitying eye. But, Houseman, I know you! — you are a 
 man of vehement passions, but interest with you is yet 
 stronger than passion. If not, our conference is over. Go, 
 and do your worst." 
 
 "You are right, most learned scholar; I can fetter the tiger 
 within, in his deadliest rage, by a golden chain." 
 
 " Well, then, Houseman, it is not your interest to betray me 
 — my destruction is your own." 
 
 "I grant it; but if I am apprehended, and to be hung for 
 robbery ? " 
 
 "It will be no longer an object to you to care for my safety. 
 Assuredly I comprehend this. But my interest induces me to 
 wish that you be removed from the peril of apprehension; and 
 your interest replies that if you can obtain equal advantages 
 in security, you would forego advantages accompanied by 
 peril. Say what we will, wander as we will, it is to this 
 point that we must return at last." 
 
 "Nothing can be clearer; and were you a rich man, Eugene 
 Aram, or could you obtain your bride's dowry (no doubt a 
 respectable sum) in advance, the arrangement might at once 
 be settled." 
 
 Aram gasped for breath and, as usual with him in emotion, 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 189 
 
 made several strides, muttering rapidly and indistinctly to 
 himself, and then returned. 
 
 " Even were this possible, it would be but a short reprieve. 
 I could not trust you; the sum would be spent, and I again in 
 the state to which you have compelled me now, but without 
 the means again to relieve myself. No, no; if the blow must 
 fall, be it so one day as another." 
 
 "As you will," said Houseman; "but — " Just at that 
 moment a long shrill whistle sounded below, as from the 
 water. Houseman paused abruptly. " That signal is from my 
 comrades; I must away. Hark, again! Farewell, Aram!" 
 
 " Farewell, if it must be so, " said Aram, in a tone of dogged 
 sullenness; "but to-morrow, should you know of any means 
 by which I could feel secure, beyond the security of your own 
 word, from your future molestation, I might — Yet how ?" 
 
 "To-morrow," said Houseman, "I cannot ansAver for my- 
 self; it is not always that I can leave my comrades, — a nat- 
 ural jealousy makes them suspicious of the absence of their 
 friends. Yet hold: the night after to-morrow, the Sabbath 
 night, most virtuous Aram, lean meet you; but not here, — 
 some miles hence. You know the foot of the Devil's Crag, 
 by the waterfall : it is a spot quiet and shaded enough in all 
 conscience for our interview; and I will tell you a secret I 
 would trust no other man (hark, again!), — it is close by our 
 present lurking-place. Meet me there. It would, indeed, be 
 pleasanter to hold our conference under shelter, but just at 
 present I would rather not trust myself beneath any honest 
 man's roof in this neighborhood. Adieu! on Sunday night, 
 one hour before midnight." 
 
 The robber, for such then he was, waved his hand and hur- 
 ried away in the direction from which the signal seemed to 
 come. 
 
 Aram gazed after him, but with vacant eyes, and remained 
 for several minutes rooted to the spot, as if the very life had 
 left him. 
 
 "The Sabbath night!" said he, at length, moving slowly 
 on; "and I must spin forth my existence in trouble and fear 
 till then. Till then! What remedy can I then invent? It 
 
190 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 is clear that I can have no dependence on his word, if won; 
 and I have not even aught wherewith to buy it. But courage, 
 courage, my heart, and work thou, my busy brain, — ye have 
 never failed me yet! " 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 FRESH ALARM IN THE VILLAGE. — LESTEr's VISIT TO ARAM. 
 
 A TRAIT OF DELICATE KINDNESS IN THE STUDENT. MAD- 
 ELINE. HER PRONENESS TO CONFIDE. THE CONVERSATION 
 
 BETWEEN LESTER AND ARAM, THE PERSONS BY WHOM IT 
 
 IS INTERRUPTED. 
 
 Not my own fears, nor the prophetic soul 
 
 Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come, 
 
 Can yet the lease of my true love control. 
 
 Shakspeare : Sonnets. 
 
 Commend me to their loves, and, I am proud, say, that my occasions have 
 found time to use 'em toward a supply of money ; let the request be fifty 
 talents. — Timon of Athens. 
 
 The next morning the whole village was alive and bustling 
 with terror and consternation. Another, and a yet more 
 daring, robbery had been committed in the neighborhood, and 
 the police of the county town had been summoned, and were 
 now busy in search of the offenders. Aram had been early 
 disturbed by the oiBcious anxiety of some of his neighbors, 
 and it wanted yet some hours of noon when Lester himself 
 came to seek and consult with the student. 
 
 Aram was alone in his large and gloomy chamber, sur- 
 rounded, as usual, by his books, but not, as usual, engaged in 
 their contents. With his face leaning on his hand, and his 
 eyes gazing on a dull fire that crept heavily upAvard through 
 the damp fuel, he sat by his hearth, listless, but wrapped in 
 thought. 
 
 "Well, my friend," said Lester, displacing the books from 
 
EUGKNP: ARAM. 191 
 
 one of the chairs, and drawing the seat near the student's, 
 "you have ere tliis heard the news, — and, indeed, in a county 
 so quiet as ours, tliese outrages appear the more fearful from 
 their being so unlooked for. We must set a guard on the vil- 
 lage, Aram, and you must leave this defenceless hermitage and 
 come down to us, — not for your own sake, but consider you 
 will be an additional safeguard to Madeline. You will lock 
 up the house, dismiss your poor old governante to her friends 
 in the village, and walk back with me at once to the Hall." 
 
 Aram turned uneasily in his chair. "I feel your kindness," 
 said he, after a pause, "but I cannot accept it; Madeline — " 
 He stopped short at that name, and added, in an altered voice : 
 "No, I will be one of the watch, Lester, I will look to her — 
 to your — safety; but I cannot sleep under another roof. I 
 am superstitious, Lester, — superstitious. I have made avow, 
 — a foolish one, perhaps; but I dare not break it. And my 
 vow binds me not to pass a night, save on indispensable and 
 urgent necessity, anywhere but in my own home." 
 
 "But there is necessity." 
 
 "My conscience says not," said Aram, smiling. "Peace, 
 my good friend; we cannot conquer men's foibles, or wrestle 
 with men's scruples." 
 
 Lester in vain attempted to shake Aram's resolution on this 
 head; he found him immovable, and gave up the effort in 
 despair. 
 
 " Well, " said he, " at all events we hav e set up a watch, and 
 can spare you a couple of defenders. They shall reconnoitre 
 in the neighborhood of your house if you persevere in your 
 determination; and this will serve, in some slight measure, 
 to satisfy poor Madeline." 
 
 "Be it so," replied Aram; "and dear Madeline herself, is 
 she so alarmed ? " 
 
 And now, in spite of all the more wearing and haggard 
 thoughts that preyed upon his breast, and the dangers by 
 which he conceived himself beset, the student's face, as he 
 listened with eager attention to every word that Lester uttered 
 concerning his daughter, testified how alive he yet was to the 
 least incident that related to Madeline, and how easily her 
 
192 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 innocent and peaceful remembrance co;il(l allnre him from 
 himself. 
 
 "This room," said Lester, looking round, "will be, I con- 
 clude, after Madeline's own heart; but will you always suffer 
 her here ? Students do not sometimes like even the gentlest 
 interruption. " 
 
 "I have not forgotten that Madeline's comfort requires some 
 more cheerful retreat than this," said Aram, with a melan- 
 choly expression of countenance. "Follow me, Lester: I 
 meant this for a little surjorise to her. But Heaven only 
 knows if I shall ever show it to herself." 
 
 "Why, what doubt of that can even your boding temper 
 indulge ? " 
 
 "We are as the wanderers in the desert," answered Aram, 
 "who are taught wisely to distrust their own senses: that 
 which they gaze upon as the waters of existence is often but 
 a faithless vapor that would lure them to destruction." 
 
 In thus speaking, he had traversed the room, and opening a 
 door, showed a small chamber with which it communicated, 
 and which Aram had fitted up with evident and not ungrace- 
 ful care. Every article of furniture that jVradeline might most 
 fancy, he had procured from the neighboring town. And 
 some of the lighter and more attractive books that he pos- 
 sessed, were ranged around on shelves, above which were 
 vases, intended for flowers; the window opened upon a little 
 plot that had been lately broken up into a small garden, and 
 was already intersected with walks, and rich with shrubs. 
 
 There was something in this chamber that so entirely con- 
 trasted the one it adjoined, something so light and cheerful 
 and even gay in its decoration and general aspect, that Lester 
 uttered an exclamation of delight and surprise. And indeed 
 it did appear to him touching that this austere scholar, so 
 wrapped in thought and so inattentive to the common forms 
 of life, should have manifested so much of tender and delicate 
 consideration. In another it would have been nothing; but 
 in Aram it was a trait that brought involuntary tears to the 
 eyes of the good Lester. Aram observed them; he walked 
 hastily away to the window, and sighed heavily. This did 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 193 
 
 not escape his friend's notice, and after commenting on the 
 attractions of the little room, Lester said, — 
 
 *' You seem oppressed in spirits, Eugene : can anything have 
 chanced to disturb you, — beyond, at least, these alarms, which 
 are enough to agitate the nerves of the hardiest of. us ? " 
 
 "No," said Aram; "I had no sleep last night, and my health 
 is easily affected, and with my health my mind. But let us 
 go to Madeline; the sight of her will revive me." 
 
 They then strolled down to the manor-house, and met by 
 the way a band of the younger heroes of the village, who had 
 volunteered to act as a patrol, and who were now marshalled 
 by Peter Dealtry, in a tit of heroic enthusiasm. 
 
 Although it was broad daylight, and consequently there was 
 little cause of immediate alarm, the worthy publican carried 
 on his shoulder a musket on full cock; and each moment he 
 kept peeping about, as if not only every bush, but every blade 
 of grass, contained an ambuscade ready to spring up the in- 
 stant he was off his guard. By his side the redoubted Jaco- 
 bina, who had transferred to her new master the attachment 
 she had originally possessed for the corporal, trotted peer- 
 ingly along, her tail perpendicularly cocked, and her ears 
 moving to and fro with a most incomparable air of vigilant 
 sagacity. The cautious Peter every now and then checked 
 her ardor as she was about to quicken her step and enliven 
 the march by gambols better adapted to serener times. 
 
 "Soho, Jacobina, soho! gently, girl, gently; thou little 
 knowest the dangers that may beset thee. Come up, my good 
 fellows, come to The Spotted Dog, — I will tap a barrel on 
 purpose for you; and we will settle the plan of defence for 
 the night. Jacobina, come in, I say; come in, — 
 
 " ' Lest, like a lion, they thee tear. 
 And rend in pieces small, 
 "While there is none to succor thee, 
 And rid thee out of thrall.' 
 
 What ho, there! Oh! I beg your honor's pardon! Your 
 servant, Mr. Aram." 
 
 13 
 
194 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "What, patrolling already ?" said the squire. "Your men 
 will be tired before they are wanted; reserve their ardor for 
 the night." 
 
 " Oh, your honor, I have only been beating up for recruits ; 
 and we are going to consult a bit at home. Ah! what a pity 
 the corporal is n't here ; he would have been a tower of strength 
 unto the righteous. But howsomever, I do my best to supply 
 his place. — Jacobina, child, be still. — I can't say as I knows 
 the musket-sarvice, your honor; but I fancies as how we can 
 do it extemporaneous -like at a pinch." 
 
 "A bold heart, Peter, is the best preparation," said the 
 squire. 
 
 "And," quoth Peter, quickly, "what saith the worshipful 
 Mister Sternhold, in the forty -fifth Psalm, fourth verse ? — 
 
 " 'Go forth with godly speed, in meekness, truth, and riglit. 
 
 And thy right hand shall thee instruct in works of dreadful might.' " 
 
 Peter quoted these verses, especially the last, with a trucu- 
 lent frown and a brandishing of the musket that surprisingly 
 encouraged the hearts of his little armament; and with a gen- 
 eral murmur of enthusiasm the warlike band marched off to 
 The Spotted Dog. 
 
 Lester and his companion found Madeline and Ellinor stand- 
 ing at the window of the hall, and Madeline's light step was 
 the first that sprang forward to welcome their return; even 
 the face of the student brightened when he saw the kindling 
 eye, the parted lip, the buoyant form, from which the pure 
 and innocent gladness she felt on seeing him broke forth. 
 
 There was a remarkable tricsffulness in Madeline's disposi- 
 tion. Thoughtful and grave as she was by nature, she was 
 yet ever inclined to the more sanguine colorings of life ; she 
 never turned to the future with fear, — a placid sentiment of 
 hope slept at her heart; she was one who surrendered herself 
 with a fond and implicit faith to the guidance of all she loved, 
 and to the chances of life. It was a sweet indolence of the 
 mind which made one of her most beautiful traits of charac- 
 ter: there is something so unselfish in tempers reluctant to 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 196 
 
 despond. You see that such persons are not occupied with 
 their own existence; they are not fretting the calm of the 
 present life with the egotisms of care and conjecture and cal- 
 culation; if they learn anxiety, it is for another: but in the 
 heart of that other how entire is their trust! 
 
 It was this disposition in Madeline which perpetually 
 charmed, and yet perpetually wrung, the soul of her wild 
 lover ; and as she now delightedly hung upon his arm, utter- 
 ing her joy at seeing him safe, and presently forgetting that 
 there ever had been cause for alarm, his heart was filled with 
 the most gloomy sense of horror and desolation. "What," 
 thought he, " if this poor unconscious girl could dream that 
 at this moment I am girded with peril from which I see no 
 ultimate escape ? Delay it as I will, it seems as if the blow 
 must come at last. What if she could think how fearful is 
 my interest in these outrages, — that in all probability, if 
 their authors are detected, there is one who will drag me into 
 their ruin; that 1 am given over, bound and blinded, into the 
 hands of another; and that other a man steeled to mercy, and 
 withheld from my destruction by a thread, — a thread that a 
 blow on himself would snap. Great God! wherever I turn, 
 I see despair. And she, — she clings to me; and beholding 
 me, thinks the whole earth is filled with hope ! " 
 
 While these thoughts darkened his mind, Madeline drew 
 him onward into the more sequestered walks of the garden, to 
 show him some flowers she had transplanted. And when an 
 hour afterwards he returned to the Hall, so soothing had been 
 the influence of her looks and words upon Aram that if he 
 had not forgotten the situation in which he stood, he had at 
 least calmed himself to regard with a steady eye the chances 
 of escape. 
 
 The meal of the day passed as cheerfully as usual; and 
 when Aram and his host were left over their abstemious po- 
 tations, the former proposed a walk before the evening deep- 
 ened. Lester readily consented, and they sauntered into the 
 fields. The squire soon perceived that something was on 
 Aram's mind, of which he felt evident embarrassment in rid- 
 ding himself; at length the student said, rather abruptly, — 
 
196 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " My clear friend, I am but a bad beggar, and therefore let 
 me get over my request as expeditiously as possible. You 
 said to me once that you intended bestowing some dowry upon 
 Madeline, — a dowry I would and could willingly dispense 
 with; but should you of that sum be now able to spare me 
 some portion as a loan, should you have some tliree hundred 
 pounds with which you could accommodate me — " 
 
 "Say no more, Eugene, say no more," interrupted the 
 squire ; " you can have double that amount. I ought to have 
 foreseen that your preparations for your approaching mar- 
 riage must have occasioned you some inconvenience : you can 
 have six hundred pounds from me to-morrow." 
 
 Aram's eyes brightened. "It is too much, too much, my 
 generous friend," said he, — "the half suffices; but — but, a 
 debt of old standing presses me urgently, and to-morrow, or 
 rather Monday morning, is the time fixed for payment." 
 
 "Consider it arranged," said Lester, putting his hand on 
 Aram's arm; and then, leaning on it gently, he added, "and 
 now that we are on this subject, let me tell you what I in- 
 tended as a gift to you and my dear Madeline. It is but 
 small, but my estates are rigidly entailed on Walter, and of 
 poor value in themselves, and it is half the savings of many 
 years." 
 
 The squire then named a sum which, however small it may 
 seem to our reader, was not considered a despicable portion 
 for the daughter of a small country squire at that day, and 
 was in reality a generous sacrifice for one whose whole in- 
 come was scarcely, at the most, seven hundred a year. The 
 sum mentioned doubled that now to be lent, and which was 
 of course a part of it; an equal portion was reserved for 
 Ellinor. 
 
 "And to tell you the truth," said the squire, "you must 
 give me some little time for the remainder; for not thinking, 
 some months ago, it would be so soon wanted, I laid out 
 eighteen hundred pounds in the purchase of Winclose farm, 
 six of which (the remainder of your share) I can pay off at 
 the end of the year: the other twelve, Ellinor's portion, will 
 remain a mortgage on the farm itself. And between us," 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 197 
 
 added the squire, " I do hope that I need be in no hurry re- 
 specting her, dear girl. When Walter returns, I trust mat- 
 ters may be arranged in a manner and through a channel 
 that would gratify the most cherished wish of my heart. I 
 am convinced that Ellinor is exactly suited to him ; and un- 
 less he should lose his senses for some one else in the course 
 of his travels, I trust that he will not be long returned before 
 he will make the same discovery. I think of writing to him 
 very shortly after your marriage, and making him promise, 
 at all events, to revisit us at Christmas. Ah! Eugene, we 
 shall be a happy party then, I trust. And be assured that we 
 shall beat up your quarters, and put your hospitality and 
 Madeline's housewifery to the test." 
 
 Therewith the good squire ran on for some minutes in the 
 warmth of his heart, dilating on the fireside prospects before 
 them, and rallying the student on those secluded habits which 
 he promised him he should no longer indulge with impunity. 
 
 "But it is growing dark," said he, awakening from the 
 theme which had carried him away, " and by this time Peter 
 and our patrol will be at the Hall; I told them to look up in 
 the evening, in order to appoint their several duties and sta- 
 tions. Let us turn back. Indeed, Aram, I can assure you that 
 I, for my own part, have some strong reasons to take precau- 
 tions against any attack; for besides the old family plate 
 (though that's not much), I have — you know the bureau in 
 the parlor to the left of the hall ? — well, I have in that bu- 
 reau three hundred guineas, which I have not as yet been able 
 
 to take to safe hands at , and which, by the way, will be 
 
 yours to-morrow. So you see it would be no light misfortune 
 to me to be robbed." 
 
 "Hist! " said Aram, stopping short; "I think I heard steps 
 on the other side of the hedge." 
 
 The squire listened, but heard nothing; the senses of his 
 companion were, however, remarkably acute, more especially 
 that of hearing. 
 
 "There is certainly some one, — nay, I catch the steps of 
 two persons," whispered he to Lester. 
 
 "Let us come round the hedge by the gap below." 
 
198 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 They both quickened their pace ; and gaining the other side 
 of the hedge, did indeed perceive two men, in carters' frocks, 
 strolling on towards the village. 
 
 "They are strangers too," said the squire, suspiciously; 
 "not Grassdale men. Humph! could they have overheard us, 
 think you ? " 
 
 " If men whose business it is to overhear their neighbors, — 
 yes ; but not if they be honest men, " answered Aram, in one 
 of those shrewd remarks which he often uttered, and which 
 seemed almost incompatible with the tenor of those quiet and 
 abstruse pursuits that generally deaden the mind to worldly 
 wisdom. 
 
 They had now approached the strangers, who, however, 
 appeared mere rustic clowns, and who pulled off their hats 
 with the wonted obeisance of their tribe. 
 
 "Holla! my men," said the squire, assuming his magis- 
 terial air; for the mildest squire in Christendom can play the 
 bashaw when he remembers he is a justice of the peace. 
 " Holla ! what are you doing here this time of the day ? You 
 are not after any good, I fear." 
 
 " We ax pardon, your honor, " said the elder clown, in the 
 peculiar accent of the country, "but we be come from Glads- 
 muir, and be going to work at Squire Nixon's, at Mowhall, on 
 Monday; so as I has a brother living on the green afore the 
 squire's, we be a-going to sleep at his house to-night and spend 
 the Sunday there, your honor." 
 
 " Humph, humph ! What 's your name ? " 
 
 "Joe Wood, your honor; and this here chap is Will 
 Hutchings." 
 
 "Well, well, go along with you," said the squire; "and 
 mind what you are about. I should not be surprised if you 
 snared one of Squire Nixon's hares by the way." 
 
 " Oh, well and indeed, your honor — " 
 
 " Go along, go along, " said the squire, and away went the 
 men. 
 
 " They seem honest bumpkins enough, " observed Lester. 
 
 "It would have pleased me better," said Aram, "had the 
 speaker of the two particularized less ; and you observed that 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 199 
 
 he seemed eager not to let his companion speak, — that is a 
 little suspicious." 
 
 " Shall I call them back ? " asked the squire, 
 "Why, it is scarcely worth while," said Aram; "perhaps I 
 over-refine. And now I look again at them, they seem really 
 what they affect to be. No, it is useless to molest the poor 
 wretches any more. There is something, Lester, humbling to 
 human pride in a rustic's life. It grates against the heart to 
 think of the tone in which we unconsciously permit ourselves 
 to address him. We see in him humanity in its simple state : it 
 is a sad thought to feel that we despise it; that all we respect 
 in ou.r species is what has been created by art, — the gaudy 
 dress, the glittering equipage, or even the cultivated intellect; 
 the mere and naked material of nature we eye with indiffer- 
 ence or trample on with disdain. Poor child of toil, from the 
 gray dawn to the setting sun one long task; no idea elicited, 
 no thought awakened beyond those that suffice to make him 
 the machine of others, — the serf of the hard soil! And then, 
 too, mark how we scowl upon his scanty holidays, how we 
 hedge in his mirth with laws, and turn his hilarity into crime ! 
 We make the whole of the gay world, wherein we walk and 
 take our pleasure, to him a place of snares and perils. If he 
 leave his labor for an instant, in that instant how many temp- 
 tations spring up to him ! And yet we have no mercy for his 
 errors; the jail, the transport-ship, the gallows, — those are the 
 illustrations of our lecture-books, those the bounds of every 
 vista that we cut through the labyrinth of our laws. Ah, fie 
 on the disparities of the world ! They cripple the heart, they 
 blind the sense, they concentrate the thousand links between 
 man and man into the two basest of earthly ties, — servility 
 and pride. Methinks the devils laugh out when they hear us 
 tell the boor that his soul is as glorious and eternal as our 
 own, when in the grinding drudgery of his life not a spark 
 of that soul can be called forth, — when it sleeps, walled round 
 in its lumpish clay, from the cradle to the grave, without a 
 dream to stir the deadness of its torpor." 
 
 "And yet, Aram," said Lester, "the lords of science have 
 their ills. Exalt the soul as you will, you cannot raise it 
 
200 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 above pain. Better, perhaps, to let it sleep, since in waging 
 it looks only upon a world of trial." 
 
 "You say well, you say well," said Aram, smiting his 
 heart; "and I suffered a foolish sentiment to carry me beyond 
 the sober boundaries of our daily sense." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MILITARY PREPARATIONS. THE COMMANDER AND HIS MEN. 
 
 ARAM IS PERSUADED TO PASS THE NIGHT AT THE MANOR- 
 HOUSE. 
 
 Falstaff. Bid my lieutenant Peto meet me at the town's end. ... I 
 pressed me none but such toasts and butter, with hearts in tlieir bellies no 
 bigger than pins' heads. — First Part of King Henry IV. 
 
 They had scarcely reached the manor-house before the rain, 
 which the clouds had portended throughout the whole day, 
 began to descend in torrents, and, to use the strong expression 
 of the Latin poet, the night rushed down, black and sudden, 
 over the face of the earth. 
 
 The new watch were not by any means the hardy and expe- 
 rienced soldiery by whom rain and darkness are unheeded. 
 They looked with great dismay upon the character of the 
 night in which their campaign was to commence. The valor- 
 ous Peter, who had sustained his own courage by repeated ap- 
 plications to a little bottle which he never failed to carry 
 about him in all the more bustling and enterprising occasions 
 of life, endeavored, but with partial success, to maintain the 
 ardor of his band. Seated in the servants' hall of the manor- 
 house in a large armchair, Jacobina on his knee, and his 
 trusty musket, which, to the great terror of the womankind, 
 had never been uncocked throughout the day, still grasped in 
 his right hand, while the stock was grounded on the floor, he 
 indulged in martial harangues, plentifully interlarded with 
 plagiarisms from the worshipful translations of Messrs. Stern- 
 liold and Hopkins, and psalmodic versions of a more doubtful 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 201 
 
 authorship. And when at the hour of ten, which was the 
 appointed time, he led his warlike force, which consisted of 
 six rustics armed with sticks of incredible thickness, three 
 guns, one pistol, a broadsword, and a pitchfork (the last a 
 weapon likely to be more effectively used than all the rest 
 put together), — when at the hour of ten he led them up to the 
 room above, where they were to be passed in review before the 
 critical eye of the squire, with Jacobina leading the on-guard, 
 you could not fancy a prettier picture for a horo in a little 
 way than mine host of The Spotted Dog. 
 
 His hat was fastened tight on his brows by a blue pocket- 
 handkerchief; he wore a spencer of a light-brown diugget, a 
 world too loose, above a leather jerkin; his breeches, of cor- 
 duroy, were met all of a sudden, half way up the thigh, by a 
 detachment of Hessians, formerly in the service of the cor- 
 poral, and bought some time since by Peter Dealtry to wear 
 when employed in shooting snipes for the squire, to whom he 
 occasionally performed the office of gamekeeper; suspended 
 round his wrist by a bit of black ribbon was his constable's 
 baton. He shouldered his musket gallantly, and he carried 
 his person as erect as if the least deflection from its perpen- 
 dicularity were to cost him his life. One may judge of the 
 revolution that had taken place in the village when so peace- 
 able a man as Peter Dealtry was thus metamorphosed into a 
 commander-in-chief! The rest of the regiment hung sheep- 
 ishly back, each trying to get as near to the door and as far 
 from the ladies as possible. But Peter, having made up his 
 mind that a hero should only look straight forward, did not 
 condescend to turn round to perceive the irregularity of his 
 line. Secure in his own existence, he stood truculently forth, 
 facing the squire, and prepared to receive his plaudits. 
 
 Madeline and Aram sat apart at one corner of the hearth, 
 and Ellinor leaned over the chair of the former, the mirth that 
 she struggled to suppress from being audible mantling over 
 her arch face and laughing eyes ; while the sc^uire, taking 
 the pipe from his mouth, turned round on his easy-chair 
 and nodded complacently to the little corps and the great 
 commander. 
 
202 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "We are all ready now, your honor," said Peter, in a voice 
 that did not seem to belong to his body, so big did it sound, 
 — "all hot, all eager." 
 
 "Why, you yourself are a host, Peter," said Ellinor, with 
 affected gravity; "your sight alone would frighten an army 
 of robbers. Who could have thought you could assume so 
 military an air? The corporal himself was never so up- 
 right!" 
 
 "I have practised my present ?iattitude all the day, miss," 
 said Peter, proudly; "and I believe I may now say as Mr. 
 Sternhold says, or sings, in the twenty-sixth Psalm, verse 
 twelfth, — 
 
 " ' My foot is stayed for all essays, 
 It standeth well and right ; 
 Wherefore to God will I give praise 
 In all the people's sight ! ' 
 
 Jacobina, behave yourself, child ! I don't think, your honor, 
 that we miss the corporal so much as I fancied at first, for we 
 all does very well without him." 
 
 "Indeed, you are a most worthy substitute, Peter. And 
 now, Nell, just reach me my hat and cloak; I will set you at 
 your posts. You will have an ugly night of it." 
 
 "Very indeed, your honor," cried all the army, speaking 
 for the first time. 
 
 " Silence ! order ! discipline ! " said Peter, gruffly. " March ! " 
 
 But instead of marching across the hall, the recruits hud- 
 dled up one after the other, like a flock of geese whom 
 Jacobina might be supposed to have set in motion, and 
 each scraping to the ladies as they shuffled, sneaked, bun- 
 dled, and bustled out at the door. 
 
 "We are well guarded now, Madeline," said Ellinor. "I 
 fancy we may go to sleep as safely as if there were not a 
 housebreaker in the world." 
 
 "Why," said Madeline, "let us trust they will be more 
 efficient than they seem; though I cannot persuade myself 
 that we shall really need them. One might almost as well 
 conceive a tiger in our arbor as a robber in Grassdale. But 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 203 
 
 dear, dear Eugene, do not, do not leave us this night; Walter's 
 room is ready for you, and if it were only to walk across that 
 valley in such weather, it would be cruel to leave us. Let me 
 beseech you. Come, you cannot, you dare not, refuse me such 
 a favor." 
 
 Aram pleaded his vow, but it was overruled; Madeline 
 proved herself a most exquisite casuist in setting it aside. 
 One by one his objections were broken down ; and how, as he 
 gazed into those eyes, could he keep any resolution that Mad- 
 eline wished him to break ? The power she possessed over 
 him seemed exactly in proportion to his impregnability to 
 every one else. The surface on which the diamond cuts its 
 easy way will yield to no more ignoble instrument; it is easy 
 to shatter it, but by only one pure and precious gem can it be 
 shaped. But if Aram remained at the house this night, how 
 could he well avoid a similar compliance the next ? And on 
 the next was his interview with Houseman. This reason for 
 resistance yielded to Madeline's soft entreaties, — he trusted 
 to the time to furnish him with excuses; and when Lester 
 returned, Madeline, with a triumphant air, informed him that 
 Aram had consented to be their guest for the night. 
 
 "Your influence is, indeed, greater than mine," said Lester, 
 wringing his hat as the delicate fingers of EUinor loosened 
 his cloak; "yet one can scarcely think our friend sacrifices 
 much in concession, after proving the weather without. I 
 should pity our poor patrol most exceedingly, if I were not 
 thoroughly assured that within two hours every one of them 
 will have quietly slunk home ; and even Peter himself, when 
 he has exhausted his bottle, will be the first to set the exam- 
 ple. However, I have stationed two of the men near our 
 house, and the rest at equal distances along the village." 
 
 " Do you really think they will go home, sir ? " said Ellinor, 
 in a little alarm. " Why, they would be worse than I thought 
 them if they were driven to bed by the rain. I knew they 
 could not stand a pistol, but a shower, however hard, I did 
 imagine would scarcely quench their valor." 
 
 "Never mind, girl," said Lester, gayly chucking her under 
 the chin, "we are quite strong enough now to resist them. 
 
204 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 You see Madeline has grown as brave as a lioness. Come, 
 girls, come; let's have supper, and stir up the fire. And, 
 Nell, where are my slippers ? " 
 
 And thus on the little family scene — the cheerful wood fire 
 flickering against the polished wainscot; the supper-table 
 arranged, the squire drawing his oak chair towards it, Ellinor 
 mixing his negus; and Aram and Madeline, though three 
 times summoned to the table, and having three times answered 
 to the summons, still lingering apart by the hearth — let us 
 drop the curtain. 
 
 We have only, ere we close our chapter, to observe that 
 when Lester conducted Aram to his chamber he placed in his 
 hands an order, payable at the county town, for three hundred 
 pounds. "The rest," he said in a whisper, "is below, where I 
 mentioned; and there, in my secret drawer, it had better rest 
 till the morning." 
 
 The good squire then, putting his finger to his lip, hurried 
 away to avoid the thanks which, indeed, whatever gratitude 
 lie might feel, Aram was ill able to express. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE SISTERS ALONE. THE GOSSIP OF LOVE. AN ALARM AND 
 
 AN EVENT. 
 
 Juliet. My true love has grov;n to such excess, 
 I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth. — Romeo and Juliet, 
 
 Eros. Oh, a man in arms ; 
 Plis weapon drawn too ! — The False One. 
 
 It was a custom with the two sisters, when they repaired to 
 their chamber for the night, to sit conversing, sometimes 
 even for hours, before they finally retired to bed. This, in- 
 deed, was the usual time for their little confidences and their 
 mutual dilations over those hopes and plans for the future 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 205 
 
 whicli always occupy the larger share of the thoughts and 
 conversation of the young. I do not know anything in the 
 world more lovely than such conferences between two beings 
 who have no secrets to relate but what arise, all fresh, from 
 the springs of a guiltless heart, — those pure and beautiful 
 mysteries of an unsullied nature which warm us to hear ; and 
 we think with a sort of wonder, when we feel how arid expe- 
 rience has made ourselves, that so much of the dew and sparkle 
 of existence still lingers in the nooks and valleys which are 
 as yet virgin of the sun and of mankind. 
 
 The sisters this night were more than commonly indifferent 
 to sleep. Madeline sat by the small but bright hearth of the 
 chamber in her night-dress; and Ellinor, who was much 
 prouder of her sister's beauty than her own, was employed in 
 knotting up the long and lustrous hair, which fell in rich 
 luxuriance over Madeline's throat and shoulders. 
 
 "There certainly never was such beautiful hair!" said 
 Ellinor, admiringly. "And, let me see, — yes, — on Thursday 
 fortnight I may be dressing it, perhaps for the last time! 
 Heigho!" 
 
 "Don't flatter yourself that you are so near the end of your 
 troublesome duties," said Madeline, with her pretty smile, 
 which had been much brighter and more frequent of late than 
 it was formerly wont to be ; so that Lester had remarked that 
 Madeline really appeared to have become the lighter and 
 gayer of the two. 
 
 "You will often come to stay with us for weeks together, at 
 least till — till you have a double right to be mistress here. 
 Ah! my poor hair, — you need not pull it so hard." 
 
 "Be quiet, then," said Ellinor, half laughing and wholly 
 blushing. 
 
 " Trust me, I have not been in love myself without learning 
 its signs ; and I venture to prophesy that within six months 
 you will come to consult me whether or not — for there is a 
 great deal to be said on both sides of the question — you can 
 make up your mind to sacrifice your own wishes and marry 
 Walter Lester. Ah! gently, gently! Nell — " 
 
 "Promise to be quiet." 
 
206 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "I will, I will; but you began it." 
 
 As Ellinor now finished her task and kissed her sister's 
 forehead, she sighed deeply. 
 
 " Happy Walter ! " said Madeline. 
 
 "I was not sighing for Walter, but for you." 
 
 " For me ? Impossible ! I cannot imagine any part of my 
 future life that can cost you a sigh. Ah, that I were more 
 worthy of my happiness ! " 
 
 "Well, then," said Ellinor, "I sighed for myself, — I sighed 
 to think we should so soon be parted, and that the continuance 
 of your society would then depend, not on our mutual love, 
 but on the will of another." 
 
 "What, Ellinor, and can you suppose that Eugene — my 
 Eugene — would not welcome you as warmly as myself ? Ah ! 
 you misjudge him; I know you have not yet perceived how 
 tender a heart lies beneath all that melancholy and reserve." 
 
 "I feel, indeed," said Ellinor, warmly, "as if it were im- 
 possible that one whom you love should not be all that is good 
 and noble. Yet if this reserve of his should increase, as is 
 at least possible, with increasing years ; if our society should 
 become again, as it once was, distasteful to him, — should I 
 not lose you, Madeline ? " 
 
 " But his reserve cannot increase : do you not perceive how 
 much it is softened already ? Ah ! be assured that I will 
 charm it away." 
 
 " But what is the cause of the melancholy that even now, 
 at times, evidently preys upon him ? Has he never revealed 
 it to you ? " 
 
 "It is merely the early and long habit of solitude and study, 
 Ellinor," replied Madeline. "And shall I own to you I would 
 scarcely wish that away ? His tenderness itself seems linked 
 with his melancholy, — it is like a sad but gentle music, that 
 brings tears into our eyes ; but who would change it for gayer 
 airs ? " 
 
 "Well, I must own," said Ellinor, reluctantly, " that I no 
 longer wonder at your infatuation; I can no longer chide you 
 as I once did, — there is, assuredly, something in his voice, 
 his look, which irresistibly sinks into the heart. And there 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 207 
 
 are moments when, what with his eyes and forehead, his 
 countenance seems more beautiful, more impressive, than any 
 I ever beheld. Perhaps, too, for you, it is better that your 
 lover should be no longer in the first flush of youth. Your 
 nature seems to require something to venerate as well as to 
 love. And I have ever observed, at prayers, that you seem 
 more especially rapt and carried beyond yourself in those ]3as- 
 sages which call peculiarly for worship and adoration." 
 
 "Yes, dearest," said Madeline, fervently. "I own that 
 Eugene is of all beings, not only of all whom I ever knew, but 
 of whom I ever dreamed or imagined, the one that I am most 
 fitted to love and to appreciate. His wisdom — but, more 
 than that, the lofty tenor of his mind — calls forth all that 
 is highest and best in my own nature. I feel exalted when I 
 listen to him; and yet, how gentle, with all that nobleness! 
 And to think that he should descend to love me, and so to 
 love me ! It is as if a star were to leave its sphere ! " 
 
 "Hark! one o'clock," said Ellinor, as the deep voice of the 
 clock told the first hour of morning. " Heavens ! how much 
 louder the winds rave! And how the heavy sleet drives 
 against the window! Our poor watch without — But you 
 may be sure my father was right, and they are safe at home 
 by this time; nor is it likely, I should think, that even rob- 
 bers would be abroad in such weather ! " 
 
 "I have heard," said Madeline, "that robbers generally 
 choose these dark, stormy nights for their designs; but I con- 
 fess I don't feel much alarm, and he is in the house. Draw 
 nearer to the fire, Ellinor; is it not pleasant to see how se- 
 renely it burns, while the storm howls without ? It is like 
 my Eugene's soul, luminous and lone amidst the roar and 
 darkness of this unquiet world ! " 
 
 "There spoke himself," said Ellinor, smiling to perceive 
 how invariably women who love, imitate the tone of the be- 
 loved one. And Madeline felt it, and smiled too. 
 
 "Hist!" said Ellinor, abruptly; "did you not hear a low, 
 grating noise below ? Ah ! the winds now prevent your catch- 
 ing the sound ; but hush, hiish ! The wind pauses ; there it is 
 again ! " 
 
208 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "Yes, I hear it," said Madeline, turning pale; "it seems 
 in the little parlor, — a continued, harsh, but very low, noise. 
 Good heavens! it seems at the window below." 
 
 "It is like a file," whispered Ellinor; "perhaps — " 
 
 "You are right," said Madeline, suddenly rising, — "it is a 
 file, and at the bars my father had fixed against the window 
 yesterday. Let us go down and alarm the house." 
 
 "No, no; for Heaven's sake don't be so rash," cried Elli- 
 nor, losing all presence of mind, "Hark! the sound ceases; 
 there is a louder noise below, and steps. Let us lock the 
 door." 
 
 But Madeline was of that fine and high order of spirit which 
 rises in proportion to danger; and calming her sister as well 
 as she could, she seized the light with a steady hand, opened 
 the door, and (Ellinor still clinging to her) passed the land- 
 ing-place and hastened to her father's room, — he slept at the 
 opposite corner of the staircase. Aram's chamber was at the 
 extreme end of the house. Before she reached the door of 
 Lester's apartment the noise below grew loud and distinct, 
 — a scuffle, voices, curses, and now the sound of a pistol! In 
 a minute more the whole house was stirring. Lester in his 
 night-robe, his broadsword in his hand, and his long gray 
 hair floating behind, was the first to appear; the servants, old 
 and young, male and female, now came thronging simultane- 
 ously round; and in a general body, Lester several paces at 
 their head, his daughters following next to him, they rushed 
 to the apartment whence the noise, now suddenly stilled, had 
 proceeded. 
 
 The window was opened, evidently by force; an instrument 
 like a wedge was fixed in the bureau containing Lester's 
 money, and seemed to have been left there, as if the person 
 using it had been disturbed before the design for which it was 
 introduced had been accomplished ; and (the only evidence of 
 life) Aram stood, dressed, in the centre of the room, a pistol 
 in his left hand, a sword in his right. A bludgeon severed 
 in two lay at his feet, and on the floor within two yards of 
 him, towards the window, drops of blood, yet warm, showed 
 that the pistol had not been discharged in vain. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 209 
 
 *' And is it you, my brave friend, whom I have to thank for 
 our safety ? " cried Lester, in great emotion. 
 
 " You, Eugene ! " repeated Madeline, sinking on his breast. 
 
 "But thanks hereafter," continued Lester; "let us now to 
 the pursuit. Perhaps the villain may have perished beneath 
 your bullet." 
 
 "Ha!" muttered Aram, who had hitherto seemed uncon- 
 scious of all around him, so fixed had been his eye, so color- 
 less his cheek, so motionless his posture. " Ha ! say you so ? 
 Think you I have slain him ? Ko, it cannot be, — the ball 
 did not slay; I saw him stagger, but he rallied, — not so one 
 who receives a mortal wound. Ha! ha! there is blood, you 
 say : that is true ; but what then ? It is not the first Avound 
 that kills, you must strike again. Pooh, pooh! what is a 
 little blood?" 
 
 While he was thus muttering, Lester and the more active 
 of the servants had already sallied through the window ; but 
 the night was so intensely dark that they could not see a step 
 beyond them. Lester returned, therefore, in a few moments, 
 and met Aram's dark eye fixed upon him with an unutterable 
 expression of anxiety. 
 
 "You h^YQ found no one," said he, — "no dying man ? Ha! 
 well, well, well ! they must both have escaped ; the night must 
 favor them." 
 
 " Do you fancy the villain was severely wounded ? " 
 
 "Not so, — I trust not so ; he seemed able to — But stop, 
 God! stop! your foot is dabbling in blood, — blood shed 
 hjme! Off! off!" 
 
 Lester moved aside with a quick abhorrence as he saw that 
 his feet were indeed smearing the blood over the polished and 
 slippery surface of the oak boards ; and in moving he stumbled 
 against a dark lantern in which the light still burned, and 
 which the robbers in their flight had left. 
 
 "Yes," said Aram, observing it, "it was by that, their own 
 light, that I saw them, — saw their faces; and — and [bursting 
 into a loud, wild laugh] they were both strangers ! " 
 
 "Ah! I thought so, I knew so," said Lester, plucking the 
 instrument from the bureau. " I knew they could be no 
 
 14 
 
210 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 Grassdale men. What did you fancy they could be ? But 
 — bless me, Madeline — What ho! help! Aram, she has 
 fainted at your feet ! " 
 
 And it was indeed true and remarkable that so utter had 
 been the absorption of Aram's mind that he had been not only 
 insensible to the entrance of Madeline, but even unconscious 
 that she had thrown herself on his breast. And she, over- 
 come by her feelings, had slid to the ground from that mo- 
 mentary resting-place, in a swoon which Lester, in the general 
 tumult and confusion, was now the first to perceive. 
 
 At this exclamation, at the sound of Madeline's name, the 
 blood rushed back from Aram's heart, where it had gathered, 
 icy and curdling ; and awakened thoroughly and at once to 
 himself, he knelt down, and weaving his arms around her, sup- 
 ported her head on his breast, and called upon her with the 
 most passionate and moving exclamations. 
 
 But when the faint bloom re-tinged her cheek, and her lips 
 stirred, he printed a long kiss on that cheek, on those lips, and 
 surrendered his post to Ellinor, who, blushingly gathering the 
 robe over the beautiful breast from which it had been slightly 
 drawn, now entreated all, save the women of the house, to 
 withdraw till her sister was restored. 
 
 Lester, eager to hear what his guest could relate, therefore 
 took Aram to his own apartment, where the particulars were 
 briefly told. 
 
 Suspecting — which indeed was the chief reason that ex- 
 cused him to himself in yielding to Madeline's request — that 
 the men Lester and himself had encountered in their evening 
 walk might be other than they seemed, and that they might 
 have well overheard Lester's communication as to the sum in 
 his house and the place where it was stored, he had not un- 
 dressed himself, but kept the door of his room open, to listen 
 if anything stirred. The keen sense of hearing, which we 
 have before remarked him to possess, enal)led him to catch the 
 sound of the file at the bars even before Ellinor, notwithstand- 
 ing the distance of his own chamber from the place; and seiz- 
 ing the sword which had been left in his room (the pistol was 
 his own), he had descended to the room below. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 211 
 
 "What! " said Lester, "and without a light ?" 
 
 "The darkness is familiar tome," said Aram. "I could 
 walk by the edge of a precipice in the darkest night without 
 one false step, if I had but once passed it before. I did not 
 gain the room, however, till the window had been forced; and 
 by the light of a dark lantern which one of them held, I per- 
 ceived two men standing by the bureau. The rest you can 
 imagine. My victory was easy, for the bludgeon which one 
 of them aimed at me, gave way at once to the edge of your 
 good sword, and my pistol delivered me of the other. There 
 ends the history." 
 
 Lester overwhelmed him with thanks and praises; but 
 Aram, glad to escape them, hurried away to see after Made- 
 line, whom he now met on the landing-place, leaning on Elli- 
 nor's arm, and still pale. 
 
 She gave him her hand, which he for one moment pressed 
 passionately to his lips, but dropped the next, with an altered 
 and chilled air. And hastily observing that he would not 
 now detain her from a rest which she must so much require, 
 he turned away and descended the stairs. Some of the ser- 
 vants were grouped around the place of encounter; he entered 
 the room, and again started at the sight of the blood. 
 
 "Bring water! " said he, fiercely. "Will you let the stag- 
 nant gore ooze and rot into the boards, to startle the eye and 
 still the heart with its filthy and unutterable stain ? Water, I 
 say, water ! " 
 
 They hurried to obey him; and Lester, coming into the room 
 to see the window reclosed by the help of boards, etc., found 
 the student bending over the servants as they performed their 
 reluctant task, and rating them with a raised and harsh voice 
 for the hastiness with which he accused them of seeking to 
 slur it over. 
 
212 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ARAM ALONE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. HIS SOLILOQUY AND 
 
 PROJECT. SCENE BETWEEN HIMSELF AND MADELINE. 
 
 Luce non grata fruor ; 
 Trepidante semper corde, non mortis metu, 
 Sed^ — 
 
 Seneca . Octavia, act i. 
 
 The two menservants of the house remained up the rest of 
 the night; but it was not till the morning had advanced far 
 beyond the usual time of rising, in the fresh shades of Grass- 
 dale, that Madeline and Ellinor became visible. Even Lester 
 left his bed an hour later than his wont, and knocking at 
 Aram's door, found the student already abroad, while it was 
 evident that his bed had not been pressed during the whole of 
 the night. Lester descended into the garden, and was there 
 met by Peter Deal try and a detachment of the band, who, as 
 common-sense and Lester had predicted, were indeed at a very 
 early period of the watch driven to their respective homes. 
 They were now seriously concerned for their unmanliness, 
 which they passed off as well as they could upon their convic- 
 tion "that nobody at Grassdale could ever really be robbed," 
 and promised, with sincere contrition, that they would be 
 most excellent guards for the future. Peter was, in sooth, 
 singularly chapfallen, and could only defend himself by an 
 incoherent mutter; from which the squire turned somewhat 
 impatiently when he heard, louder than the rest, the words, 
 "seventy-seventh psalm, seventeenth verse, — 
 
 "' The clouds, that were both thick and black, 
 Did rain full plenteously.' " 
 
 Leaving the squire to the edification of the pious host, let 
 us follow the steps of Aram, who at the early dawn had 
 
 ' "I live a life of wretchedness; my heart perpetually tremhlijig, not 
 through fear of death, hut — " 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 213 
 
 quitted his sleepless chamber, and though the clouds at that 
 time still poured down in a dull and heavy sleet, wandered 
 away, whither he neither knew nor heeded. He was now 
 hurrying, with unabated speed, though with no purposed 
 bourn or object, over the chain of mountains that backed the 
 green and lovely valleys among which his home was cast. 
 
 " Yes ! " said he, at last halting abruptly, with a desperate 
 resolution stamped on his countenance, "yes! I will so de- 
 termine. If after this interview I feel that I cannot com- 
 mand and bind Houseman's perpetual secrecy, I will surrender 
 Madeline at once. She has loved me generously and trust- 
 ingly: I will not link her life with one that may be called 
 hence in any hour, and to so dread an account. Neither shall 
 the gray hairs of Lester be brought, with the sorrow of my 
 shame, to a dishonored and untimely grave. And after the 
 outrage of last night, — the daring outrage, — how can I calcu- 
 late on the safety of a day ? Though Houseman was not pres- 
 ent, though I can scarce believe he knew, or at least abetted, 
 the attack, yet they were assuredly of his gang; had one been 
 seized, the clew might have traced to his detection. Were he 
 detected, what should I have to dread ? No, Madeline, no ; 
 not while this sword hangs over me will I subject thee to share 
 the horror of my fate ! " 
 
 This resolution, which was certainly generous, and yet no 
 more than honest, Aram had no sooner arrived at than he dis- 
 missed at once, by one of those efforts which powerful minds 
 can command, all the weak and vacillating thoughts that might 
 interfere with the sternness of his determination. He seemed 
 to breathe more freely, and the haggard wanness of his brow 
 relaxed at least from the workings that, but the moment be- 
 fore, distorted its wonted serenity with a maniac wildness. 
 
 He now pursued his desultory way with a calmer step. 
 
 "What a night! " said he, again breaking into the low mur- 
 mur in which he was accustomed to hold commune with him- 
 self. " Had Houseman been one of the ruffians, a shot might 
 have freed me, and without a crime, forever; and till the light 
 flashed on their brows, I thought the smaller man bore his 
 aspect. Ha! out, tempting thought, out on thee!" he cried 
 
214 EUGENE ARAIM. 
 
 aloud, and stamping with his foot; then, recalled by his own 
 vehemence, he cast a jealous and hurried glance around him, 
 though at that moment his step was on the very height of the 
 mountains, where not even the solitary shepherd, save in 
 search of some more daring straggler of the flock, ever 
 brushed the dew from the cragged yet fragrant soil. "Yet," 
 he said, in a lower voice, and again sinking into the sombre 
 depths of his revery, " it is a tempting, a wondrously tempt- 
 ing thought. And it struck athwart me like a flash of light- 
 ning when this hand was at his throat, — a tighter strain, 
 another moment, and Eugene Aram had not an enemy, a wit- 
 ness against him, left in the world. Ha ! are the dead no foes 
 then, — are the dead no witnesses?" Here he relapsed into 
 utter silence; but his gestures continued wild, and his eyes wan- 
 dered round with a bloodshot and unquiet glare. "Enough," 
 at length he said calmly, and with the manner of one "who 
 has rolled a stone from his heart, "^ "enough! I will not so 
 sully myself, unless all other hope of self-preservation be 
 extinct. And why despond ? The plan I have thought of 
 seems well-laid, wise, consummate at all points. Let me con- 
 sider: forfeited the moment he re-enters England; not given 
 till he has left it; paid periodically; and of such extent as to 
 supply his wants, preserve him from crime, and forbid the 
 possibility of extorting more. All this sounds well; and if 
 not feasible at last, why farewell Madeline, and I myself leave 
 this land forever. Come what will to me, — death in its vil- 
 est shape, — let not the stroke fall on that breast. And if it 
 be," he continued, his face lighting up, "if it be, as it may 
 yet, that I can chain this hell-hound, why, even then, the in- 
 stant that Madeline is mine I will fly these scenes; I will seek 
 a yet obscurer and remoter corner of earth; I will choose an- 
 other name — Fool ! why did I not so before ? But matters 
 it ? What is writ is writ. Who can struggle with the in- 
 visible and giant Hand that launched the world itself into mo- 
 tion, and at whose pre-decree we hold the dark boons of life 
 and death ? " 
 
 It was not till evening that Aram, utterly worn out and ex- 
 1 Eastern sayiug. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 215 
 
 hausted, found himself in the neighborhood of Lester's house. 
 The sun had only broken forth at its setting, and it now glit- 
 tered, from its western pyre, over the dripping hedges, and 
 flung a brief but magic glow along the rich landscape around, 
 — the changing woods clad in the thousand dyes of autumn; 
 the scattered and peaceful cottages, with their long wreaths 
 of smoke curling upward, and the gray and venerable walls of 
 the manor-house, with the church hard by, and the delicate 
 spire, which, mixing itself with heaven, is at once the most 
 touching and solemn emblem of the faith to which it is de- 
 voted. It was a Sabbath eve; and from the spot on which 
 Aram stood he might discern many a rustic train trooping 
 slowly up the green village lane towards the church, and the 
 deep bell which summoned to the last service of the day now 
 swung its voice far over the sunlit and tranquil scene. 
 
 But it was not the setting sun, nor the autumnal landscape, 
 nor the voice of the holy bell, that now arrested the step of 
 Aram. At a little distance before him, leaning over a gate, 
 and seemingly waiting till the ceasing of the bell should an- 
 nounce the time to enter the sacred mansion, he beheld the 
 figure of Madeline Lester. Her head at the moment was 
 averted from him, as if she were looking after Ellinor and 
 her father, who were in the church-yard among a little group 
 of their homely neighbors ; and he was half in doubt whether 
 to shun her presence, when she suddenly turned round, and, 
 seeing him, uttered an exclamation of joy. It was now too 
 late for avoidance; and calling to his aid that mastery over 
 his features which in ordinary times few more eminently 
 possessed, he approached his beautiful mistress with a 
 smile as serene, if not as glowing, as her own. But she 
 had already opened the gate, and bounding forward, met him 
 half way. . 
 
 "Ah, truant, truant," said she, — "the whole day absent, 
 without inquiry or farewell ! After this, when shall I believe 
 that thou really lovest me? But," continued Madeline, gaz- 
 ing on his countenance, which bore witness, in its present 
 languor, to the fierce emotions which had lately raged within, 
 "but, heavens, dearest, how pale you look! You are fatigued; 
 
216 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 give me your hand, Eugene, — it is parched and dry. Come 
 into the house; you must need rest and refreshment." 
 
 " I am better here, my Madeline, — the air and the sun revive 
 me. Let us rest by the stile yonder. But you were going to 
 church, and the bell has ceased." 
 
 "I could attend, I fear, little to the prayers now," said 
 Madeline, "unless you feel well enough, and will come to 
 church with me." 
 
 "To church! " said Aram, with a half shudder. "No; my 
 thoughts are in no mood for prayer." 
 
 " Then you shall give your thoughts to me, and I, in return, 
 will pray for you before I rest." 
 
 And so saying, Madeline, with her usual innocent frankness 
 of manner, wound her arm in his, and they walked onwards 
 towards the stile Aram had pointed out. It was a little rustic 
 stile, with chestnut -trees hanging over it on either side. It 
 stands to this day, and I have pleased myself with finding 
 Walter Lester's initials, and Madeline's also, with the date 
 of the year, carved in half-worn letters on the wood, probably 
 by the hand of the former. 
 
 They now rested at this spot. All around them was still 
 and solitary; the groups of peasants had entered the church, 
 and nothing of life, save the cattle grazing in the distant 
 fields, or the thrush starting from the wet bushes, was visible. 
 The winds were lulled to rest, and though somewhat of the 
 chill of autumn floated on the air, it only bore a balm to the 
 harassed brow and fevered veins of the student; and Made- 
 line,— she felt nothing but his presence. It was exactly what 
 we picture to ourselves of a Sabbath eve, — unutterably serene 
 and soft, and borrowing from the very melancholy of the de- 
 clining year an impressive yet a mild solemnity. 
 
 There are seasons, often in the most dark or turbulent pe- 
 riods of our life, when — why, we know not — we are suddenly 
 called from ourselves by the remembrances of early childhood: 
 something touches the electric chain, and, lo ! a host of shad- 
 owy and sweet recollections steal upon us. The wheel rests, 
 the oar is suspended, we are snatched from the labor and 
 travail of present life; we are born again, and live anew. As 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 217 
 
 the secret page in which the characters once written seem 
 forever effaced, but which, if breathed upon, gives them again 
 into view, so the memory can revive tlie images invisible for 
 years ; but while we gaze, the breath recedes from the surface, 
 and all, one moment so vivid, with the next moment has 
 become once more a blank. 
 
 "It is singular," said Aram, "but often as I have paused at 
 this spot and gazed upon this landscape, a likeness to the 
 scenes of my childish life, which it now seems to me to pre- 
 sent, never occurred to me before. Yes, yonder in that cot- 
 tage with the sycamores in front and the orchard extending 
 behind till its boundary, as we now stand, seems lost among 
 the woodland, I could fancy that I looked upon my father's 
 home. The clump of trees that lies yonder to the right could 
 cheat me readily to the belief that I saw the little grove in 
 which, enamoured with the first passion of study, I was wont 
 to pore over the thrice-read book through the long summer 
 days, — a boy, a thoughtful boy, yet, oh, how happy! What 
 worlds appeared then to me to open in every page ; how ex- 
 haustless I thought the treasures and the hopes of life; and 
 beautiful on the mountain-tops seemed to me the steps of 
 Knowledge ! I did not dream of all that the musing and lonely 
 passion that I nursed was to entail upon me. There, in the 
 clefts of the valley, on the ridges of the hill, or by the fra- 
 grant course of the stream, I began already to win its history 
 from the herb or flower ; I saw nothing that I did not long to 
 unravel its secrets ; all that the earth nourished ministered to 
 one desire : and what of low or sordid did there mingle with 
 that desire ? The petty avarice, the mean ambition, the de- 
 basing love, even the heat, the anger, the fickleness, the 
 caprice of other men, did they allure or bow down my nature 
 from its steep and solitary eyry ? I lived but to feed my 
 mind; wisdom was my thirst, my dream, my aliment, my sole 
 fount and sustenance of life. And have I not sown the wind 
 and reaped the whirlwind ? The glory of my youth is gone, 
 my veins are chilled, my frame is bowed, my heart is gnawed 
 with cares, my nerves are unstrung as a loosened bow: and 
 what, after all, is my gain ? God! what is my gain ?" 
 
218 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "Eugene, dear, dear Eugene ! " murmured Madeline, sooth- 
 ingly, and wrestling with her tears, " is not your gain great ? 
 Is it not triumph that you stand, while yet young, almost alone 
 in the world for success in all that you have attempted ? " 
 
 " And what, " exclaimed Aram, breaking in upon her, " what 
 is this world which we ransack but a stupendous charnel- 
 house ? Everything that we deem most lovely, ask its origin ? 
 Decay ! When we rifle Nature and collect wisdom, are we not 
 like the hags of old, culling simples from the rank grave, and 
 extracting sorceries from the rotting bones of the dead ? 
 Everything around us is fathered by corruption, battened by 
 corruption, and into corruption returns at last. Corruption is 
 at once the womb and grave of Nature ; and the very beauty 
 on which we gaze, — the cloud and the tree and the swarming 
 waters, — all are one vast panorama of death! But it did not 
 always seem to me thus ; and even now I speak with a heated 
 pulse and a dizzy brain. Come, Madeline, let us change the 
 theme." 
 
 And dismissing at once from his language, and perhaps, as 
 he proceeded, also from his mind, all of its former gloom, 
 except such as might shade, but not embitter, the natural ten- 
 derness of remembrance, Aram now related — with that vivid- 
 ness of diction which, though we feel we can very inadequately 
 convey its effect, characterized his conversation, and gave 
 something of poetic interest to all he uttered — those reminis- 
 cences which belong to childhood, and which all of us take 
 delight to hear from the lips of one we love. 
 
 It was while on this theme that the lights which the deepen- 
 ing twilight had now made necessary became visible in the 
 church, streaming afar through its large oriel window, and 
 brightening the dark firs that overshadowed the graves around; 
 and just at that moment the organ (a gift from a rich rector, 
 and the boast of the neighboring country) stole upon the si- 
 lence with its swelling and solemn note. There was some- 
 thing in the strain of this sudden music that was so kindred 
 with the holy repose of the scene, chimed so exactly to the 
 chord now vibrating in Aram's mind, that it struck upon him 
 at once with an irresistible power. He paused abruptly, "as 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 219 
 
 if an angel spoke ! " That sound, so peculiarly adapted to 
 express sacred and unearthly emotion, none who have ever 
 mourned or sinned can hear, at an unlooked-for moment, with- 
 out a certain sentiment that either subdues or elevates or awes. 
 But he — he was a boy once more ; he was again in the village 
 church of his native place; his father, with his silver hair, 
 stood again beside him; there was his mother, pointing to 
 him the holy verse; there the half -arch, half-reverent face 
 of his little sister (she died young!); there the upward eye 
 and hushed countenance of the preacher who had first raised 
 his mind to knowledge and supplied its food, — all, all lived, 
 moved, breathed, again before him, all, as when he was young 
 and guiltless and at peace, hope and the future one word! 
 
 He bowed his head lower and lower; the hardness and hy- 
 pocrisies of pride, the sense of danger and of horror that, in 
 agitating, still supported the mind of this resolute and schem- 
 ing man, at once forsook him. Madeline felt his tears drop 
 fast and burning on her hand ; and the next moment, overcome 
 by the relief it afforded to a heart preyed upon by fiery and 
 dread secrets which it could not reveal, and a frame exhausted 
 by the long and extreme tension of all its powers, he laid his 
 head upon that faithful bosom and wept aloud. 
 
220 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Aram's secret expedition. — a scene worthy the actors. 
 — Aram's address and powers of persuasion or hy- 
 pocrisy. their result. A FEARFUL NIGHT. ARAm's 
 
 SOLITARY RIDE HOMEWARD. WHOM HE MEETS BY THE 
 
 WAY, AND WHAT HE SEES. 
 
 Macbeth. Now o'er the one half-world 
 
 Nature seems dead. 
 
 Donalbain. Our separated fortune 
 
 Shall keep us both the safer. 
 
 Old Man. Hours dreadful and things strange. — Macbeth. 
 
 "And you must really go to to pay your importunate 
 
 creditor this very evening ? Sunday is a bad day for such 
 matters; but as you pay him by an order, it does not much 
 signify, and I can well understand your impatience to feel 
 relieved from the debt. But it is already late ; and if it must 
 be so, you had better start." 
 
 "True," said Aram to the above remark of Lester's, as the 
 two stood together without the door ; " but do you feel quite 
 secure and guarded against any renewed attack?" 
 
 "Why, unless they bring a regiment, yes! I have put a 
 body of our patrol on a service where they can scarce be ineffi- 
 cient, — that is, I have stationed them in the house instead of 
 without ; and I shall myself bear them company through the 
 greater part of the night. To-morrow I shall remove all that 
 
 I possess of value to [the county town], including those 
 
 unlucky guineas which you will not ease me of." 
 
 "The order you have kindly given me will amply satisfy 
 my purpose," answered Aram. "And so there has been no 
 clew to these robberies discovered throughout the day ? " 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 221 
 
 "None. To-morrow the mao^istrates are to meet at 
 
 and concert measures ; it is absolutely impossible but that we 
 should detect the villains in a few days, — that is, if they re- 
 main in these parts. I hope to Heaven you will not meet 
 them this evening." 
 
 "I shall go well armed," answered Aram, "and the horse 
 you lend me is fleet and strong. And now farewell for the 
 present. I shall probably not return to Grassdale this night, 
 or if I do, it will be at so late an hour that I shall seek my 
 own domicile without disturbing you." 
 
 " No, no ; you had better remain in the town, and not return 
 till morning," said the squire, "And now let us come to the 
 stables." 
 
 To obviate all chance of suspicion as to the real place of 
 his destination, Aram deliberately rode to the town he had 
 mentioned as the one in which his pretended creditor expected 
 him. He put up at an inn, walked forth as if to meet some 
 one in the town, returned, remounted, and by a circuitous 
 route came into the neighborhood of the place in which he 
 was to meet Houseman; then turning into a long and dense 
 chain of wood, he fastened his horse to a tree, and looking to 
 the priming of his pistols, which he carried under his riding- 
 cloak, proceeded to the spot on foot. 
 
 The night was still, and not wholly dark; for the clouds 
 lay scattered, though dense, and suffered many stars to gleam 
 through the heavy air. The moon herself was abroad, but on 
 her decline, and looked forth with a wan and saddened aspect 
 as she travelled from cloud to cloud. It has been the neces- 
 sary course of our narrative to portray Aram more often in 
 his weaker moments than, to give an exact notion of his char- 
 acter, we could have altogether wished ; but whenever he stood 
 in the presence of danger, his whole soul was in arms to cope 
 with it worthily, — courage, sagacity, even cunning, all awak- 
 ened to the encounter; and the mind which his life had so 
 austerely cultivated repaid him in the urgent season with its 
 acute address and unswerving hardihood. The Devil's Crag, 
 as it was popularly called, was a spot consecrated by many a 
 wild tradition, which would not, perhaps, be wholly out of 
 
222 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 cliaraxjter with the dark thread of this tale, did the rapidity 
 of our narrative allow us to relate them. 
 
 The same stream which lent so soft an attraction to the val- 
 leys of Grassdale here assumed a different character; broad, 
 black, and rushing, it whirled along a course overhung by 
 shagged and abrupt banks. On the opposite side to that by 
 which Aram now pursued his path, an almost perpendiculra* 
 mountain was covered with gigantic pine and fir that might 
 have reminded a German wanderer of the darkest recesses of 
 the Hartz, and seemed, indeed, no unworthy haunt for the 
 weird huntsman or the forest fiend. Over this wood the moon 
 now shimmered with the pale and feeble light we have already 
 described, and only threw into a more sombre shade the mo- 
 tionless and gloomy foliage. Of all the offspring of the for- 
 est, the fir bears, perhaps, the most saddening and desolate 
 aspect. Its long branches, without absolute leaf or blossom ; 
 its dead, dark, eternal hue, which the winter seems to wither 
 not, nor the spring to revive, — have I know not what of a 
 mystic and unnatural life. Around all woodland there is that 
 horror umbraruvi'^ which becomes more solemn and awful 
 amidst the silence and depth of night; but this is yet more 
 especially the characteristic of that sullen evergreen. Per- 
 haps, too, this effect is increased by the sterile and dreary 
 soil on which, when in groves, it is generally found; and its 
 very hardiness, the very pertinacity with which it draws its 
 strange, unfluctuating life from the sternest wastes and most 
 reluctant strata, enhance, unconsciously, the unwelcome effect 
 it is calculated to create upon the mind. At this place, too, 
 the waters that dashed beneath gave yet additional wildness 
 to the rank verdure of the wood, and contributed, by their 
 rushing darkness partially broken by the stars, and the hoarse 
 roar of their chafed course, a yet more grim and savage sub- 
 limity to the scene. 
 
 Winding a narrow path (for the whole country was as fa- 
 miliar as a garden to his footstep) that led through the tall 
 wet herbage, almost along the perilous brink of the stream, 
 Aram was now aware, by the increased and deafening sound 
 1 Shadowy horror. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 223 
 
 of the waters, that the appointed spot was nearly gained ; and 
 presently the glimmering and imperfect light of the skies re- 
 vealed the dim shape of a gigantic rock that rose abruptly 
 from the middle of the stream, and which, rude, barren, vast, 
 as it really was, seemed now, by the uncertainty of night, 
 like some monstrous and deformed creature of the waters sud- 
 denly emerging from their vexed and dreary depths. This 
 was the far-famed crag, which had borrowed from tradition 
 its evil and ominous name. And now the stream, bending 
 round with a broad and sudden swoop, showed at a little 
 distance, ghostly and indistinct through the darkness, the 
 mighty waterfall whose roar had been his guide. Only in 
 one streak adown the giant cataract the stars were re- 
 flected; and this long train of broken light glittered pre- 
 ternaturally forth through the rugged crags and sombre 
 verdure that wrapped either side of the waterfall in utter 
 and rayless gloom. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the forlorn and terrific grandeur of 
 the spot ; the roar of the waters supplied to the ear what the 
 night forbade to the eye. Incessant and eternal, they thun- 
 dered down into the gulf; and then shooting over that fearful 
 basin, and forming another, but a mimic fall, dashed on till 
 they were opposed by the sullen and abrupt crag below ; and 
 besieging its base with a renewed roar, sent their foaming and 
 angry spray half way up the hoar ascent. 
 
 At this stern and dreary spot, well suited for such confer- 
 ences as Aram and Houseman alone could hold, and which, 
 whatever was the original secret that linked the two men thus 
 strangely, seemed of necessity to partake of a desperate and 
 lawless character, with danger for its main topic and death 
 itself for its coloring, Aram now paused, and with an eye 
 accustomed to the darkness looked around for his companion. 
 
 He did not wait long ; from the profound shadow that 
 girded the space immediately around the fall. Houseman 
 emerged and joined the student. The stunning noise of the 
 cataract in the place where they met, forbade any attempt to 
 converse ; and they walked on by the course of the stream, to 
 gain a spot less in reach of the deafening shout of the moun- 
 
224 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 tain giant as he ruslied with his banded waters upon the valley 
 like a foe. 
 
 It was noticeable that as they proceeded, Aram walked on 
 with an unsuspicious and careless demeanor; but Houseman, 
 pointing out the way with his hand, not leading it, kept a 
 little behind Aram, and watched his motions with a vigilant 
 and wary eye. The student, who had diverged from the path 
 at Houseman's direction, now paused at a place where the 
 matted bushes seemed to forbid any farther progress, and 
 said, for the first time breaking the silence, " We cannot pro- 
 ceed : shall this be the place of our conference ? " 
 
 "No," said Houseman; "we had better pierce the bushes. 
 I know the way, but will not lead it." 
 
 " And wherefore ? " 
 
 "The mark of your gripe is still on my throat," replied 
 Houseman, significantly; "you know as well as I that it is 
 not always safe to have a friend lagging behind." 
 
 "Let us rest here, then," said Aram, calmly, the darkness 
 veiling any alteration of his countenance which his comrade's 
 suspicion might have created. 
 
 "Yet it were much better," said Houseman, doubtingly, 
 "could we gain the cave below." 
 
 " The cave ! " said Aram, starting, as if the word had a 
 sound of fear. 
 
 "Ay, ay; but not Saint Robert's," said Houseman; and the 
 grin of his teeth was visible through the dulness of the shade. 
 " But come, give me your hand, and I will venture to conduct 
 you through the thicket. That is your left hand," observed 
 Houseman, with a sharp and angry suspicion in his tone; 
 "give me the right." 
 
 "As you will," said Aram, in a subdued, yet meaning voice 
 that seemed to come from his heart, and thrilled, for an in- 
 stant, to the bones of him who heard it, — "as you will; but 
 for fourteen years I have not given this right hand, in pledge 
 of fellowship, to living man: you alone deserve the courtesy, 
 — there ! " 
 
 Houseman hesitated before he took the hand now extended 
 to him. 
 
EUGENE ARAM 225 
 
 "Pshaw!" said he, as if indignant at himself; "what scru- 
 ples at a shadow! Come," grasping the hand, "that 's well, — 
 so, so; now we are in the thicket. Tread firm; this way. 
 Hold!" continued Houseman, under his breath, as suspicion 
 anew seemed to cross him, " hold ! we can see each other's face 
 not even dimly now; but in this hand — my right is free — I 
 have a knife that has done good service ere this ; and if I do 
 but suspect that you are abput to play me false, I bury it in 
 your heart. Do you heed me ? " 
 
 " Fool ! " said Aram, scornfully ; " I should dread you dead 
 yet more than living." 
 
 Houseman made no answer, but continued to grope on 
 through the path in the thicket, which he evidently knew 
 well; though even in daylight, so thick were the trees, and 
 so artfully had their boughs been left to cover the track, no 
 path could have been discovered by one unacquainted with 
 the clew. 
 
 They had now walked on for some minutes, and of late their 
 steps had been threading a rugged and somewhat precipitous 
 descent; all this while the pulse of the hand Houseman held, 
 beat with as steadfast and calm a throb as in the most quiet 
 mood of learned meditation, although Aram could not but be 
 conscious that a mere accident, a slip of the foot, an entangle- 
 ment in the briers, might awaken the irritable fears of his 
 ruffian comrade and bring the knife to his breast. But this 
 was not that form of death that could shake the nerves of 
 Aram; nor, though arming his soul to ward off one danger, 
 was he well sensible of another that might have seemed equally 
 near and probable to a less collected and energetic nature. 
 Houseman now halted, again put aside the boughs, proceeded 
 a few steps, and by a certain dampness and oppression in the 
 air Aram rightly conjectured himself in the cavern Houseman 
 had spoken of. "We are landed now," said Houseman. "But 
 wait! I will strike a light. I do not love darkness, even 
 with another sort of companion than the one I have now the 
 honor to entertain." 
 
 In a few moments a light was produced, and i^laced aloft on 
 a crag in the cavern ; but the ray it gave was feeble and dull, 
 
 15 
 
226 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 and left all, beyond the immediate spot in which they stood, 
 in a darkness little less Cimmerian than before. 
 
 "'Fore Gad, it is cold," said Houseman, shivering; "but I 
 have taken care, you see, to provide for a friend's comfort." 
 So saying, he approached a bundle of dry sticks and leaves 
 piled at one corner of the cave, applied the light to the fuel, 
 and presently the fire rose crackling, breaking into a thou- 
 sand sparks, and freeing itself gradually from the clouds of 
 smoke in which it was enveloped. It now mounted into a 
 ruddy and cheering flame, and the warm glow played pictur- 
 esquely upon the gray sides of the cavern, which was of a 
 rugged shape and small dimensions, and cast its reddening 
 light over the forms of the two men. 
 
 Houseman stood close to the flame, spreading his hands over 
 it, and a sort of grim complacency stealing along features 
 singularly ill-favored, and sinister in their expression, as he 
 felt the animal luxury of the warmth. 
 
 Across his middle was a broad leathern belt containing a 
 brace of large horse-pistols and the knife, or rather dagger, 
 with which he had menaced Aram, — an instrument sharpened 
 on both sides and nearly a foot in length. Altogether, what 
 with his muscular breadth of figure, his hard and rugged fea- 
 tures, his weapons, and a certain reckless, bravo air which in- 
 describably marked his attitude and bearing, it was not well 
 possible to imagine a fitter habitant for that grim cave, or one 
 from whom men of peace, like Eugene Aram, might have 
 seemed to derive more reasonable cause of alarm. 
 
 The scholar stood at a little distance, waiting till his com- 
 panion was entirely prepared for the conference, and his pale 
 and lofty features, hushed in their usual deep, but at such a 
 moment almost preternatural, repose. He stood leaning with 
 folded arms against the nide wall, the light reflected upon his 
 dark garments, with the graceful riding-cloak of the day 
 half falling from his shoulder, and revealing also the pistols 
 in his belt, and the sword which, though commonly worn at 
 that time by all pretending to superiority above the lower and 
 trading orders, Aram usually waived as a distinction, but 
 now carried as a defence. And nothing could be more strik- 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 227 
 
 ing than the contrast between the ruffian form of his compan- 
 ion and the delicate and chiselled beauty of the student's 
 features, with their air of mournful intelligence and serene 
 command, and the slender though nervous symmetry of his 
 frame. 
 
 "Houseman," said Aram, now advancing, as his comrade 
 turned his face from the flame towards him, "before we enter 
 on the main subject of our proposed commune, tell me, were 
 you engaged in the attempt last night upon Lester's house ? " 
 
 "By the fiend, no! " answered Houseman; "nor did I learn 
 it till this morning: it was unpremeditated till within a few 
 hours of the time, by the two fools who alone planned it. 
 The fact is that I myself and the greater part of our little 
 band were engaged some miles off, in the western part of the 
 county. Two — our general spies — had been, of their own 
 accord, into your neighborhood to reconnoitre. They marked 
 Lester's house during the day, and gathered from unsuspected 
 inquiry in the village — for they were dressed as mere country 
 clowns — several particulars which induced them to think the 
 house contained what might repay the trouble of breaking into 
 it; and walking along the fields, they overheard the good 
 master of the house tell one of his neighbors of a large sum 
 at home, — nay, even describe the place where it was kept. 
 That determined them; they feared that the sum might be 
 removed the next day. They had noted the house sufficiently 
 to profit by the description given ; they determined, then, of 
 themselves, for it was too late to reckon on our assistance, to 
 break into the room in which the money was kept, — though 
 from the aroused vigilance of the frightened hamlet and the 
 force within the house, they resolved to attempt no further 
 booty. They reckoned on the violence of the storm and the 
 darkness of the night to prevent their being heard or seen. 
 They were mistaken: the house was alarmed, they were no 
 sooner in the luckless room than — " 
 
 " Well, I know the rest. Was the one wounded dangerously 
 hurt ? " 
 
 "Oh, he will recover, he will recover; our men are no 
 chickens. But I own I thought it natural that you might 
 
228 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 suspect me of sharing in the attack; and though, as I have 
 said before, I do not love you, I have no wish to embroil 
 matters so far as an outrage on the house of your father- 
 in-law might be reasonably expected to do, — at all events 
 while the gate to an amicable compromise between us is still 
 open." 
 
 " 1 am satisfied on this head, " said Aram, " and I can now 
 treat with you in a spirit of less distrustful precaution than 
 before. I tell you, Houseman, that the terms are no longer 
 at your control •, you must leave this part of the country, and 
 that forthwith, or you inevitably perish. The whole popu- 
 lation is alarmed, and the most vigilant of the London police 
 have been already sent for. Life is sweet to you, as to us all, 
 and I cannot imagine you so mad as to incur, not the risk, 
 but the certainty, of losing it. You can no longer, therefore, 
 hold the threat of your presence over my head. Besides, 
 were you able to do so, I at least have the power, which you 
 seem to have forgotten, of freeing myself from it. Am I 
 chained to yonder valleys ? Have I not the facility of quit- 
 ting them at any moment I will, — of seeking a hiding-place 
 which might baffle, not only your vigilance to discover me, 
 but that of the law ? True, my approaching marriage puts 
 some clog upon my wing ; but you know that I, of all men, 
 am not likely to be the slave of passion. And what ties are 
 strong enough to arrest the steps of him who flies from a 
 fearful death ? Am I using sophistry here. Houseman ? 
 Have I not reason on my side ? " 
 
 "What you say is true enough," said Houseman, reluc- 
 tantly, "I do not gainsay it. But I know you have not sought 
 me, in this spot and at this hour, for the purpose of denying 
 my claims ; the desire of compromise alone can have brought 
 you hither." 
 
 "You speak well," said Aram, preserving the admirable 
 coolness of his manner, and continuing the deep and sagacious 
 hypocrisy by which he sought to baffle the dogged covetous - 
 ness and keen sense of interest with which he had to contend. 
 " It is not easy for either of us to deceive the other. We are 
 men whose perception a life of danger has sharpened upon all 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 229 
 
 points; I speak to you frankly, for disguise is imavailing. 
 Though I can fly from your reach, though I can desert my 
 present home and my intended bride, I would fain think I 
 have free and secure choice to preserve that exact path and 
 scene of life which I have chalked out for myself; I would 
 fain be rid of all apprehension from you. There are two 
 ways only by which this security can be won: the first is 
 through your death, — nay, start not, nor put your hand on 
 your pistol; you have not now cause to fear me. Had I 
 chosen that method of escape, I could have effected it long 
 since. When, months ago, you slept under my roof, — ay, 
 slept, — what should have hindered me from stabbing you 
 during the slumber ? Two nights since, when my blood was 
 up and the fury upon me, what should have prevented me 
 tightening the grasp that you so resent, and laying you breath- 
 less at my feet ? Nay, now, though you keep your eye fixed 
 on my motions and your hand upon your weapon, you would 
 be no match for a desperate and resolved man who might as 
 well perish in conflict with you as by the protracted accom- 
 plishment of your threats. Your ball might fail, — even now 
 I see your hand trembles; mine, if I so will it, is certain 
 death. No, Houseman, it would be as vain for your eye to 
 scan the dark pool into whose breast yon cataract casts its 
 waters as for your intellect to pierce the depths of my mind 
 and motives. Your murder, though in self-defence, would lay 
 a weight upon my soul which would sink it forever; I should 
 see in your death new chances of detection spread themselves 
 before me. The terrors of the dead are not to be bought or 
 awed into silence; I should pass from one peril into another; 
 and the law's dread vengeance might fall upon me, through 
 the last peril, even yet more surely than through the first. 
 Be composed on this point. From my hand, unless you urge 
 it madly upon yourself, you are wholly safe. Let us turn to 
 my second method of attaining security. It lies, not in your 
 momentary cessation from persecutions, not in your absence 
 from this spot alone, — you must quit the country; you must 
 never return to it; your home must be cast, and your very 
 grave dug, in a foreign soil. Are you prepared for this ? If 
 
230 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 not, I can say no more, and I again cast myself passive into 
 the arms of Fate." 
 
 "You ask," said Houseman, whose fears were allayed by 
 Aram's address, though at the same time his dissolute and 
 desperate nature was subdued and tamed, in spite of himself, 
 by the very composure of the loftier mind with which it was 
 brought in contact, "you ask," said he, "no trifling favor of 
 a man, — to desert his country forever. But I am no dreamer, 
 that I should love one spot better than another. I might, 
 perhaps, prefer a foreign clime, as the safer and the freer 
 from old recollections, if I could live in it as a man who loves 
 the relish of life should do. Show me the advantages I am 
 to gain by exile, and farewell to the pale cliffs of England 
 forever ! " 
 
 "Your demand is just," answered Aram. "Listen, then. 
 I am willing to coin all my poor wealth, save alone the barest 
 pittance wherewith to sustain life, — nay, more, I am prepared 
 also to melt down the whole of my possible expectations from 
 others, into the form of an annuity to yourself. But mark, it 
 will be taken out of my hands, so that you can have no power 
 over me to alter the conditions with which it will be saddled. 
 It will be so vested that it shall commence the moment you 
 touch a foreign clime, and wholly and forever cease the mo- 
 ment you set foot on any part of English ground, or — mark 
 also — at the moment of my death. 1 shall then know that no 
 further hope from me can induce you to risk this income; for 
 as I shall have spent my all in attaining it, you cainiot even 
 meditate the design of extorting more. I shall know that 
 you will not menace my life, for my death would be the de- 
 struction of your fortunes. We shall live thus separate and 
 secure from each other : you will have only cause to hope for 
 my safety ; and I shall have no reason to shudder at your pur- 
 suits. It is true that one source of fear might exist for me 
 still, — namely, that in dying you should enjoy the fruitless 
 vengeance of criminating me ; but this chance I must patiently 
 endure. You, if older, are more robust and hardy than my- 
 self, — your life will probably be longer than mine; and even 
 were it otherwise, why should we destroy one another ? I 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 231 
 
 will solemnly swear to respect your secret at my deatli-bed; 
 why not on your part, I say not swear, but resolve to respect 
 mine ? We cannot love one another ; but why hate with a 
 gratuitous and demon vengeance ? No, Houseman, however 
 circumstances may have darkened or steeled your heart, it is 
 touched with humanity yet : you will owe to me the bread of 
 a secure and easy existence; you will feel that I have stripped 
 myself, even to penury, to purchase the comforts I cheerfully 
 resign to you; you will remember that, instead of the sacri- 
 fices enjoined by this alternative, I might have sought only to 
 counteract youi threats by attempting a life that you strove 
 to make a snare and torture to my own. You will remember 
 this, and you will not grudge me the austere and gloomy sol- 
 itude in which I seek to forget, or the one solace with which 
 I, perhaps vainly, endeavor to cheer my passage to a quiet 
 grave. No, Houseman, no-, dislike, hate, menace me as you 
 will, I still feel I shall have no cause to dread the mere 
 wantonness of your revenge." 
 
 These words, aided by a tone of voice and an expression of 
 countenance that gave them perhaps their chief effect, took 
 even the hardened nature of Houseman by surprise; he was 
 affected by an emotion which he could not have believed it 
 possible the man who till then had galled him by the hum- 
 bling sense of inferiority could have created. He extended 
 his hand to Aram. 
 
 "By ," he exclaimed, with an oath which we spare the 
 
 reader, "you are right! You have made me as helpless in 
 your hands as an infant. I accept your offer, — if I were to 
 refuse it, I should be driven to the same courses I now pur- 
 sue. But look you ; I know not what may be the amount of 
 the annuity you can raise. I shall not, however, require 
 more than will satisfy my wants, which, if not so scanty as 
 your own, are not at least very extravagant or very refined. 
 As for the rest, if there be any surplus, in God's name keep 
 it for yourself, and rest assured that, so far as I am concerned, 
 you shall be molested no more." 
 
 "No, Housem:in," said Aram, with a half smile, "you shall 
 have all I first mentioned; that is, all beyond what nature 
 
232 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 craves, honorably and fully. Man's best resolutions are "weak^ 
 if you knew I possessed aught to spare, a fancied want, a 
 momentary extravagance, might tempt you to demand it. Let 
 us put ourselves beyond the possible reach of temptation. 
 But do not flatter yourself by the hope that the income will 
 be magnificent. My own annuity is but trifling, and the half 
 of the dowry I expect from my future father-in-law is all that 
 I can at present obtain. The whole of that dowry is insig- 
 nificant as a sum. But if this does not sufiice for you, I must 
 beg or borrow elsewhere." 
 
 "This, after all, is a pleasanter way of settling business," 
 said Houseman, " than by threats and anger. And now I will 
 tell you exactly the sum on which, if I could receive it yearly, 
 I could live without looking beyond the pale of the law for 
 more, — on which I could cheerfully renounce England and 
 commence 'the honest man.' Bat then, hark you, I must 
 have half settled on my little daughter." 
 
 "What! have you a child?" said Aram, eagerly, and well 
 pleased to find an additional security for his own safety. 
 
 "Ay, a little girl, — my only one, — in her eighth year. 
 She lives with her grandmother, for she is motherless; and 
 that girl must not be left quite destitute should I be sum- 
 moned hence before my time. Some twelve years hence — as 
 poor Jane promises to be pretty — she may be married off my 
 hands ; but her childhood must not be exposed to the chances 
 of beggary or shame." 
 
 " Doubtless not, doubtless not. Who shall say now that we 
 ever outlive feeling?" said Aram. "Half the annuity shall 
 be settled upon her, should she survive you ; but on the same 
 condition, ceasing when I die, or the instant of your return to 
 England. And now, name the sum that you deem sufficing." 
 
 "Why," said Houseman, counting on his fingers and mut- 
 tering, "twenty — fifty — wine and the creature cheap abroad; 
 humph! a hundred for living, and half as much for pleasure. 
 Come, Aram, one hundred and fifty guineas per annum, Eng- 
 lish money, will do for a foreign life, — you see I am easily 
 satisfied." 
 
 "Be it so," said Aram; "I will engage, by one means or 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 233 
 
 another, to obtain what you ask. For this purpose I shall set 
 out for London to-morrow ; I will not lose a moment in seeing 
 the necessary settlement made as we have specified. But, 
 meanwhile, you must engage to leave this neighborhood, and, 
 if possible, cause your comrades to do the same; although you 
 will not hesitate, for the sake of your own safety, immediately 
 to separate from them." 
 
 "Now that we are on good terms," replied Houseman, "I 
 will not scruple to oblige you in these particulars. My com- 
 rades intend to quit the country before to-morrow, — nay, half 
 are already gone; by daybreak I myself will be some miles 
 hence, and separated from each of them. Let us meet in 
 London after the business is completed, and there conclude 
 our last interview on earth." 
 
 " What will be your address ? " 
 
 " In Lambeth there is a narrow alley that leads to the water- 
 side, called Feveril Lane. The last house to the right, to- 
 wards the river, is my usual lodging, — a safe resting-place 
 at all times and for all men." 
 
 "There then will I seek you. And now, Houseman, fare 
 you well ! As you remember your word to me, may life flow 
 smooth for your child." 
 
 "Eugene Aram," said Houseman, "there is about you some- 
 thing against which the fiercer devil within me would rise in 
 vain. I have read that the tiger can be awed by the human 
 eye, and you compel me into submission by a spell equally 
 unaccountable. You are a singular man, and it seems to me 
 a riddle how we could ever have been thus connected, or how 
 — But we will not rip up the past; it is an ugly sight, and the 
 fire is just out. Those stories do not do for the dark. But 
 to return. Were it only for the sake of my child, you might 
 depend upon me now. Better, too, an arrangement of this 
 sort than if I had a larger sum in hand, which I might be 
 tempted to fling away, and, in looking for more, run my neck 
 into a halter and leave poor Jane upon charity. But come, 
 it is almost dark again, and no doubt you wish to be stirring. 
 Stay, I will lead you back, and put you on the right track, 
 lest you stumble on my friends." 
 
234 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " Is this cavern one of their haunts ? " said Aram. 
 
 "Sometimes; but they sleep the other side of the Devil's 
 Crag to-night. Nothing like a change of quarters for longev- 
 ity, eh ? " 
 
 " And they easily spare you ? " 
 
 "Yes, if it be only on rare occasions and on the plea of 
 family business. Now then your hand, as before. 'S death! 
 how it rains! — lightning too! I could look with less fear on 
 a naked sword than those red, forked, blinding flashes. Hark! 
 thunder ! " 
 
 The night had now, indeed, suddenly changed its aspect; 
 the rain descended in torrents, even more impetuously than 
 on the former night, while the thunder burst over their very 
 heads as they wound upward through the brake. With every 
 instant the lightning, darting through the riven chasm of the 
 blackness that seemed suspended as in a solid substance above, 
 brightened the whole heaven into one livid and terrific flame, 
 and showed to the two men the faces of each other, rendered 
 deathlike and ghastly by the glare. Houseman was evidently 
 affected by the fear that sometimes seizes even the sturdiest 
 criminals when exposed to those more fearful phenomena of 
 the heavens, which seem to humble into nothing the power 
 and the wrath of man. His teeth chattered, and he muttered 
 broken words about the peril of wandering near trees when 
 the lightning was of that forked character, quickening his 
 pace at every sentence, and sometimes interrupting himself 
 with an ejaculation, half oath, half prayer, or a "congratula- 
 tion that the rain at least diminished the danger. They soon 
 cleared the thicket, and a few minutes brought them once 
 more to the banks of the stream and the increased roar of tlie 
 cataract. No earthly scene, perhaps, could surpass the ap- 
 palling sublimity of that which they beheld, — every instant 
 the lightning, which became more and more frequent, con- 
 verting the black waters into billows of living fire, or wreath- 
 ing itself in lurid spires around the huge crag that now rose 
 in sight; and again, as the thunder rolled onward, darting its 
 vain fury upon the rushing cataract and the tortured bi*east 
 of the gidf that raved below. And the sounds that filled the 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 235 
 
 air were even more fraught with, terror and menace than the 
 scene, — the waving, the groans, the crash of the pines on 
 the hill, the impetuous force of the rain upon the whirling 
 river, and the everlasting roar of the cataract, answered anon 
 by the yet more awful voice that burst above it from the 
 clouds. 
 
 They halted while yet sufficiently distant from the cataract 
 to be heard by each other. "My path," said Aram, as the 
 lightning now paused upon the scene, and seemed literally to 
 wrap in a lurid shroud the dark figure of the student, as he 
 stood, with his hand calmly raised, and his cheek pale, but 
 dauntless and composed, — "my path now lies yonder; in a 
 week we shall meet again." 
 
 " By the fiend, " said Houseman, shuddering, " I would not, 
 for a full hundred, ride alone through the moor you will pass! 
 There stands a gibbet by the road, on which a parricide was 
 hanged in chains. Pray Heaven this night be no omen of the 
 success of our present compact ! " 
 
 " A steady heart, Houseman, " answered Aram, striking into 
 the separate path, "is its own omen," 
 
 The student soon gained the spot in which he had left his 
 horse; the animal had not attempted to break the bridle, but 
 stood trembling from limb to limb, and testified by a quick, 
 short neigh the satisfaction with which it hailed the approach 
 of its master, and found itself no longer alone. 
 
 Aram remounted, and hastened once more into the main 
 road. He scarcely felt the rain, though the fierce wind drove 
 it right against his path; he scarcely marked the lightning, 
 though at times it seemed to dart its arrows on his very form : 
 his heart was absorbed in the success of his schemes. 
 
 "Let the storm without howl on," thought he; "that within 
 hath a respite at last. Amidst the winds and rains I can 
 breathe more freely than I have done on the smoothest sum- 
 mer day. By the charm of a deeper mind and a subtler tongue 
 I have conquered this desperate foe, I have silenced this in- 
 veterate spy. And, Heaven be praised, he too has human 
 ties; and by those ties I hold him! Now, then, I hasten to 
 London, I arrange this annuity, see that the law tightens every 
 
236 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 cord of the compact; and when all is done, and this dangerous 
 man fairly departed on his exile, I return to Madeline, and 
 devote to her a life no longer the vassal of accident and the 
 hour. But I have been taught caution. Secure as my own 
 prudence may have made me from further apprehension of 
 Houseman, I will yet place myself wholly beyond his power; 
 I will still consummate my former purpose, adopt a new 
 name, and seek a new retreat. Madeline may not know the 
 real cause, but this brain is not barren of excuse. Ah!" as 
 drawing his cloak closer round him, he felt the purse hid 
 within his breast which contained the order he had obtained 
 from Lester, — "ah! this will now add its quota to purchase, 
 not a momentary relief, but the stipend of perpetual silence. 
 I have passed through the ordeal easier than I had hoped for. 
 Had the devil at his heart been more difficult to lay, so neces- 
 sary is his absence that I must have purchased it at any cost. 
 Courage, Eugene Aram! thy mind, for which thou hast lived, 
 and for which thou hast hazarded thy soul, — if soul and mind 
 be distinct from each other, — thy mind can support thee yet 
 through every peril; not till thou art stricken into idiocy 
 shalt thou behold thyself defenceless. How cheerfully," mut- 
 tered he, after a momentary pause, — " how cheerfully, for 
 safety, and to breathe with a quiet heart the air of Madeline's 
 presence, shall I rid myself of all save enough to defy want! 
 And want can never now come to me, as of old. He who 
 knows the sources of every science from Avhich wealth is 
 wrought, holds even wealth at his will." 
 
 Breaking at every interval into these soliloquies, Aram con- 
 tinued to breast the storm until he had won half his journey, 
 and had come upon a long and bleak moor, which was the 
 entrance to that beautiful line of country in which the valleys 
 around Grassdale are embosomed. Faster and faster came 
 the rain; and though the thunder-clouds were now behind, 
 they yet followed loweringly, in their black array, the path 
 of the lonely horseman. 
 
 But now he heard the sound of hoofs making towards him. 
 He drew his horse on one side of the road, and at that in- 
 stant, a broad flash of lightning illumining the space around, 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 237 
 
 he beheld four horsemen speeding along at a rapid gallop. 
 They were armed, and conversing loudly; their oaths were 
 heard jarringly and distinctly amidst all the more solemn and 
 terrific sounds of the night. They came on sweeping by the 
 student, whose hand was on his pistol, for he recognized in 
 one of the riders the man who had escaped unwounded from 
 Lester's house, — he and his comrades were evidently, then, 
 Houseman's desperate associates. And they, too, though they 
 were borne too rapidly by Aram to be able to rein in their 
 horses on the spot, had seen the solitary traveller, and already 
 wheeled round, and called upon him to halt. 
 
 The lightning was again gone, and the darkness snatched 
 the robbers and their intended victim from the sight of each 
 other. But Aram had not lost a moment, — fast fled his horse 
 across the moor; and when, with the next flash, he looked 
 back, he saw that the ruffians, unwilling, even for booty, to 
 encounter the horrors of the night, had followed him but a 
 few paces, and again turned round. Still he dashed on, and 
 had now nearly passed the moor. The thunder rolled fainter 
 and fainter from behind, and the lightning only broke forth 
 at prolonged intervals, when suddenly, after a pause of un- 
 usual duration, it brought the whole scene into a light, if less 
 intolerable, even more livid than before. The horse, that had 
 hitherto sped on without start or stumble, now recoiled in 
 abrupt affright; and the horseman, looking up at the cause, 
 beheld the gibbet of which Houseman had spoken, immedi- 
 ately fronting his path, with its ghastly tenant waving to and 
 fro as the winds rattled through the parched and arid bones, 
 and the inexpressible grin of the skull fixed, as in mockery, 
 upon his countenance. 
 
BOOK IV. 
 
 'H Ki57rp(j oil iravdrj/jLos ' IXdax^o ^W ^^^^ elTrCjv 
 Ovpavidv. — 
 
 Tlpa^Lvhrj. Qdpcre, ZuTrvplwv, yXvKepbv t^kos, ov \^yu dir(pOv. 
 Topyd). AiffOdverai rb ^picpos, val rdv irbTVLav. 
 
 The Venus, not the vulgar ! propitiate the divinity, terming her the Uranian. 
 
 Peaxinoe. Be of good cheer, Zopyrion, dear child, I do not speak of thy 
 father. 
 
 GoRGO. The boy comprehends, by Proserpine ! — Theocritus. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 IN WHICH WE RETURN TO WALTER. — HIS DEBT OF GRATITUDE 
 
 TO MR. PERTINAX FILLGRAVE. THE CORPORAl's ADVICE 
 
 AND THE corporal's VICTORY. 
 
 Let a physician be ever so excellent, there will be those that censure 
 him. — Gil Bias. 
 
 We left Walter in a situation of that critical nature that it 
 would be inhuman to delay our return to hira any longer. The 
 blow by which he had been felled stunned hira for an instant; 
 but his frame was of no common strength and hardihood, and 
 the imminent peril in which he was placed served to recall 
 him from the momentary insensibility. On recovering him- 
 self, he felt that the ruffians were dragging him towards the 
 hedge, and the thought flashed upon him that their object was 
 miirder. Nerved by this idea, he collected his strength, and 
 suddenly wresting himself from the grasp of one of the ruffians, 
 who had seized him by the collar, he had already gained his 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 239 
 
 knee, and now his feet, when a second blow once more de- 
 prived him of sense. 
 
 When a dim and struggling consciousness recurred to him, 
 he found that the villains had dragged him to the opposite 
 side of the hedge, and were deliberately robbing him. He 
 was on the point of renewing a useless and dangerous strug- 
 gle, when one of the ruffians said, — 
 
 " I think he stirs. I had better draw my knife across his 
 throat." 
 
 " Pooh, no ! " replied another voice ; " never kill if it can be 
 helped. Trust me, 't is an ugly thing to think of afterwards. 
 Besides, what use is it ? A robbery in these parts is done 
 and forgotten; but a murder rouses the whole country." 
 
 "Damnation, man! Why, the deed's done already; he's 
 as dead as a door-nail." 
 
 " Dead ! " said the other, in a startled voice, " no, no ! " and 
 leaning down, the ruffian placed his hand on Walter's heart. 
 The unfortunate traveller felt his flesh creep as the hand 
 touched him, but prudently abstained from motion or excla- 
 mation. He thought, however, as with dizzy and half-shut 
 eyes he caught the shadowy and dusky outline of the face 
 that bent over him, so closely that he felt the breath of its 
 lips, that it was a face he had seen before; and as the 
 man now rose, and the wan light of the skies gave a some- 
 what clearer view of his features, the supposition was heigh- 
 tened, though not absolutely confirmed. But Walter had 
 no further power to observe his plunderers : again his brain 
 reeled; the dark trees, the grim shadows of human forms, 
 swam before his glazing eye, and he sank once more into 
 a profound insensibility. 
 
 Meanwhile the doughty corporal had, at the first sight of 
 his master's fall, halted abruptly at the spot to which his 
 steed had carried him ; and coming rapidly to the conclusion 
 that three men were best encountered at a distance, he fired 
 his two pistols, and without staying to see if they took effect, 
 — which, indeed, they did not, — galloped down the precipi- 
 tous hill with as much despatch as if it had been the last stage 
 to "Lunnun." 
 
240 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "My poor young master! " muttered he. "But if the worst 
 comes to the worst, the chief part of the money 's in the sad- 
 dle-bags, any how; and so, messieurs thieves, you're bit, 
 baugh ! " 
 
 The corporal was not long in reaching the town and alarm- 
 ing the loungers at the inn-door. A posse comitatus was soon 
 formed; and armed as if they were to have encountered all 
 the robbers between Hounslow and the Apennines, a band of 
 heroes, with the corporal, who had first deliberately reloaded 
 his pistols, at their head, set off to succor "the poor gentle- 
 man what was already murdered." 
 
 They had not got far before they found Walter's horse, 
 which had luckily broken from the robbers, and was now 
 quietly regaling himself on a patch of grass by the roadside. 
 ^^ He can get his supper, the beast!" grunted the corporal, 
 thinking of his own, and bade one of the party try to catch 
 the animal, — which, however, would have declined all such 
 proffers, had not a long neigh of recognition from the Roman 
 nose of the corporal's steed, striking familiarly on the strag- 
 gler's ear, called it forthwith to the corporal's side, and (while 
 the two chargers exchanged greeting) the corporal seized its 
 rein. 
 
 When they came to the spot from which the robbers had 
 made their sally, all was still and tranquil; no Walter was 
 to be seen. The corporal cautiously dismounted, and searched 
 about with as much minuteness as if he were looking for a 
 pin; but the host of the inn at which the travellers had dined 
 the day before stumbled at once on the right track. Gouts of 
 blood on the white, chalky soil directed him to the hedge, and 
 creeping through a small and recent gap, he discovered the 
 yet breathing body of the young traveller. 
 
 Walter was now conducted with much care to the inn. A 
 surgeon was already in attendance; for having heard that a 
 gentleman had been murdered without his knowledge, Mr. 
 Pertinax Fillgrave had rushed from his house and placed him- 
 self on the road, that the poor creature might not, at least, be 
 buried without his assistance. So eager was he to begin that 
 he scarce suffered the unfortunate Walter to be taken within 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 241 
 
 before lie whipped out his instruments and set to work with 
 the smack of an amateur. 
 
 Although the surgeon declared his patient to be in the great- 
 est possible danger, the sagacious corporal, who thought him- 
 self privileged to know more about wounds than any man of 
 peace by profession, however destructive by practice, could 
 possibly be, had himself examined those his master had re- 
 ceived before he went down to taste his long-delayed supper; 
 and he now confidently assured the landlord and the rest of 
 the good company in the kitchen that the blows on the head 
 had been mere flea-bites, and that his master would be as well 
 as ever in a week at the furthest. 
 
 And, indeed, when Walter the very next morning woke from 
 the stupor, rather than the sleep, he had undergone, he felt 
 himself surprisingly better than the surgeon, producing his 
 probe, hastened to assure him he possibly could be. 
 
 By the help of Mr. Pertinax Fillgrave, Walter was detained 
 several days in the town; nor is it wholly improbable but 
 that for the dexterity of the corporal he might be in the town 
 to this day, — not, indeed, in the comfortable shelter of the 
 old-fashioned inn, but in the colder quarters of a certain green 
 spot in which, despite of its rural attractions, few persons 
 are willing to fix a permanent habitation. 
 
 Luckily, however, one evening, the corporal, who had been, 
 to say truth, very regular in his attendance on his master, — 
 for, bating the selfishness consequent, perhaps, on his know- 
 ledge of the world, Jacob Bunting was a good-natured man on 
 the whole, and liked his master as well as he did anything, 
 always excepting Jacobina and board-wages, — one evening, 
 we say, the corporal, coming into Walter's apartment, found 
 him sitting up in his bed, with a very melancholy and de- 
 jected expression of countenance. 
 
 " And well, sir, what does the doctor say ? " asked the cor- 
 poral, drawing aside the curtains. 
 
 "Ah! Bunting, I fancy it 's all over with me! " 
 "The Lord forbid, sir! You 're a jesting, surely! " 
 "Jesting, my good fellow; ah! just get me that phial." 
 " The filthy stuff ! " said the corporal, with a wry face. 
 
 16 
 
242 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " Well, sir, if I had had the dressing of yon, been half way to 
 Yorkshire by this. Man 's a worm, and when a doctor gets 
 'un on his hook, he is sure to angle for the devil with the bait, 
 augh ! " 
 
 "What! you really think that d — d fellow Fillgrave is 
 keeping me on in this way ? " 
 
 " Is he a fool to give up three phials a day, 4s. 6d. item, 
 ditto, ditto ? " cried the corporal, as if astonished at the 
 question. "But don't you feel yourself getting a deal better 
 every day ? Don't you feel all this 'ere stuff revive you ? " 
 
 "No, indeed, I was amazingly better the first day than I am 
 now; I make progress from worse to worse. Ah! Bunting, 
 if Peter Dealtry were here, he might help me to an appropri- 
 ate epitaph; as it is, I suppose I shall be very simply la- 
 belled. Fillgrave will do the whole business, and put it 
 down in his bill: item, nine draughts; item, one epitaph." 
 
 " Lord a mercy, your honor ! " said the corporal, drawing 
 out a little red-spotted pocket-handkerchief, " how can jest so ? 
 It 's quite moving." 
 
 "I wish tae were moving! " sighed the patient. 
 
 "And so we might be," cried the corporal; "so we might, 
 if you 'd pluck up a bit. Just let me look at your honor's 
 head; I knows what a con/usion is better nor any of 'em." 
 
 The corporal, having obtained permission, now removed the 
 bandages wherewith the doctor had bound his intended sacri- 
 fice to Pluto; and after peering into the wounds for about a 
 minute, he thrust out his under-lip with a contemptuous — 
 
 "Pshaugh! augh! And how long," said he, "does Master 
 Fillgrave say you be to be under his hands ? augh ! " 
 
 " He gives me hopes that I may be taken out an airing very 
 gently (yes, hearses always go very gently!) in about three 
 weeks ! " 
 
 The corporal started, and broke into a long whistle. He 
 then grinned from ear to ear, snapped his fingers, and said, 
 "Man of the world, sir, man of the world, every inch of 
 him!" 
 
 "He seems resolved that I shall be a man of another world! " 
 said Walter. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 24S 
 
 "Tell ye what, sir, take my advice, — your honor knows I 
 be no fool, — throw off them 'ere wrappers; let me put on a 
 scrap of plaster; pitch phials to the devil; order out horses 
 to-morrow; and when you've been in the air half an hour, 
 won't know yourself again ! " 
 
 " Bunting ! the horses out to-morrow ? Faith, I don't think 
 I could walk across the room." 
 
 "Just try, your honor." 
 
 "Ah! I'm very weak, very weak, — my dressing-gown and 
 slippers. Your arm. Bunting — Well, upon my honor, I 
 walk very stoutly, eh ? I should not have thought this ! 
 Leave go : why, I really get on without your assistance ! " 
 
 "Walk as well as ever you did." 
 
 "ISTow I 'm out of bed, I don't think I shall go back again 
 to it." 
 
 " Would not, if I was your honor. " 
 
 " After so much exercise, I really fancy I 've a sort of an 
 appetite." 
 
 " Like a beefsteak ? " 
 
 "Nothing better." 
 
 "Pint of wine?" 
 
 " Why, that would be too much, eh ? " 
 
 "Not it." 
 
 " Go then, my good Bunting, go, and make haste. Stop, I 
 say, that d — d fellow — " 
 
 "Good sign to swear," interrupted the corporal; "swore 
 twice within last five minutes, — famous symptom!" 
 
 " Do you choose to hear me ? That d — d fellow Fillgrave 
 is coming back in an hour to bleed me : do you mount guard ; 
 refuse to let him in; pay him his bill, — you have the money. 
 And hark ye, don't be rude to the rascal." 
 
 "Rude, your honor! Not I, — been in the Forty-second-, 
 knows discipline, — only rude to the privates! " 
 , The corporal having seen his master conduct himself re- 
 spectably towards the viands with which he supplied him, 
 having set his room to rights, brought him the candles, bor- 
 rowed him a book, and left him, for the present, in extremely 
 good spirits, and prepared for the flight of the morrow, — the 
 
244 EUGEXE ARAM. 
 
 corporal, I say, now lighting his pipe, stationed himself at the 
 door of the inn and waited for Mr. Pertinax Fillgrave. Pres- 
 ently the doctor, who was a little, thin man, came bustling 
 across the street, and was about, with a familiar " Good even- 
 ing," to pass by the corporal, when that worthy, dropping his 
 pipe, said respectfully, " Beg pardon, sir, want to speak to you, 
 — a little favor. Will your honor walk into the back parlor ? " 
 
 "Oh! another patient," thought the doctor; "these soldiers 
 are careless fellows, — often get into scrapes. Yes, friend, 
 I 'm at your service." 
 
 The corporal showed the man of phials into the back parlor, 
 and, hemming thrice, looked sheepish, as if in doubt how to 
 begin. It was the doctor's business to encourage the bashful. 
 
 "Well, my good man," said he, brushing off, with the arm 
 of his coat, some dust that had settled on his inexpressibles, 
 " so you want to consult me ? " 
 
 " Indeed, your honor, I do ; but I feel a little awkward in 
 doing so, — a stranger and all." 
 
 "Pooh! medical men are never strangers. I am the friend 
 of every man who requires my assistance." 
 
 "Augh! and I do require your honor's assistance very 
 sadly." 
 
 "Well, well, speak out. Anything of long standing ?" 
 
 " Why, only since we have been here, sir." 
 
 "Oh, that's all! Well?" 
 
 "Your honor 's so good that won't scruple in telling you all. 
 You sees as how we were robbed, — master, at least, was, — 
 had some little in my pockets ; but we poor servants are never 
 too rich. You seem such a kind gentleman — so attentive to 
 master, though you must have felt how disinterested it was to 
 tend a man what had been robbed — that I have no hesitation 
 in making bold to ask you to lend us a few guineas, just to 
 help us out with the bill here, bother ! " 
 
 " Fellow ! " said the doctor, rising, " I don't know what you 
 mean; but I 'd have you to learn that I am not to be cheated 
 out of my time and property. I shall insist upon being paid 
 my bill instantly, before I dress your master's wound once 
 more ! " 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 245 
 
 "Augh!" said the corporal, who was delighted to find the 
 doctor come so immediately into the snare, *' won't be so cruel, 
 surely! Why, you'll leave us without a shiner to pay my 
 host here ! " 
 
 "Nonsense! Your master, if he's a gentleman, can write 
 home for money." 
 
 " Ah, sir, all very well to say so ; but between you and me 
 and the bed-post, young master 's quarrelled with old master; 
 old master won't give him a raj). So I 'm sure, since your 
 honor 's a friend to every man who requires your assistance, 
 — noble saying, sir ! — you won't refuse us a few guineas. And 
 as for your bill, why — " 
 
 "Sir, you're an impudent vagabond!" cried the doctor, as 
 red as a rose-draught, and flinging ovit of the room; "and I 
 warn you that I shall bring in my bill, and expect to be paid 
 within ten minutes." 
 
 The doctor waited for no answer ; he hurried home, scratched 
 off his account, and flew back with it in as much haste as if 
 his patient had been a month longer under his care, and was 
 consequently on the brink of that happier world where, since 
 the inhabitants are immortal, it is very evident that doctors, 
 as being useless, are never admitted. 
 
 The corporal met him as before. 
 
 " There, sir ! " cried the doctor, breathlessly ; and then, put- 
 ting his arms akimbo, "take that to your master, and desire 
 him to pay me instantly." 
 
 "Augh! and shall do no such thing." 
 
 " You won't ? " 
 
 "No, for shall pay you myself. Where 's your receipt, eh ? " 
 
 And with great composure the corporal drew out a well-filled 
 purse and discharged the bill. The doctor was so thunder- 
 stricken that he pocketed the money without uttering a word. 
 He consoled himself, however, with the belief that Walter, 
 whom he had tamed into a becoming hypochondria, would be 
 sure to send for him the next morning. Alas for mortal ex- 
 pectations I The next morning Walter was once more on the 
 road. 
 
246 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 new traces of the fate of geoffrey lester. "walter 
 
 aistd the corporal proceed on" a fresh expedition. 
 
 the corporal is especially sagacious on the old topic 
 
 of the world. his opinions of the men who claim 
 
 knowledge thereof; on the advantages enjoyed by a 
 valet; on the science of successful love; on virtue 
 
 AND the constitution; ON QUALITIES TO BE DESIRED IN A 
 MISTRESS, ETC. A LANDSCAPE. 
 
 This "way of talking of his very much enlivens the conversation among us 
 of a more sedate turn. — Spectator, No. III. 
 
 Walter found, while he made search himself, that it was no 
 easy matter, in so large a county as Yorkshire, to obtain even 
 the preliminary particulars; namely, the place of residence 
 and the name of the colonel from India whose dying gift his 
 father had left the house of the worthy Courtland to claim 
 and receive. But the moment he committed the inquiry to 
 the care of an active and intelligent lawyer, the case seemed 
 to brighten up prodigiously ; and Walter was shortly informed 
 that a Colonel Elmore, who had been in India, had died in the 
 year 17 — ; that by a reference to his will it appeared that he 
 had left to Daniel Clarke the sura of a thousand pounds and 
 the house in which he resided before his death, — the latter, 
 being merely leasehold, at a high rent, was specified in the 
 will to be of small value ; it was situated in the outskirts of 
 Knaresborough. It was also discovered that a Mr. Jonas 
 Elmore, the only surviving executor of the will, and a distant 
 relation of the deceased colonel, lived about fifty miles from 
 York, and could, in all probability, better than any one afford 
 Walter those further particulars of which he was so desirous 
 to be informed. Walter immediately proposed to his lawyer 
 to accompany him to this gentleman's house ; but it so hap- 
 pened that the lawyer could not, for three or four days, leave 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 247 
 
 his business at York; and Walter, exceedingly impatient to 
 proceed on the intelligence thus granted him, and disliking 
 the meagre information obtained from letters when a personal 
 interview could be obtained, resolved himself to repair to Mr. 
 Jonas Elmore's without further delay. And behold, there- 
 fore, our worthy corporal and his master again mounted, and 
 commencing a new journey. 
 
 The corporal, always fond of adventure, was in high spirits. 
 
 "See, sir," said he Co his master, patting with great affec- 
 tion the neck of his steed, "see, sir, how brisk the creturs 
 are; what a deal of good their long rest at York city 's done 
 'em! Ah, your honor, what a fine town that 'ere be! Yet," 
 added the corporal, with an air of great superiority, " it gives 
 you no notion of Lunnon like ; on the faith of a man, no ! " 
 
 "Well, Bunting, perhaps we may be in London within a 
 month hence." 
 
 "And afore we gets there, your honor, — no offence, — but 
 should like to give you some advice ; 't is ticklish place that 
 Lunnon; and though you be by no manner of means deficient 
 in genius, yet, sir, you he young, and /be — " 
 
 " Old, — true, Bunting," added Walter, very gravely. 
 
 "Augh, bother! old, sir? old, sir ? A man in the prime of 
 life, hair coal black (bating a few gray ones that have had 
 since twenty, — care, and military service, sir), carriage 
 straight, teeth strong, not an ail in the world bating the 
 rheumatics, is not old, sir, not by no manner of means, 
 baugh ! " 
 
 "You are very right, Bunting; when I said 'old,' I meant 
 'experienced.' I assure you I shall be very grateful for your 
 advice; and suppose, while we walk our horses up this hill, 
 you begin lecture the first. London 's a fruitful subject ; all 
 you can say on it will not be soon exhausted. " 
 
 " Ah ! may well say that, " replied the corporal, exceedingly 
 flattered with the permission he had obtained; "and anything 
 my poor wit can suggest, quite at your honor's sarvice, ehem, 
 hem! You must know by Lunnon I means the world, and by 
 the world means Lunnon; know one, — know t'other. But 
 't is not them as affects to be most knowing as be so at bottom. 
 
248 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 Begging your honor's pardon, I thinks gentlefolks what lives 
 only with gentlefolks, and calls themselves men of the world, 
 be often no wiser nor Pagan creturs, and live in a Gentile 
 darkness." 
 
 "The true knowledge of the world," said Walter, "is only 
 then for the corporals of the Forty-second, eh. Bunting ? " 
 
 "As to that, sir," quoth the corporal, "'tis not being of 
 this calling or of that calling that helps one on; 't is an inborn 
 sort of genus, the talent of obsarving, and growing wise by 
 obsarving. One picks up crumb here, crumb there; but if 
 one has not good digestion. Lord, what sinnifies a feast ? 
 Healthy man thrives on a 'tato ; sickly looks pale on a haunch. 
 You sees, your honor, as I said afore, I was own sarvant to 
 Colonel Dysart; he was a lord's nephy, a very gay gentleman, 
 and great hand with the ladies, — not a man more in the world; 
 so I had the opportunity of laming what 's what among the 
 best set, — at his honor's expense, too, augh! To my mind, 
 sir, there is not a place from which a man has a better view 
 of things than the bit carpet behind a gentleman's chair. The 
 gentleman eats and talks and swears and jests and plays cards 
 and makes love and tries xo cheat, and is cheated, and his man 
 stands behind with his eyes and ears open, augh ! " 
 
 " One should go into service to learn diplomacy, I see, " said 
 Walter, greatly amused. 
 
 "Does not know what 'plomacy be, sir, but knows it would 
 be better for many a young master nor all the colleges, — 
 would not be so many bubbles if my lord could take a turn 
 now and then with John. A well, sir, how I used to laugh 
 in my sleeve like, when I saw my master, who was thought 
 the knowingest gentleman about court, taken in every day 
 smack afore my face. There was one lady whom he had tried 
 hard, as he thought, to get away from her husband; and he 
 used to be so mighty pleased at every glance from her brown 
 eyes, — and be d — d to them! — and so careful the husband 
 should not see, so pluming himself on his discretion here, 
 and his conquest there, when. Lord bless you, it was all set- 
 tled 'twixt man and wife aforehand! And while the colonel 
 laughed at the cuckold, the cuckold laughed at the dupe. For 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 249 
 
 you sees, sir, as how the colonel was a rich man, and the 
 jewels as he bought for the lady went half into the husband's 
 pocket, he! he! That's the way of the world, sir; that's the 
 way of the world ! " 
 
 " Upon my word, you draw a very bad picture of the world ; 
 you color highly. And by the way, I observe that whenever 
 you find any man committing a roguish action, instead of call- 
 ing him a scoundrel, you show those great teeth of yovirs and 
 chuckle out, 'A man of the world! a man of the world! ' " 
 
 "To be sure, your honor; the proper name too. 'T is your 
 greenhorns who fly into a passion and use hard words. You 
 see, sir, there 's one thing we larn afore all other things in 
 the world, — to butter bread. Knowledge of others means 
 only the knowledge which side bread 's buttered. In short, 
 sir, the wiser grow, the more take care of oursels. Some per- 
 sons make a mistake, and in trying to take care of themsels, 
 run neck into halter. Baugh! they are not rascals, they are 
 would-be men of the world. Others be more prudent (for, as I 
 said afore, sir, discretion is a pair of stirrups), — they be the 
 true men of the world." 
 
 "I should have thought," said Walter, "that the knowledge 
 of the world might be that knowledge which preserves us 
 from being cheated, but not that which enables us to cheat." 
 
 " Augh ! " quoth the corporal, with that sort of smile with 
 which you see an old philosopher put down a high-sounding 
 error from a young disciple who flatters himself he has ut- 
 tered something prodigiously fine, — "augh! and did I not tell 
 you, t' other day, to look at the professions, your honor ? 
 What would a laryer be if he did not know how to cheat a 
 witness and humbug a jury ? Knows he is lying. Why is 
 he lying ? For love of his fees, or his fame like, which gets 
 fees. Augh! is not that cheating others? The doctor, too, 
 — Master Fillgrave, for instance ? " 
 
 "Say no more of doctors; I abandon them to your satire, 
 without a word." 
 
 "The lying knaves! Don't they say one 's well when one 's 
 ill, — ill when one's well? Profess to know what don't 
 know ? Thrust solemn phizzes into every abomination, as if 
 
250 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 laming la}'- hid in a ? and all for their neighbor's 
 
 money, or their own reputation, which makes money, augh! 
 In short, sir, look where will, impossible to see so much 
 cheating allowed, praised, encouraged, and feel very angry 
 with a cheat who has only made a mistake. But when I sees 
 a man butter his bread carefully, — knife steady, butter thick, 
 and hungry fellows looking on and licking chops, mothers 
 stopping their brats, ' See, child, respectable man, how thick 
 his bread 's buttered! pull off your hat to him,' — when I sees 
 tliat, my heart warms; tliere 's the true man of the world, 
 augh ! " 
 
 "Well, Bunting," said Walter, laughing, "though you are 
 tlius lenient to those unfortunate gentlemen whom others call 
 rogues, and thus laudatory of gentlemen who are at best dis- 
 creetly selfish, I suppose you admit the possibility of virtue, 
 and your heart warms as much when you see a man of worth 
 as when you see a man of the world ? " 
 
 "Why, you knows, your honor," answered the corporal, "so 
 far as vartue 's concerned, tliere 's a deal in constitution; but 
 as for knowledge of the world, one gets it oneself! " 
 
 "I don't wonder, Bunting, as your opinion of women is 
 much the same as your opinion of men, that you are still 
 unmarried." 
 
 "Augh! but your honor mistakes ; lam no mice-and-trope. 
 Men are neither one thing nor t' otlier, neither good nor bad. 
 A prudent parson has nothing to fear from 'em, nor a foolish 
 one anything to gain, baugh ! As to the women creturs, your 
 honor, as I said, vartue 's a deal in the constitution. Would 
 not ask what a lassie's mind be, nor what her eddycation, but 
 see what her habits be, that's all, — habits and constitution 
 all one; play into one another's hands." 
 
 " And what sort of signs, Bunting, would you mostly esteem 
 in a lady ? " 
 
 " First place, sir, woman I 'd marry must not mope when 
 alone; must be able to 'muse herself, must be easily 'mused. 
 That 's a great sign, sir, of an innocent mind, to be tickled 
 with straws. Besides, employment keeps 'em out of harm's 
 way. Second place, should obsarve if she was very fond of 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 251 
 
 places, your honor, — sorry to move; that's a sure sign she 
 won't tire easily, but that if she like you now from fancy, 
 she '11 like you by and by from custom. Thirdly, your honor, 
 she should not be avarse to dress, — a leaning tliat way shows 
 she has a desire to please; people who don't care about pleas- 
 ing always sullen. Fourthly, she must bear to be crossed, — 
 I 'd be quite sure that she might be contradicted, without 
 mumping or storming ; 'cause then, you knows, your honor, 
 if she wanted anything expensive, need not give it, augh! 
 Fifthly, must not set up for a saint, your honor. They pye- 
 house she-creaturs always thinks themsels so much better nor 
 we men, — don't understand our language and ways, your 
 honor; they wants us not only to belave, but to tremble, 
 bother!" 
 
 "I like your description well enough on the whole," said 
 Walter, " and when I look out for a wife I shall come to you 
 for advice." 
 
 "Your honor may have it already, — Miss EUinor 's jist 
 the thing." 
 
 "Walter turned away his head, and told Bunting, with great 
 show of indignation, not to be a fool. 
 
 The corporal, who was not quite certain of his ground here, 
 but who knew that Madeline, at all events, was going to be 
 married to Aram, and deemed it, therefore, quite useless to 
 waste any praise upon her, thought that a few random shots 
 of eulogium were worth throwing away on a chance, and con- 
 sequently continued, — 
 
 "Augh, your honor, 'tis not 'cause I have eyes that I he's 
 a fool. Miss Ellinor and your honor be only cousins, to be 
 sure; but more like brother and sister nor anything else. 
 Howsomever, she's a rare cretur, whoever gets her, — has a 
 face that puts one in good humor with the world, if one sees 
 it first thing in the morning; 'tis as good as the sun in July, 
 augh! But, as I was saying, your honor, 'bout the women 
 creturs in general — " 
 
 "Enough of them, Bunting! Let us suppose you have been 
 so fortunate as to find one to suit you, — how would you woo 
 her ? Of course there are certain secrets of courtship which 
 
252 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 you will not hesitate to impart to one who, like me, wants 
 such assistance from art, — much more than you can do, who 
 are so bountifully favored by nature." 
 
 "As to nature," replied the corporal, with considerable 
 modesty, for he never disputed the truth of the compliment, 
 *' 'tis not 'cause a man be six feet without 's shoes that he 's 
 any nearer to lady's heart. Sir, I will own to you — how- 
 somever it makes 'gainst your honor, and myself for that 
 matter — that don't think one is a bit more lucky with the 
 ladies for being so handsome, 'T is all very well with them 
 'ere willing ones, your honor, — caught at a glance; but as for 
 the better sort, one's beauty's all bother! Why, sir, when 
 we see some of the most fortunatest men among she-creturs, 
 what poor little minnikens they be ! One 's a dwarf, another 
 knock-kneed, a third sqviints, and a fourth might be shown 
 for a Aape! Neither, sir, is it your soft, insinivating, die- 
 away youths, as seem at first so seductive ; they do very well 
 for lovers, your honor, but then it's always — rejected ones! 
 Neither, your honor, does the art of succeeding with the ladies 
 'quire all those finnikin nimini-pinimis, flourishes and maxims 
 and saws, which the colonel, my old master, and the great 
 gentlefolks, as be knowing, call the art of love, baugh ! The 
 whole science, sir, consists in these two rules: 'Ax soon, and 
 ax often. ' " 
 
 "There seems no great difficulty in them, Bunting." 
 
 "Not to us who has gumption, sir; but then there is sum- 
 mut in the manner of axing, — one can't be too hot ; can't 
 flatter too much; and, above all, one must never take a refu- 
 sal. There, sir, now, if you takes my advice may break the 
 peace of all the husbands in Lunnon; bother, whaugh! " 
 
 " My imcle little knows what a praiseworthy tutor he has 
 secured me in you. Bunting," said Walter, laughing; "and 
 now, while the road is so good, let us make the most of it." 
 
 As they had set out late in the day, and the corporal was 
 fearful of another attack from a hedge, he resolved that about 
 evening one of the horses should be seized with a sudden 
 lameness (which he effected by slyly inserting a stone be- 
 tween the shoe and the hoof) that required immediate atten- 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 253 
 
 tion and a night's rest; so that it was not till the early nooii 
 of the next day that our travellers entered the village in which 
 Mr. Jonas Elmore resided. 
 
 It was a soft, tranquil day, though one of the very last in 
 October; for the reader Avill remember that time had not 
 stood still during Walter's submission to the care of Mr. Per- 
 tinax Fillgrave and his subsequent journey and researches. 
 
 The sunlight rested on a broad patch of green heath covered 
 with furze, and around it were scattered the cottages and farm- 
 houses of the little village. On the other side, as Walter de- 
 scended the gentle hill that led into this remote hamlet, wide 
 and flat meadows, interspersed with several fresh and shaded 
 ponds, stretched away towards a belt of rich woodland gor- 
 geous with the melancholy pomp by which the "regal year" 
 seeks to veil its decay. Among these meadows you might 
 now see groups of cattle quietly grazing, or standing half hid 
 in the still and sheltered pools. Still farther, crossing to the 
 woods, a solitary sportsman walked careless on, surrounded 
 by some half-a-dozen spaniels; and the shrill small tongue of 
 one younger straggler of the canine crew, who had broken 
 indecorously from the rest and already entered the wood, 
 might be just heard, softened down by the distance, into a 
 wild, cheery sound, that animated, without disturbing, the 
 serenity of the scene. 
 
 "Aft^r all," said Walter aloud, "the scholar was right, — 
 there is nothing like the country! 
 
 " ' Oh, happiness of sweet, retired content, 
 To be at once secure and innocent ! ' " 
 
 " Be them verses in the Psalms, sir ? " said the corporal, 
 who was close behind. 
 
 " No, Bunting, but they were written by one who, if I rec- 
 ollect right, set the Psalms to verse.'^ I hope they meet with 
 your approbation ? " 
 
 "Indeed, sir, and no, since they be n't in the Psalms." 
 
 " And why, Mr. Critic ? " 
 
 " 'Cause what 's the use of security if one 's innocent, and 
 
 1 Denhara. 
 
254 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 does not mean to take advantage of it ? Baugn ! One does 
 not lock tlie door for nothing, your honor! " 
 
 " You shall enlarge on that honest doctrine of yours another 
 time; meanwhile, call that shepherd and ask the way to Mr. 
 Elmore's." 
 
 The corporal obeyed, and found that a clump of trees, at the 
 farther corner of the waste land, was the grove that surrounded 
 Mr. Elmore's house. A short canter across the heath brought 
 them to a white gate, and having passed this, a comfortable 
 brick mansion, of moderate size, stood before them. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A SCHOLAR, BUT OF A DIFFERENT MOULD FROM THE STUDENT 
 
 OF GRASSDALE. NEW PARTICULARS CONCERNING GEOFFREY 
 
 LESTER. THE JOURNEY RECOMMENCED. 
 
 Insenuitque 
 Libris.i — Horace. 
 
 Volat, ambiguis 
 Mobilis alis, Hora.^ — Seneca. 
 
 Upon inquiring for Mr. Elmore, Walter was shown into a 
 handsome library that appeared well stocked with books of 
 that good old-fashioned size and solidity which are now fast 
 passing from the world, or at least shrinking into old shops 
 and public collections. The time may come when the moul- 
 dering remains of a folio will attract as much philosophical 
 astonishment as the bones of the mammoth. For behold, the 
 deluge of writers hath produced a new world of small octavo; 
 and in the next generation, thanks to the popular libraries, 
 we shall only vibrate between the duodecimo and the diamond 
 edition. Nay, we foresee the time when a very handsome col- 
 lection may be carried about in one's waistcoat pocket, and a 
 
 1 " And he hath grown old in books." 
 
 2 "Time flies, still moving on uncertain wing." 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 255 
 
 whole library of the British Classics be neatly arranged in a 
 well-compacted snuff-box. 
 
 In a few minutes Mr. Elmore made his appearance. He 
 was a short, well-built man, about the age of fifty. Contrary 
 to the established mode, he wore no wig, and was very bald, 
 except at the sides of the head, and a little circular island of 
 hair in the centre. But this defect was rendered the less 
 visible by a profusion of powder. He was dressed with evi- 
 dent care and precision. A snuff-colored coat was adorned 
 with a respectable profusion of gold lace ; his breeches were 
 of plum-colored satin; his salmon-colored stockings, scrupu- 
 lously drawn up, displayed a very handsome calf; and a pair 
 of steel buckles, in his high-heeled and square-toed shoes, 
 were polished into a lustre which almost rivalled the splendor 
 of diamonds. Mr. Jonas Elmore was a beau, a wit, and a 
 scholar of the old school. He abounded in jests, in quota- 
 tions, in smart sayings and pertinent anecdotes ; but, withal, 
 his classical learning (out of the classics he knew little enough) 
 was at once elegant but wearisome, pedantic but profound. 
 
 To this gentleman Walter presented a letter of introduction 
 which he had obtained from a distinguished clergyman in 
 York. Mr. Elmore received it with a profound salutation. 
 
 "Aha! from my friend Dr. Hebraist," said he, glancing at 
 the seal, — " a most worthy man and a ripe scholar. I presume 
 at once, sir, from his introduction that you yourself have cul- 
 tivated the literas hmnaniores. Pray sit down. Ay, I see, 
 jow take up a book, — an excellent symptom; it gives me an 
 immediate insight into your character. But you have chanced, 
 sir, on light reading, — one of the Greek novels, I think-, you 
 must not judge of my studies by such a specimen." 
 
 "Nevertheless, sir, it does not seem to my unskilful eye 
 very easy Greek." 
 
 "Pretty well, sir; barbarous, but amusing, — pray continue 
 it. The triumphal entry of Paulus Emilius is not ill told. I 
 confess that I think novels might be made much higher works 
 than they have been yet. Doubtless you remember what 
 Aristotle says concerning painters and sculptors, 'That they 
 teach and recommend virtue in a more efficacious and power- 
 
256 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 ful manner than philosophers by their dry precepts, and are 
 more capable of amending the vicious than the best moral les- 
 sons without such aid.' But how much more, sir, can a good 
 novelist do this than the best sculptor or painter in the world! 
 Every one can be charmed by a fine novel, few by a fine paint- 
 ing. ' Docti rationem artis intelligunt, indocti voluptatem. ' ^ 
 A happy sentence that in Quintilian, sir, is it not ? But, 
 bless me, I am forgetting the letter of my good friend Dr. 
 Hebraist. The charms of your conversation carry me away. 
 And, indeed, I have seldom the happiness to meet a gentle- 
 man so well-informed as yourself. I confess, sir, I confess 
 that I still retain the tastes of my boyhood; the Muses cradled 
 my childhood, — they now smooth the pillow on my footstool, 
 — 'Quern tu, Melpomene ' etc. You are not yet subject to 
 gout, — dira podagra. By the way, how is the worthy doctor 
 since his attack ? Ah ! see now, if you have not still, by your 
 delightful converse, kept me from his letter. Yet, positively 
 I need no introduction to you ; Apollo has already presented 
 you to me. And as for the Doctor's letter, I will read it after 
 dinner; for, as Seneca — " 
 
 "I beg your pardon a thousand times, sir," said Walter, 
 who began to despair of ever coming to the matter, which 
 seemed lost sight of beneath this battery of erudition; "but 
 you will find by Dr. Hebraist's letter that it is only on busi- 
 ness of the utmost importance that I have presumed to break 
 in upon the learned leisure of Mr. Jonas Elmore." 
 
 " Business ! " replied Mr. Elmore, producing his spectacles, 
 and deliberately placing them athwart his nose, — 
 
 " ' His mane edictum, post prandia Callirhoen,' etc. 
 
 Business in the morning, and the ladies after dinner. Well, 
 sir, I will yield to you in the one, and you must yield to me 
 in the other; I will open the letter, and you shall dine here 
 and be introduced to Mrs. Elmore. What is your opinion of 
 the modern method of folding letters ? I — But I see you 
 are impatient." Here Mr. Elmore at length broke the seal, 
 and to Walter's great joy fairly read the contents within. 
 
 1 " The learned understand the reason of art, the unlearned the pleasure." 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 257 
 
 "Oh! I see, I see," he said, refolding the epistle and plac- 
 ing it in his pocket-book; "my friend Dr. Hebraist says you 
 are anxious to be informed whether Mr. Clarke ever received 
 the legacy of my poor cousin, Colonel Elmore, and if so, any 
 tidings I can give you of Mr. Clarke himself, or any clew to 
 discover him, will be highly acceptable. I gather, sir, from 
 my friend's letter tliat this is the substance of your business 
 with me, — cajxut negotii; although, like Timanthes the painter, 
 he leaves more to be understood than is described, 'intelligitur 
 plus quam pingitur, ' as Pliny has it." 
 
 "Sir," says Walter, drawing his chair close to Mr. Elmore, 
 and his anxiety forcing itself to his countenance, "that is 
 indeed the substance of my business with you; and so impor- 
 tant will be any information you can give me that I shall 
 esteem it a — " 
 
 "Not a very great favor, eh, — not very great ? " 
 
 "Yes, indeed, a very great obligation." 
 
 "I hope not, sir; for Avhat says Tacitus, that profound 
 reader of the human heart? 'Beneficia eo usque Isetasunt, ' 
 etc., — favors easily repaid beget affection, — favors beyond re- 
 turn engender hatred.' But, sir, a truce to trifling;" and 
 here Mr. Elmore composed his countenance and changed — 
 which he could do at will, so that the change was not expected 
 to last long — the pedant for the man of business. 
 
 "Mr. Clarke did receive his legacy; the lease of the house 
 at Knaresborough was also sold by his desire, and produced 
 the sum of seven hundred and fifty pounds, — which being 
 added to the further sum of a thousand pounds, which was 
 bequeathed to him, amounted to seventeen hundred and fifty 
 pounds. It so happened that my cousin had possessed some 
 very valuable jewels, which were bequeathed to myself. I, 
 sir, studious and a cultivator of the Muse, had no love and 
 no use for these baubles, — I preferred barbaric gold to bar- 
 baric pearl; and knowing that Clarke had been in India, 
 whence these jewels had been brought, I showed them to him 
 and consulted his knowledge on these matters, as to the best 
 method of obtaining a sale. He offered to purchase them of 
 me, under the impression that he could turn them to a profita- 
 
 17 
 
258 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 ble speculation in London. Acccordingly we came to terms : 
 I sold the greater part of them to him for a sum a little ex- 
 ceeding a thousand pounds. He was pleased with his bar- 
 gain, and came to borrow the rest of me, in order to look at 
 them more considerately at home, and determine whether or 
 not he should buy them also. Well, sir (but here comes the 
 remarkable part of the story), about three days after this last 
 event Mr. Clarke and my jewels both disappeared in rather a 
 strange and abrupt manner. In the middle of the night he 
 left his lodging at Knaresborough and never returned; neither 
 himself nor my jewels were ever heard of more." 
 
 " Good heavens ! " exclaimed Walter, greatly agitated ; 
 *' what was supposed to be the cause of his disappearance ? " 
 
 "That," replied Elmore, "was never positively traced. It 
 excited great surprise and great conjecture at the time. Ad- 
 vertisements and handbills were circulated throughout the 
 country, but in vain. Mr. Clarke was evidently a man of 
 eccentric habits, of a hasty temper, and a wandering manner 
 of life ; yet it is scarcely probable that he took this sudden 
 manner of leaving the country either from whim or some SC' 
 cret but honest motive never divulged. The fact is that he 
 owed a few debts in the town, that he had my jewels in his 
 possession, and as (pardon me for saying this, since you take 
 an interest in him) his connections were entirely unknown 
 in these parts, and his character not very highly estimated, 
 — whether from his manner, or his conversation, or some un- 
 defined and vague rumors, I cannot say, — it was considered 
 by no means improbable that he had decamped with his prop- 
 erty in this sudden manner in order to save himself that 
 trouble of settling accounts which a more seemly and public 
 method of departure might have rendered necessary. A man 
 of the name of Houseman, with whom he was acquainted (a 
 resident in Knaresborough), declared that Clarke had borrowed 
 rather a considerable sum from him, and did not scruple 
 openly to accuse him of the evident design to avoid repay- 
 ment. A few more dark but utterly groundless conjectures 
 were afloat; and since the closest search, the minutest inquiry, 
 "was employed without any result, the supposition that he 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 259 
 
 might have been robbed and murdered wns strongly enter- 
 tained for some time. But as his body was never found, nor 
 suspicion directed against any particular person, these con- 
 jectures insensibly died away ; and being so coiiiplete a stranger 
 to these parts, the very circumstance of his disappearance was 
 not likely to occupy, for very long, the attention of that old 
 gossip the Public, who, even in the remotest parts, has a 
 thousand topics to fill up her time and talk. And now, sir, I 
 think you know as much of the particulars of the case as any 
 one in these parts can inform you." 
 
 We may imagine the various sensations which this unsat- 
 isfactory intelligence caused in the adventurous son of the lost 
 wanderer. He continued to throw out additional guesses, and 
 to make further inquiries concerning a tale which seemed to 
 him so mysterious, but without effect; and he had the morti- 
 fication to perceive that the shrewd Jonas was, in his own 
 mind, fully convinced that the permanent disappearance of 
 Clarke was accounted for only by the most dishonest motives. 
 
 "And," added Elmore, "lam confirmed in this belief by 
 discovering afterwards, from a tradesman in York who had 
 seen my cousin's jewels, that those I had trusted to Mr. 
 Clarke's hands were more valuable than I had imagined them, 
 and therefore it was probably worth his while to make off 
 with them as quietly as possible. He went on foot, leaving 
 his horse, a sorry nag, to settle with me and the other 
 claimants : — 
 
 " ' I, pedes quo te rapiunt et aurae ! ' " ^ 
 
 "Heavens!" thought Walter, sinking back in his chair 
 sickened and disheartened, " what a parent, if the opinions of 
 all men who knew him be true, do I thus zealously seek to 
 recover! " 
 
 The good-natured Elmore, perceiving the unwelcome and 
 painful impression his account had produced on his young 
 guest, now exerted himself to remove, or at least to lessen it; 
 and turning the conversation into a classical channel, which 
 with him was the Lethe to all cares, he soon forgot that 
 
 1 " Go, where your feet and fortune take you." 
 
260 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 Clarke had ever existed, in expatiating on the unappreciated 
 excellences of Propertius, who, to his mind, was the most 
 tender of all elegiac poets, solely because he was the most 
 learned. Fortunately this vein of conversation, however 
 tedious to Walter, preserved him from the necessity of re- 
 joinder, and left him to the quiet enjoyment of his own gloomy 
 and restless reflections. 
 
 At length the time touched upon dinner. Elmore, starting 
 up, adjourned to the drawing-room, in order to present the 
 handsome stranger to the placens uxor, the pleasing wife, 
 whom, in passing through the hall, he eulogized with an 
 amazing felicity of diction. 
 
 The object of these praises was a tall, meagre lady, in a 
 yellow dress carried up to the chin, and who added a slight 
 squint to the charms of red hair ill concealed by powder, and 
 the dignity of a prodigiously high nose. "There is nothing, 
 sir," said Elmore, "nothing, believe me, like matrimonial 
 felicity. Julia, my dear, 1 trust the chickens will not be 
 overdone." 
 
 "Indeed, Mr. Elmore, I cannot tell; I did not boil them." 
 
 "Sir," said Elmore, turning to his guest, "I do not know 
 whether you will agree with me, but I think a slight tendency 
 to gourmandism is absolutely necessary to complete the char- 
 acter of a truly classical mind. So many beautiful touches are 
 there in the ancient poets, so many delicate allusions in his- 
 tory and in anecdote relating to the gratification of the palate, 
 that if a man have no correspondent sympathy with the illus- 
 trious epicures of old, he is rendered incapable of enjoying 
 the most beautiful passages that — Come, sir, the dinner is 
 served. 
 
 " ' Nutrimus lautis moUissima corpora mensis.' " ^ 
 
 As they crossed the hall to the dining-room, a young lady, 
 whom Elmore hastily announced as his only daughter, appeared 
 descending the stairs, having evidently retired for the purpose 
 of re-arranging her attire for the conquest of the stranger. 
 There was something in INIiss Elmore that reminded Walter 
 
 1 " We nourish softest bodies at luxurious banquets." 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 261 
 
 of Ellinor; and as the likeness struck him, he felt, by the 
 sudden and involuntary sigh it occasioned, how much the 
 image of his cousin had lately gained ground upon his heart. 
 
 Nothing of any note occurred during dinner until the ap- 
 pearance of the second course, when Elmore, throwing him- 
 self back with an air of content, which signified that the first 
 edge of his appetite was blunted, observed, — 
 
 " Sir, the second course I always opine to be the more dig- 
 nified and rational part of a repast, — 
 
 " ' Quod uuiii; ratio est, impetus ante fuit.' " ^ 
 
 "Ah! Mr, Elmore," said the lady, glancing towards a brace 
 of very fine pigeons, " I cannot tell you how vexed I am at 
 a mistake of the gardener. You remember my poor pet pig- 
 eons, so attached to each other, — would not mix with the rest; 
 quite an inseparable friendship, Mr. Lester. Well, they were 
 killed, by mistake, for a couple of vulgar pigeons. Ah! I 
 could not touch a bit of them for the world." 
 
 "My love," said Elmore, pausing, and with great solemnity, 
 ** hear how beautiful a consolation is aiforded to you in Vale- 
 rius Maximus: 'Ubi idem et maximus et honestissimus amor 
 est, aliquando praestat morte jungi quam vita distrahi ! ' which 
 being interpreted, means that wherever, as in the case of your 
 pigeons, a thoroughly high and sincere affection exists, it is 
 sometimes better to be joined in death than divided in life. 
 Give me half the fatter one, if you please, Julia." 
 
 "Sir," said Elmore, when the ladies withdrew, "I cannot 
 tell you how pleased I am to meet with a gentleman so deeply 
 imbued with classic lore. I remember, several years ago, be- 
 fore my poor cousin died, it was my lot, when I visited him 
 at Knaresborough, to hold some delightful conversations on 
 learned matters with a very rising young scholar who then 
 resided at Knaresborough, Eugene Aram, — conversations as 
 difficult to obtain as delightful to remember, for he was ex- 
 ceedingly reserved." 
 
 " Aram ! " repeated Walter. 
 
 " What, you know him then ? And where does he live 
 now ? " 
 
 1 " That which is now reason, at first was but desire." 
 
262 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "In , very near my uncle's residence. He is certainly 
 
 a remarkable man." 
 
 "Yes, indeed he promised to become so. At the time I 
 refer to, he was poor to penury, and haughty as poor; but it 
 was wonderful to note the iron energy with which he pursued 
 his progress to learning. Never did I see a youth, — at that 
 time he was no more, — so devoted to knowledge for itself. 
 
 " ' Doctrinae pretium triste magister habit.' ^ 
 
 "Methinks," added Elmore, "I can see him now, stealing 
 away from the haunts of men, — 
 
 " ' With even step and musing gait,' — 
 
 across the quiet fields or into the woods, whence he was cer- 
 tain not to reappear till nightfall. Ah! he was a strange and 
 solitary being, but full of genius, and promise of bright things 
 hereafter. I have often heard since of his fame as a scholar, 
 but could never learn where he lived, or what was now his 
 mode of life. Is he yet married ? " 
 
 " Not yet, I believe ; but he is not now so absolutely poor 
 as you describe him to have been then, though certainly far 
 from rich." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I remember that he received a legacy from a re- 
 lation shortly before he left Knaresborough. He had very 
 delicate health at that time : has he grown stronger with in- 
 creasing years ? " 
 
 "He does not complain of ill-health. And, pray, was he 
 then of the same austere and blameless habits of life that he 
 now professes ? " 
 
 "Nothing could be so faultless as his character appeared; 
 the passions of youth (ah! I was a wild fellow at his age) 
 never seemed to venture near one — 
 
 " ' Quem casto erudit docta Minerva sinu.'^ 
 
 "Well, I am surprised he has not married. We scholars, 
 sir, fall in love with abstractions, and fancy the first woman 
 "we see is — Sir, let us drink ' The ladies.' " 
 
 ^ " The master has but sorry remuneration for his teaching." 
 2 " Whom wise Minerva taught with bosom chaste." 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 263 
 
 The next day Walter, having resolved to set out for Knares- 
 borough, directed his course towards that town ; he thought it 
 yet possible that he might, by strict personal inquiry, con- 
 tinue the clew that Elmore's account had, to present appear- 
 ance, broken. The pursuit in which he was engaged, com- 
 bined, perhaps, with the early disappointment to his affections, 
 had given a grave and solemn tone to a mind naturally ardent 
 and elastic. His character acquired an earnestness and a dig- 
 nity from late events ; and all that once had been hope within 
 him deepened into thought. As now, on a gloomy and clouded 
 day, he pursued his course along a bleak and melancholy road, 
 his mind was filled with that dark presentiment, that shadow 
 from the coming event which superstition believes the herald 
 of the more tragic discoveries or the more fearful incidents 
 of life ; he felt steeled and prepared for some dread denoue- 
 ment to a journey to which the hand of Providence seemed to 
 conduct his steps; and he looked on the shroud that Time 
 casts over all beyond the present moment with the same in- 
 tense and painful resolve with which, in the tragic represen- 
 tations of life, we await the drawing up of the curtain before 
 the last act, which contains the catastrophe that, while we 
 long, we half shudder to behold. 
 
 Meanwhile, in following the adventures of Walter Lester 
 we have greatly outstripped the progress of events at Grass- 
 dale, and thither we now return. 
 
264 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 ARAM S DEPARTURE. MADELINE. EXAGGERATION OF SENTI- 
 MENT NATURAL IN LOVE. — Madeline's letter. — Walter's. 
 
 THE WALK. TWO VERY DIFFERENT PERSONS, YET BOTH 
 
 INMATES OF THE SAME COUNTRY VILLAGE. THE HUMORS 
 
 OF LIFE AND ITS DARK PASSIONS ARE FOUND IN JUXTAPOSI- 
 TION EVERYWHERE. 
 
 Her thoughts, as pure as the chaste Morning's hreath 
 When from the Night's cold arms it creeps away, 
 Were clothed in words. 
 
 Sir J. Suckling : Detraction Execrated. 
 
 UrticiB proxima sa;pe rosa est.^ — Ovid. 
 
 " You positively leave us then to-day, Eugene ? " said the 
 squire. 
 
 "Indeed," answered Aram, "I hear from my creditor (now 
 no longer so, thanks to you) that my relation is so dangerously 
 ill that, if I have any wish to see her alive, I have not an 
 hour to lose. It is the last surviving relative I have in the 
 world." 
 
 "I can say no more, then," rejoined the squire, shrugging 
 his shoulders. " When do you expect to return ? " 
 
 "At least before the day fixed for the wedding," answered 
 Aram, with a grave and melancholy smile. 
 
 " Well, can you find time, think you, to call at the lodging 
 in which my nephew proposed to take up his abode, — my old 
 lodging; I will give you the address, — and inquire if Walter 
 has been heard of there ? I confess that I feel considerable 
 alarm on his account. Since that short and hurried letter 
 which I read to you, I have heard nothing of him." 
 
 "You may rely on my seeing him if in London, and faith- 
 fully reporting to you all that I can learn towards removing 
 your anxiety." 
 
 1 " The rose is often nearest to the nettle." 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 265 
 
 "I do not doubt it,— no heart is so kind as yours, Eugene. 
 You will not depart withovit receiving the additional sum you 
 are entitled to claim from me, since you think it may be use- 
 ful to you in London, should you find a favorable opportunity 
 of increasing your annuity. And now I will no longer detain 
 you from taking your leave of Madeline." 
 
 The plausible story which Aram had invented of the illness 
 and approaching death of his last living relation, was readily 
 believed by the simple family to whom it was told, and Made- 
 line herself checked her tears, that she might not, for his 
 sake, sadden a departure that seemed inevitable. Aram ac- 
 cordingly repaired to London that day,— the one that followed 
 the night which witnessed his fearful visit to the Devil's 
 Crag. 
 
 It is precisely at this part of my history that I love to pause 
 for a moment, — a sort of breathing interval between the cloud 
 that has been long gathering, and the storm that is about to 
 burst. And this interval is not without its fleeting gleam of 
 quiet and holy sunshine. 
 
 It was Madeline's first absence from her lover since their 
 vows had plighted thera to each other; and that first absence, 
 when softened by so many hopes as smiled upon her, is per- 
 haps one of the most touching passages in the history of a 
 woman's love. It is marvellous how many things, unheeded 
 before, suddenly become dear. She then feels what a power 
 of consecration there was in the mere presence of the one 
 beloved; the spot he touched, the book he read, have become 
 a part of him, are no longer inanimate, are inspired, and have 
 a being and a voice. And the heart, too, soothed in discov- 
 ering so many new treasures, and opening so delightful a 
 world of memory, is not yet acquainted with that weariness, 
 that sense of exhaustion and solitude, which are the true 
 pains of absence, and belong to the absence, not of hope, but 
 regret. 
 
 "You are cheerful, dear Madeline," said Ellinor, "though 
 you did not think it possible, and he not here! " 
 
 "I am occupied," replied Madeline, "in discovering how 
 much I loved him." 
 
266 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 We do wrong when we censure a certain exaggeration in tlie 
 sentiments of those we love. True passion is necessarily 
 heightened by its very ardor to an elevation that seems ex- 
 travagant only to those who cannot feel it. The lofty lan- 
 guage of a hero is a part of his character; without that large- 
 ness of idea he had not been a hero. Witli love it is the 
 same as with glory: what common minds would call natural 
 in sentiment, merely because it is homely, is not natural, 
 except to tamed affections. That is a very poor, nay, a very 
 coarse, love, in which the imagination makes not the greater 
 part ; and the Frenchman who censured the love of his mis- 
 tress because it was so mixed with the imagination, quarrelled 
 with the body for the soul which inspired and preserved it. 
 
 Yet we do not say that Madeline was so possessed by the 
 confidence of her love that she did not admit the intrusion of 
 a single doubt or fear. When she recalled the frequent gloom 
 and moody fitfulness of her lover, his strange and mysterious 
 communings with self, the sorrow which, at times, as on that 
 Sabbath eve when he wept upon her bosom, appeared suddenly 
 to come upon a nature so calm and stately, and without a vis- 
 ible cause, — when she recalled all these symptoms of a heart 
 not now at rest, it was not possible for her to reject altogether 
 a certain vague and dreary apprehension. Nor did she her- 
 self, although to Ellinor she so affected, ascribe this cloudi- 
 ness and caprice of mood merely to the result of a solitary 
 and meditative life; she attributed them to the influence of 
 an early grief, perhaps linked with the affections, and did not 
 doubt but that one day or another she should learn the secret. 
 As for remorse, the memory of any former sin : a life so aus- 
 terely blameless, a disposition so prompt to the activity of 
 good and so enamoured of its beauty, a mind so cultivated, a 
 temper so gentle, and a heart so easily moved, — all would 
 have forbidden, to natures far more suspicious than Made- 
 line's, the conception of such a thought. And so, with a pa- 
 tient gladness, though not without some mixture of anxiety, 
 she suffered herself to glide onward to a future which, come 
 cloud, come shine, was, she believed at least, to be shared 
 with him. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 267 
 
 On looking over the various papers from which I have woven 
 this tale, I find a letter from Madeline to Aram dated at this 
 time. The characters, traced in the delicate and fair Italian 
 hand coveted at that period, are fading, and in one part wholly 
 obliterated by time ; but there seems to me so much of what 
 is genuine in the heart's beautiful romance in this effusion 
 that I will lay it before the reader without adding or altering 
 a word : — 
 
 Thank you, thank you, dearest Eugene I I have received, then, the 
 first letter you ever wrote me. I cannot tell you how strange it seemed 
 to me, and how agitated I felt on seeing it, — more so, I think, than if it 
 had been yourself who had returned. However, when the first delight 
 of reading it faded away, I found that it had not made me so happy as 
 it ought to have done, — as I thought at first it had done. You seem 
 sad and melancholy ; a certain nameless gloom appears to me to hang 
 over your whole letter. It affects my spirits,- — why, I know not, — 
 and my tears fall even while I read the assurances of your unaltered, 
 unalterable love ; and yet this assurance your IMadeline — vain girl ! — 
 never for a moment disbelieves. I have often read and often heard of 
 the distrust and jealousy that accompany love ; but I think that such a 
 love must be a vulgar and low sentiment. To me there seems a religion 
 in love, and its very foundation is in faith. You say, dearest, that the 
 noise and the stir of the great city oppress and weary you even more 
 than )'ou had expected. You say those harsh faces, in which business 
 and care and avarice and ambition write their lineaments, are wholly 
 unfamiliar to you ; you turn aside to avoid them ; you wrap yourself up 
 in your solitary feelings of aversion to those you see, and you call upon 
 those not present, — upon your Madeline I And would that your Made- 
 line were with you ! It seems to me — perhaps you will smile when I 
 say this — that I alone can understand you, I alone can read your heart 
 and your emotions ; and oh ! dearest Eugene, that I could read also 
 enough of your past history to know all that has cast so habitual a 
 shadow over that lofty heart and that calm and profound nature ! You 
 smile when I ask you ; but sometimes you sigh, and the sigh pleases and 
 sootlies me better than the smile. . . . 
 
 We have heard nothing more of "Walter, and my father continues to 
 be seriously alarmed about hira. Your account too corroborates that 
 alarm. It is strange that he has not yet visited London, and that you 
 can obtain no clew of him. He is evidently still in search of his lost 
 parent, and following some obscure and uncertain track. Poor AY alter, 
 
268 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 God speed him ! The singuhir fate of his father, and the many conjee- 
 tures respecting him, have, I IjeUeve, preyed on Walter's mind more than 
 he acknowledged. Ellinor found a paper in his closet, where we had 
 occasion to search the other day for something belonging to my father, 
 which was scribbled with all the various fragments of guess or informa- 
 tion concerning my uncle, obtained from time to time, and interspersed 
 with some remarks by Walter himself that affected me strangely. It 
 seems to have been, from early childhood, the one desire of my cousin to 
 discover his father's fate. Perhaps the discovery may be already made ; 
 perhaps my long-lost uncle may yet be present at our wedding. 
 
 You ask me, Eugene, if I still pursue my botanical researches. Some- 
 times I do : but the flower now has no fragrance, and the herb no secret, 
 that I care for ; and astronomy, which you had just begun to teach me, 
 pleases me more. The flowers charm me when you are present, but the 
 stars speak to me of you in absence. Perhaps it would not be so had I 
 loved a being less exalted than you. Every one, even my father, even 
 Ellinor, smile when they observe how incessantly I think of you, — how 
 utterly you have become all in all to me. I could not tell this to you, 
 though 1 write It : is it not strange that letters should be more faithful 
 than the tongue ? And even your letter, mournful as it is, seems to me 
 kinder and dearer and more full of yourself than, with all the magic of 
 your language and the silver sweetness of your voice, your spoken words 
 are. I walked by your house yesterday. The windows were closed ; 
 there was a strange air of lifelessness and dejection about it. Do you 
 remember the evening in which I first entered that house? Do you — 
 or rather is there one hour in which it is not present to you? For me, I 
 live in the past ; it is the present (which is without you) in which I have 
 no life. I passed into the little garden, that with your own hands you 
 have planted for me, and filled with flowers. Ellinor was with me, and 
 she saw my lips move. She asked me what I was saying to myself. I 
 would not tell her. I was praying for you, ray kind, my beloved Eu- 
 gene ; I was praying for the happiness of your future years, — praying 
 that I might requite your love. Whenever I feel the most, I am the 
 most inclined to prayer. Sorrow, joy, tenderness, all emotion, lift up 
 my heart to God. And what a delicious overflow of the heart is prayer ! 
 When I am with you, and I feel that you love me, my happiness would 
 be painful if there were no God whom I might bless for its e.xcess. Do 
 those who believe not, love? Have they deep emotions ? Can they feel 
 truly, devotedly ? Why, when I talk thus to you, do you always answer 
 me with that chilling and mournful smile? You would rest religion 
 only on reason, — as well limit love to the reason also 1 What were 
 either without the feelings ? 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 269 
 
 When, when, when will you return? I think I love you now more 
 than ever. I think I have more courage to tell you so. So many 
 things I have to say, so many events to relate. For what is not an 
 event to us ? The least incident that has happened to either, — the 
 very fading of a flower, if you have worn it, — is a whole history 
 to me. 
 
 Adieu ! God bless you, God reward you, God keep your heart with 
 him, dearest, dearest Eugene ! And may you every day know better 
 and better how utterly you are loved b}' your 
 
 Madeline. 
 
 The epistle to which Lester referred, as received from 
 Walter, was one written on the day of his escape from Mr. 
 Pertinax Fillgrave, a short note rather than letter, which ran 
 as follows : — 
 
 My dear Uxcle, — I have met with an accident which confined me 
 to my bed, — a rencontre, indeed, with the knights of the road; nothing 
 serious (so do not be alarmed) though the doctor would fain have made 
 it so. I am just about to recommence my journey, but not towards 
 London ; on the contrary, northward. 
 
 I have, partly through the information of your old friend IVTr. Court- 
 land, partly by accident, found what I hope may prove a clew to the 
 fate of my father I am now depnrting to put this hope to the issue. 
 More I would fain say ; but lest the expectation should prove fallacious, 
 I will not dwell on circumstances which would, in that case, only create 
 in you a disappointment similar to my own. (Inly this take with you, 
 that my father's proverbial good luck seems to have visited him since 
 your latest news of his fate, — a legacy, though not a large one, awaited 
 his return to England from India. But see if I am not growing prolix 
 already ! I must break off, in order to reserve you the pleasure (may 
 it be so !) of a full surprise. 
 
 God bless you, my dear uncle ! I write in spirits and hope. Kindest 
 love to all at home. 
 
 Walter Lester. 
 
 P. S. — Tell Ellinor that my bitterest misfortune in the adventure I 
 have referred to was to be robbed of her purse. Will she knit me 
 another? By the way, I encountered Sir Peter Hales: such an open- 
 hearted, generous fellow as you said ! " Thereby hangs a tale." 
 
 This letter, which provoked all the curiosity of our little 
 circle, made them anxiously look forward to every post for 
 
270 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 additional explanation, but that explanation came not ; and 
 they were forced to console themselves with the evident exhil- 
 aration under which Walter wrote, and the probable supposi- 
 tion that he delayed further information until it could be 
 ample and satisfactory. " Knights of the road," quoth Lester, 
 one day : " I wonder if they were any of the gang that have 
 just visited us ? Well, but, poor boy, he does not say whether 
 he has any money left; yet if he were short of the gold, he 
 would be very unlike his father (or his uncle, for that matter) 
 had he forgotten to enlarge on that subject, however brief 
 upon others." 
 
 "Probably," said Ellinor, "the corporal carried the main 
 sum about him in those well-stuffed saddle-bags, and it was 
 only the purse that Walter had about his person that was 
 stolen; and it is clear that the corporal escaped, as he men- 
 tions nothing about that excellent personage." 
 
 " A shrewd guess, Nell ; but pray why shoidd Walter carry 
 the purse about him so carefully ? Ah! you blush: well, will 
 3'ou knit him another ? " 
 
 "Pshaw, papa! Good-by; I am going to gather you a 
 nosegay." 
 
 But Ellinor was seized with a sudden fit of industry, 
 and, somehow or other, she grew fonder of knitting than 
 ever. 
 
 The neighborhood was now tranquil and at peace; the 
 nightly depredators that had infested the green valleys of 
 Grassdale were heard of no more ; it seemed a sudden incur- 
 sion of fraud and crime, which was too unnatural to the char- 
 acter of the spot invaded to do more than to terrify and to 
 disappear. The truditur dies die, the serene steps of one calm 
 day chasing another, returned, and the past alarm was only 
 remembered as a tempting subject of gossip to the villagers, 
 and at the Hall a theme of eulogium on the courage of Eugene 
 Aram. 
 
 " It is a lovely day," said Lester to his daughters as they sat 
 at the window; "come, girls, get your bonnets, and let us take 
 a walk into the village." 
 
 "And meet the postman," said Ellinor, archly. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 271 
 
 "Yes," rejoined Madeline, in the same vein, but in a whis- 
 per that Lester might not hear; "for who knows but that we 
 may have a letter from Walter ? " 
 
 How prettily sounds such raillery on virgin lips! ISTo, no; 
 nothing on earth is so lovely as the confidence between two 
 happy sisters who have no secrets but those of a guileless love 
 to reveal! 
 
 As they strolled into the village they were met by Peter 
 Dealtry, who was slowly riding home on a large ass, which 
 carried himself and his panniers to the neighboring market in 
 a more quiet and luxurious indolence of action than would the 
 harsher motions of the equine species. 
 
 " A fine day, Peter ; and what news at market ? " said 
 Lester. 
 
 "Corn high, hay dear, your honor," replied the clerk. 
 
 "Ah, I suppose so, — a good time to sell ours, Peter; we 
 must see about it on Saturday. But, pray, have you heard 
 anything from the corporal since his departure ? " 
 
 " Not I, your honor, not I ; though I think as he might have 
 given us a line, if it was only to thank me for my care of his 
 cat; but — 
 
 " ' Them as comes to go to roam, 
 
 Thinks slight of they as stays at home.' " 
 
 "A notable distich, Peter; your own composition, I war- 
 rant." 
 
 " Mine ! Lord love your honor, I has no genus, but I has 
 memory; and when them 'ere beautiful lines of poetry like 
 comes into my head, they stays there, and stays till they pops 
 out at my tongue, like a bottle of ginger-beer. I do loves 
 poetry, sir, 'specially the sacred." 
 
 "We know it, we know it." 
 
 "For there be summut in it," continued the clerk, "which 
 smooths a man's heart like a clothes-brush, wipes away the 
 dust and dirt, and sets all the nap right; and I thinks as 
 how 'tis what a clerk of the parish ought to study, your 
 honor." 
 
 "Nothing better; you speak like an oracle." 
 
272 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "Now, sir, there be the corporal, honest man, what thinks 
 himself mighty clever; but he has no soul for varse. Lord 
 love ye, to see the faces he makes when I tells him a hymn or 
 so, — 'tis quite wicked, your honor- for that's what the hea- 
 then did as you well know, sir. 
 
 "'And when I does discourse of things 
 Most holy to their tribe, 
 What does they do f They mocks at me, 
 And makes my heart a gibe.' 
 
 'T is not what J calls pretty. Miss Ellinor." 
 
 "Certainly not, Peter; I wonder, with your talents for 
 verse, you never indulge in a little satire against such per- 
 verse taste." 
 
 "Satire! What's that ? Oh, I knows, — what they writes 
 in elections. Why, miss, mayhap — " here Peter paused, and 
 winked significantly. "But the corporal 's a passionate man, 
 you knows; but I could so sting him. Aha! we '11 see, we '11 
 see. Do you know, your honor," — here Peter altered his air 
 to one of serious importance, as if about to impart a most saga- 
 cious conjecture, — "I thinks there be one reason why the cor- 
 poral has not written to me." 
 
 "And what 's that, Peter ? " 
 
 "'Cause, your honor, he 's ashamed of his writing; I fancy 
 as how his spelling is no better than it should be. But mum 's 
 the word. You sees, your honor, the corporal 's got a tarn for 
 conversation-like; he be a mighty fine talker, sure///, but he 
 be shy o' the pen. 'T is not every man what talks biggest 
 what 's the best scholard at bottom. Why, there 's the news- 
 paper I saw in the market (for I always sees the newspaper 
 once a week) says as how some of them great speakers in the 
 parliament house are no better than ninnies when they gets 
 upon paper; and that's the corporal's case, I sispect. I sup- 
 pose as how they can't spell all them 'ere long words they 
 make use on. For my part, I thinks there be mortal desate 
 [deceit] like in that 'ere public speaking, for I knows how far 
 a loud voice and a bold face goes, even in buying a cow, your 
 honor, and I 'm afraid the country 's greatly bubbled in tha.t 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 273 
 
 'ere partiklar; for if a man can't write down clearly what he 
 means for to say, I does not thinks as how he knows what he 
 means when he goes for to speak! " 
 
 This speech — quite a moral exposition for Peter, and doubt- 
 less inspired by his visit to market; for what wisdom cannot 
 come from intercourse? — our good publican delivered with 
 especial solemnity, giving a huge thump on the sides of his 
 ass as he concluded. 
 
 "Upon my word, Peter," said Lester, laughing, "you have 
 grown quite a Solomon, and instead of a clerk, you ought to 
 be a justice of the peace at the least; and, indeed, I must say 
 that I think you shine more in the capacity of a lecturer than 
 in that of a soldier." 
 
 " 'T is not for a clerk of the parish to have too great a knack 
 at the weapons of the flesh," said Peter, sanctimoniously, and 
 turning aside to conceal a slight confusion at the unlucky 
 reminiscence of his warlike exploits; "but lauk, sir, even aa 
 to that, why we has frightened all the robbers away. What 
 would you have us do more ? " 
 
 "Upon my word, Peter, you say right; and now, good day. 
 Your Avife 's well, I hope ? And Jacobina (is not that the 
 cat's name ?) in high health and favor ? " 
 
 " Hem, hem ! why, to^ be sure, the cat 's a good cat ; but she 
 steals Goody Truman's cream as Goody sets for butter reg'- 
 larly every night." 
 
 "Oh! you must cure her of that," said Lester, smiling. "I 
 hope that 's the worst fault." 
 
 "Why, your gardener do say," replied Peter, reluctantly, 
 "as how she goes arter the pheasants in Copse-hole." 
 
 "The deuce!" cried the squire; "that will never do. She 
 must be shot, Peter, she must be shot. ATij pheasants, mj 
 best preserves, and poor Goody Truman's cream, too, — a 
 perfect devil! Look to it, Peter; if I hear any complaints 
 again, Jacobina is done for. What are you laughing at, 
 Nell ? " 
 
 " Well, go thy ways for a shrewd man and a clever man ,• it 
 is not every one who could so suddenly have elicited my 
 father's compassion for Goody Truman's cream." 
 
 18 
 
274 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "Pooh!" said tlie squire, '"'a pheasant's a serioiis thing, 
 child; but you Avomen don't understand matters." 
 
 They had now crossed through the village into the fields, 
 and were slowly sauntering by 
 
 " Hedge-row elms on hillocks green," 
 
 when, seated under a stunted pollard, they came suddenly on 
 the ill-favored person of Dame Darkmans. She sat bent (with 
 her elbows on her knees, and her hands supporting her chin), 
 looking up to the clear autumnal sky ; and as they approached, 
 she did not stir, or testify by sign or glance that she even 
 perceived them. 
 
 There is a certain kind-hearted sociability of temper that 
 you see sometimes among country gentlemen, especially not 
 of the highest rank, who knowing, and looked up to by, every 
 one immediately around them, acquire the habit of accosting 
 all they meet, — a habit as painful for them to break as it was 
 painful for poor Rousseau to be asked "how he did" by an 
 apple-woman. And the kind old squire could not pass even 
 Goody Darkmans (coming thus abruptly upon her) without a 
 salutation. 
 
 " All alone, dame, enjoying the fine weather ? That 's right. 
 And how fares it with you ? " 
 
 The old woman turned round her dark and bleared eyes, 
 but without moving limb or posture. 
 
 " 'T is wellnigh winter now; 'tis not easy for poor folks to 
 fare well at this time o' year. Where be we to get the fire- 
 wood and the clothing and the dry bread — carse it! — and the 
 drop o' stuff that's to keep out the cold ? Ah! it 's fine for 
 you to ask how we does, and the days shortening and the air 
 sharpening." 
 
 " Well, dame, shall I send to for a warm cloak for 
 
 you ? " said Madeline. 
 
 " Ho ! thank ye, young lady, thank ye kindly, and I '11 wear 
 it at your widding; for they says you be going to git married 
 to the larned man yander. Wish ye well, ma'am; wish ye 
 well." 
 
 The old hag grinned as she uttered this benediction, that 
 
EUGENE AKAM. 275 
 
 sounded on her lips like the Lord's Prayer on a witch's, — 
 which converts the devotion to a crime, and the prayer to a 
 curse. 
 
 "Ye 're very winsome, young lady," she continued, eying 
 Madeline's tall and rounded figure from head to foot, "yes, 
 very; but I was bonny as you once, and if you lives, — mind 
 that, — fair and happy as you stand now, you'll be as with- 
 ered and foul-faced and wretched as me. Ha! ha! I loves 
 to look on young folk, and think o' that. But mayhap ye 
 won't live to be old, — more 's the pity! For ye might be a 
 widow, and childless, and a lone 'oman, as I be, if you were 
 to see sixty. An' wouldn't that be nice? ha! ha! Much 
 pleasure ye '11 have in the fine weather then, and in people's 
 fine speeches, eh ? " 
 
 "Come, dame," said Lester, with a cloud on his benign 
 brow, "this talk is ungrateful to me and disrespectful to Miss 
 Lester ; it is not the way to — " 
 
 "Hout! " interrupted the old woman, "I begs pardon, sir, if 
 I offended, — I begs pardon, young lady; 'tis my way, poor 
 old soul that I be. And you meant me kindly, and I would 
 not be uncivil now you are a going to give me a bonny cloak. 
 And what color shall it be ? " 
 
 "Why, what color would you like best, dame, — red ? " 
 
 "Red, no, — like a gypsy-quean, indeed! Besides, they all 
 has red cloaks in the village yonder. No ; a handsome dark 
 gray, or a gay, cheersome black, an' then I '11 dance in mourn- 
 ing at your wedding, young lady, — and that 's what ye '11 like. 
 But what ha' ye done with the merry bridegroom, ma'am ? 
 Gone away, I hear. Ah, ye '11 have a happy life on it, with 
 a gentleman like him; I never seed him laugh once. Why 
 does not he hire me as your sarvant: would not I be a favor- 
 ite thin ? I 'd stand on the thrishold and give ye good morrow 
 every day. Oh! it does me a deal of good to say a blessing 
 to them as be younger and gayer than me. Madge Darkmans' 
 blessing ! Och ! what a thing to wish for ! " 
 
 "Well, good day, mother," said Lester, moving on. 
 
 ■'Stay a bit, stay a bit, sir: has ye any commands, miss, 
 yonder, at Master Aram's ? His old 'oman 's a gossip of 
 
276 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 mine, we were young togitlier, and the lads did not know 
 which to like the best. So we often meets and talks of tlie 
 old times. I be going up there now. Och ! I hope I shall 
 be asked to the widding. And what a nice month to wid in ! 
 Novimber, Novimber, that's the merry month for me! But 
 'tis cold, bitter cold too. Well, good day, good day. Ay," 
 continued the hag, as Lester and the sisters moved on, " ye all 
 goes, and throws niver a look behind. Ye despises the poor 
 in your hearts. But the poor will have their day. Och! an' 
 I wish ye were dead, dead, dead, an' I dancing in my bonny 
 black cloak about your graves ; for a'n't all mine dead, cold, 
 cold, rotting ? — and one kind and rich man might ha' saved 
 them all ! " 
 
 Thus mumbling, the wretched creature looked after the 
 father and his daughters as they wound onward, till her dim 
 eyes caught them no longer ; and then, drawing her rags round 
 her, she rose, and struck into the opposite path that led to 
 Aram's house. 
 
 " I hope that hag will be no constant visitor at your future 
 residence, Madeline," said the younger sister; "it would be 
 like a blight on the air." 
 
 "And if we could remove her from the parish," said Les- 
 ter, " it would be a happy day for the village. Yet, strange 
 as it may seem, so great is her power over them all that there 
 is never a marriage nor a christening in the village from 
 which she is absent; they dread her spite and foul tongue 
 enough to make them even ask humbly for her presence." 
 
 "And the hag seems to know that her bad qualities are a 
 good policy, and obtain more respect than amiability would 
 do," said Ellinor. "I think there is some design in all she 
 utters." 
 
 "I don't know how it is, but the words and sight of that 
 woman have struck a damp into my heart," said Madeline, 
 musingly. 
 
 "It would be wonderful if they had not, child," said Lester, 
 soothingly; and he changed the conversation to other topics. 
 
 As, concluding their walk, they re-entered the village, they 
 encountered that most welcome of all visitants to a country 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 277 
 
 village, — the postman; a tall, thin pedestrian, famous for 
 swiftness of foot, with a cheerful face, a swinging gait, and 
 Lester's bag slung over his shoulder. Our little party quick- 
 ened their pace: one letter, — for Madeline, — Aram's hand- 
 writing. Happy blush, bright smile ! Ah ! no meeting ever 
 gives the delight that a letter can inspire in the short absences 
 of a first love, 
 
 " And none for me ! " said Lester, in a disappointed tone, 
 and Ellinor's hand hung more heavily on his arm, and her 
 step moved slower. "It is very strange in Walter; but I am 
 really more angry than alarmed." 
 
 "Be sure," said Ellinor, after a pause, "that it is not his 
 fault. Something may have happened to him. Good heavens ! 
 if he has been attacked again, — those fearful highwaymen! " 
 
 "Nay," said Lester, "the most probable supposition, after 
 all, is that he will not write until his expectations are realized 
 or destroyed. Natural enough, too; it is what I should have 
 done if I had been in his place." 
 
 " Natural ! " said Ellinor, who now attacked where she be- 
 fore defended, — "natural not to give us one line, to say he is 
 well and safe ! Natural ! / could not have been so remiss ! " 
 
 "Ay, child, you women are so fond of writing. 'Tis not 
 so with us, especially when we are moving about; it is always, 
 ' Well, I must write to-morrow ; well, I must write when 
 this is settled; well, I must write when I arrive at such a 
 place;' and, meanwhile, time slips on, till perhaps we get 
 ashamed of writing at all. I heard a great man say once that 
 'Men must have something effeminate about them to be good 
 correspondents; ' and 'faith! I think it's true enough on the 
 whole." 
 
 " I wonder if Madeline thinks so ? " said Ellinor, enviously 
 glancing at her sister's absorption, as, lingering a little be- 
 hind, she devoured the contents of her letter. 
 
 "He is coming home immediately, dear father, — perhaps 
 he may be here to-morrow, " cried Madeline, abruptly. " Think 
 of that, Ellinor! Ah! and he writes in spirits! " and the poor 
 girl clapped her hands delightedly, as the color danced joy- 
 ously over her cheek and neck. 
 
278 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "I am glad to hear it," quoth Lester; "we shall have him 
 at last beat even Ellinor in gayety ! " 
 
 "That may easily be," sighed Ellinor to herself as she glided 
 past them into the house and sought her own chamber. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A REFLECTION" NEW AND STRANGE. THE STREETS OF LONDON. 
 
 A GREAT man's LIBRARY. A CONVERSATION BETWEEN 
 
 THE STUDENT AND AN ACQUAINTANCE OF THE READER. 
 
 ITS RESULTS. 
 
 Here 's a statesman ! 
 
 Rolla. Ask for thyself. 
 
 Lat. What more can concern me than this ? 
 
 The Tragedy of Rolla. 
 
 It was an evening in the declining autumn of 1758; some 
 public ceremony had occurred during the day, and the crowd 
 which had assembled was only now gradually lessening as the 
 shadows darkened along the streets. Through this crowd, 
 self-absorbed as usual, — with them, not one of them, — Eu- 
 gene Aram slowly wound his uncompanioned way. What an 
 incalculable field of dread and sombre contemplation is opened 
 to every man who, with his heart disengaged from himself, 
 and his eyes accustomed to the sharp observance of his tribe, 
 walks through the streets of a great city ! What a world of 
 dark and troubled secrets in the breast of every one who hurries 
 by you ! Goethe has said somewhere that each of us, the best 
 as the worst, hides within him something — some feeling, 
 some remembrance — that, if known, would make you hate 
 him. No doubt the saying is exaggerated : but still, what a 
 gloomy and profound sublimity in the idea; what a new in- 
 sight it gives into the hearts of the common herd; with what 
 a strange interest it may inspire us for the humblest, the 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 279 
 
 tritest passenger that shoulders us in the great thoroughfare 
 of life ! One of the greatest pleasures in the world is to walk 
 alone and at night, while they are yet crowded, through the 
 long lamp-lit streets of this huge metropolis. There, even 
 more than in the silence of woods and fields, seems to me the 
 source of endless, various meditation. 
 
 "Crescit enim cum amplitudine rerum vis ingenii."! 
 
 There was that in Aram's person which irresistibly com- 
 manded attention. The earnest composure of his countenance, 
 its thoughtful paleness, the long hair falling back, the pecu- 
 liar and estranged air of his whole figure, accompanied as it 
 was by a mildness of expression and that lofty abstraction 
 which characterizes one who is a brooder over his own heart, 
 a soothsayer to his own dreams, — all these arrested from time 
 to time the second gaze of the passenger, and forced on him 
 the impression, simple as was the dress, and unpretending as 
 was the gait of the stranger, that in indulging that second 
 gaze he was in all probability satisfying the curiosity which 
 makes us love to fix our regard upon any remarkable man. 
 
 At length Aram turned from the more crowded streets, and 
 in a short time paused before one of the most princely houses 
 in London. It was surrounded by a spacious court-yard, and 
 over the porch the arms of the owner, with the coronet and 
 supporters, were raised in stone. 
 
 " Is Lord within ? " asked Aram, of the bluff porter 
 
 who appeared at the gate. 
 
 "My lord is at dinner," replied the porter, thinking the 
 answer quite sufficient, and about to reclose the gate upon the 
 unseasonable visitor. 
 
 " I am glad to find he is at home, " rejoined Aram, gliding 
 past the servant with an air of quiet and unconscious com- 
 mand, and passing the court -yard to the main building. 
 
 At the door of the house, to which you ascended by a flight 
 of stone steps, the valet of the nobleman — the only nobleman 
 introduced in our tale, and consequently the same whom we 
 
 * " For the power of the intellect is increased by the amplitude of the things 
 that feed it." 
 
280 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 have presented to our reader in the earlier part of this work. — • 
 happened to be lounging and enjoying the smoke of the evening 
 
 air. High-bred, prudent, and sagacious. Lord knew well 
 
 how often great men, especially in public life, obtain odium for 
 the rudeness of their domestics ; and all those, especially about 
 himself, had been consequently tutored into the habits of uni- 
 versal courtesy and deference, to the lowest stranger as well 
 as to the highest guest. And trifling as tins may seem, it was 
 an act of morality as well as of prudence. Few can guess 
 what pain may be saved to poor and proud men of merit by a 
 similar precaution. The valet therefore replied to the visi- 
 tor's inquiry with great politeness, — he recollected Aram's 
 name and repute ; and as the earl, taking delight in the com- 
 pany of men of letters, was generally easy of access to all 
 such, the great man's great man instantly conducted the stu- 
 dent to the earl's library, and informing him that his lordship 
 had not yet left the dining-room, where he was entertaining 
 a large party, assured him that he should be apprised of 
 Aram's visit the moment he did so. 
 
 Lord was still in office. Sundry boxes were scattered 
 
 on the floor, papers, that seemed countless, lay strewed over 
 the immense library table ; but here and there were books of 
 a more seductive character than those of business, in which 
 the mark lately set, and the pencilled note still fresh, showed 
 the fondness with which men of cultivated minds, though en- 
 gaged in official pursuits, will turn, in the momentary inter- 
 vals of more arid and toilsome life, to those lighter studies 
 which perhaps they in reality the most enjoy. 
 
 One of these books, a volume of Shaftesbury, Aram care- 
 fully took up; it opened of its own accord at that most beau- 
 tiful and x>rofound passage, which contains perhaps the just- 
 est sarcasm to which that ingenious and graceful reasoner 
 has given vent: — 
 
 " The very spirit of Faction, for the greatest part, seems to be no 
 other than the abuse or irreguhiritj- of tliat social love and common 
 affection which is natural to mankind, for the opposite of social)lones3 
 is selfishness ; and of all characters, the thorough selfish one is the least 
 forward in taking party. The men of this sort are, in this respect, true 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 281 
 
 men of moderation. They are secure of their temper, and possess them- 
 selves too well to be in dann;er of entering warmly into any cause, or 
 engaging deeply with any side or faction." 
 
 On the margin of the page was the following note, in the 
 handwriting of Lord : — 
 
 " Generosity hurries a man into party, — philosophy keeps him aloof 
 from it ; the Emperor Julian says, in his epistle to 'J'heniistius, ' If you 
 should form only three or four philosophers, you would contribute more 
 essentially to the happiness of mankind than many kinijjs united.' Yet 
 if all men were philosophers, I doubt whether, though more men would 
 be virtuous, there would be so many instances of an extraordinary vir- 
 tue. The violent passions produce dazzling irregularities." 
 
 The student was still engaged with this note when the earl 
 entered the room. As the door through which he passed was 
 behind Aram, and he trod with a soft step, he was not per- 
 ceived by the scholar till he had reached him; and, looking 
 over Aram's shoulder, the earl said: "You will dispute the 
 truth of my remark, will you not ? Profound calm is the 
 element in which you would place all the virtues." 
 
 "Not all, my lord," answered Aram, rising, as the earl now 
 shook him by the hand and expressed his delight at seeing the 
 student again. Though the sagacious nobleman had no sooner 
 heard the student's name than, in his own heart, he was con- 
 vinced that Aram had sought him for the purpose of soliciting 
 a renewal of the offers he had formerly refused, he resolved 
 to leave his visitor to open the subject himself, and appeared 
 courteously to consider the visit as a matter of course, made 
 without any other object than the renewal of the mutual 
 pleasure of intercourse. 
 
 "I am afraid, my lord," said Aram, "that you are engaged. 
 My visit can be paid to-morrow if — " 
 
 "Indeed," said the earl, interrupting him, and drawing a 
 chair to the table, " I have no engagements which should de- 
 prive me of the pleasure of your company. A few friends 
 have indeed dined with me, but as they are now with Lady 
 
 , I do not think they will greatly miss me. Besides, an 
 
 occasional absence is readily forgiven in us happy men of 
 
282 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 office, — we, who have the honor of exciting the envy of all 
 England for being made magnificently wretched." 
 
 "I am glad you allow so much, my lord," said Aram, smil- 
 ing; "/could not have said more. Ambition only makes a 
 favorite to make an ingrate ; she has lavished her honors on 
 Lord , and hear how he speaks of her bounty ! " 
 
 "JSTay," said the earl, "I spoke wantonly, and stand cor- 
 rected. I have no reason to complain of the course I have 
 chosen. Ambition, like any other passion, gives us unhappy 
 moments, but it gives us also an animated life. In its pur- 
 suit, the minor evils of the world are not felt; little crosses, 
 little vexations, do not disturb us. Like men who walk in 
 sleep, we are absorbed in one powerful dream, and do not even 
 know the obstacles in our way, or the dangers that surround 
 us, — in a word, we have 710 j^rivate life. All that is merely 
 domestic, the anxiety and the loss which fret other men, which 
 blight the happiness of other men, are not felt by us, — we are 
 wholly public; so that if we lose much comfort, we escape 
 much care." 
 
 The earl broke off for a moment; and then, turning the 
 subject, inquired after tlie Lesters, and making some general 
 and vague observations about that family, came purposely to 
 a pause. 
 
 Aram broke it. 
 
 "My lord," said he, with a slight, but not ungraceful, em- 
 barrassment, "I fear that in tlie course of your political life 
 you must have made one observation, — that he who promises 
 to-day will be called upon to perform to-morrow. No man 
 who has anything to bestow, can ever promise witli impunity. 
 Some time since, you tendered me oifers that would have daz- 
 zled more ardent natures than mine, and which I might have 
 advanced some claim to philosophy in refusing. I do not now 
 come to ask a renewal of tliose offers. Public life and the 
 haunts of men are as hateful as ever to my pursuits; but I 
 come, frankly and candidly, to throw myself on that generos- 
 ity which proffered to me then so large a bounty. Certain 
 circumstances have taken from me the small pittance which 
 supplied my wants. I require only the power to pursue my 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 283 
 
 quiet and obscure career of study, — your lordship can afford 
 me that power. It is not against custom for the government 
 to grant some small annuity to men of letters, — your lord- 
 ship's interest could obtain me this favor. Let me add, how- 
 ever, that I can offer nothing in return. Party politics, 
 sectarian interests, are forever dead to me-, even my common 
 studies are of small general utility to mankind, I am con- 
 scious of this, — would it were otherwise! Once I hoped it 
 would be ; but — " Aram here turned deadly pale, gasped for 
 breath, mastered his emotion, and proceeded: "I have no 
 great claim, then, to this bounty beyond that which all poor 
 cultivators of the abstruse sciences can advance. It is well 
 for a country that those sciences should be cultivated; they 
 are not of a nature which is ever lucrative to the possessor, not 
 of a nature that can often be left, like lighter literature, to the 
 fair favor of the public. They call, perhaps, more than any 
 species of intellectual culture, for the protection of a govern- 
 ment ; and though in me would be a poor selection, the princi- 
 ple would still be served, and the example furnish precedent 
 for nobler instances hereafter. I have said all, my lord ! " 
 
 Nothing perhaps more affects a man of some sympathy with 
 those who cultivate letters than the pecuniary claims of one 
 who can advance them with justice, and who advances them 
 also with dignity. If the meanest, the most pitiable, the 
 most heart-sickening object in the world is the man of letters 
 sunk into the habitual beggar, practising the tricks, incurring 
 the rebuke, glorying in the shame, of the mingled mendicant 
 and swindler, — what, on the other hand, so touches, so sub- 
 dues us as the first, and only, petition of one whose intellect 
 dignifies our whole kind, and who prefers it with a certain 
 haughtiness in his very modesty, because, in asking a favor 
 to himself, he may be only asking the power to enlighten the 
 world ? 
 
 "Say no more, sir," said the earl, affected deeply, and grace- 
 fully giving way to the feeling; "the affair is settled. Con- 
 sider it so. Name only the amount of the annuity you desire." 
 
 With some hesitation Aram named a sum so moderate, so 
 trivial, that the minister, accustomed as he was to the claims 
 
284 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 of younger sons and widowed dowagers; accustomed to the 
 hungry cravings of petitioners without merit, who considered 
 birth tlie only just title to the right of exactions from the 
 public, — was literally startled by the contrast. "More than 
 this," added Aram, "I do not require and would decline to 
 accept. We have some right to claim existence from the ad- 
 ministrators of the common stock, — none to claim affluence." 
 
 " Would to Heaven," said the earl, smiling, "that all claim- 
 ants were like you! Pension-lists would not then call for in- 
 dignation, and ministers would not blush to support the justice 
 of the favors they conferred. But are you still firm in reject- 
 ing a more public career, with all its deserved emoluments 
 and just honors ? The offer I made you once, I renew with 
 increased avidity now." 
 
 "'Despiciam dites,' " answered Aram; "and, thanks to you, 
 I may add, 'despiciamque famem.' " ^ 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE THAMES AT NIGHT. A THOUGHT. THE STUDENT RESEEKS 
 
 THE RUFFIAN. — A HUMAN FEELING EVEN IN THE WORST 
 SOIL. 
 
 Clem. 'T is our last interview ! 
 
 Stat. Pray Heaven it be ! — Clemanthes. 
 
 On leaving Lord 's, Aram proceeded, with a lighter 
 
 and more rapid step, towards a less courtly quarter of the 
 metropolis. 
 
 He had found, on arriving in London, that in order to secure 
 the annual sum promised to Houseman, it had been necessary 
 to strip himself even of the small stipend he had hoped to re- 
 tain. And hence his visit, and hence his petition, to Lord 
 . He now bent his way to the spot in which Houseman 
 
 ^ " ' Let me despise wealth ; ' and, thanks to you, I may add, ' and let me 
 look down on famine.' " 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 285 
 
 had appointed tlieir meeting. To tlie fastidious reader these 
 details of pecuniary matters, so trivial in themselves, may be 
 a little wearisome, and may seem a little undignified ; but we 
 are writing a romance of real life, and the reader must take 
 what is homely with what may be more epic, — the pettiness 
 and the wants of the daily world, with its loftier sorrows and 
 its grander crimes. Besides, who knows how darkly just may 
 be that moral which shows us a nature originally high, a soul 
 once all athirst for truth, bowed (by what events ?) to the 
 manoeuvres and the lies of the worldly hypocrite ? 
 
 The night had now closed in, and its darkness was only re- 
 lieved by the wan lamps that vistaed the streets, and a few 
 dim stars that struggled through the reeking haze that cur- 
 tained the great city. Aram had now gained one of the 
 bridges " that arch the royal Thames ; " and at no time dead 
 to scenic attraction, he there paused for a moment, and looked 
 along the dark river that rushed below. 
 
 God! how many wild and stormy hearts have stilled them- 
 selves on that spot, for one dread instant of thought, of calcu- 
 lation, of resolve, — one instant, the last of life! Look at 
 night along the course of that stately river, how gloriously it 
 seems to mock the passions of them that dwell beside it! Un- 
 changed, unchanging, all around it quick death and troubled 
 life; itself smiling up to the gray stars, and singing from its 
 deep heart as it bounds along. Beside it is the senate, proud 
 of its solemn triflers ; and there the cloistered tomb, in which, 
 as the loftiest honor, some handful of the fiercest of the strag- 
 glers may gain forgetfulness and a grave. There is no moral 
 to a great city like the river that washes its walls. 
 
 There was something in the view before him that suggested 
 reflections similar to these to the strange and mysterious breast 
 of the lingering student. A solemn dejection crept over him, 
 a warning voice sounded on his ear, the fearful genius within 
 him was aroused; and even in the moment when his triumph 
 seemed complete and his safety secured, he felt it only as — 
 
 " The torrent's smoothness ere it dash helow." 
 The mist obscured and saddened the few lierhts scattered on 
 
286 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 either side the water, and a deep and gloomy quiet brooded 
 round. 
 
 " The very houses seemed asleep, 
 And all that mighty heart was lying still." 
 
 Arousing himself from his short and sombre revery, Aram 
 resumed his way; and threading some of the smaller streets 
 on the opposite side of the water, arrived at last in the street 
 in which he was to seek Houseman. 
 
 It was a narrow and dark lane, and seemed altogether of a 
 suspicious and disreputable locality. One or two samples of 
 the lowest description of alehouses broke the dark silence of 
 the spot. From them streamed the only lights which assisted 
 the single lamp that burned at the entrance of the alley, and 
 bursts of drunken laughter and obscene merriment broke out 
 every now and then from these wretched theatres of Pleasure. 
 As Aram passed one of them, a crowd of tlie lowest order of 
 ruffian and harlot issued noisily from the door and suddenly 
 obstructed his way: through this vile press, reeking with the 
 stamp and odor of the most repellant character of vice, was 
 the lofty and cold student to force his path ! The darkness, 
 his quick step, his downcast head, favored his escape through 
 the unhallowed throng, and he now stood opposite the door of 
 a small and narrow house. A ponderous knocker adorned the 
 door, which seemed of uncommon strength, being thickly 
 studded with large nails. He knocked twice before his sum- 
 mons was answered, and then a voice from within cried, 
 " Who 's there ? What want you ? " 
 
 "I seek one called Houseman." 
 
 No answer was returned. Some moments elapsed. Again 
 the student knocked, and presently he heard the voice of 
 Houseman himself call out, — 
 
 "Who 's there, — Joe the Cracksman ? " 
 
 "Richard Houseman, it is I," answered Aram, in a deep 
 tone, and suppressing the natural feelings of loathing and 
 abhorrence. 
 
 Houseman uttered a quick exclamation; the door was hast- 
 ily unbarred. All within was utterly dark, but Aram felt 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 287 
 
 with a thrill of repugnance the gripe of his strange acquaint- 
 ance on his hand. 
 
 "Ha! it is you! Come in, come in! Let me lead you. 
 Have a care; cling to the wall, — the right hand. Now then, 
 stay. So, so [opening the door of a room, in which a single 
 candle, wellnigh in its socket, broke on the previous dark- 
 ness] ; here we are, here we are ! And how goes it, eh ? " 
 
 Houseman, now bustling about, did the honors of his apart- 
 ment with a sort of complacent hospitality. He drew two 
 rough wooden chairs, that in some late merriment seemed to 
 have been upset, and lay, cumbering the unwaslied and car- 
 petless floor, in a position exactly contrary to that destined 
 them by their maker, — he drew these chairs near a table 
 strewed with drinking horns, half-emptied bottles, and a pack 
 of cards. Dingy caricatures of the large coarse fashion of the 
 day decorated the Avails ; and carelessly thrown on another table 
 lay a pair of huge horse-pistols, an immense shovel-hat, a false 
 mustache, a rouge-pot, and a riding-whip. All this the stu- 
 dent comprehended with a rapid glance; his lip quivered for 
 a moment, — whether with shame or scorn of himself, — and 
 then, throwing himself on the chair Houseman had set for 
 him, he said, — 
 
 "I have come to discharge my part of our agreement." 
 
 "You are most welcome," replied Houseman, with that tone 
 of coarse, yet flippant jocularity which afforded to the mien 
 and manner of Aram a still stronger contrast than his more 
 unrelieved brutality. 
 
 "There," said Aram, giving him a paper, "there you will 
 perceive that the sum mentioned is secured to you the mo- 
 ment you quit this country. When shall that be ? Let me 
 entreat haste." 
 
 "Your prayer shall be granted. Before daybreak to-mor- 
 row I will be on the road." 
 
 Aram's face brightened. 
 
 "There is my hand upon it," said Houseman, earnestly. 
 " You may now rest assured that you are free of me for life. 
 Go home, marry, enjoy your existence, as I have done. 
 Within four days, if the wind set fair, I am in France." 
 
288 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "My biisiness is done; I will believe you," said Aram, 
 frankly, and rising. 
 
 "You may," answered Houseman. "Stay — I Avill light 
 you to the door. Devil and death — how the d — d candle 
 flickers ! " 
 
 Across the gloomy passage as the candle now flared, and 
 now was dulled, by quick fits and starts. Houseman, after 
 this brief conference, re-conducted the student. And as Aram 
 turned from the door, he flung his arms wildly aloft, and ex- 
 claimed, in the voice of one from whose heart a load is lifted, 
 " Now, now, for Madeline ! I breathe freely at last I " 
 
 Meanwhile Houseman turned musingly back and regained 
 his room, muttering, — 
 
 " Yes, yes, my business here is also done ! Competence and 
 safety abroad. After all, what a bugbear is this conscience ! 
 Fourteen years have rolled away, and lo, nothing discovered, 
 nothing known! And easy circumstances — the very conse- 
 quence of the deed — wait the remainder of my days. My 
 child, too, my Jane, shall not want, — shall not be a beggar 
 nor a harlot." 
 
 So musing, Houseman threw himself contentedly on the 
 chair, and the last flicker of the expiring light, as it played 
 upward on his rugged countenance, rested on one of those self- 
 hugging smiles with which a sanguine man contemplates a 
 satisfactory future. 
 
 He had not been long alone before the door opened and a 
 woinan with a light in her hand appeared. She was evidently 
 intoxicated, and approached Houseman with a reeling and 
 unsteady step. 
 
 " How now, Bess ? Drunk, as usual ! Get to bed, you she 
 shark, go ! " 
 
 "Tush, man, tush! don't talk to your betters," said the 
 woman, sinking into a chair; and her situation, disgusting as 
 it was, could not conceal the striking, though somewhat 
 coarse, beauty of her face and person. 
 
 Even Houseman (his heart being opened, as it were, by the 
 cheering prospects of which his soliloquy had indulged the 
 contemplation) was sensible of the effect of the mere physical 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 289 
 
 attraction; and draAving his chair closer to her, he said, in a 
 tone less harsh than usual, — 
 
 "Come, Bess, come, you must correct that d — d habit of 
 yours ; perhaps I may make a lady of you after all. What if 
 I were to let you take a trip with me to France, old girl, eh, 
 and let you set off that handsome face — for you are devilish 
 handsome, and that 's the truth of it — with some of the French 
 gewgaws you women love ? What if I were ? Would you be 
 a good girl, eh?" 
 
 "I think I would, Dick, I think I would," replied the 
 woman, showing a set of teeth as white as ivory, with pleas- 
 ure partly at the flattery, partly at the proposition. "You 
 are a good fellow, Dick, that you are." 
 
 "Humph!" said Houseman, Avhose hard, shrewd mind was 
 not easily cajoled; "but what's that paper in your bosom, 
 Bess ? A love-letter, I '11 swear." 
 
 " 'T is to you, then, — came to you this morning; only some- 
 how or other I forgot to give it you till now ! " 
 
 "Ha! a letter to me! " said Houseman, seizing the epistle in 
 question. "Hem! the Knaresborough postmark, — my mother- 
 in-law's crabbed hand, too! What can the old crone want ? " 
 
 He opened the letter, and hastily scanning its contents, 
 started up. 
 
 "Mercy, mercy!" cried he, "my child is ill, — dying. I 
 may never see her again, — my only child; the only thing that 
 loves me, that does not loathe me as a villain ! " 
 
 " Heyday, Dickey ! " said the woman, clinging to him, 
 "don't take on so ! Who so fond of you as me ? What 's a 
 brat like that ? " 
 
 "Curse on you, hag! " exclaimed Houseman, dashing her to 
 the ground with a rude brutality, — "yow love me! Pah! My 
 child, my little Jane, my pretty Jane, my merry Jane, my 
 innocent Jane, — I will seek her instantly, instantly! What 's 
 money, what's ease, if, if — " 
 
 And the father, wretch, ruffian as he was, stung to the core 
 of that last redeeming feeling of his dissolute nature, struck 
 his breast with his clenched hand and rushed from the room, 
 from the house 
 
 19 
 
290 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MADELINE, HER HOPES. A MILD AUTUMN CHARACTERIZED. 
 
 A LANDSCAPE. A RETURN. 
 
 'T IS late and cold, — stir up the fire; 
 Sit close, and draw the table nigher ; 
 Be merry and drink wine that 's old, — 
 A hearty medicine 'gainst a cold. 
 Welcome, welcome shall fly round ! 
 Beaumont and Fletcher : Song in the "Lover's Progress." 
 
 As when the great poet, — 
 
 " Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detained 
 In that oliscure sojourn ; while in his flight, 
 Through utter and through middle darkness borne. 
 He sang of chaos and eternal night," — 
 
 as when, revisiting the ''holy light, offspring of heaven first- 
 born," the sense of freshness and glory breaks upon him and 
 kindles into the solemn joyfulness of adjuring song, so rises 
 the mind from tlie contemplation of the gloom and guilt of 
 life, "the utter and the middle darkness," to some pure and 
 bright redemption of our nature, — some creature of "the 
 starry threshold," "the regions mild of calm and serene air." 
 Never was a nature more beautiful and soft than that of Made- 
 line Lester; never a nature more inclined to live "above the 
 smoke and stir of this dim spot which men call earth," to 
 commune with its own high and chaste creations of thought, 
 to make a world out of the emotions which this world knows 
 not, — a paradise which sin and suspicion and fear had never 
 yet invaded, where God might recognize no evil, and angels 
 forbode no change. 
 
 Aram's return was now daily, nay, even hourly, expected. 
 Nothing disturbed the soft, though thoughtful, serenity with 
 which his betrothed relied upon the future. Aram's letters 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 291 
 
 had been more deeply impressed with the evidence of love 
 than even his spoken vows ; those letters had diffused not so 
 much an agitated joy as a full and mellow light of happiness 
 over her heart. Everything, even Nature, seemed inclined to 
 smile with approbation on her hopes. The autumn had never, 
 in the memory of man, worn so lovely a garment; the balmy 
 and freshening warmth which sometimes characterizes that pe- 
 riod of the year was not broken, as yet, by the chilling winds 
 or the sullen mists which speak to us so mournfully of the 
 change that is creeping over the beautiful world. The sum- 
 mer visitants among the feathered tribe yet lingered in flocks, 
 showing no intention of departure, and their song — but above 
 all, the song of the skylark, which to the old English poet was 
 what the nightingale is to the Eastern — seemed even to grow 
 more cheerful as the sun shortened his daily task; the very 
 mulberry-tree and the rich boughs of the horse-chestnut re- 
 tained something of their verdure ; and the thousand glories 
 of the woodland around Grassdale were still checkered with 
 the golden hues that herald, but beautify, decay. Still no 
 news had been received of Walter; and this was the only 
 source of anxiety that troubled the domestic happiness of the 
 manor-house. But the squire continued to remember that in 
 youth he himself had been but a negligent correspondent; and 
 the anxiety he felt had lately assumed rather the character 
 of anger at Walter's forgetfulness than of fear for his safety. 
 There were moments when Ellinor silently mourned and 
 pined; but she loved her sister not less even than her cousin, 
 and in the prospect of Madeline's happiness did not too often 
 question the future respecting her own. 
 
 One evening the sisters were sitting at their work by the 
 window of the little parlor, and talking over various matters, 
 of which the Great World, strange as it may seem, never 
 made a part. 
 
 They conversed in a low tone ; for Lester sat by the hearth, 
 in which a wood-fire had been just kindled, and appeared to 
 have fallen into an afternoon slumber. The sun was sinking 
 to repose, and the whole landscape lay before them bathed in 
 light, till a cloud passing overhead darkened the heavens just 
 
292 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 immediately above them, and one of those beautiful sun- 
 showers, that rather characterize the spring than autumn, be- 
 gan to fall. The rain was rather sharp, and descended with a 
 pleasant and freshening noise through the boughs, all shining 
 in the sunlight; it did not, however, last long, and presently 
 there sprang up the glorious rainbow, and the voices of the 
 birds, which a minute before were mute, burst into a gene- 
 ral chorus, — the last hymn of the declining day. The spark- 
 ling drops fell fast and gratefully from the trees, and over 
 the whole scene there breathed an inexpressible sense of 
 gladness, — 
 
 " The odor and the harmony of eve." 
 
 " How beautiful ! " said Ellinor, pausing from her work. 
 "Ah! see the squirrel, — is that our pet one ? — he is coming 
 close to the window, poor fellow ! Stay ; I will get him some 
 bread." 
 
 "Hush!" said Madeline, half rising, and turning quite 
 pale; "do you hear a step without?" 
 
 "Only the dripping of the boughs," answered Ellinor. 
 
 "No, no, — it is he! it is he!" cried Madeline, the blood 
 rushing back vividly to her cheeks. "I know his step! " 
 
 And — yes, winding round the house till he stood opposite 
 the window, the sisters now beheld Eugene Aram. The dia- 
 mond rain glittered on the locks of his long hair; his cheeks 
 were flushed by exercise, or more probably the joy of return; 
 a smile, in which there was no shade or sadness, played over 
 his features, which caught also a fictitious semblance of glad- 
 ness from the rays of the setting sun which fell full upon 
 them. 
 
 " My Madeline ! my love ! my Madeline ! " broke from his 
 lips. 
 
 " You are returned, — thank God ! thank God ! safe ! Well ? " 
 
 "And happy!" added Aram, with a deep meaning in the 
 tone of his voice. 
 
 "Heyday, heyday!" cried the squire, starting up, "what's 
 this ? Bless me, Eugene ! — wet through, too, seemingly ! 
 Nell, run and open the door, — more wood on the fire; the 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 293 
 
 pheasants for supper. And stay, girl, stay, — there 's the key 
 of the cellar: the twenty -one port, — you know it. Ah! ah! 
 God willing, Eugene Aram shall not complain of his welcome 
 back to Grassdale ! " 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 affection: its godlike nature. — THE CONVERSATION BE- 
 TWEEN ARAM AND MADELINE. — THE FATALIST FORGETS 
 FATE. 
 
 Hope is a lover's staff ; walk hence with that, 
 And manage it against despairing thoughts. 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona. 
 
 If there be anything thoroughly lovely in the human heart 
 it is affection. All that makes hope elevated or fear generous 
 belongs to the capacity of loving. For my own part, I do not 
 wonder, in looking over the thousand creeds and sects of men, 
 that so many religionists have traced their theology, that so 
 many moralists have wrought their system, from love. The 
 errors thus originated have something in them that charms 
 us, even while we smile at the theology or while we neglect 
 the system. What a beautiful fabric would be human nature, 
 what a divine guide would be human reason, if love were in- 
 deed the stratum of the one and the inspiration of the other ! 
 We are told of a picture by a great painter of old, in which 
 an infant is represented sucking a mother wounded to the 
 death, who, even in that agony, strives to prevent the child 
 from injuring itself by imbibing the blood mingled with the 
 milk.-' How many emotions, that might have made us per- 
 manently wiser and better, have we lost in losing that picture I 
 
 Certainly love assumes a more touching and earnest sem- 
 blance when we find it in some retired and sequestered hollow 
 of the world. When it is not mixed up with the daily frivol- 
 
 1 " Intelligitur sentire mater et timere, ne e mortuo lacte sanguinem 
 lambat." 
 
294 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 ities and petty emotions of which a life passed in cities is so 
 necessarily composed, we cannot but believe it a deeper and 
 a more absorbing passion : perhaps we are not always right in 
 the belief. 
 
 Had one of that order of angels to whom a knowledge of the 
 future, or the seraphic penetration into the hidden heart of 
 man, is forbidden, stayed his wings over the lovely valley in 
 which the main scene of our history has been cast, no specta- 
 cle might have seemed to him more appropriate to that pas- 
 toral spot, or more elevated in the character of its tenderness 
 above the fierce and short-lived passions of the ordinary world, 
 than the love that existed between Madeline and her be- 
 trothed. Their natures seemed so suited to each other, — the 
 solemn and undluriial mood of the one was reflected back in 
 hues so gentle, and yet so faithful, from the purer, but scarce 
 less thoughtful, character of the other. Their sympathies ran 
 through the same channel, and mingled in a common fount; 
 and whatever was dark and troubled in the breast of Aram 
 was now suffered not to appear. Since his return his mood 
 was brighter and more tranquil, and he seemed better fitted 
 to appreciate and respond to the peculiar tenderness of Made- 
 line's affection. There are some stars which, viewed by the 
 naked eye, seem one, but in reality are two separate orbs, 
 revolving round each other, and drinking, each from each, a 
 separate yet united existence: such stars seemed a type of 
 them. 
 
 Had anything been wanting to complete Madeline's happi- 
 ness, the change in Aram supplied the want. The sudden 
 starts, the abrupt changes of mood and countenance, that had 
 formerly characterized him, were now scarcely, if ever, visible. 
 He seemed to have resigned himself with confidence to the 
 prospects of the future, and to have forsworn the haggard 
 recollections of the past; he moved and looked and smiled 
 like other men; he was alive to the little circumstances around 
 him, and no longer absorbed in the contemplation of a sepa- 
 rate and strange existence within himself. Some scattered 
 fragments of his poetry bear the date of this time : they are 
 chiefly addressed to Madeline; and amidst the vows of love, 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 295 
 
 a spirit, sometimes of a wild and bursting, sometimes of a 
 profound and collected, happiness are visible. There is great 
 beauty in many of these fragments, and they bear a stronger 
 evidence of heart, they breathe more of nature and truth, than 
 the poetry that belongs of right to that time. 
 
 And thus day rolled on day, till it was now the eve before 
 their bridals. Aram had deemed it prudent to tell Lester that 
 he had sold his annuity, and that he had applied to the earl 
 for the pension which we have seen he had been promised. 
 As to his supposed relation, the illness he had created he 
 suffered now to cease ; and indeed the approaching ceremony 
 gave him a graceful excuse for turning the conversation away 
 from any topics that did not relate to Madeline or to that 
 event. It was the eve before their marriage : Aram and Made- 
 line were walking along the valley that led to the house of 
 the former. 
 
 "How fortunate it is," said Madeline, "that our future res- 
 idence will be so near my father's! I cannot tell you with 
 what delight he looks forward to the pleasant circle we shall 
 make. Indeed, I think he would scarcely have consented to 
 our wedding, if it had separated us from him." 
 
 Aram stopped, and plucked a flower. 
 
 "Ah! indeed, indeed, Madeline. Yet in the course of the 
 various changes of life, how more than probable it is that we 
 shall be divided from him, — that we shall leave this spot." 
 
 "It is possible, certainly; but not probable, is it, Eugene ?" 
 
 " Would it grieve thee, irremediably, dearest, were it so ? " 
 rejoined Aram, evasively. 
 
 "Irremediably! What could grieve me irremediably that 
 did not happen to you ? " 
 
 "Should, then, circumstances occur to induce us to leave 
 this part of the country for one yet more remote, you could 
 submit cheerfully to the change ? " 
 
 "I should weep for my father, I should weep for Ellinor; 
 but — " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 " I should comfort myself in thinking that you would then 
 be yet more to me than ever! " 
 
296 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "Dearest!" 
 
 "But why do you speak thus, — only to try me ? Ah! that 
 is needless." 
 
 "No, my Madeline, I have no doubt of your affection. 
 When you loved such as me, I knew at once how blind, how 
 devoted must be that love. You were not won through the 
 usual avenues to a woman's heart ; neither wit nor gayety, 
 nor youth nor beauty, did you behold in me. Whatever at- 
 tracted you towards me, that which must have been suffi- 
 ciently powerful to make you overlook these ordinary allure- 
 ments, will be also sufficiently enduring to resist all ordinary 
 changes. But listen, Madeline. Do not yet ask me where- 
 fore, but I fear that a certain fatality will constrain us to 
 leave this spot very shortly after our wedding." 
 
 " How disappointed my poor father will be ! " said Made- 
 line, sighing. 
 
 "Do not on any account mention this conversation to him 
 or to EUinor : ' Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. ' " 
 
 Madeline wondered, but said no more. There was a pause 
 for some minutes. 
 
 "Do you remember," observed Madeline, "that it was about 
 here we met that strange man whom you had formerly known ? " 
 
 " Ha! was it ? Here, was it ?" 
 
 " What has become of him ? " 
 
 "He is abroad, I hope," said Aram, calmly. "Yes, let me 
 think: by this time he rrnist be in France. Dearest, let us 
 rest here on this dry mossy bank for a little while ; " and 
 Aram drew his arm round her waist, and, his countenance 
 brightening as if with some thought of increasing joy, he 
 poured out anew those protestations of love, and those anti- 
 cipations of the future, which befitted the eve of a morrow so 
 full of auspicious promise. 
 
 The heaven of their fate seemed calm and glowing, and 
 Aram did not dream that the one small cloud of fear which 
 was set within it, and which he alone beheld afar, and un- 
 prophetic of the storm, was charged with the thunderbolt of a 
 doom he had protracted, not escaped. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 297 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 WALTER AND THE CORPORAL ON THE ROAD. THE EVENING 
 
 SETS IN. THE GYPSY TENTS. ADVENTURE WITH THE 
 
 HORSEMAN. THE CORPORAL DISCOMFITED, AND THE AR- 
 RIVAL AT KNARESBOROUGH. 
 
 Long had he wandered, wken from far he sees 
 A ruddy flame that gleamed betwixt the trees. 
 . . . Sir Gawaiue prays him tell 
 Where lies the road to princely Carduel. 
 
 The Knight of the Sword. 
 
 "Well, Bunting, we are not far from our night's resting- 
 place," said Walter, pointing to a milestone on the road. 
 
 "The poor beast will be glad when we gets there, your 
 honor," answered the corporal, wiping his brows. 
 
 "Which beast. Bunting ?" 
 
 " Augh! now your honor 's severe! I am glad to see you so 
 merry." 
 
 Walter sighed heavily; there was no mirth at his heart at 
 that moment. 
 
 "Pray, sir," said the corporal, after a pause, "if not too 
 bold, has your honor heard how they be doing at Grassdale ? " 
 
 "No, Bunting; I have not held any correspondence with my 
 uncle since our departure. Once I wrote to him on setting 
 off to Yorkshire, but I could give him no direction to write 
 to me again. The fact is, that I have been so sanguine in 
 this search, and from day to day I have been so led on in 
 tracing a clew, which I fear is now broken, that I have con- 
 stantly put off writing till I could communicate that certain 
 intelligence which I flattered myself I should be able ere this 
 to procure. However, if we are unsuccessful at Knares- 
 borough, I shall write from that place a detailed account of 
 our proceedings." 
 
298 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " And I hopes you will say as how I have given your honor 
 satisfaction." 
 
 "Depend upon that." 
 
 "Thank you, sir, thank you humbly; I would not like the 
 squire to think I 'm ungrateful, augh ! And mayhap I may 
 have more cause to be grateful by and by, whenever the 
 squire, God bless him! in consideration of your honor's good 
 offices, should let me have the bit cottage rent free." 
 
 " A man of the world. Bunting, a man of the world ! " 
 
 " Your honor 's mighty obleeging, " said the corporal, put- 
 ting his hand to his hat. "I wonders," renewed he, after a 
 short pause, "I wonders how poor neighbor Dealtry is; he 
 was a sufferer last year. I should like to know how Peter 
 be getting on, — 'tis a good creature." 
 
 Somewhat surprised at this sudden sympathy on the part 
 of the corporal, for it was seldom that Bunting expressed 
 kindness for any one, Walter replied, — 
 
 " When I write. Bunting, I will not fail to inquire how 
 Peter Dealtry is; does your kind heart suggest any other 
 message to him ? " 
 
 "Only to ask arter Jacobina, poor thing, — she might get 
 herself into trouble if little Peter fell sick and neglected her 
 like, augh! And I hopes as how Peter airs the bit cottage 
 now and then. But tlie squire, God bless him! will see to 
 that and the 'tato-garden, I 'm sure." 
 
 "You may rely on that. Bunting," said Walter, sinking into 
 a revery, from which he was shortly roused by the corporal. 
 
 " I 'spose Miss Madeline be married afore now, your honor ? 
 Well, pray Heaven she be happy with that 'ere larned man ! " 
 
 Walter's heart beat faster for a moment at this sudden re- 
 mark; but he was pleased to find that the time when the 
 thought of Madeline's marriage was accompanied with painful 
 emotion was entirely gone by. The reflection, however, in- 
 duced a new train of idea, and without replying to the cor- 
 poral, he sank into a deeper meditation than before. 
 
 The shrewd Bunting saw that it was not a favorable moment 
 for renewing the conversation; he therefore suffered his horse 
 to fall back, and taking a quid from his tobacco-box, was soon 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 299 
 
 as well entertained as his master. In this manner they rode 
 on for about a couple of miles, the evening growing darker as 
 they proceeded, when a green opening in the road brought 
 them within view of a gypsy's encampment. The scene was so 
 sudden and picturesque that it aroused the young traveller from 
 his revery; and as his tired horse walked slowly on, the bridle 
 about its neck, he looked with an earnest eye on the vagrant 
 settlement beside his path. The moon had just risen above 
 a dark copse in the rear, and cast a broad, deep shadow along 
 the green, without lessening the vivid effect of the fires which 
 glowed and sparkled in the darker recess of the waste land as 
 the gloomy forms of the Egyptians were seen dimly cowering 
 round the blaze. A scene of this sort is perhaps one of the 
 most striking that the green lanes of old England afford; to 
 me it has always an irresistible attraction, partly from its 
 own claims, partly from those of association. When I was a 
 mere boy, and bent on a solitary excursion over parts of Eng- 
 land and Scotland, I saw something of that wild people, — 
 though not perhaps so much as the ingenious George Hanger, 
 to whose memoirs the reader may be referred for some rather 
 amusing pages on gypsy life. As Walter was still eying the 
 encampment, he in return had not escaped the glance of an old 
 crone, who came running hastily up to him, and begged per- 
 mission to tell his fortune and to have her hand crossed with 
 silver. 
 
 Very few men under thirty ever sincerely refuse an offer of 
 this sort. Nobody believes in these predictions, yet every one 
 likes hearing them ; and Walter, after faintly refusing the pro- 
 posal twice, consented the third time, and drawing up his 
 horse, submitted his hand to the old lady. In the mean while 
 one of the younger urchins who had accompanied her had run 
 to the encampment for a light, and now stood behind the old 
 woman's shoulder, rearing on high a pine brand, which cast 
 over the little group a red and weird-like glow. 
 
 The reader must not imagine we are now about to call his 
 credvility in aid to eke out any interest he may feel in our 
 story ; the old crone was but a vulgar gypsy, and she predicted 
 to Walter the same fortune she always predicted to those 
 
800 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 who paid a shilling for the prophecy, — an heiress with blue 
 eyes, seven children, troubles about the epoch of forty-three, 
 happily soon over, and a healthy old age, with an easy death. 
 Though Walter was not impressed with any reverential awe 
 for these vaticinations, he yet could not refrain from inquir- 
 ing whether the journey on which he was at present bent was 
 likely to prove successful in its object. 
 
 " 'T is an ill night," said the old woman, lifting up her wild 
 face and elfin locks with a mysterious air, — " 't is an ill night 
 for them as seeks and for them as asks. He 's about — " 
 
 "He,— who?" 
 
 "No matter! You may be successful, young sir, yet wish 
 you had not been so. The moon thus, and the wind there, 
 promise that you will get your desires, and find them crosses." 
 
 The corporal had listened very attentively to these predic- 
 tions, and was now about to thrust forth his own hand to the 
 soothsayer, when from a cross road to the right came the 
 sound of hoofs, and presently a horseman at full trot pulled 
 up beside them. 
 
 "Hark ye, old she-devil, — or you, sirs, — is this the road to 
 Knaresborough ? " 
 
 The gypsy drew back, and gazed on the countenance of the 
 rider, on which the red glare of the pine-brand shone full. 
 
 "To Knaresborough, Richard the dare-devil? Ay, and what 
 does the ramping bird want in the old nest ? Welcome back 
 to Yorkshire, Richard, my ben cove ! " 
 
 "Ha! " said the rider, shading his eyes with his hand as he 
 returned the gaze of the gypsy, "is it you, Bess Airlie? 
 Your welcome is like the owl's, and reads the wrong way. 
 But I must not stop. This takes to Knaresborough, then ? " 
 
 " Straight as a dying man's curse to hell," replied the crone, 
 in that metaphorical style in which all her tribe love to speak, 
 and of which their proper language is indeed almost wholly 
 composed. 
 
 The horseman answered not, but spurred on. 
 
 " Who is that ? " asked Walter, earnestly, as the old woman 
 stretched her tawny neck after the rider. 
 
 " An old friend, sir, " replied the Egyptian, dryly. " I have 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 801 
 
 not seen him these fourteen years ; but it is not Bess Airlie 
 who is apt to forgit friend or foe. Well, sir, shall I tell your 
 honor's good luck ? " (here she turned to the corporal, who sat 
 erect on his saddle, with his hand on his holster) — "the color 
 of the lady's hair and — " 
 
 "Hold your tongue, you limb of Satan!" interrupted the 
 corporal, fiercely, as if his whole tide of thought, so lately 
 favorable to the soothsayer, had undergone a deadly rever- 
 sion. "Please your honor, it's getting late; we had better 
 be jogging!" 
 
 "You are right," said Walter, spurring his jaded horse; 
 and, nodding his adieu to the gypsy, he was soon out of sight 
 of the encampment. 
 
 "Sir," said the corporal, joining his master, "that is a man 
 as I have seed afore; I knowed his ugly face again in a 
 crack, — 't is the man what came to Grassdale arter Mr. 
 Aram, and we saw arterwards the night we chanced on Sir 
 Peter Thingumebob. " 
 
 " Bunting, " said Walter, in a low voice, " / too have been 
 trying to recall the face of that man, and I too am persuaded 
 I have seen it before. A fearful suspicion, amounting almost 
 to conviction, creeps over me that the hour in which I last 
 saw it was one when my life was in peril. In a word, I do 
 believe that I beheld that face bending over me on the night 
 when I lay under the hedge and so nearly escaped murder. If 
 I am right it was, however, the mildest of the ruffians, — the 
 one who counselled his comrades against despatching me." 
 
 The corporal shuddered. 
 
 "Pray, sir," said he, after a moment's pause, "do see if your 
 pistols are primed, — so, so. 'Tis not out o' nature that the 
 man may have some 'complices hereabout, and may think to 
 waylay us. The old gypsy, too, what a face she had! De- 
 pend on it, they are two of a trade, augh ! bother ! whaugh ! " 
 
 And the corporal grunted his most significant grunt. 
 
 "It is not at all unlikely. Bunting; and as we are now not 
 far from Knaresborough, it will be prudent to ride on as fast 
 as our horses will allow us. Keep up alongside." 
 
 " Certainly, I '11 purtect your honor, " said the corporal, 
 
302 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 getting on that side where, the hedge being thinnest, an am- 
 bush was less likely to be laid. " I care more for your honor's 
 safety than my own, or what a brute I should be, augh ! " 
 
 The master and man trotted on for some little distance, 
 when they perceived a dark object moving along by the grass 
 on the side of the road. The corporal's hair bristled; he 
 uttered an oath, which he mistook for a prayer. Walter felt 
 his breath grow a little thick as he watched the motions of the 
 object so imperfectly beheld; presently, however, it grew 
 into a man on horseback, trotting very slowly along the grass ; 
 and as they now neared him, they recognized the rider they 
 had just seen, whom they might have imagined, from the pace 
 at which he left them before, to have been considerably ahead 
 of them. 
 
 The horseman turned round as he saw them. 
 
 "Pray, gentlemen," said he, in a tone of great and evident 
 anxiety, " how far is it to Knaresborough ? " 
 
 "Don't answer him, your honor," whispered the corporal. 
 
 "Probably," replied Walter, unheeding this advice, "you 
 know this road better than we do. It cannot, however, be 
 above three or four miles hence." 
 
 "Thank you, sir, — it is long since I have been in these 
 parts. I used to know the country; but they have made new 
 roads and strange enclosures, and I now scarcely recognize 
 anything familiar. Curse on this brute! curse on it, I say! " 
 repeated the horseman through his ground teeth, in a tone of 
 angry vehemence. " I never wanted to ride so quick before, 
 and the beast has fallen as lame as a tree. This comes of try- 
 ing to go faster than other folks. Sir, are you a father ? " 
 
 This abrupt question, which was uttered in a sharp, strained 
 voice, a little startled Walter. He replied shortly in the 
 negative, and was about to spur onward, when the horseman 
 continued, — and there was something in his voice and manner 
 that compelled attention, — 
 
 "And I am in doubt whether I have a child or not. By 
 G — ! it is a bitter, gnawing state of mind. I may reach 
 Knaresborough to find my only daughter dead, sir, dead ! " 
 
 Despite Walter's suspicions of the speaker, he could not but 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 303 
 
 feel a thrill of sympathy at the visible distress with which 
 these words were said. 
 
 " I hope not, " said he, involuntaril3\ 
 
 "Thank you, sir," replied the horseman, trying ineffectu- 
 ally to spur on his steed, which almost came down at the 
 effort to proceed. "I have ridden thirty miles across the 
 country at full speed, for they had no post-horses at the d — d 
 place where I hired this brute. This was the only creature I 
 could get for love or money; and now the devil only knows 
 how important every moment may be. While I speak, my 
 child may breathe her last ! " And the man brought his 
 clenched fist on the shoulder of his horse in mingled spite and 
 rage. 
 
 "All sham, your honor," whispered the corporal. 
 
 "Sir," cried the horseman, now raising his voice, "I need 
 not have asked if you had been a father, — if you had, you 
 would have had compassion on me ere this; you would have 
 lent me your own horse." 
 
 " The impudent rogue ! " muttered the corporal. 
 
 "Sir," replied Walter, "it is not to the tale of every 
 stranger that a man gives belief." 
 
 "Belief! Ah, well, well! 'tis no matter," said the horse- 
 man, sullenly. " There was a time, man, when 1 would have 
 forced what I now solicit; but my heart's gone. Ride on, 
 sir, ride on, and the curse of — " 
 
 "If," interrupted Walter, irresolutely, "if I could believe 
 your statement — But, no. Mark me, sir, I have reasons, fear- 
 ful reasons, for imagining that you mean this but as a snare ! " 
 
 "Ha!" said the horseman, deliberately, "have we met 
 before ? " 
 
 "I believe so." 
 
 " And you have had cause to complain of me ? It may be, 
 it may be ; but were the grave before me, and if one lie would 
 smite me into it, I solemnly swear that I now utter but the 
 naked truth." 
 
 " It would be folly to trust him. Bunting ? " said Walter, 
 turning round to his attendant. 
 
 "Folly, sheer madness — bother! " 
 
304 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "If you are the man I take you for," said Walter, "you 
 once raised your voice against the murder, though you assisted 
 in the robbery, of a traveller; that traveller was myself. I 
 will remember the mercy, — I will forget the outrage; and I 
 will not believe that you have devised this tale as a snare. 
 Take my horse, sir; I will trust you." 
 
 Houseman, for it was he, flung himself instantly from his 
 saddle. "I don't ask God to bless you: a blessing in my 
 mouth would be worse than a curse. But you will not repent 
 this ; you will not repent it! " 
 
 Houseman said these few words with a palpable emotion; 
 and it was more striking on account of the evident coarseness 
 and hardened brutality of his nature. In a moment more he 
 had mounted Walter's horse; and turning ere he sped on, 
 inquired at what place at Knaresborough the horse should be 
 sent. Walter directed him to the principal inn; and House- 
 man, waving his hand and striking his spurs into the animal, 
 wearied as it was, shot out of sight in a moment. 
 
 " Well, if ever I seed the like ! " quoth the corporal. " Lira, 
 lira, la, la, la ! lira, lara, la, la, la ! augh ! waugh ! bother ! " 
 
 " So my good-nature does not please you, Bunting ? " 
 
 "Oh, sir, it does not sinnify, — we shall have our throats 
 cut, that's all!" 
 
 "What, you don't believe the story ?" 
 
 "I ? Bless your honor, /am no fool." 
 
 "Bunting!" 
 
 "Sir." 
 
 "You forget yourself." 
 
 "Augh!" 
 
 " So you don't think I should have lent the horse ?" 
 
 "Sartinly not." 
 
 " On occasions like these, every man ought to take care of 
 himself ? Prudence before generosity ? " 
 
 "Of a sartainty, sir! " 
 
 "Dismount, then; I want my horse. You may shift with 
 the lame one." 
 
 "Augh, sir, baiigh!" 
 
 " Rascal, dismount, I say ! " said Walter, angrily ; for the 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 305 
 
 corporal was one of those men who aim at governing their 
 masters ; and his selfishness now irritated Walter as much as 
 his impertinent tone of superior wisdom. 
 
 The corporal hesitated. He thought an ambuscade by the 
 road of certain occurrence ; and he was weighing the danger 
 of riding a lame horse against his master's displeasure. 
 Walter, perceiving he demurred, was seized with so violent 
 a resentment that he dashed up to the corporal, and grasping 
 him by the collar, swung him, heavy as he was, — being 
 wholly unprepared for such force, — to the ground. 
 
 Without deigning to look at his condition, Walter mounted 
 the sound horse, and throwing the bridle of the lame one over 
 a bough, left the corporal to follow at his leisure. 
 
 There is not, perhaps, a more sore state of mind than that 
 which we experience when we have committed an act we 
 meant to be generous, and fear to be foolish. 
 
 "Certainly," said Walter, soliloquizing, "certainly the man 
 is a rascal; yet he was evidently sincere in his emotion. Cer- 
 tainly he was one of the men who robbed me; yet if so, he 
 was also the one who interceded for my life. If I should now 
 have given strength to a villain; if I should have assisted 
 him to an outrage against myself! What more probable ? 
 Yet, on the other hand, if his story be true, if his child be 
 dying, and if, through my means, he obtain a last interview 
 with her! Well, well, let me hope so! " 
 
 Here he was joined by the corporal, who, angry as he was, 
 judged it prudent to smother his rage for another opportunity, 
 and by favoring his master with his company, to procure him- 
 self an ally immediately at hand, should his suspicions prove 
 true. But for once his knowledge of the world deceived 
 him; no sign of living creature broke the loneliness of the 
 way. By and by the lights of the town gleamed upon them; 
 and on reaching the inn, Walter found his horse had been 
 already sent there, and, covered with dust and foam, was 
 submitting itself to the tutelary hands of the hostler. 
 
 20 
 
306 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Walter's reflections. — mine host. — a gentle character 
 
 AND A green old AGE. THE GARDEN, AND THAT WHICH 
 
 IT TEACHETH. A DIALOGUE WHEREIN NEW HINTS TOWARDS 
 
 THE WISHED-FOR DISCOVERY ARE SUGGESTED. THE CUR- 
 ATE. A VISIT TO A SPOT OF DEEP INTEREST TO THE 
 
 ADVENTURER. 
 
 I MADE a posy while the day ran by ; 
 
 Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie 
 
 My life within this band. — George Herbert. 
 
 The time approaches 
 That will with due precision make us know 
 What — 
 
 Macbeth. 
 
 The next morning Walter rose early; and descending into 
 the court-yard of the inn, he there met with the landlord, 
 who — a hoe in his hand — was just about to enter a little gate 
 that led into the garden. He held the gate open for Walter. 
 
 "It is a fine morning, sir: would you like to look into the 
 garden ? " said mine host, with an inviting smile. 
 
 Walter accepted the offer, and found himself in a large and 
 well-stocked garden, laid out with much neatness and some 
 taste. The landlord halted by a parterre which required his 
 attention, and Walter walked on in solitary reflection. 
 
 The morning was serene and clear; but the frost mingled 
 the freshness with an "eager and nipping air," and Walter 
 unconsciously quickened his step as he passed to and fro the 
 straight walk that bisected the garden, with his eyes on the 
 ground and his hat over his brows. 
 
 Now then he had reached the place where the last trace of 
 his father seemed to have vanished, — in how wayward and 
 strange a manner! If no further clew could be here discov- 
 ered by the inquiry he purposed, at this spot would terminate 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 307 
 
 his researches and his hopes. But the young heart of the 
 traveller was buoyed up with expectation. Looking back to 
 the events of the last few weeks, he thought he recognized the 
 finger of Destiny guiding him from step to step, and now 
 resting on the scene to which it had brought his feet. How 
 singularly complete had been the train of circumstance which, 
 linking things seemingly most trifling, most dissimilar, had 
 lengthened into one continuous chain of evidence, — the trivial 
 incident that led him to the saddler's shop; the accident that 
 brought the whip that had been his father's to his eye ; the 
 account from Courtland, which had conducted him to this re- 
 mote part of the country; and now the narrative of Elmore, 
 leading him to the spot at which all inquiry seemed as yet to 
 pause! Had he been led hither only to hear repeated that 
 strange tale of sudden and wanton disappearance, — to find an 
 abrupt wall, a blank and impenetrable barrier to a course 
 hitherto so continuously guided on ? Had he been the sport 
 of Fate, and not its instrument ? No ; he was filled with a 
 serious and profound conviction that a discovery, which he of 
 all men was best entitled by the unalienable claims of blood 
 and birth to achieve, was reserved for him, and that this grand 
 dream of childhood was now about to be embodied and at- 
 tained. He could not but be sensible, too, that as he had 
 proceeded on his high enterprise, his character had acquired a 
 weight and a thoughtful seriousness which was more fitted to 
 the nature of that enterprise than akin to his earlier temper. 
 This consciousness swelled his bosom with a profound and 
 steady hope. When Fate selects her human agents, her dark 
 and mysterious spirit is at work within them; she moulds 
 their hearts, she exalts their energies, she shapes them to the 
 part she has allotted them, and renders the mortal instrument 
 worthy of the solemn end. 
 
 Thus chewing the cud of his involved and deep reflections, 
 the young adventurer paused at last opposite his host, who was 
 still bending over his pleasant task, and every now and then, 
 excited by the exercise and the fresh morning air, breaking 
 into snatches of some old rustic song. The contrast in mood 
 between himself and this "Unvex'd loiterer by the world's 
 
308 EUGEXE ARAM. 
 
 green ways," struck forcibly upon him. Mine host, too, was 
 one whose appearance was better suited to his occupation 
 than his profession. He might have told some three and 
 sixty years ; but it was a comely and green old age, his cheek 
 was firm and ruddy, not with nightly cups, but the fresh wit- 
 ness of the morning breezes it was wont to court; his frame 
 was robust, not corpulent; and his long gray hair, which fell 
 almost to his shoulders, his clear blue eyes, and a pleasant 
 curve in a mouth characterized by habitual good humor, com- 
 pleted a portrait that even many a dull observer would have 
 paused to gaze upon. And, indeed, the good man enjoyed a 
 certain kind of reputation for his comely looks and cheerful 
 manner. His picture had even been taken by a young artist 
 in the neighborhood, — nay, the likeness had been multiplied 
 into engravings, somewhat rude and somewhat unfaithful, 
 which might be seen occupying no uuconspicuous nor dusty 
 corner in the principal print-shop of the town. Nor was mine 
 host's character a contradiction to his looks. He had seen 
 enough of life to be intelligent, and had judged it rightly 
 enough to be kind. He had passed that line so nicely given 
 to man's codes in those admirable pages which first added 
 delicacy of tact to the strong sense of English composition. 
 "We have just religion enough," it is said somewhere in the 
 "Spectator," "to make us hate, but not enough to make us 
 love, one another." Our good landlord — peace be with his 
 ashes ! — had never halted at this limit. The country inn- 
 keeper might have furnished Goldsmith with a counterpart to 
 his country curate: his house was equally hospitable to the 
 poor; his heart equally tender, in a nature wiser than expe- 
 rience, to error, and equally open, in its warm simplicity, to 
 
 distress. Peace be with thee, ! Our grandsire was thy 
 
 patron, yet a patron thou didst not want. Merit in thy ca- 
 pacity is seldom bare of reward. The public want no indi- 
 cators to a house like thine. And who requires a third person 
 to tell him how to appreciate the value of good nature and 
 good cheer ? 
 
 As Walter stood and contemplated the old man bending over 
 the sweet fresh earth (and then, glancing round, saw the quiet 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 309 
 
 garden stretching away on either side, with its boundaries 
 lost among the thick evergreen), something of that grateful 
 and moralizing stillness with which some country scene gen- 
 erally inspires us when we awake to its consciousness from 
 the troubled dream of dark and unquiet thought, stole over 
 his mind, and certain old lines which his uncle, who loved 
 the soft and rustic morality that pervades the ancient race of 
 English minstrels, had taught him, when a boy, came pleas- 
 antly into his recollection ; — 
 
 " With all, as in some rare limned book, we see 
 Here painted lectures of God's sacred will. 
 The daisy teachetli lowliness of mind ; 
 The camomile, we should be patient still ; 
 The rue, oui- hate of vice's poison ill ; 
 The woodbine, that we should our friendship hold ; 
 Our hope the savory in the bitterest cold." ^ 
 
 The old man stopped from his work as the musing figure of 
 his guest darkened the prospect before him, and said, — 
 
 "A pleasant time, sir, for the gardener! " 
 
 "Ay, is it so ? You must miss the fruits and flowers of 
 summer." 
 
 " Well, sir, but we are now paying back the garden for the 
 good things it has given us. It is like taking care of a friend 
 in old age who has been kind to us when he was young." 
 
 Walter smiled at the quaint amiability of the idea. 
 
 " 'T is a winning thing, sir, a garden! It brings us an ob- 
 ject every day; and that 's what I think a man ought to have 
 if he wishes to lead a happy life." 
 
 " It is true, " said Walter ; and mine host was encouraged 
 to continue by the attention and affable countenance of the 
 stranger, for he was a physiognomist in his way. 
 
 " And then, sir, we have no disappointment in these objects ; 
 the soil is not ungrateful, as they say men are, — though I 
 have not often found them so, by the by. What we sow we 
 reap. I have an old book, sir, lying in my little parlor, all 
 about fishing, and full of so many pretty sayings about a coun- 
 try life, and meditation, and so forth, that it does one as much 
 1 Henry Peacham. 
 
310 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 good as a sermon to look into it. But to my mind, all those 
 sayings are more applicable to a gardener's life than a 
 fisherman's." 
 
 "It is a less cruel life, certainly," said Walter. 
 
 "Yes, sir; and then the scenes one makes one's self, the 
 flowers one plants with one's own hand, one enjoys more 
 than all the beauties which don't owe us anything, — at least 
 so it seems to me. I have always been thankful to the acci- 
 dent that made me take to gardening." 
 
 " And what was that ? " 
 
 '■ Why, sir, you must know there was a great scholar, though 
 he was but a youth then, living in tliis town some years ago, 
 and he was very curious in plants and flowers and such like. 
 I have heard the parson say he knew more of those innocent 
 matters than any man in this county. At that time I was not 
 in so flourishing a way of business as I am at present. I kept 
 a little inn in the outskirts of the town; and having formerly 
 
 been a gamekeeper of my Lord 's, I was in the habit of 
 
 eking out my little profits by accompanying gentlemen in 
 fishing or snipe-shooting. So one day, sir, I went out fishing 
 with a strange gentleman from London, and in a very quiet, 
 retired spot, some miles off, he stopped and plucked some 
 herbs that seemed to me common enough, but which he de- 
 clared were most curious and rare things, and he carried them 
 carefully away. I heard afterwards he was a great herbalist, 
 I think they call it, but he was a very poor fisher. Well, sir, 
 I thought the next morning of Mr. Aram, our great scholar 
 and botanist, and fancied it would please him to know of 
 these bits of grass; so I went and called upon him, and 
 begged leave to go and show the spot to him. So we walked 
 there; and certainly, sir, of all the men that ever I saw, I 
 never met one that wound round your heart like this same 
 Eugene Aram. He was then exceedingly poor, but he never 
 complained, and was much too proud for any one to dare to 
 ofi"er him relief. He lived quite alone, and usually avoided 
 every one in his walks; but, sir, there was something so en- 
 gaging and patient in his manner and his voice and his pale, 
 mild countenance, which, young as he was then, for he was 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 311 
 
 not a year or two above twenty, was marked with sadness and 
 melancholy, that it quite went to your heart when you met 
 him or spoke to him. Well, sir, we walked to the place, and 
 very much delighted he seemed with the green things I showed 
 him; and as I was always of a communicative temper, — rather 
 a gossip, sir, my neighbors say, — I made him smile now and 
 then by my remarks. He seemed pleased with me, and talked 
 to me going home about flowers and gardening and such like; 
 and sure it was better than a book to hear him. And after 
 that, when we came across one another, he would not shun me 
 as he did others, but let me stop and talk to him; and then I 
 asked his advice about a wee farm I thought of taking, and he 
 told me many curious things which, sure enough, I found quite 
 true, and brought me in afterwards a deal of money. But we 
 t.ilked much about gardening, for I loved to hear him talk on 
 those matters; and so, sir, I was struck by all he said, and 
 could not rest till I took to gardening myself, and ever since 
 I have gone on, more pleased with it every day of my life. 
 Indeed, sir, I think these harmless pursuits make a man's 
 heart better and kinder to his fellow-creatures ; and I always 
 take more pleasure in reading the Bible, specially the New 
 Testament, after having spent the day in the garden. Ah, 
 well! I should like to know what has become of that poor 
 gentleman." 
 
 "I can relieve your honest heart about him. Mr. Aram 
 
 is living in , well off in the world, and universally liked; 
 
 though he still keeps to his old habits of reserve." 
 
 "Ay, indeed, sir! I have not heard anything that pleased 
 me more this many a day." 
 
 "Pray," said Walter, after a moment's pause, "do you re- 
 member the circumstance of a Mr. Clarke appearing in this 
 town, and leaving it in a very abrupt and mysterious manner? " 
 
 " Do I mind it, sir ? Yes, indeed. It made a great noise 
 in Knaresborough ; there were many suspicions of foul play 
 about it. For my part, I too had my thoughts, — but that's 
 neither here nor there; " and the old man recommenced weed- 
 ing with great diligence. 
 
 "My friend," said Walter, mastering his emotion, "you 
 
312 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 would serve me more deeply tlian I can express if you would 
 give me any information, any conjecture, respecting this — 
 this Mr. Clarke. I have come hither solely to make inquiry 
 after his fate; in a word, he is — or was — a near relative of 
 
 mine! 
 
 ! " 
 
 The old man looked wistfully in Walter's face. "Indeed," 
 said he, slowly, "you are welcome, sir, to all I know; but 
 that IS very little, or nothing rather. But will you turn up 
 this walk, sir, — it 's more retired. Did you ever hear of one 
 Richard Houseman ? " 
 
 " Houseman ? Yes ; he knew my poor — I mean he knew 
 Clarke ; he said Clarke was in his debt when he left the town 
 so suddenly." 
 
 The old man shook his head mysteriously, and looked round. 
 "I will tell you," said he, laying his hand on Walter's arm, 
 and speaking in his ear: "I would not accuse any one wrong- 
 fully, but I have my doubts that Houseman murdered him." 
 
 "Great God!" murmured Walter, clinging to a post for 
 support. "Goon! Heed me not, heed me not; for mercy's 
 sake go on." 
 
 "Nay, I know nothing certain, nothing certain, believe me," 
 said the old man, shocked at the effect his words had pro- 
 duced; "it may be better than I think for, and my reasons are 
 not very strong, but you shall hear them. Mr. Clarke, you 
 know, came to this town to receive a legacy, — you know the 
 particulars ? " 
 
 Walter impatiently nodded assent. 
 
 "Well, though he seemed in poor health, he was a lively, 
 careless man, who liked any company who would sit and tell 
 stories and drink o' nights, — not a silly man exactly, but a 
 weak one. Now of all the idle persons of this town, Richard 
 Houseman was the most inclined to this way of life. He had 
 been a soldier; had wandered a good deal about the world; 
 was a bold, talking, reckless fellow, of a character thoroughly 
 profligate, and there were many stories afloat about him, though 
 none were clearly made out, — in short, he was suspected of 
 having occasionally taken to the high road; and a stranger, 
 who stopped once at my little inn, assured me privately that 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 313 
 
 though he could not positively swear to his person, he felt 
 convinced that he had been stopped a year before on the Lon- 
 don road by Houseman. Notwithstanding all this, as House- 
 man had some respectable connections in the town (among 
 his relations, by the by, was Mr. Aram), as he was a thor- 
 oughly boon companion, a good shot, a bold rider, excellent at 
 a song, and very cheerful and merry, he was not without as 
 much company as he pleased; and the first night he and Mr. 
 Clarke came together they grew mighty intimate, — indeed it 
 seemed as if they had met before. On the night Mr. Clarke 
 disappeared, I had been on an excursion with some gentlemen; 
 and in consequence of the snow, which had been heavy during 
 the latter part of the day, I did not return to Knaresborough 
 till past midnight. In walking through the town, I perceived 
 two men engaged in earnest conversation : one of them, I am 
 sure, was Clarke ; the other was wrapped up in a great-coat, 
 with the cape over his face, — but the watchman had met the 
 same man alone at an earlier hour, and, putting aside the 
 cape, perceived that it was Houseman. No one else was seen 
 with Clarke after that hour." 
 
 "But was not Houseman examined ?" 
 
 *' Slightly, and deposed that he had been spending the night 
 with Eugene Aram; that on leaving Aram's house he met 
 Clarke, and wondering that he, the latter, an invalid, should 
 be out at so late an hour, he walked some way with him, in 
 order to learn the cause; but that Clarke seemed confused, 
 and was reserved and on his guard, and at last wished him 
 good-by abruptly, and turned away ; that he, Houseman, had 
 no doubt he left the town that night, with the intention of 
 defrauding his creditors and making off with some jewels he 
 had borrowed from Mr. Elmore." 
 
 •'But, Aram, — was this suspicious, nay, abandoned charac- 
 ter — this Houseman — intimate with Aram?" 
 
 " Not at all ; but being distantly related, and Houseman be- 
 ing a familiar, pushing sort of a fellow, Aram could not, 
 perhaps, always shake him off; and Aram allowed that House- 
 man had spent the evening with him." 
 
 " And no suspicion rested on Aram ? " 
 
S14 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 The host turned round in amazement. "Heavens above> 
 no! One might as well suspect the lamb of eating the wolf! " 
 
 But not thus thought Walter Lester; the wild words occa- 
 sionally uttered by the student, his lone habits, his frequent 
 starts and colloquy with self, all of which had, even from the 
 first, it has been seen, excited Walter's suspicion of former 
 guilt that had murdered the mind's wholesome sleep, now 
 rushed with tenfold force upon his memory. 
 
 "But no other circumstance transpired? Is this your whole 
 ground for suspicion, — the mere circumstance of Houseman's 
 being last seen with Clarke ? " 
 
 " Consider also the dissolute and bold character of Houseman. 
 Clarke evidently had his jewels and money with him, — they 
 were not left in the house. What a temptation to one who 
 was more than suspected of having in the course of his life 
 taken to plunder! Houseman shortly afterwards left the 
 country. He has never returned to the town since, though his 
 daughter lives here with his wife's mother, and has occasion- 
 ally gone up to town to see him." 
 
 "And Aram, — he also left Knaresborough soon after this 
 mysterious event ? " 
 
 "Yes; an old aunt at York, who had never assisted him 
 during her life, died and bequeathed him a legacy about a 
 month afterwards. On receiving it he naturally went to Lon- 
 don, — the best place for such clever scholars." 
 
 "Ha! but are you sure that the aunt died, that the legacy 
 was left ? Might not this be a tale to give an excuse to the 
 spending of money otherwise acquired ? " 
 
 Mine host looked almost with anger on Walter. 
 
 "It is clear," said he, "you know nothing of Eugene Aram, 
 or you would not speak thus. But I can satisfy your doubts 
 on this head. I knew the old lady well, and my wife was at 
 York when she died. Besides, every one here knows some- 
 thing of the will, for it was rather an eccentric one." 
 
 Walter paused irresolutely. " Will you accompany me, " he 
 asked, "to the house in which Mr. Clarke lodged, — and, in- 
 deed, to any other place where it may be prudent to institute 
 inquiry ? " 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 315 
 
 "Certainly, sir, with the biggest pleasure," said mine host; 
 "but you must iirst try my dame's butter and eggs. It is time 
 to breakfast." 
 
 We may suppose that Walter's simple meal was soon over; 
 and growing impatient and restless to commence his inquiries, 
 he descended from his solitary apartment to the little back- 
 room behind the bar, in Avhich he had, on the night before, 
 seen mine host and his better half at supper. It was a snug, 
 small, wainscoted room; fishing-rods were neatly arranged 
 against the wall, which was also decorated by a portrait of the 
 landlord himself, two old Dutch pictures of fruit and game, a 
 long, quaint-fashioned foAvling-piece, and, opposite the fire- 
 place, a noble stag's head and antlers. On the window-seat 
 lay the Isaak Walton to which the old man had referred; the 
 Family Bible, with its green-baize cover and the frequent 
 marks peeping out from its venerable pages; and, close nest- 
 ling to it, recalling that beautiful sentence, "Suffer the little 
 children to come unto me, and forbid them not," several of 
 those little volumes with gay bindings and marvellous con- 
 tents of fay and giant which delight the hearth-spelled urchin, 
 and which were "the source of golden hours" to the old 
 man's grandchildren, in their respite from "learning's little 
 tenements, " — 
 
 "Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound, 
 And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around." * 
 
 Mine host was still employed by a huge brown loaf and 
 some baked pike, and mine hostess, a quiet and serene old 
 lady, was alternately regaling herself and a large brindled cat 
 from a plate of "toasten cheer." 
 
 While the old man was hastily concluding his repast, a lit- 
 tle knock at the door was heard, and presently an elderly 
 gentleman in black put his head into the room, and perceiving 
 the stranger, would have drawn back; but both landlady and 
 landlord, bustling up, entreated him to enter by the appella- 
 tion of Mr. Summers. And then, as the gentleman smilingly 
 yielded to the invitation, the landlady, turning to Walter, said, 
 1 Shenstone's Schoolmistress. 
 
316 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " Our clergyman, sir ; and though I say it afore his face, there 
 is not a man who, if Christian vartues were considered, ought 
 so soon to be a bishop." 
 
 " Hush ! my good lady, " said Mr. Summers, laughing as he 
 bowed to Walter. " You see, sir, that it is no trifling advan- 
 tage to a Knaresborough reputation to have our hostess's good 
 word. But, indeed," turning to the landlady, and assuming 
 a grave and impressive air, "I have little mind for jesting 
 now. You know poor Jane Houseman, — a mild, quiet, blue- 
 eyed creature, — she died at daybreak this morning! Her 
 father had come from London expressly to see her. She died 
 in his arms, and I hear he is almost in a state of frenzy." 
 
 The host and hostess signified their commiseration. " Poor 
 little girl ! " said the latter, wiping her eyes, " hers was a hard 
 fate, and she felt it, child as she was. Without the care of a 
 mother — and such a father! Yet he was fond of her." 
 
 "My reason for calling on you was this," renewed the 
 clergyman, addressing the host: "you knew Houseman for- 
 merly; me he always shunned, and, I fancy, ridiculed. He is 
 in distress now, and all that is forgotten. Will you seek him, 
 and inquire if anything in my power can afford him consola- 
 tion ? He may be poor: /can pay for the poor child's burial. 
 I loved her: she was the best girl at Mrs. Summers' school." 
 
 "Certainly, sir, I will seek him," said the landlord, hesitat- 
 ing; and then, drawing the clergyman aside, he informed him 
 in a whisper of his engagement with Walter, and with the 
 present pursuit and meditated inquiry of his guest, not for- 
 getting to insinuate his suspicion of the guilt of the man 
 whom he was now called upon to compassionate. 
 
 The clergyman mused a little; and then, approaching Wal- 
 ter, offered his services in the stead of the publican in so frank 
 and cordial a manner that Walter at once accepted them. 
 
 "Let us come now, then," said the good curate, — for he was 
 but the curate, — seeing Walter's impatience; "and first we 
 will go to the house in which Clarke lodged, — I know it 
 well." 
 
 The two gentlemen now commenced their expedition. Sum- 
 mers was no contemptible antiquary, and he sought to beguile 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 317 
 
 the nervous impatience of his companion by dilating on the 
 attractions of the ancient and memorable town to which his 
 purpose had brought him. 
 
 "Remarkable," said the curate, "alike in history and tra- 
 dition. Look yonder," pointing above, as an opening in the 
 road gave to view the frowning and beetled ruins of the shat- 
 tered castle; "you would be at some loss to recognize now the 
 truth of old Leland's description of that once stout and gallant 
 bulwark of the North, when he 'numbrid 11 or 12 towres in 
 the walles of the castel, and one very fayre beside in the sec- 
 ond area. ' In that castle the four knightly murderers of the 
 haughty Becket (the Wolsey of his age) remained for a whole 
 year, defying the weak justice of the times. There, too, the 
 unfortunate Richard the Second — the Stuart of the Planta- 
 genets — passed some portion of his bitter imprisonment. And 
 there, after the battle of Marston Moor, waved the banners 
 of the loyalists against the soldiers of Lilburne. It was made 
 yet more touchingly memorable at that time, as you may have 
 heard, by an instance of filial piety. The town was greatly 
 straitened for want of provisions ; a youth, whose father was 
 in the garrison, was accustomed nightly to get into the deep 
 dry moat, climb up the glacis, and put provisions through a 
 hole, where the father stood ready -to receive them. He was 
 perceived at length; the soldiers fired on him. He was taken 
 prisoner and sentenced to be hanged in sight of the besieged, 
 in order to strike terror into those who might be similarly 
 disposed to render assistance to the garrison. Fortunately, 
 however, this disgrace was spared the memory of Lilburne 
 and the republican arms. With great difficulty a certain lady 
 obtained his respite; and after the conquest of the place and 
 the departure of the troops, the adventurous son was released." 
 
 "A fit subject for your local poets," said Walter, whom 
 stories of this sort, from the nature of his own enterprise, 
 especially affected. 
 
 "Yes; but we boast but few minstrels since the young 
 Aram left us. The castle then, once the residence of John 
 of Gaunt, was dismantled and destroyed. Many of the houses 
 •we shall pass have been built from its massive ruins. It is 
 
318 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 singular, by the way, that it was twice captured by men of 
 the name of Lilburn or Lillburne, — once in the reign of Ed- 
 ward II. ; once as I have related. On looking over historical 
 records, we are surprised to find how often certain names 
 have been fatal to certain spots, — and this reminds me, by 
 the way, that we boast the origin of the English sibyl, the 
 venerable Mother Shipton. The wild rock, at whose foot she 
 is said to have been born, is worthy of the tradition." 
 
 "You spoke just now," said Walter, who had not very pa- 
 tiently suffered the curate thus to ride his hobby, "of Eugene 
 Aram: you knew him well?'' 
 
 "Nay; he suffered not any to do that! He was a remarka- 
 ble youth. I have noted him from his childhood upward, long 
 before he came to Knaresborough, till on leaving this place, 
 fourteen years back, I lost sight of him. Strange, musing, 
 solitary from a boy, but what accomplishment of learning he 
 had reached! Never did I see one whom Nature so emphati- 
 cally marked to be great. I often wonder that his name has 
 not long ere this been more universally noised abroad, what- 
 ever he attempted was stamped with such signal success. I 
 have by me some scattered pieces of his poetry when a boy; 
 they were given me by his poor father, long since dead, and 
 are full of a dim, shadowy anticipation of future fame. Per- 
 haps yet, before he dies, — he is still young, — the presenti- 
 ment will be realized. You, too, know him, then ? " 
 
 "Yes, I have known him. Stay — dare I ask you a ques- 
 tion, a fearful question ? Did suspicion ever, in your mind, 
 in the mind of any one, rest on Aram as concerned in the 
 mysterious disappearance of my — of Clarke ? His acquaint- 
 ance with Houseman who was suspected; Houseman's visit to 
 Aram that night; his previous poverty, — so extreme, if I hear 
 rightly; his after riches, — though they perhaps 7nay be satis- 
 factorily accounted for; his leaving this town so shortly after 
 the disappearance I refer to: these alone might not create 
 suspicion in me ; but I have seen the man in moments of rev- 
 ery and abstraction, I have listened to strange and broken 
 words, I have noted a sudden, keen, and angry susceptibility 
 to any unmeant appeal to a less peaceful or less innocent re- 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 319 
 
 membrance. And there seems to me inexplicably to hang 
 over his heart some gloomy recollection, which I cannot di- 
 vest myself from imagining to be that of guilt." 
 
 Walter spoke quickly, and in great though half-suppressed 
 excitement, the more kindled from observing that as he spoke, 
 Summers changed countenance, and listened as with painful 
 and uneasy attention. 
 
 " I will tell you, " said the curate, after a short pause (lower- 
 ing his voice), — "I will tell you. Aram did undergo exami- 
 nation, — I was present at it; but from his character, and the 
 respect universally felt for him, the examination was close 
 and secret. He was not, mark me, suspected of the murder 
 of the unfortunate Clarke, nor was any suspicion of murder 
 generally entertained until all means of discovering Clarke 
 were found wholly unavailing, but of sharing with Houseman 
 some part of the jewels with which Clarke was known to have 
 left the toAvn. This suspicion of robbery could not, however, 
 be brought home even to Houseman, and Aram was satisfac- 
 torily acquitted from the imputation. But in the minds of 
 some present at that examination a doubt lingered ; and this 
 doubt certainly deeply wounded a man so proud and suscep- 
 tible. This, I believe, was the real reason of his quitting 
 Knaresborough almost immediately after that examination. 
 And some of us who felt for him, and were convinced of his 
 innocence, persuaded the others to hush up the circumstance 
 of his examination; nor has it generally transpired, even to 
 this day, when the whole business is wellnigh forgot. But 
 as to his subsequent improvement in circumstances, there is 
 no doubt of his aunt's having left him a legacy sufficient to 
 account for it." 
 
 Walter bowed his head, and felt his suspicions waver, when 
 the curate renewed: — 
 
 "Yet it is but fair to tell you, who seem so deeply inter- 
 ested in the fate of Clarke, that since that period rumors have 
 reached my ear that the woman at whose house Aram lodged, 
 has from time to time dropped words that require explana- 
 tion, — hints that she could tell a tale; that she knows more 
 than men will readily believe; nay, once she is even re- 
 
320 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 ported to have said that the life of Eugene Aram was in 
 her power," 
 
 "Father of mercy! and did inquiry sleep on words so call- 
 ing for its liveliest examination ? " 
 
 "Not wholly. When the words were reported to me, I 
 went to the house, but found the woman, whose habits and 
 character are low and worthless, was abrupt and insolent in 
 her manner ; and after in vain endeavoring to call forth some 
 explanation of the words she was said to have uttered, I left 
 the house fully persuaded that she had only given vent to a 
 meaningless boast, and that the idle words of a disorderly 
 gossip could not be taken as evidence against a man of the 
 blameless character and austere habits of Aram, Since, how- 
 ever, you have now re-awakened investigation, we will visit 
 her before you leave the town; and it may be as well, too, 
 that Houseman should undergo a further investigation before 
 we suffer him to depart." 
 
 " I thank you, I thank you ! I will not let slip one thread 
 of this dark clew ! " 
 
 "And now," said the curate, pointing to a decent house, 
 "we have reached the lodging Clarke occupied in the town." 
 
 An old man of respectable appearance opened the door, and 
 welcomed the curate and his companion with an air of cordial 
 respect which attested the well-deserved popularity of the 
 former. 
 
 " We have come, " said the curate, " to ask you some ques- 
 tions respecting Daniel Clarke, whom you remember as your 
 lodger. This gentleman is a relation of his, and interested 
 deeply in his fate." 
 
 "What, sir!" quoth the old man, "and have you, his rela- 
 tion, never heard of Mr. Clarke since he left the town ? 
 Strange! This room, this very room, was the one Mr. Clarke 
 occupied; and next to this, here [opening a door] was his 
 bed-chamber ! " 
 
 It was not without powerful emotion that Walter found 
 himself thus within the apartment of his lost father. What 
 a painful, what a gloomy, yet sacred interest everything 
 around instantly assumed! The old-fashioned and heavy 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 321 
 
 chairs ; the brown wainscot walls ; the little cupboard recessed 
 as it were to the right of the fireplace, and piled with morsels 
 of Indian china and long taper wine-glasses; the small win- 
 dow-panes set deep in the wall, giving a dim view of a bleak 
 and melancholy looking garden in the rear ; yea, the very floor 
 he trod, the very table on which he leaned, the very hearth, 
 dull and fireless as it was, opposite his gaze, — all took a fa- 
 miliar meaning in his eye, and breathed a household voice into 
 his ear. And when he entered the inner room, how, even to 
 suffocation, were those strange, half-sad, yet not all bitter 
 emotions increased! There was the bed on which his father 
 had rested on the night before — what ? Perhaps his murder ! 
 The bed, probably a relic from the castle when its antique 
 furniture was set up to public sale, was hung with faded tap- 
 estry, and above its dark and polished summit were hearse - 
 like and heavy trappings. Old commodes of rudely carved 
 oak, a discolored glass in a Japan frame, a ponderous arm- 
 chair of Elizabethan fashion, and covered with the same tap- 
 estry as the bed, altogether gave that uneasy and sepulchral 
 impression to the mind so commonly produced by the relics 
 of a mouldering and forgotten antiquity. 
 
 "It looks cheerless, sir," said the owner; "but then we 
 have not had any regular lodger for years, — it is just the 
 same as when Mr. Clarke lived here. But bless you, sir, he 
 made the dull rooms look gay enough. He was a blithesome 
 gentleman. He and his friends, Mr. Houseman especially, 
 used to make the walls ring again when they were over their 
 cups ! " 
 
 "It might have been better for Mr. Clarke," said the curate, 
 "had he chosen his comrades with more discretion. House- 
 man was not a creditable, perhaps not a safe companion." 
 
 "That was no business of mine then," quoth the lodging- 
 letter; "but it might be now, since I have been a married 
 man ! " 
 
 The curate smiled. "Perhaps you, Mr. Moor, bore a part 
 in those revels?" 
 
 "Why, indeed, Mr. Clarke would occasionally make me 
 take a glass or so, sir." 
 
 21 
 
322 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " And you must then have heard the conversations that took 
 place between Houseman and him. Did Mr. Clarke ever, in 
 those conversations, intimate an intention of leaving the town 
 soon ? And where, if so, did he talk of going ? " 
 
 "Oh! first to London. I have often heard him talk of go- 
 ing to London, and then taking a trip to see some relations of 
 his in a distant part of the country. I remember his ca- 
 ressing a little boy of my brother's, — you know Jack, sir; 
 not a little boy now, almost as tall as this gentleman. 'Ah! ' 
 said he, with a sort of sigh, 'ah! I have a boy at home about 
 this age: when shall I see him again ? ' " 
 
 " When indeed ! " thought Walter, turning away his face at 
 this anecdote, to him so naturally affecting. 
 
 " And the night that Clarke left you, were you aware of his 
 absence ? " 
 
 "No, he went to his room at his usual hour, which was late; 
 and the next morning I found his bed had not been slept in, 
 and he was gone, — gone with all his jewels, money, and val- 
 uables ; heavy luggage he had none. He was a cunning gen- 
 tleman; he never loved paying a bill. He was greatly in 
 debt in different parts of the town, though he had not been 
 here long. He ordered everything and paid for nothing." 
 
 Walter groaned. It was his father's character exactly: 
 partly it might be from dishonest principles superadded to 
 the earlier feelings of his nature; but partly also from that 
 temperament, at once careless and procrastinating, which, more 
 often than vice, loses men the advantage of reputation. 
 
 "Then in your own mind, and from your knowledge of 
 him," renewed the curate, "you would suppose that Clarke's 
 disappearance was intentional, — that though nothing has since 
 been heard of him, none of the blacker rumors afloat were 
 well-founded ? " 
 
 "I confess, sir, begging this gentleman's pardon, who you 
 say is a relation, I confess /see no reason to think otherwise." 
 
 "Was Mr. Aram — Eugene Aram — ever a guest of Clarke? 
 Did you ever see them together ? " 
 
 "Never at this house. I fancy Houseman once presented 
 Mr. Aram to Clarke, and that they may have met and con- 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 323 
 
 versed some two or three times, — not more, I believe; they 
 were scarcely congenial spirits, sir." 
 
 Walter, having now recovered his self-possession, entered 
 into the conversation, and endeavored, by as minute an exam- 
 ination as his ingenuity could suggest, to obtain some addi- 
 tional light upon the mysterious subject so deeply at his heart. 
 Nothing, however, of any effectual import was obtained from 
 the good man of the house. He had evidently persuaded him- 
 self that Clarke's disappearance was easily accounted for, and 
 would scarcely lend attention to any other suggestion than 
 that of Clarke's dishonesty. Nor did his recollection of the 
 meetings between Houseman and Clarke furnish him with 
 anything worthy of narration. With a spirit somewhat damped 
 and disappointed, Walter, accompanied by the curate, recom- 
 menced his expedition. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 GRIEF IN A RUFFIAN. — THE CHAMBER OF EARLY DEATH. A 
 
 HOMELY YET MOMENTOUS CONFESSION. THE EARTh's SE- 
 CRETS. THE CAVERN. THE ACCUSATION. 
 
 All is not well; 
 I doubt some foul play. 
 
 Foul deeds will rise, 
 Though all the earth o'erwhelra them, to men's eyes. — Hamlet. 
 
 As they passed through the street, they perceived three or 
 four persons standing round the open door of a house of ordi- 
 nary description, the windows of which were partially closed. 
 
 "It is the house," said the curate, "in which Houseman's 
 daughter died, — poor, poor child! Yet why mourn for the 
 young ? Better that the light cloud should fade away into 
 heaven with the morning breath, than travel through the 
 weary day to gather in darkness and end in storm." 
 
324 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " Ah, sir ! " said an old man, leaning on his stick and lift- 
 ing his hat, in obeisance to the curate, "the father is within, 
 and takes on bitterly. He drives them all away from the 
 room, and sits moaning by the bedside, as if he was a going 
 out of his mind. Won't your reverence go in to him a bit ? " 
 
 The curate looked at Walter inquiringly. "Perhaps," said 
 the latter, "you had better go in: I will wait without." 
 
 While the curate hesitated, they heard a voice in the pas- 
 sage; and presently Houseman was seen at the far end, driv- 
 ing some women before him with vehement gesticulations. 
 
 " I tell you, ye hell-hags," shrieked his harsh and now strain- 
 ing voice, "that ye suffered her to die! Why did ye not send 
 to London for physicians ? Am I not rich enough to buy my 
 
 child's life at any price ? By the living , I would have 
 
 turned your very bodies into gold to have saved her! But 
 she's dead! and I — Out of my sight; out of my way!" 
 And with his hands clenched, his brows knit, and his head 
 uncovered. Houseman sallied forth from the door, and Walter 
 recognized the traveller of the preceding night. He stopped 
 abruptly as he saw the little knot without, and scowled round 
 at each of them with a malignant and ferocious aspect. " Very 
 well, it's very well, neighbors!" said he at length, with a 
 fierce laugh; "this is kind! You have come to welcome Rich- 
 ard Houseman home, have ye ? Good, good ! Not to gloat at 
 his distress? Lord, no! Ye have no idle curiosity, no pry- 
 ing, searching, gossiping devil within ye that makes ye love 
 to flock and gape and chatter when poor men suffer ! This is 
 all pure compassion; and Houseman, the good, gentle, peace- 
 ful, honest Houseman, you feel for hhn, — I know you do! 
 Hark ye, begone! Away, march, tramp, or — Ha, ha! there 
 they go, there they go ! " laughing wildly again as the fright- 
 ened neighbors shrank from the spot, leaving only Walter and 
 the clergyman with the childless man. 
 
 " Be comforted. Houseman!" said Summers, soothingly; "it 
 is a dreadful affliction that you have sustained. I knew your 
 daughter well : you may have heard her speak of me. Let us 
 in, and try what heavenly comfort there is in prayer." 
 
 "Prayer! pooh! I am Richard Houseman! " 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 325 
 
 "Lives there one man for whom prayer is unavailing ?" 
 
 "Out, canter, out! My pretty Jane! And she laid her 
 head on my bosom, and looked up in my face, and so — died! " 
 
 "Come," said the curate, placing his hand on Houseman's 
 arm, "come." 
 
 Before he could proceed. Houseman, who was muttering to 
 himself, shook him off roughly, and hurried away up the 
 street; but after he had gone a few paces, he turned back, and 
 approaching the curate, said, in a more collected tone: "1 
 pray you, sir, since you are a clergyman (I recollect your face, 
 and 1 recollect Jane said you had been good to her), — I pray 
 you go and say a few words over her. But stay, — don't bring 
 in my name; you understand. I don't wish God to recollect 
 that there lives such a man as he who now addresses you. 
 Halloo! [shouting to the women] my hat, and stick too. Fal 
 lal la! fal la! — why should these things make us play the 
 madman ? It is a fine day, sir; we shall have a late winter. 
 Curse the b , how long she is ! Yet the hat was left be- 
 low. But when a death is in the house, sir, it throws things 
 into confusion : don't you find it so ? " 
 
 Here one of the women, pale, trembling, and tearful, brought 
 the ruffian his hat; and placing it deliberately on his head, 
 and bowing with a dreadful and convulsive attempt to smile, 
 he walked slowly away and disappeared. 
 
 " What strange mummers grief makes ! " said the curate. 
 " It is an appalling spectacle when it thus wrings out feeling 
 from a man of that mould! But pardon me, my young friend; 
 let me tarry here for a moment." 
 
 "I will enter the house with you," said Walter. And the 
 two men walked in, and in a few moments they stood within 
 the chamber of death. 
 
 The face of the deceased had not yet suffered the last wither- 
 ing change. Her young countenance was hushed and serene, 
 and but for the fixedness of the smile, you might have thought 
 the lips moved. So delicate, fair, and gentle were the fea- 
 tures that it was scarcely possible to believe such a scion could 
 spring from such a stock; and it seemed no longer wonderful 
 that a thing so young, so innocent, so lovely, and so early 
 
326 EUGENE ARAJM. 
 
 blighted should have touched that reckless and dark nature 
 which rejected all other invasion of the softer emotions. The 
 curate wiped his eyes, and kneeling down prayed, if not for 
 the dead (who, as our Church teaches, are beyond human in- 
 tercession), perhaps for the father she had left on earth, — 
 more to be pitied of the two! Nor to Walter was the scene 
 without something more impressive and thrilling than its 
 mere pathos alone. He, now standing beside the corpse of 
 Houseman's child, was son to the man of whose murder House- 
 man had been suspected. The childless and the fatherless, 
 — might there be no retribution here ? 
 
 When the curate's prayer was over, and he and Walter 
 escaped from the incoherent blessings and complaints of the 
 women of the house, they, with difficulty resisting the im- 
 pression the scene had left upon their minds, once more re- 
 sumed their errand. 
 
 "This is no time," said Walter, musingly, "for an exami- 
 nation of Houseman; yet it must not be forgotten." 
 
 The curate did not reply for some moments ; and then, as an 
 answer to the remark, observed that the conversation they 
 anticipated with Aram's former hostess might throw some 
 light on their researches. They now proceeded to another 
 part of the town, and arrived at a lonely and desolate-looking 
 house, which seemed to wear in its very appearance some- 
 thing strange, sad, and ominous. Some houses have an ex- 
 pression, as it were, in their outward aspect that sinks 
 unaccountably into the heart, — a dim, oppressive eloquence 
 which dispirits and affects. You say some story must be 
 attached to those walls ; some legendary interest, of a darker 
 nature, ought to be associated with the mute stone and mortar; 
 you feel a mingled awe and curiosity creep over you as you 
 gaze. Such was the description of the house that the young 
 adventurer now surveyed. It was of antique architecture, 
 not uncommon in old towns; gable ends rose from the roof; 
 dull, small, latticed panes were sunk deep in the gray, dis- 
 colored wall; the pale, in part, was broken and jagged; and 
 rank weeds sprang up in the neglected garden, through which 
 they walked towards the povoh. The door was open; they 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 327 
 
 entered, and found an old woman of coarse appearance sitting 
 by the fireside, and gazing on space with that vacant stare 
 which so often cliaracterizes the repose and relaxation of the 
 uneducated poor. Walter felt an involuntary thrill of dis- 
 like come over him as he looked at the solitary inmate of the 
 solitary house. 
 
 "Hey day, sir!" said she, in a grating voice, "and what 
 now? Oh! Mr. Summers, is it you? You're welcome, sir! 
 I wishes I covild offer you a glass of summut, but the bottle 's 
 dry — he ! he ! " pointing, with a revolting grin, to an empty 
 bottle that stood on a niche within the hearth. " I don't know 
 how it is, sir, but I never wants to eat; but ah! 't is the liquor 
 that does un good ! " 
 
 " You have lived a long time in this house ? " said the 
 curate. 
 
 "A long time, — some thirty years an' more." 
 
 " You remember your lodger, Mr. Aram ? " 
 
 "A — well — yes ! " 
 
 " An excellent man — " 
 
 "Humph." 
 
 " A most admirable man ! " 
 
 "A-humph! he! — humph! that 's neither here nor there." 
 
 "Why, you don't seem to think as all the rest of the world 
 does with regard to him ? " 
 
 "I knows what I knows." 
 
 "Ah! by the by, you have some cock-and-a-bull story about 
 him, I fancy, but you never could explain yourself, — it is 
 merely for the love of seeming wise that you invented it, eh, 
 Goody?" 
 
 The old woman shook her head, and crossing her hands on 
 her knee, replied with peculiar emphasis, but in a very low 
 and whispered voice, " I could hang him ! " 
 
 "Pooh!" 
 
 "Tell you I could!" 
 
 "Well, let 's have the story then! " 
 
 "No, no! I have not told it to ne'er a one yet, and I won't 
 for nothing. What will you give me ? Make it worth my 
 while." 
 
328 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " Tell us all, honestly, fairly, and fully, and you shall have 
 five golden guineas. There, Goody." 
 
 Roused by this promise, the dame looked up with more of 
 energy than she had yet shown, and muttered to herself, rock- 
 ing her chair to and fro: "Aha! why not? No fear now, — 
 both gone; can't now murder the poor old cretur, as the 
 wretch once threatened. Five golden guineas, — five, did you 
 say, sir, five ?" 
 
 " Ah ! and perhaps our bounty may not stop there, " said the 
 curate. 
 
 Still the old woman hesitated, and still she muttered to 
 herself; but after some further prelude, and some further en- 
 ticement from the curate, the which we spare our reader, she 
 came at length to the following narration: — 
 
 " It was on the 7th of February, in the year '44, — yes, '44, 
 about six o'clock in the evening, for I was a-washing in the 
 kitchen, — when Mr. Aram called to me an' desired of me to 
 make a fire upstairs, which I did; he then walked out. Some 
 hours afterwards, it might be two in the morning, I was lying 
 awake, for I was mighty bad with the toothache, Avhen I heard 
 a noise below, and two or three voices. On this I was greatly 
 afeard, and got out o' bed, and opening the door, I saw Mr. 
 Houseman and Mr. Clarke coming upstairs to Mr. Aram's 
 room, and Mr. Aram followed them. They shut the door, 
 and stayed there, it might be an hour. Well, I could not 
 a think what could make so shy an' resarved a gentleman as 
 Mr. Aram admit these 'ere wild madcaps like at that hour; 
 an' I lay awake a thinking an' a thinking, till I heard the 
 door open agin, an' I went to listen at the keyhole, an' Mr. 
 Clarke said: 'It will soon be morning, and we must get off.' 
 They then all three left the house. But I could not sleep, 
 an' I got up afore five o'clock ; and about that hour Mr. Aram 
 an' Mr, Houseman returned, and they both glowered at me as if 
 they did not like to find me a stirring; an' Mr, Aram went 
 into his room, and Houseman turned and frowned at me as 
 black as night. Lord have mercy on me, I see him now! 
 An' I was sadly feared, an' I listened at the keyhole, an' I 
 heard Houseman say: *If the woman comes in, she'll tell,' 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 329 
 
 * What can she tell ? ' said Mr. Aram; 'poor simple thing, she 
 knows nothing.' With that, Houseman said, says he: 'If 
 she tells that I am here, it will be enough; but however 
 [with a shocking oath], we '11 take an opportunity to shoot 
 her.' 
 
 "On that I was so frighted that I went away back to my 
 own room, and did not stir till they had gone out, and then — " 
 
 " What time was that ? " 
 
 "About seven o'clock. Well — You put me out! where 
 was I ? Well, I went into Mr. Aram's, an' I seed they had 
 been burning a fire, an' that all the ashes were taken out o' 
 the grate; so I went an' looked at the rubbish behind the 
 house, and there sure enough I seed the ashes, and among 'em 
 several bits o' cloth and linen which seemed to belong to 
 wearing apparel; and there, too, was a handkerchief which I 
 had obsarved Houseman wear (for it was a very curious hand- 
 kerchief, all spotted) many 's the time, and there was blood 
 on it, 'bout the size of a shilling. An' afterwards I seed 
 Houseman, an' I showed him the handkerchief; and I said 
 to him, 'What has come of Clarke ?' An' he frowned, and, 
 looking at me, said, 'Hark ye, I know not what you mean; 
 but as sure as the devil keeps watch for souls, I will shoot 
 you through the head if you ever let that d — d tongue of yours 
 let slip a single word about Clarke or me or Mr. Aram, — so 
 look to yourself!' 
 
 "An' I was all scared, and trimbled from limb to limb; an' 
 for two whole yearn afterwards (long arter Aram and House- 
 man were both gone (I never could so much as open my lips 
 on the matter ; and afore he went, Mr. Aram would sometimes 
 look at me, not sternly-like, as the villain Houseman, but as 
 if he would read to the bottom of my heart. Oh ! I was as 
 if you had taken a mountain off o' me when he an' Houseman 
 left the town; for sure as the sun shines I believes, from 
 what I have now said, that they two murdered Clarke on that 
 same February night. An' now, Mr. Summers, I feels more 
 easy than I has felt for many a long day; an' if I have not 
 told it afore, it is because I thought of Houseman's frown and 
 his horrid words; but summut of it would ooze out of my 
 
330 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 tongue now an' then, for it 's a hard thing, sir, to know a se- 
 cret o' that sort and be quiet and still about it; and, indeed, 
 I was not the same cretur when 1 knew it as I was afore, for 
 it made me take to anything rather than thinking; and that 's 
 the reason, sir, I lost the good crackter I used to have." 
 
 Such, somewhat abridged from its " says he " and " says I, '" 
 its involutions and its tautologies, was the story which Walter 
 held his breath to hear. But events thicken, and the maze is 
 nearly thridden. 
 
 " Not a moment now should be lost, " said the curate, as they 
 left the house. " Let us at once proceed to a very able magis- 
 trate, to whom I can introduce you, and who lives a little way 
 out of the town." 
 
 " As you will, " said Walter, in an altered and hollow voice. 
 " I am as a man standing on an eminence, who views the whole 
 scene he is to travel over, stretched before him, but is dizzy 
 and bewildered by the height which he has reached. I know, 
 I feel, that I am on the brink of fearful and dread discoveries ; 
 pray God that — But heed me not, sir, heed me not; let us 
 on, on ! " 
 
 It was now approaching towards the evening; and as they 
 walked on, having left the town, the sun poured his last 
 beams on a group of persons that appeared hastily collecting 
 and gathering round a spot, well known in the neighborhood 
 of Knaresborough, called Thistle Hill. 
 
 "Let us avoid the crowd," said the curate. "Yet what, I 
 wonder, can be its cause ? " While he spoke, two peasants 
 hurried by towards the throng. 
 
 " What is the meaning of the crowd yonder ? " asked the 
 curate. 
 
 "I don't know exactly, your honor, but I hears as how Jem 
 Winnings, digging for stone for the limekiln, have dug out a 
 big wooden chest." 
 
 A shout from the group broke in on the peasant's explana- 
 tion, — a sudden simultaneous shout, but not of joy; something 
 of dismay and horror seemed to breathe in the sound. 
 
 Walter looked at the curate. An impulse, a sudden in- 
 stinct, seemed to attract them involuntarily to the spot whence 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 33l 
 
 that sound arose; they quickened their pace, they made their 
 way through the throng. A deep chest, that had been vio- 
 lently forced, stood before them; its contents had been 
 dragged to day, and now lay on the sward — a bleached and 
 mouldering skeleton! Several of the bones were loose, and 
 detached from the body. A general hubbub of voices from the 
 spectators, — inquiry, guess, fear, wonder, — rang confusedly 
 around. 
 
 " Yes ! " said one old man, with gray hair, leaning on a pick- 
 axe, " it is now about fourteen years since the Jew pedlar dis- 
 appeared. These are probably his bones, — he was supposed to 
 have been murdered ! " 
 
 " Nay ! " screeched a woman, drawing back a child who, all 
 unalarmed, was about to touch the ghastly relics, "nay, the 
 pedlar was heard of afterwards. I '11 tell ye, ye may be sure 
 these are the bones of Clarke, — Daniel Clarke, — whom the 
 country was so stirred about when we were young ! " 
 
 "Right, dame, right! It is Clarke's skeleton," was the 
 simultaneous cry. And Walter, pressing forward, stood over 
 the bones, and waved his hand as to guard them from further 
 insult. His sudden appearance, his tall stature, his wild 
 gesture, the horror, the paleness, the grief of his countenance, 
 struck and appalled all present. He remained speechless, 
 and a sudden silence succeeded the late clamor. 
 
 " And what do you here, fools ? " said a voice, abruptly. The 
 spectators turned : a new comer had been added to the throng, 
 — it was Richard Houseman. His dress loose and disar- 
 ranged, his flushed cheeks and rolling eyes, betrayed the 
 source of consolation to which he had flown from his do- 
 mestic affliction. " What do ye here ? " said he, reeling 
 forward. " Ha ! human bones ? And whose may they be, 
 think ye ? " 
 
 "They are Clarke's! " said the woman, who had first given 
 rise to that supposition. 
 
 "Yes, we think they are Daniel Clarke's, — he who disap- 
 peared some years ago ! " cried two or three voices in concert. 
 
 "Clarke's?" repeated Houseman, stooping down and pick- 
 ing up a thigh-bone, which lay at a little distance from the 
 
332 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 rest; "Clarke's? Ha! ha! they are no more Clarke's than 
 mine! " 
 
 " Behold ! " shouted Walter, in a voice that rang from cliff 
 to plain; and springing forward, he seized Houseman with a 
 giant's grasp, — "behold the murderer!" 
 
 As if the avenging voice of Heaven had spoken, a thrilling, 
 an electric conviction darted through the crowd. Each of the 
 elder spectators remembered- at once the person of Houseman, 
 and the suspicion that had attached to his name. 
 
 "Seize him! seize him!" burst forth from twenty voices. 
 "Houseman is the mvirderer!" 
 
 "Murderer!" faltered Houseman, trembling in the iron 
 hands of Walter, — "murderer of whom ? I tell ye these are 
 not Clarke's bones!" 
 
 " Where then do they lie ? " cried his arrester. 
 
 Pale, confused, conscience-stricken, the bewilderment of 
 intoxication mingling with that of fear. Houseman turned a 
 ghastly look around him, and, shrinking from the eyes of all, 
 reading in the eyes of all his condemnation, he gasped out, 
 " Search St. Robert's Cave, in the turn at the entrance ! " 
 
 "Away!" rang the deep voice of Walter, on the instant; 
 " away ! To the cave, to the cave ! " 
 
 On the banks of the River Nid, whose waters keep an ever- 
 lasting murmur to the crags and trees that overhang them, is 
 a wild and dreary cavern, hollowed from a rock Tyhich, accord- 
 ing to tradition, was formerly the hermitage of one of those 
 early enthusiasts who made their solitude in the sternest re- 
 cesses of earth, and from the austerest thoughts and the bit- 
 terest penance wrought their joyless offerings to the great 
 Spirit of the lovely world. To this desolate spot, called, 
 from the name of its once celebrated eremite, St. Robert's 
 Cave, the crowd now swept, increasing its numbers as it 
 advanced. 
 
 The old man who had discovered the unknown remains, 
 which were gathered up and made a part of the procession, 
 led the way; Houseman, placed between two strong and active 
 men, went next; and Walter followed behind, fixing his eyes 
 mutely upon the ruffian. The curate had had the precaution 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 333 
 
 to send on before for torches, for the wintry evening now 
 darkened round them, and the light from the torch-bearers, 
 who met tliem at the cavern, cast forth its red and kirid flare 
 at the mouth of the chasm. One of these torches Walter him- 
 self seized, and his was the first step that entered the gloomy 
 passage. At this place and time, Houseman, who till then, 
 throughout their short journey, had seemed to have recovered 
 a sort of dogged self-possession, recoiled, and the big drops 
 of fear or agony fell fast from his brow. He was dragged 
 forward forcibly into the cavern; and now as the space filled, 
 and the torches flickered against the grim walls, glaring on 
 faces which caught, from the deep and thrilling contagion of 
 a common sentiment, one common expression, it was not well 
 possible for the wildest imagination to conceive a scene better 
 fitted for the unhallowed burial-place of the murdered dead. 
 
 The eyes of all now turned upon Houseman; and he, after 
 twice vainly endeavoring to speak, for the words died inar- 
 ticulate and choked within him, advancing a few steps, pointed 
 towards a spot on which, the next moment, fell the concen- 
 trated light of every torch. An indescribable and universal 
 murmur, and then a breathless silence, ensued. On the spot 
 which Houseman had indicated, with the head placed to the 
 right, lay what once had been a human body! 
 
 "Can you swear," said the priest, solemnly, as he turned 
 to Houseman, " that these are the bones of Clarke ? " 
 
 "Before God, I can swear it! " replied Houseman, at length 
 finding his voice. 
 
 "My Father!" broke from Walter's lips as he sank upon 
 his knees; and that exclamation completed the awe and horror 
 which prevailed in the breasts of all present. Stung by a 
 sense of the danger he had drawn upon himself, and despair 
 and excitement restoring, in some measure, not only his nat- 
 ural hardihood, but his natural astuteness, Houseman, here 
 mastering his emotions, and making that effort which he was 
 afterwards enabled to follow up with an advantage to himself 
 of which he could not then have dreamed, — Houseman, I say, 
 cried aloud, — 
 
 "But /did not do the deed; I am not the murderer." 
 
834 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " Speak out! Whom do you accuse ? " said the curate. 
 
 Drawing his breath hard, and setting his teeth as with some 
 steeled determination, Houseman replied, — 
 
 " The murderer is Eugene Aram ! " 
 
 "Aram!" shouted Walter, starting to his feet: "0 God, 
 thy hand hath directed me hither I " And suddenly and at 
 once sense left him, and he fell, as if a shot had pierced 
 through his heart, beside the remains of that father whom 
 he had thus mysteriously discovered. 
 
BOOK V. 
 
 or avT(^ KaKCL rei/xet dvrjp d\\(j) KaKO. r(6x<^', 
 
 Hesiod. 
 
 Surely the man that plotteth ill against his neighbor perpetrateth ill against 
 himself, and the evil design is most evil to him that deviseth it. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 GEASSDALE. THE MORNING OF THE MARRIAGE, — THE CRONES' 
 
 GOSSIP. THE BRIDE AT HER TOILET. THE ARRIVAL. 
 
 Jam veniet virgo, jam dicetur Hymenisus, 
 
 Hymen, O Hymeusee ! Hymen ades, O Hj^menaee ! ^ 
 
 Catullus : Carmen Nuptiale. 
 
 It was now the morning in whicli Eugene Aram was to be 
 married to Madeline Lester. The student's house had been 
 set in order for the arrival of the bride; and though it was 
 yet early morn, two old women, whom his domestic (now not 
 the only one, for a buxom lass of eighteen had been trans- 
 planted from Lester's household to meet the additional cares 
 that the change of circumstances brought to Aram's) had in- 
 vited to assist her in arranging what was already arranged, 
 were bustling about the lower apartments and making matters, 
 as they call it, "tidy." 
 
 "Them flowers look but poor things, after all," muttered an 
 old crone, whom our readers will recognize as Dame Dark- 
 mans, placing a bowl of exotics on the table. "They does 
 not look nigh so cheerful as them as grows in the open air." 
 
 1 " Now shall the Virgin arrive ; now shall be sung the Hymeneal, — Hymen 
 Hymenasus ! Be present, O Hymen Hymenaeus ! " 
 
336 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "Tush! Goody Darkmans," said the second gossip. "They 
 be much prettier and fiuer, to my mind; and so said Miss 
 Nelly when she plucked them last night and sent me down 
 with them. They says there is not a blade o' grass that the 
 master does not know. He must be a good man to love the 
 things of the field so." 
 
 "Ho!" said Dame Darkmans, "ho! When Joe Wrench 
 was hanged for shooting the lord's keeper, and he mounted 
 the scaffold wid a nosegay in his hand, he said, in a peevish- 
 voice, says he : ' Why does not they give me a tarnation ? I 
 always loved them sort o' flowers, — I wore them when I went 
 a courting Bess Lucas, — an' I would like to die with one in 
 my hand ! ' So a man may like flowers, and be but a hempen 
 dog after all ! " 
 
 "Now don't you, Goody; be still, can't you ? What a tale 
 for a marriage day ! " 
 
 " Tally vally ! " returned the grim hag, " many a blessing 
 carries a curse in its arms, as the new moon carries the 
 old. This won't be one of your happy weddings, I tell 
 ye." 
 
 " And why d' ye say that ? " 
 
 " Did you ever see a man with a look like that make a happy 
 husband ? No, no ! Can ye fancy the merry laugh o' childer 
 in this house, or a babe on the father's knee, or the happy, 
 still smile on the mother's winsome face, some few years 
 hence ? No, jNIadge! the de'il has set his black claw on the 
 man's brow." 
 
 "Hush, hush, Goody Darkmans; he may hear o' ye! " said 
 the second gossip, who, having now done all that remained to 
 do, had seated herself down by the window, while the more 
 ominous crone, leaning over Aram's oak chair, uttered from 
 thence her sibyl bodings. 
 
 "No," replied Mother Darkmans, "I seed him go out an 
 hour agone, when the sun was just on the rise; and I said, 
 when I seed him stroam into the wood yonder, and the ould 
 leaves splashed in the damp under his feet, and his hat was 
 aboon his brows, and his lips went so, — I said, says I, 'tis 
 not the man that will make a hearth bright that would walk 
 
EUGENE ARAIM. 337 
 
 thus on his marriage day. But I knows what I knows, and I 
 minds what I seed last night." 
 
 "Why, what did you see last night ?" asked the listener, 
 with a trembling voice; for Mother Darkmans was a great 
 teller of ghost and witch tales, and a certain ineffable awe of 
 her dark gypsy features and malignant words had circulated 
 pretty largely throughout the village. 
 
 "Why, I sat up here with the ould deaf woman, and we 
 were a drinking the health of the man and his wife that is to 
 be, and it was nigh twelve o' the clock ere I minded it was 
 time to go home. Well, so I puts on my cloak, and the moon 
 was up, an' I goes along by the wood, and up by Fairlegh 
 Field, an' I was singing the ballad on Joe Wrench's hanging, 
 for the spirats had made me gamesome, when I sees somemut 
 dark creep, creep, but iver so fast, arter me over the field, 
 and making right ahead to the village. And I stands still, 
 an' I was not a bit afeared; but sure I thought it was no liv- 
 ing cretur, at the first sight. And so it comes up faster and 
 faster, and then I sees it was not one thing, but a many, many 
 things, and they darkened the whole field afore me. And 
 what d'ye think they was? A whole body o' gray rats, — 
 thousands and thousands on 'em; and they were making away 
 from the outbuildings here. For sure they knew, the witch 
 things, that an ill luck sat on the spot. And so I stood 
 aside by the tree, an' I laughed to look on the ugsome creturs 
 as they swept close by me, tramp, tramp'! and they never 
 heeded me a jot; but some on 'em looked aslant at me with 
 their glittering eyes, and showed their white teeth, as if they 
 grinned, and were saying to me, ' Ha, ha! Goody Darkmans, 
 the house that we leave is a falling house, for the devil will 
 have his own. ' " 
 
 In some parts of the country, and especially in that where 
 our scene is laid, no omen is more superstitiousl}^ believed 
 evil than the departure of these loathsome animals from their 
 accustomed habitation; the instinct which is supposed to 
 make them desert an unsafe tenement is supposed also to 
 make them predict, in desertion, ill fortune to the possessor. 
 But while the ears of the listening gossip were still tingling 
 
 22 
 
338 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 with this narration, the dark figure of the student passed the 
 window, and tlie old women, starting up, appeared in all the 
 bustle of preparation, as Aram now entered the apartment. 
 
 "A happy day, your honor; a happy good morning," said 
 both the crones in a breath; but the blessing of the worse- 
 natured was vented in so harsh a croak that Aram turned 
 round as if struck by the sound, and still more disliking the 
 well-remembered aspect of the person from whom it came, 
 waved his hand impatiently, and bade them begone. 
 
 "A-whish, a-whish! " muttered Dame Darkmans, — "to 
 spake so to the poor; but the rats never lie, the bonny 
 things ! " 
 
 Aram threw himself into his chair, and remained for some 
 moments absorbed in a revery, which did not bear the aspect 
 of gloom. Then, walking once or twice to and fro the apart- 
 ment, he stopped opposite the chimney-piece, over which were 
 slung the firearms, which he never omitted to keep charged 
 and primed. 
 
 "Humph! " he said, half aloud, "ye have been but idle ser- 
 vants; and now ye are but little likely ever to requite the 
 care I have bestowed upon you." 
 
 With that a faint smile crossed his features; and turning 
 away, he ascended the stairs that led to the lofty chamber in 
 which he had been so often wont to outwatch the stars, — 
 
 " The souls of systems, and the lords of life, 
 Througli their wide empires." 
 
 Before we follow him to his high and lonely retreat we will 
 bring the reader to the manor-house, where all was already 
 gladness and quiet but deep joy. 
 
 It wanted about three hours to that fixed for the marriage ; 
 and Aram was not expected at the manor-house till an hour 
 before the celebration of the event. Nevertheless, the bells 
 were already ringing loudly and blithely; and the near vicin- 
 ity of the church to the house brought that sound, so inex- 
 pressibly buoyant and cheering, to the ears of the bride with 
 a noisy merriment that seemed like the hearty voice of an old- 
 fashioned friend who seeks in his greeting rather cordiality 
 
EUGENE ARAM. - 339 
 
 than discretion. Before her glass stood the beautiful, the 
 virgin, the glorious form of Madeline Lester; and Ellinor, 
 with trembling hands (and a voice between a laugh and a cry), 
 was braiding up her sister's rich hair, and uttering her hopes, 
 her wishes, her congratulations. The small lattice was open, 
 and the air came rather chillingly to the bride's bosom. 
 
 "It is a gloomy morning, dearest Nell," said she, shiver- 
 ing; "the winter seems about to begin at last." 
 
 " Stay, I will shut the window. The sun is struggling with 
 the clouds at present, but I am sure it v.^ill clear up by and 
 by. You don't, you don't leave us — the word must out — 
 till evening." 
 
 " Don't cry ! " said Madeline, half weeping herself, and sit- 
 ting down, she drew Ellinor to her; and the two sisters, who 
 had never been parted since birth, exchanged tears that were 
 natural, though scarcely the unmixed tears of grief. 
 
 "And what pleasant evenings we shall have," said Made- 
 line, holding her sister's hands, "in the Christmas time! 
 You will be staying with us, you know ; and that pretty old 
 room in the north of the house Eugene has already ordered to 
 be fitted up for you. Well, and my dear father, and dear 
 Walter, who will be returned long ere then, will walk over to 
 see us, and praise my housekeej^ing, and so forth. And then, 
 after dinner, we will draw near the fire, — I next to Eugene, 
 and my father, our guest, on the other side of me, with his 
 long gray hair and his good fine face, with a tear of kind feel- 
 ing in his eye, — you know that look he has whenever he is 
 affected. And at a little distance on the other side of the 
 hearth will be you — and Walter; I suppose we must make 
 room for him. And Eugene, who will be then the liveliest 
 of you all, shall read to us with his soft, clear voice, or tell 
 us all about the birds and flowers and strange things in other 
 countries. And then after supper we will walk half-way 
 home across that beautiful valley — beautiful even in winter 
 — with my father and Walter, and count the stars, and take 
 new lessons in astronomy, and hear tales about the astrologers 
 and the alchemists, with their fine old dreams. Ah! it will 
 be such a happy Christmas ! And then, when spring comes, 
 
340 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 some fine morning — finer than this — when the birds are 
 about, and the leaves getting green, and the flowers springing 
 up every day, I shall be called in to help your toilet, as you 
 have helped mine, and to go with you to church, though not, 
 alas ! as your bridesmaid. Ah ! whom shall we have for that 
 duty ? " 
 
 "Pshaw! " said Ellinor, smiling through her tears. 
 
 While the sisters were thus engaged, and Madeline was try- 
 ing, with her innocent kindness of heart, to exhilarate the 
 spirits, so naturally depressed, of her doting sister, the sound 
 of carriage-wheels was heard in the distance, — nearer, nearer; 
 now the sound stopped, as at the gate; now fast, faster, — fast 
 as the postilions could ply whip and the horses tear along. 
 While the groups in the church-yard ran forth to gaze, and the 
 bells rang merrily all the while, two chaises whirled by Made- 
 line's window and stopped at the porch of the house. The 
 sisters had flown in surprise to the casement. 
 
 "It is, it is — good God! it is Walter," cried Ellinor; "but 
 how pale he looks ! " 
 
 " And who are those strange men with him ? " faltered 
 Madeline, alarmed, though she knew not why. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE STUDENT ALONE IN HIS CHAMBER. THE INTERBTJPTION. 
 
 FAITHFUL LOVE. 
 
 Nequicquam thalamo graves 
 Hastas . . . 
 
 Vitabis strepitumque et celerem sequi 
 Ajacem. — Horace : Od. xv. lib. 1.^ 
 
 Alone in his favorite chamber, the instruments of science 
 around him, and books, some of astronomical research, some 
 of less lofty but yet abstruser lore, scattered on the tables, 
 
 ^ " In vain within your nuptial chamber will 3'ou sliun the deadly spears, 
 . . . the hostile shout, and Ajax eager in pursuit." 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 341 
 
 Eugene Aram indulged the last meditation he believed likely 
 to absorb his thoughts before that great change of life which 
 was to bless solitude with a companion. 
 
 "Yes," said he, pacing the apartment with folded arms, 
 "yes, all is safe! He will not again return; the dead sleeps 
 now without a witness. I may lay this working brain upon 
 the bosom that loves me, and not start at night and think that 
 the soft hand around my neck is the hangman's gripe. Back 
 to thyself, henceforth and forever, my busy heart! Let not 
 thy secret stir from its gloomy depth! The seal is on the 
 tomb; henceforth be the spectre laid. Yes, I must smooth 
 my brow, and teach my lip restraint, and smile and talk like 
 other men. I have taken to my hearth a watch, tender, faith- 
 ful, anxious, — but a watch. Farewell the unguarded hour! 
 The soul's relief in speech, the dark and broken, yet how grate- 
 ful, confidence with self, farewell! And come, thou veil! 
 subtle, close, unvarying, the everlasting curse of entire hy- 
 pocrisy, that under thee, as night, the vexed world within may 
 sleep, and stir not! and all, in truth concealment, may seem 
 repose ! " 
 
 As he uttered these thoughts, the student paused and looked 
 on the extended landscape that lay below. A heavy, chill, 
 and comfortless mist sat saddening over the earth. Not a 
 leaf stirred on the autumnal trees, but the moist damps fell 
 slowly and with a mournful murmur upon the unwaving grass. 
 The outline of the morning sun was visible, but it gave forth 
 no lustre : a ring of watery and dark vapor girded the melan- 
 choly orb. Far at the entrance of the valley the wild fern 
 showed red and faded, and the first march of the deadly win- 
 ter was already heralded by that drear and silent desolation 
 which cradles the winds and storms. But amidst this cheer- 
 less scene the distant note of the merry marriage-bell floated 
 by, like the good spirit of the wilderness, and the student 
 rather paused to hearken to the note than to survey the scene. 
 
 " My marriage-bell ! " said he. " Could I, two short years 
 back, have dreamed of this ? My marriage-bell ! How fondly 
 my poor mother, when first she learned pride for her young 
 scholar, would predict this day, and blend its festivities with 
 
342 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 the honor and the wealth her son was to acquire ! Alas ! can 
 we have no science to count the stars and forebode the black 
 eclipse of the future ? But peace ! peace ! peace ! I am, I 
 will, I shall be happy now ! Memory, I defy thee ! " 
 
 He uttered the last words in a deep and intense tone ; and 
 turning away as the joyful peal again broke distinctly on his 
 ear, — 
 
 " My marriage-bell ! Oh, Madeline, how wondrously beloved, 
 how unspeakably dear thou art to me! What hast thou con- 
 quered ! How many reasons for resolve, how vast an army in 
 the Past, has thy bright and tender purity overthrown ! But 
 thou — No, never shalt thou repent! " And for several min- 
 utes the sole thought of the soliloquist was love. But scarce 
 consciously to himself, a spirit, not, to all seeming, befittea 
 to that bridal-day, — vague, restless, impressed with the dark 
 and fluttering shadow of coming change, — had taken posses- 
 sion of his breast, and did not long yield the mastery to any 
 brighter and more serene emotion. 
 
 "And why," he said, as this spirit regained its empire over 
 him, and he paused before the " starred tubes " of his beloved 
 science, — "and why this chill, this shiver, in the midst of 
 hope ? Can the mere breath of the seasons, the weight or 
 lightness of the atmosphere, the outward gloom or smile of 
 the brute mass called Nature, affect us thus ? Out on this 
 empty science, this vain knowledge, this little lore, if we are 
 so fooled by the vile clay and the common air from our one 
 great empire, self ! Great God ! hast thou made us in mercy, 
 or in disdain ? Placed in this narrow world, darkness and 
 cloud around us; no fixed rule for men; creeds, morals, chang- 
 ing in every clime, and growing like herbs upon the mere soil, 
 
 — we struggle to dispel the shadows ; we grope around ; from 
 our own heart and our sharp and hard endurance we strike 
 our only light. For what? To show us what dupes we are, 
 
 — creatures of accident, tools of circumstance, blind instru- 
 ments of the scorner Fate; the very mind, the very reason, a 
 bound slave to the desires, the weakness of the clay; affected 
 by a cloud, dulled by the damps of the foul marsh ; stricken 
 from power to weakness, from sense to madness, to gaping 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 343 
 
 idiocy, or delirious raving, by a putrid exhalation ! A rheum, 
 a chill, and Caesar trembles ! The world's gods, that slay or 
 enlighten millions, poor puppets to the same rank imp which 
 calls up the fungus or breeds the worm, — pah! How little 
 worth is it in this life to be wise! Strange, strange, how my 
 heart sinks. Well, the better sign, the better sign! In dan- 
 ger it never sank." 
 
 Absorbed in these reflections, Aram had not for some min- 
 utes noticed the sudden ceasing of the bell; but now, as h^ 
 again paused from his irregular and abrupt pacings along the 
 chamber, the silence struck him, and looking forth, and striv- 
 ing again to catch the note, he saw a little group of men, 
 among whom he marked the erect and comely form of Rowland 
 Lester, approaching towards the house. 
 
 " What!" he thought, "do they come for me? Is it so 
 late ? Have I played the laggard ? Nay, it yet wants near an 
 hour to the time they expected me. Well, some kindness, 
 some attention from my good father-in-law; 1 must thank 
 him for it. What! my hand trembles. How weak are these 
 poor nerves ; I must rest and recall my mind to itself ! " 
 
 And indeed, whether or not from the novelty and impor- 
 tance of the event he was about to celebrate, or from some 
 presentiment, occasioned, as he would fain believe, by the 
 mournful and sudden change in the atmosphere, an embar- 
 rassment, a wavering, a fear, very unwonted to the calm and 
 stately self-possession of Eugene Aram, made itself painfully 
 felt throughout his frame. He sank down in his chair and 
 strove to re-collect himself; it was an effort in which he had 
 just succeeded, when a loud knocking was heard at the outer 
 door; it swung open; several voices were heard. Aram 
 sprang up, pale, breathless, his lips apart. 
 
 "Great G-od!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands. "'Mur- 
 derer ! ' — was that the word 1 heard shouted forth ? The 
 voice, too, is Walter Lester's. Has he returned ? Can he 
 have learned — ? " 
 
 To rush to the door, to throw across it a long, heavy iron 
 bar, which would resist assaults of no common strength, was 
 his first impulse. Thus enabled to gain time for reflection, his 
 
344 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 active and alarmed mind ran over the whole field of expedient 
 and conjecture. Again, "Murderer!" "Stay me not, " cried 
 Walter, from below ; "my hand shall seize the murderer! " 
 
 Guess was now over ; danger and death were marching on 
 him. Escape, — how? whither? The height forbade the 
 thought of flight from the casement ! The door ? — he heard 
 loud steps already hurrying up the stairs; his hands clutched 
 convulsively at his breast, where his tire-arms were generally 
 concealed, — they were left below. He glanced one lightning 
 glance round the room ; no weapon of any kind was at hand. 
 His brain reeled for a moment, his breath gasped, a mortal 
 sickness passed over his heart, and then the mind triumphed 
 over all. He drew up to his full height, folded his arms dog- 
 gedly on his breast, and muttering, "The accuser comes, — I 
 have it still to refute the charge ! " he stood prepared to meet, 
 nor despairing to evade, the worst. 
 
 As waters close over the object which divided them, all 
 these thoughts, these fears, and this resolution had been but 
 the work, the agitation, and the succeeding calm of the mo- 
 ment; that moment was past. 
 
 "Admit us!" cried the voice of Walter Lester, knocking 
 fiercely at the door. 
 
 "Not so fervently, boy," said Lester, laying his hand on 
 his nephew's shoulder; "your tale is yet to be proved, — I 
 believe it not. Treat him as innocent, I pray, — I command, 
 — till you have shown him guilty." 
 
 "Away, uncle!" said the fiery AValter; "he is my father's 
 murderer. God hath given justice to my hands." These 
 words, uttered in a lower key than before, were but indis- 
 tinctly heard by Aram through the massy door. 
 
 " Open, or we force our entrance ! " shouted Walter again ; 
 and Aram, speaking for the first time, replied in a clear and 
 sonorous voice, so that an angel, had one spoken, could not 
 have more deeply impressed the heart of Rowland Lester with 
 a conviction of the student's innocence, — 
 
 "Who knocks so rudely ? What means this violence ? I 
 open my doors to my friends. Ls it a friend who asks it ?" 
 
 "7 ask it," said Rowland Lester, in a trembling and agitated 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 345 
 
 voice. "There seems some dreadful mistake: come forth, 
 Eugene, and rectify it by a word," 
 
 *' Is it you, Rowland Lester ? It is enough. I was but with 
 my books, and had secured myself from intrusion. Enter." 
 
 The bar was withdrawn, the door was burst open, and even 
 Walter Lester, even the officers of justice with him, drew 
 back for a moment as they beheld the lofty brow, the majestic 
 presence, the features so unutterably calm, of Eugene Aram. 
 
 "What want you, sirs ?" said he, unmoved and unfaltering, 
 though in the officers of justice he recognized faces he had 
 known before, and in that distant town in which all that he 
 dreaded in the past lay treasured up. At the sound of his 
 voice the spell that for an instant had arrested the step of the 
 avenging son melted away. 
 
 "Seize him!" he cried to the officers; "you see your 
 prisoner." 
 
 "Hold!" cried Aram, drawing back. "By what authority 
 is this outrage, — for what am I arrested ?" 
 
 "Behold," said Walter, speaking through his teeth, "behold 
 our warrant! You are accused of murder! Know you the 
 name of Richard Houseman, — pause, consider, — or that of 
 Daniel Clarke? " 
 
 Slowly Aram lifted his ej^es from the warrant, and it might 
 be seen that his face was a shade more pale, though his look 
 did not quail, or his nerves tremble. Slowly he turned his 
 gaze upon Walter; and then, after one moment's survey, 
 dropped it once more on the paper. 
 
 "The name of Houseman is not unfamiliar to me," said he 
 calmly, but with effort. 
 
 "And knew you Daniel Clarke ?'' 
 
 "What mean these questions ?" said Aram, losing temper, 
 and stamping violently on the ground. "Is it thus that a 
 man, free and guiltless, is to be questioned at the behest, or 
 rather outrage, of every lawless boy ? Lead me to some au- 
 thority meet for me to answer; for you, boy, my answer is 
 contempt. " 
 
 "Big words shall not save thee, murderer!" cried W^alter, 
 breaking from his uncle, who in vain endeavored to hold him, 
 
346 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 and laying his powerful grasp upon Aram's shoulder. Livid 
 was the glare that shot from the student's eye upon his as- 
 sailer; and so fearfully did his features work and change with 
 the passions within him that even Walter felt a strange shud- 
 der thrill through his frame. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said Aram at last, mastering his emotions, 
 and resuming some portion of the remarkable dignity that 
 characterized his usual bearing, as he turned towards the 
 officers of justice, " I call upon you to discharge your duty. If 
 this be a rightful warrant, I am your prisoner, but I am not 
 this man's. I command your protection from him!" 
 
 Walter had already released his gripe, and said, in a mut- 
 tered voice, — 
 
 "My passion misled me; violence is unworthy my solemn 
 cause. God and Justice — not these hands — are my avengers. " 
 
 ^'' Your avengers!'' said Aram. "What dark words are 
 these ? This warrant accuses me of the murder of one Daniel 
 Clarke. What is he to thee ? " 
 
 "Mark me, man! " said Walter, fixing his eyes on Aram's 
 countenance. "The name of Daniel Clarke was a feigned 
 name; the real name was Geoffrey Lester: that murdered 
 Lester was my father, and the brother of him whose daugh- 
 ter, had I not come to-day, you would have called your wife! " 
 
 Aram felt, while these words were uttered, that the eyes of 
 all in the room were on him; and perhaps that knowledge 
 enabled him not to reveal by outward sign what must have 
 passed within during the awful trial of that moment. 
 
 "It is a dreadful tale," he said, "if true, — dreadful to me, 
 so nearly allied to that family. But as yet I grapple with 
 shadows." 
 
 "What! does not you*: conscience now convict you ?" cried 
 Walter, staggered by the calmness of the prisoner. But here 
 Lester, who could no longer contain himself, interposed; he 
 put by his nephew, and rushing to Aram, fell, weeping, upon 
 his neck. 
 
 " I do not accuse thee, Eugene, my son, my son ! I feel, I 
 know thou art innocent of this monstrous crime ; some horrid 
 delusion darkens that poor boy's sight. You, you, who would 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 347 
 
 walk aside to save a worm! " and the poor old man, overcome 
 with his emotions, covild literally say no more. 
 
 Aram looked down on Lester with a compassionate expres- 
 sion; and soothing him with kind words, and promises that 
 all would be explained, gently moved from his hold, and, anx- 
 ious to terminate the scene, silently motioned the officers to 
 proceed. Struck with the calmness and dignity of his manner, 
 and fully impressed by it with the notion of his innocence, 
 the officers treated him with a marked respect; they did not 
 even walk by his side, but suffered him to follow their steps. 
 As they descended the stairs, Aram turned round to Walter, 
 with a bitter and reproachful countenance, — 
 
 "And so, young man, your malice against me has reached 
 even to this ! Will nothing but my life content you ? " 
 
 "Is the desire of execution on my father's murderer but the 
 wish of malice ?" retorted Walter; though his heart yet well- 
 nigh misgave him as to the grounds on which his suspicion 
 rested. 
 
 Aram smiled, as half in scorn, half through incredulity; 
 and, shaking his head gently, moved on without further 
 words. 
 
 The three old women, who had remained in listening aston- 
 ishment at the foot of the stairs, gave way as the men de- 
 scended; but the one who so long had been Aram's solitary 
 domestic, and who, from her deafness, was still benighted and 
 uncomprehending as to the causes of his seizure, though from 
 that very reason her alarm was the greater and more acute, 
 she, impatiently thrusting away the officers, and mumbling 
 some unintelligible anathema as she did so, flung herself 
 at the feet of a master whose quiet habits and constant kind- 
 ness had endeared him to her humble and faithful heart, 
 and exclaimed, — 
 
 " What are they doing ? Have they the heart to ill-use 
 you ? master, God bless you ! God shield you ! I shall 
 never see you, who was my only friend — who was every 
 one's friend — any more!" 
 
 Aram drew himself from her, and said, with a quivering 
 lip to liowland Lester, — 
 
348 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "If her fears are true — if — if I never more return hither, 
 see that her old age does not starve — does not want." 
 
 Lester could not speak for sobbing, but the request was re- 
 membered. And now Aram, turning aside his proud head to 
 conceal his emotion, beheld open the door of the room so 
 trimly prepared for Madeline's reception : the flowers smiled 
 upon him from their stands. "Lead on, gentlemen," he said 
 quickly. And so Eugene Aram passed his threshold ! 
 
 "Ho, ho!" muttered the old hag whose predictions in the 
 morning had been so ominous, — "ho, ho! you'll believe 
 Goody Darkmans another time ! Providence respects the say- 
 ings of the ould. 'T was not for nothing the rats grinned at 
 me last night. But let 's in and have a warm glass. He, he! 
 there will be all the strong liquors for us now ; the Lord is 
 merciful to the poor ! " 
 
 As the little group proceeded through the valley, the officers 
 first, Aram and Lester side by side, Walter, with his hand on 
 his pistol and his eye on the prisoner, a little behind, Lester 
 endeavored to cheer the prisoner's spirits and his own by in- 
 sisting on the madness of the charge and the certainty of in- 
 stant acquittal from the magistrate to whom they were bound, 
 and who was esteemed the one both most acute and most just 
 in the county. Aram interrupted him somewhat abruptly, — 
 
 "My friend, enough of this presently. But Madeline, — 
 what knows she as yet ? " 
 
 "Nothing; of course, we kept — " 
 
 "Exactly, exactly; you have done wisely. Why need she 
 learn anything as yet ? Say an arrest for debt, a mistake, 
 an absence but of a day or so at most, — you understand ?" 
 
 "Yes. Will you not see her, Eugene, before you go, and 
 say this yourself ? " 
 
 " I ! — God ! — I ! to whom this day was — No, no ; save 
 me, I implore you, from the agony of such a contrast, — an 
 interview so mournful and unavailing. No, we must not 
 meet! But whither go we now? Not, not, surely, through 
 all the idle gossips of the village, — the crowd already excited 
 to gape and stare and speculate on the — " 
 
 "No," interrupted Lester; "the carriages await us at the 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 349 
 
 farther end of the valley. I thought of that, — for the rash 
 boy behind seems to have changed his nature. I loved — 
 Heaven knows how I loved my brother! But before I would 
 let suspicion thus blind reason, I would suffer inquiry to sleep 
 forever on his fate." 
 
 "Your nephew," said Aram, "has ever wronged me. But- 
 waste not words on him ; let us think only of Madeline. Will 
 you go back at once to her, — tell her a tale to lull her appre- 
 hensions, and then follow us with haste ? I am alone among 
 enemies till you come." 
 
 Lester was about to answer, when, at a turn in the road 
 which brought the carriage within view, they perceived two 
 figures in white hastening towards them; and ere Aram was 
 prepared for the surprise, Madeline had sunk pale, trembling, 
 and all breathless on his breast. 
 
 "I could not keep her back," said Ellinor, apologetically, 
 to her father. 
 
 " Back ! and why ? Am I not in my proper place ? " cried 
 Madeline, lifting her face from Aram's breast; and then, as 
 her eyes circled the group, and rested on Aram's countenance, 
 now no longer calm, but full of woe, of passion, of disap- 
 pointed love, of anticipated despair, she rose, and gradually 
 recoiling with a fear which struck dumb her voice, thrice at- 
 tempted to speak, and thrice failed. 
 
 "But what — what is — what means this ?" exclaimed Elli- 
 nor. " Why do you weep, father ? Why does Eugene turn 
 away his face ? You answer not. Speak, for God's sake ! 
 These strangers, — what are they? And you, Walter, you, 
 — why are you so pale ? Why do you thus knit your brows 
 and fold your arms ! You, you will tell me the meaning of 
 this dreadful silence, — this scene. Speak, cousin, dear cou- 
 sin, speak ! " 
 
 "Speak!" cried Madeline, finding voice at length, but in 
 the sharp and straining tone of wild terror, in which they 
 recognized no note of the natural music. The single word 
 sounded rather as a shriek than an adjuration ; and so pierc- 
 ingly it ran through the hearts of all present that the very 
 officers, hardened as their trade had made them, felt as if 
 
350 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 they would rather have faced death than answered that 
 command. 
 
 A dead, long, dreary pause, and Aram broke it. " Madeline 
 Lester," said he, "prove yourself worthy of the hour of trial. 
 Exert yourself; arouse your heart; be prepared! You are 
 the betrothed of one whose soul never quailed before man's 
 angry word. Remember that, and fear not ! " 
 
 " I will not, I will not, Eugene ! Speak, only speak I " 
 
 "You have loved me in good report; trust me now in ill. 
 They accuse me of a crime, — a heinous crime! At first I 
 would not have told you the real charge. Pardon me, I 
 wronged you, — now, know all! They accuse me, I say, of 
 crime. Of what crime ? you ask. Ay, I scarce know, so 
 vague is the charge, so fierce the accuser; but prepare, Made- 
 line, — it is of murder!'' 
 
 Kaised as her spirits had been by the haughty and earnest 
 tone of Aram's exhortation, Madeline now, though she turned 
 deadly pale, though the earth swam round and round, yet 
 repressed the shriek upon her lips as those horrid words shot 
 into her soul. 
 
 " You ! — murder ! — you ! And who dares accuse you ? " 
 
 "Behold him, — your cousin! '" 
 
 Ellinor heard, turned, fixed her eyes on Walter's sullen 
 brow and motionless attitude, and fell senseless to the earth. 
 Not thus Madeline. As there is an exhaustion that forbids, 
 not invites repose, so when the mind is thoroughly on the 
 rack, the common relief to anguish is not allowed; the senses 
 are too sharply strung, thus happily to collapse into forget- 
 fulness; the dreadful inspiration that agony kindles, supports 
 nature while it consumes it. Madeline passed, without a 
 downward glance, by the lifeless body of her sister; and 
 walking with a steady step to Walter, she laid her hand upon 
 his arm, and fixing on his countenance that soft clear eye, 
 which was now lit with a searching and preternatural glare, 
 and seemed to pierce into his soul, she said, — 
 
 " Walter, do I hear aright ? Am I awake ? Is it you who 
 accuse Eugene Aram, — your Madeline's betrothed husband, 
 — Madeline, whom you once loved ? Of what ? Of crimes 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 351 
 
 which death alone can punish. Away! It is not you, — I 
 know it is not. Say that I am mistaken, — that I am mad, if 
 you will. Come, Walter, relieve me; let me not abhor the 
 very air you breathe ! " 
 
 " Will no one have mercy on me ? " cried Walter, rent to 
 the heart, and covering his face with his hands. In the fire 
 and heat of vengeance he had not recked of tliis. He had 
 only thought of justice to a father, punishment to a villain, 
 rescue for a credulous girl. The woe, the horror he was about 
 to inflict on all he most loved; this had not struck upon him 
 with a due force till now! 
 
 " Mercy — ?/oic talk of mercy ! I knew it could not be true ! " 
 said Madeline, trying to pluck her cousin's hand from his 
 face; "you could not have dreamed of Avrong to Eugene — 
 and — and upon this day. Say we have erred, or that you 
 have erred, and we will forgive and bless you even now! " 
 
 Aram had not interfered in this scene ; he kept his eyes 
 fixed on the cousins, not uninterested to see what effect Made- 
 line's touching words might produce on his accuser. Mean- 
 while she continued: "Speak to me, Walter, dear Walter, 
 speak to me! Are you, my cousin, my playfellow, — are you 
 the one to blight our hopes, to dash our joys, to bring dread 
 and terror into a home so lately all peace and sunshine, — 
 5'our own home, your childhood's home ? W^hat have you 
 done ? What have you dared to do ? Accuse him ! Of what? 
 Murder! Speak, speak. Murder, ha! ha! — murder! nay, 
 not so! You would not venture to come here, you would not 
 let me take your hand, you would not look us, your uncle, 
 your more than sisters, in the face if you could nurse in your 
 heart this lie, — this black, horrid lie! " 
 
 Walter withdrew his hands, and as he turned his face 
 said, — 
 
 "Let him prove his innocence. Pray God he do! I am 
 not his accuser, Madeline. His accusers are the bones of my 
 dead father! Save these, Heaven alone and the revealing 
 earth are witness against him ! " 
 
 "Your father! " said Madeline, staggering back, — "my lost 
 uncle ! Nay, now I know indeed what a shadow has appalled 
 
352 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 us all ! Did you know my uncle, Eugene ? Did you ever see 
 Geoffrey Lester ? " 
 
 "Never, as I believe, so help me God!" said Aram, laying 
 his hand on his heart. "But this is idle now," as, recollecting 
 himself, he felt that the case had gone forth from Walter's 
 hands, and that appeal to him had become vain. " Leave us 
 now, dearest Madeline, my beloved wife that shall be, that 
 is! I go to disprove these charges. Perhaps I shall return 
 to-night. Delay not my acquittal, even from doubt, — a boy's 
 doubt. Come, sirs." 
 
 "0 Eugene! Eugene! " cried Madeline, throwing herself on 
 her knees before him, "do not order me to leave you now, — 
 now in the hour of dread ! I will not. Nay, look not so ! I 
 swear I will not! Father, dear father, come and plead for 
 me, — say I shall go with you. I ask nothing more. Do not 
 fear for my nerves, — cowardice is gone. I will not shame 
 you, I will not play the woman. I know what is due to one 
 who loves him. Try me, only try me. Yovi weep, father, 
 you shake your head. But you, Eugene, — you have not the 
 heart to deny me ? Think — think if I stayed here to count 
 the moments till you return, my very senses would leave me. 
 What do I ask ? But to go with you, to be the first to hail 
 your triumph! Had this happened two hours hence, you 
 could not have said me nay, — I should have claimed the right 
 to be with you; I now but implore the blessing. You relent, 
 you relent; 1 see it! " 
 
 "0 Heaven!" exclaimed Aram, rising, and clasping her to 
 his breast, and wildly kissing her face, but with cold and 
 trembling lips, "this is indeed a bitter hour; let me not sink 
 beneath it. Yes, Madeline, ask your father if he consents; I 
 hail your strengthening presence as that of an angel. I will 
 not be the one to sever you from my side." 
 
 "You are right, Eugene," said Lester, who was supporting 
 Ellinor, not yet recovered, — "let her go with us; it is but 
 common kindness and common mercy." 
 
 Madeline uttered a cry of joy (joy even at such a moment!), 
 and clung fast to Eugene's arm, as if for assurance that they 
 were not indeed to be separated. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 353 
 
 By this time some of Lester's servants, who had from a 
 distance followed their young mistresses, reached the spot. 
 To their care Lester gave the still scarce reviving Ellinor; 
 and then, turning round with a severe countenance to Walter, 
 said, " Come, sir, your rashness has done sufficient wrong for 
 the present; come now, and see how soon your suspicions will 
 end in shame." 
 
 "Justice, and blood for blood!" said Walter, sternly; but 
 his heart felt as if it were broken. His venerable uncle's 
 tears, Madeline's look of horror as she turned from him, Elli- 
 nor all lifeless, and he not daring to approach her, — this was 
 his work ! He pulled his hat over his eyes, and hastened into 
 the carriage alone. Lester, Madeline, and Aram followed in 
 the other vehicle; and the two officers contented themselves 
 with mounting the box, certain the prisoner would attempt 
 no escape. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE JUSTICE. THE DEPARTURE. THE EQUANIMITY OF THE 
 
 CORPORAL IN BEARING THE MISFORTUNES OF OTHER PEO- 
 PLE.— THE examination; ITS RESULT. ARAm's CONDUCT 
 
 IN PRISON. THE ELASTICITY OF OUR HUMAN Ni^TURE. A 
 
 VISIT FROM THE EARL. WALTEr's DETERMINATION. 
 
 MADELINE. 
 
 Bear me to prison, where I am committed. 
 
 Measure for Measure. 
 
 On arriving at Sir 's, a disappointment, for which, had 
 
 they previously conversed with the officers, they might have 
 been prepared, awaited them. The fact was that the justice 
 had only indorsed the warrant sent from Yorkshire ; and after 
 a very short colloquy, in which he expressed his regret at the 
 circumstance, his conviction that the charge would be dis- 
 proved, and a few other courteous commonplaces, he gave 
 Aram to understand that the matter now did not rest with 
 
 23 
 
354 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 him, but that it was to Yorkshire that the officers were bound, 
 and before Mr. Thornton, a magistrate of that county, that 
 the examination Avas to take place. "All I can do," said the 
 magistrate, " I have already done ; but I wished for an oppor- 
 tunity of informing you of it. I have written to my brother 
 justice at full length respecting your high character, and 
 treating the habits and rectitude of your life alone as a suffi- 
 cient refutation of so monstrous a charge." 
 
 Eor the first time a visible embarrassment came over the firm 
 nerves of the prisoner: he seemed to look with great uneasi- 
 ness at the prospect of this long and dreary journey, and for 
 such an end. Perhaps the very notion of returning as a sus- 
 pected criminal to that part of the country where a portion of 
 his youth had been passed, was sufficient to disquiet and deject 
 him. All this while his poor Madeline seemed actuated by a 
 spirit beyond herself; she would not be separated from his 
 side, she held his hand in hers, she whispered comfort and 
 courage at the very moment when her own heart most sank. 
 The magistrate wiped his eyes when he saw a creature so 
 young, so beautiful, in circumstances so fearful, and bearing 
 up with an energy so little to be expected from her years and 
 delicate appearance. Aram said but little; he covered his 
 face with his right hand for a few moments, as if to hide a 
 passing emotion, a sudden weakness. When he removed it, 
 all vestige of color had died away; his face was pale as that 
 of one who had risen from the grave, but it was settled and 
 composed. 
 
 "It is a hard pang, sir," said he, with a faint smile; "so 
 many miles, so many days, so long a deferment of knowing 
 the best or preparing to meet the worst. But be it so! I 
 thank you, sir, I thank you all, — Lester, Madeline, for your 
 kindness; you two must now leave me: the brand is on my 
 name, — the suspected man is no fit object for love or friend- 
 ship ! Farewell ! " 
 
 "We go with you!" said Madeline, firmly and in a very 
 low voice. 
 
 Aram's eye sparkled, but he waved his hand impatiently. 
 
 "We go with you, my friend! " repeated Lester. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 355 
 
 And so, indeed, not to dwell long on a painful scene, it was 
 finally settled. Lester and his two daughters that evening 
 followed Aram to the dark and fatal bourn to which he was 
 bound. 
 
 It was in vain that Walter, seizing his uncle's hand, 
 whispered, — 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, do not be rash in your friendship! 
 You have not yet learned all. I tell you that there can be no 
 doubt of his guilt! Remember, it is a brother for whom you 
 mourn! Will you countenance his murderer?" 
 
 Lester, despite himself, was struck by the earnestness with 
 which his nephew spoke; but the impression died away as 
 the words ceased. So strong and deep had been the fascina- 
 tion which Eugene Aram had exercised over the hearts of all 
 once drawn within the near circle of his attraction, that had 
 the charge of murder been made against himself, Lester could 
 not have repelled it with a more entire conviction of the inno- 
 cence of the accused. Still, however, the deep sincerity of 
 his nephew's manner in some measure served to soften his 
 resentment towards him. 
 
 "Xo, no, boy! " said he, drawing away his hand; " Rowland 
 Lester is not the one to desert a friend m the day of darkness 
 and the hour of need. Be silent, I say! My brother, my 
 poor brother, you tell me, has been murdered ; I will see jus- 
 tice done to him. But Aram! Fie! fie! it is a name that 
 would whisper falsehood to the loudest accusation. Go, 
 Walter, go! I do not blame you, — you may be right; a mur- 
 dered father is a dread and awful memory to a son! What 
 wonder that the thought warps your judgment? But go! 
 Eugene was to me both a guide and a blessing, — a father in 
 wisdom, a son in love. I cannot look on his accuser's face 
 without anguish. Go ; we shall meet again. Now go ! " 
 
 "Enough, sir!" said Walter, partly in anger, partly in 
 sorrow. "Time be the judge between us all!" 
 
 With those words he turned from the house and proceeded 
 on foot towards a cottage half-way between Grassdale and the 
 magistrate's house, at which, previous to his return to the 
 former place, he had prudently left the corporal, not willing 
 
356 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 to trust to that person's discretion as to the tales and scandal 
 that he might propagate throughout the village on a matter so 
 painful and so dark. 
 
 Let the world wag as it will, there are some tempers which 
 its vicissitudes never reach. Nothing makes a picture of 
 distress more sad than the portrait of some individual sitting 
 indifferently looking on in the background. This was a secret 
 Hogarth knew well. Mark his death-bed scenes : Poverty and 
 Vice worked up into horror, and the physicians in the corner 
 wrangling for the fee; or the child playing with the coffin; 
 or the nurse filching what fortune, harsh, yet less harsh than 
 humanity, might have left. In the melancholy depth of hu- 
 mor that steeps both our fancy and our heart in the immortal 
 romance of Cervantes (for how profoundly melancholy is it 
 to be compelled by one gallant folly to laugh at all that is 
 gentle and brave and wise and generous), nothing grates on 
 us more than when — last scene of all — the poor knight lies 
 dead, his exploits forever over, forever dumb his eloquent dis- 
 courses, — than when, I say, we are told that, despite of his 
 grief, even little Sancho did not eat or drink the less. These 
 touches open to us the real world, it is true ; but it is not the 
 best part of it. Certain it was that when Walter, full of con- 
 tending emotions at all he had witnessed, — harassed, tor- 
 tured, yet also elevated by his feelings, — stopped opposite 
 the cottage door and saw there the corporal sitting comforta- 
 bly in the porch, his vile modicum Sahini before him, his pipe 
 in his mouth, and a complacent expression of satisfaction 
 diffusing itself over features which shrewdness and selfishness 
 had marked for their own, — certain it was that at this sight 
 Walter experienced a more displeasing revulsion of feeling, a 
 more entire conviction of sadness, a more consummate disgust 
 of this weary world and the motley masquers that walk therein 
 than all the tragic scenes he had just witnessed had produced 
 within him, 
 
 'And well, sir," said the corporal, sloAvly rising, "how did 
 it go off ? Wasn't the villain 'bash'd to the dust ? You 've 
 nabbed him safe, I hope ? " 
 
 "Silence!" said Walter, sternly; "prepare for our depar 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 357 
 
 ture. The chaise will be here forthwith; we return to York- 
 shire this day. Ask me no more now." 
 
 " A well, baugh ! " said the corporal. 
 
 There was a long silence. Walter walked to and fro the 
 road before the cottage. The chaise arrived ; the luggage 
 was put m. Walter's foot was on the step; but before the 
 corporal mounted the rumbling dickey, that invaluable domes- 
 tic hemmed thrice. 
 
 "And had you time, sir, to think of poor Jacob, and slip in 
 a word to your uncle about the bit 'tato ground ? " 
 
 We pass over the space of time, short in fact, long in suffer- 
 ing, that elapsed till the prisoner and his companions reached 
 Knaresborough. Aram's conduct during this time was not 
 only calm, but cheerful. The stoical doctrines he had affected 
 through life he on this trying interval called into remarkable 
 exertion. He it was who now supported the spirits of his 
 mistress and his friend; and though he no longer pretended 
 to be sanguine of acquittal, though again and again he urged 
 upon them the gloomy fact, first how improbable it was that 
 this course had been entered into against him without strong 
 presumption of guilt, and secondly how little less improbable 
 it was that at that distance of time he should be able to pro- 
 cure evidence, or remember circumstances sufficient on the 
 instant to set aside such presumption, — he yet dwelt partly 
 on the hope of ulthnate proof of his innocence, and still more 
 strongly on the firmness of his own mind to bear, without 
 shrinking, even the hardest fate. 
 
 "Do not," he said to Lester, "do not look on these trials of 
 life only with the eyes of the world. Reflect how poor and 
 minute a segment, in the vast circle of eternity, existence is 
 at the best. Its sorrow and its shame are but moments. Al- 
 ways in my brightest and youngest hours I have wrapped my 
 heart in the contemplation of an august futurity, — 
 
 " ' The soul, secure in its existence, smiles 
 At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.' 
 
 Were it not for Madeline's dear sake, I should long since have 
 
358 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 been over-weary of the world. As it is, the sooner, even by 
 a violent and unjust fate, we leave a path begirt with snares 
 below and tempests above, the happier for that soul which 
 looks to its lot in this earth as the least part of its appointed 
 doom. " 
 
 In discourses like this, which the nature of his eloquence 
 was peculiarly calculated to render solemn and impressive, 
 Aram strove to prepare his friends for the worst, and perhaps 
 to cheat, or to steel, himself. Ever as he spoke thus, Lester 
 or Ellinor broke on him with impatient remonstrance ; but Mad- 
 eline, as if imbued with a deeper and more mournful penetra- 
 tion into the future, listened in tearless and breathless atten- 
 tion. She gazed upon him with a look that shared the thought 
 he expressed, though it read not (yet she dreamed so) the 
 heart from which it came. In the words of that beautiful 
 poet to whose true nature, so full of unuttered tenderness, so 
 fraught with the rich nobility of love, we have begun slowly 
 to awaken, — 
 
 "Her lip was silent, scarcely beat her heart ; 
 Her eye alone proclaimed ' We will not part ! ' 
 Thy ' hope ' may perish, or thy friends may flee; 
 Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee ! " ^ 
 
 They arrived at noon at the house of Mr. Thornton, and 
 Aram imderwent his examination. Though he denied most 
 of the particulars in Houseman's evidence, and expressly the 
 charge of murder, his commitment was made out; and that 
 day he was removed by the officers (Barker and Moor, who 
 had arrested him at Grassdale) to York Castle, to await his 
 trial at the assizes. 
 
 The sensation which this extraordinary event created 
 throughout the country was wholly unequalled. Not only 
 in Yorkshire and the county in which he had of late resided, 
 where his personal habits were known, but even in the metrop- 
 olis, and amongst men of all classes in England, it appears to 
 have caused one mingled feeling of astonishment, horror, and 
 incredulity, which in our times has no parallel in any crim- 
 
 1 Lara. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 359 
 
 inal prosecution. The peculiar attributes of tlie prisoner, his 
 genius, his learning, his moral life, the interest that by stu- 
 dents had been for years attached to his name, his approach- 
 ing marriage, the length of time that had elapsed since the 
 crime had been committed, the singular and abrupt manner, 
 the wild and legendary spot in which the skeleton of the lost 
 man had been discovered, the imperfect rumors, the dark and 
 suspicious evidence, — all combined to make a tale of such 
 marvellous incident, and breeding such endless conjecture, 
 that we cannot wonder to find it afterwards received a place, 
 not only in the temporary chronicles, but even in the perma- 
 nent histories of the period. 
 
 Previous to Walter's departure from Knaresborough to 
 Grassdale, and immediately subsequent to the discovery at 
 St. Eobert's Cave, the coroner's inquest had been held upon 
 the bones so mysteriously and suddenly brought to light. Up- 
 on the witness of the old woman at whose house Aram had 
 lodged, and upon that of Houseman, aided by some circum- 
 stantial and less weighty evidence, had been issued that war- 
 rant on which we have seen the prisoner apprehended. 
 
 With most men there was an intimate and indignant per- 
 suasion of Aram's innocence; and at this day, in the county 
 where he last resided, there still lingers the same belief. 
 Firm as his gospel faith, that conviction rested in the mind 
 of the worthy Lester ; and he sought, by every means he could 
 devise, to soothe and cheer the confinement of his friend. In 
 prison, however (indeed, after his examination, after Aram 
 had made himself thoroughly acquainted with all the circum- 
 stantial evidence which identified Clarke with Geoffrey Les- 
 ter, — a story that till then he had persuaded himself wholly 
 to disbelieve), a change, which in the presence of Madeline 
 or her father he vainly attempted wholly to conceal, and to 
 which, when alone, he surrendered himself with a gloomy 
 abstraction, came over his mood, and dashed him from the 
 lofty height of philosophy from which he had before looked 
 down on the peril and the ills below. 
 
 Sometimes he would gaze on Lester with a strange and 
 glassy eye, and mutter inaudibly to himself, as if unaware of 
 
360 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 the old man's presence; at otliers lie would shrink from Les- 
 ter's proffered hand, and start abruptly from his professions of 
 unaltered, unalterable regard; sometimes he would sit silently, 
 and with a changeless and stony countenance look upon Mad- 
 eline as she now spoke in that exalted tone of consolation 
 which had passed away from himself; and when she had done, 
 instead of replying to her speech, he would say abruptly, "Ay, 
 at the worst you love me, then, — love me better than any one 
 on earth. Say that, Madeline; again say that!" 
 
 And Madeline's trembling lips obeyed the demand. 
 
 "Yes," he would renew, "this man whom they accuse me 
 of murdering, this — your uncle — him you never saw since 
 you were an infant, a mere infant, — him you could not love! 
 What was he to you ? Yet it is dreadful to think of, dread- 
 ful, dreadful!" And then again his voice ceased; but his 
 lips moved convulsively, and his eyes seemed to speak mean- 
 ings that defied words. These alterations in his bearing, 
 which belied his steady and resolute character, astonished 
 and dejected both Madeline and her father. Sometimes they 
 thought that his situation had shaken his reason, or that the 
 horrible suspicion of having murdered the uncle of his in- 
 tended wife made him look upon themselves with a secret 
 shudder, and that they were mingled up in his mind by no 
 unnatural, though unjust confusion, with the causes of his 
 present awful and uncertain state. With the generality of 
 the world these two tender friends believed Houseman the 
 sole and real murderer, and fancied his charge against Aram 
 was but the last expedient of a villain to waxd punishment 
 from himself by imputing crime to another. Naturally, then, 
 they frequently sought to turn the conversation upon House- 
 man and on the different circumstances that had brought him 
 acquainted with Aram ; but on this ground the prisoner seemed 
 morbidly sensitive, and averse to detailed discussion. His 
 narration, however, such as it was, threw much light upon 
 certain matters on which Madeline and Lester were before 
 anxious and inquisitive. 
 
 "Houseman is, in all ways," said he, with great and bitter 
 vehemence, "unredeemed, and beyond the calculations of an 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 361 
 
 ordinary wickedness ; Ave knew each other from our relation- 
 ship, but seklom met, and still more rarely held long inter- 
 course together. After we separated, when I left Knares- 
 borough, we did not meet for years. He sought me at 
 Grassdale: he was poor, and implored assistance; I gave him 
 all within my power. He sought me again, — nay, more than 
 once again; and finding me justly averse to yielding to his 
 extortionate demands, he then broached the purpose he has 
 now effected. He threatened — you hear me, you under- 
 stand ? — he threatened me with this charge, — the murder of 
 Daniel Clarke : by that name alone I knew the deceased. The 
 menace and the known villany of the man agitated me beyond 
 expression. What was I ? A being who lived without the 
 world, who knew not its ways, who desired only rest! The 
 menace haunted me, — almost maddened! Your nephew has 
 told you, you say, of broken words, of escaping emotions, 
 which he has noted, even to suspicion, in me ; you now behold 
 the cause! Was it not sufficient? My life — nay, more — 
 my fame, my marriage, Madeline's peace of mind, all de- 
 pended on the uncertain fury or craft of a wretch like this ! 
 The idea was with me night and day; to avoid it I resolved 
 on a sacrifice. You may blame me, — I was weak; yet I 
 thought then not unwise. To avoid it, I say, I offered to 
 bribe this man to leave the country. I sold my pittance to 
 oblige him to it. I bound him thereto by the strongest ties. 
 Nay, so disinterestedly, so truly did I love Madeline that I 
 Avould not wed while I thought this danger could burst upon 
 me. 1 believed that, before my marriage day, Houseman had 
 left the country. It was not so; Fate ordered otherwise. It 
 seems that Houseman came to Knaresborough to see his 
 daughter; that suspicion, by a sudden train of events, fell on 
 him, — perhaps justly; to screen himself he has sacrificed me. 
 The tale seems plausible : perhaps the accuser may triumph. 
 But, Madeline, you now may account for much that may have 
 perplexed you before. Let me remember — Ay, ay, I have 
 dropped mysterious words, have I not ? — have I not ? Own- 
 ing that danger was around me, OAvning that a Avild and ter- 
 rific secret was heavy at my breast, — nay, once, walking with 
 
362 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 you the evening before — before the fatal day, I said that we 
 must prepare to seek some yet more secluded spot, some deeper 
 retirement; for despite my precautions, despite the supposed 
 absence of Houseman from the country itself, a fevered and 
 restless presentiment would at some times intrude itself on 
 me. All this is now accounted for, is it not, Madeline ? 
 Speak, speak!" 
 
 " All, love, all ! Why do you look on me with that search- 
 ing eye, that frowning brow ? " 
 
 "Did I ? No, no, I have no frown for you. But peace; I 
 am not what I ought to be through this ordeal." 
 
 The above narration of Aram did indeed account to Made- 
 line for much that had till then remained unexplained, — the 
 appearance of Houseman at Grassdale; the meeting between 
 him and Aram on the evening she walked with the latter and 
 questioned him of his ill-boding visitor; the frequent abstrac- 
 tion and muttered hints of her lover; and, as he had said, his 
 last declaration of the possible necessity of leaving Grassdale. 
 Nor was it improbable, though it was rather in accordance 
 with the uuAvorldly habits than with the haughty character of 
 Aram, that he should seek, circumstanced as he was, to si- 
 lence even the false accuser of a plausible tale that might well 
 strike horror and bewilderment into a man much more, to all 
 seeming, fitted to grapple with the hard and coarse realities 
 of life than the moody and secluded scholar. Be that as it 
 may, though Lester deplored, he did not blame that circum- 
 stance, which, after all, had not transpired, nor seemed likely 
 to transpire; and he attributed the prisoner's aversion to enter 
 further on the matter to the natural dislike of so proud a man 
 to refer to his own weakness, and to dwell upon the manner 
 in which, in spite of that weakness, he had been duped. This 
 story Lester retailed to Walter; and it contributed to throw 
 a damp and uncertainty over those mixed and unquiet feelings 
 with which the latter waited for the coming trial. There 
 were many moments when the young man was tempted to 
 regret that Aram had not escaped a trial which, if he were 
 proved guilty, would forever blast the happiness of his family, 
 and which might, notwithstanding such a verdict, leave on 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 363 
 
 Walter's own mind an impression of the prisoner's innocence, 
 and an uneasy consciousness that he, through his investiga- 
 tions, had brought him to that doom, 
 
 Walter remained in Yorkshire, seeing little of his famil}', 
 — of none, indeed, but Lester. It was not to be expected that 
 Madeline would see him; and once only he caught the tearful 
 eyes of Ellinor as she retreated from the room he entered, — 
 and those eyes beamed kindness and pity, but something also 
 of reproach. 
 
 Time passed slowly and witheringly on. A man of the 
 name of Terry having been included in the suspicion, and in- 
 deed committed, it appeared that the prosecutor could not 
 procure witnesses by the customary time, and the trial was 
 postponed till the next assizes. As this man was, however, 
 never brought up to trial, and appears no more, we have said 
 nothing of him in our narrative until he thus became the in- 
 strument of a delay in the fate of Eugene Aram. Time passed 
 on, — winter, spring, were gone; and the glory and gloss of 
 summer were now lavished over the happy earth. In some 
 measure the usual calmness of his demeanor had returned to 
 Aram; he had mastered those moody fits we have referred to, 
 which had so afflicted his affectionate visitors, and he now 
 seemed to prepare and buoy himself up against that awful 
 ordeal of life and death which he was about soon to pass. 
 Yet he, the hermit of Nature, who — 
 
 " Each little herb 
 That grows on mouutaiu bleak, or tangled forest. 
 Had learut to name," ^ — 
 
 he could not feel, even through the bars and checks of a prison, 
 the soft summer air, "the witchery of the soft blue sky;" 
 he could not see the leaves bud forth, and mellow into their 
 darker verdure; he could not hear the songs of the many- 
 voiced birds, or listen to the dancing rain, calling up beauty 
 where it fell; or mark at night, through his high and narrow 
 casement, the stars aloof, and the sweet moon pouring in her 
 light, like God's pardon, even through the dungeon-gloom and 
 
 1 Remorse, by S. T. Coleridge. 
 
3G4 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 the desolate scenes where Mortality struggles with Despair, 
 — he could not catch, obstructed as they were, these, the 
 benigner influences of earth, and not sicken and pant for his 
 old and full communion with their ministry and presence. 
 Sometimes all around him was forgotten, — the harsh cell, the 
 cheerless solitude, the approaching trial, the boding fear, the 
 darkened hope, even the spectre of a troubled and fierce re- 
 membrance, — all was forgotten, and his spirit was abroad, 
 and his step upon the movmtain top once more. 
 
 In our estimate of the ills of life we never sufficiently take 
 into our consideration the wonderful elasticity of our moral 
 frame, the unlooked-for, the startling facility with which the 
 human mind accommodates itself to all change of circum- 
 stance, making an object and even a joy from the hardest and 
 seemingly the least redeemed conditions of fate. The man 
 who watched the spider in his cell may have taken, at least, 
 as much interest in the watch as when engaged in the most 
 ardent and ambitious objects of his former life. Let any man 
 look over his past career; let him recall, not moments, not 
 hours of agony, — for to them Custom lends not her blessed 
 magic, — but let him single out some lengthened period of phy- 
 sical or moral endurance: in hastily reverting to it, it may 
 seem at first, I grant, altogether wretched, — a series of days 
 marked with the black stone, the clouds without a star. But 
 let him look more closely : it was not so during the time of 
 suffering; a thousand little things, in the bustle of life dor- 
 mant and unheeded, then started forth into notice and became 
 to him objects of interest or diversion; the dreary present, 
 once made familiar, glided away from him, not less than if it 
 had been all happiness; his mind dwelt not on the dull inter- 
 vals, but the stepping-stone it had created and placed at each; 
 and by that moral dreaming which forever goes on within 
 man's secret heart, he lived as little in the immediate world 
 before him as in the most sanguine period of his youth, or 
 the most scheming of his maturity. 
 
 So wonderful in equalizing all states and all times in the 
 varying tide of life are these two rulers, yet levellers of man- 
 kind, Hope and Custom, that the very idea of an eternal pun- 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 365 
 
 isliment includes that of an utter alteration of the whole 
 mechanism of the soul in its human state j and no effort of an 
 imagination, assisted by past experience, can conceive a state 
 of torture which Custom can never blunt, and from which the 
 chamless and immaterial spirit can never be beguiled into even 
 a momentary escape. 
 
 Among the very few persons admitted to Aram's solitude 
 
 was Lord . That nobleman was staying, on a visit, with 
 
 a relation of his in the neighborhood; and he seized, with an 
 excited and mournful avidity, the opportunity thus afforded 
 him of seeing once more a character that had so often forced 
 itself on his speculation and surprise. He came to offer, not 
 condolence, but respect, — seiwices at such a moment no indi- 
 vidual could render; he gave, however, what was within his 
 power, — advice, — and pointed out to Aram the best counsel 
 to engage, and the best method of previous inquiry into par- 
 ticulars yet unexplored. He was astonished to find Aram 
 indifferent on these points, so important. The prisoner, it 
 would seem, had even then resolved on being his own coun- 
 sel and conducting his own cause; the event proved that he 
 did not rely in vain on the power of his own eloquence and 
 sagacity, though he might on their result. As to the rest, he 
 spoke with impatience, and the petulance of a wronged man. 
 "For the idle rumors of the world I do not care," said he; 
 " let them condemn or acquit me as they will. For my life, I 
 might be willing, indeed, that it were spared, — I trust it may 
 be-, if not, I can stand face to face with Death. I have now 
 looked on him within these walls long enough to have grown 
 familiar with his terrors. But enough of me. Tell me, my 
 lord, something of the world without, — I have grown eager 
 about it at last. I have been now so condemned to feed upon 
 myself tliat I liave become surfeited with the diet;" and it 
 was with great difficulty that the earl drew Aram back to 
 speak of himself. He did so, even when compelled to it, with 
 so much qualification and reserve, mixed with some evident 
 anger at the thought of being sifted and examined, that his 
 visitor was forced finally to drop the subject; and not liking, 
 indeed not able, at such a time, to converse on more indiffer- 
 
366 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 ent themes, the last interview he ever had with Aram ter- 
 minated much more abruptly than he had meant it. His 
 opinion of the prisoner was not, however, shaken in the least. 
 I have seen a letter of his to a celebrated personage of the 
 day, in which, mentioning this interview, he concludes with 
 saying: "In short, there is so much real dignity about the 
 man that adverse circumstances increase it tenfold. Of his 
 innocence I have not the remotest doubt; but if he persist 
 in being his own counsel I tremble for the result; you know, 
 in such cases, how much more valuable is practice than gen- 
 ius. But the judge, you will say, is in criminal causes the 
 prisoner's counsel : God grant he may here prove a successful 
 one ! I repeat, were Aram condemned by five hundred juries, 
 I could not believe him guilty. No, the very essence of all 
 human probabilities is against it." 
 
 The earl afterwards saw and conversed with Walter. He 
 was much struck with the conduct of the young Lester, and 
 much impressed with compassion for a situation so harassing 
 and unhappy. 
 
 " Whatever be the result of the trial, " said Walter, " I shall 
 leave the country the moment it is finally over. If the pris- 
 oner be condemned, there is no hearth for me in my uncle's 
 home; if not, my suspicions may still remain, and the sight 
 of each other be an equal bane to the accused and to myself. 
 A voluntary exile and a life that may lead to forgetfulness 
 are all that I covet. I now find in my own person," he added, 
 with a faint smile, "how deeply Shakspeare had read the 
 mysteries of men's conduct. Hamlet, we are told, was nat- 
 urally full of fire and action. One dark discovery quells his 
 spirit, unstrings his heart, and stales to him forever the uses 
 of the world. I now comprehend the change. It is bodied 
 forth even in the humblest individual who is met by a similar 
 fate, — even in myself." 
 
 "Ay," said the earl, "I do indeed remember you a wild, 
 impetuous, headstrong youth. I scarcely recognize your very 
 appearance. The elastic spring has left your step, there 
 seems a fixed furrow in your brow. These clouds of life are 
 indeed no summer vapor, darkening one moment, and gone 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 367 
 
 the next. But, my young friend, let us hope the best. I 
 firmly believe in Aram's innocence, firmly ; more rootedly tliau 
 I can express. The real criminal will appear on the trial. 
 All bitterness between you and Aram must cease at his ac- 
 quittal ; you will be anxious to repair to him the injustice of 
 a natural suspicion, and he seems not one who could long 
 retain malice. All will be well, believe me." 
 
 " God grant it ! " said Walter, sighing deeply. 
 
 "But at the Avorst," continued the earl, pressing his hand 
 in parting, " if you should persist in your resolution to leave 
 the country, Avrite to me, and I can furnish you with an hon- 
 orable and stirring occasion for doing so. Farewell ! " 
 
 While time was thus advancing towards the fatal day, it 
 was graving deep ravages within the pure breast of Madeline 
 Lester. She had borne up, as we have seen, for some time 
 against the sudden blow that had shivered her young hopes 
 and separated her by so awful a chasm from the side of Aram; 
 but as week after week, month after month rolled on, and he 
 still lay in prison, and the horrible suspense of ignominy and 
 death still hung over her, then gradually her courage began 
 to fail and her heart to sink. Of all the conditions to which 
 the heart is subject, suspense is the one that most gnaws and 
 cankers into the frame. One little month of that suspense, 
 when it involves death, we are told, in a very remarkable 
 work lately published by an eye-witness,^ is sufficient to 
 plough fixed lines and furrows in the face of a convict of five- 
 and-twenty, — sufficient to dash the brown hair with gray, 
 and to bleach the gray to white. And this suspense — sus- 
 pense of this nature — for more than eight whole months had 
 Madeline to endure! 
 
 About the end of the second month, the effect upon her 
 health grew visible. Her color, naturally delicate as the 
 hues of the pink shell or the youngest rose, faded into one 
 marble whiteness, which again, as time proceeded, flushed 
 into that red and preternatural hectic which, once settled, 
 rarely yields its place but to the colors of the grave. Her 
 form shrank from its rounded and noble proportions. Deep 
 ^ See Mr. Wakefield's work On the Punishment of Death. 
 
368 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 hollows traced themselves beneath eyes which yet grew even 
 more lovely as they grew less serenely bright. The blessed 
 sleep sunk not upon her brain with its wonted and healing 
 dews. Perturbed dreams, that towards dawn succeeded the 
 long and weary vigil of the night, shook her frame even more 
 than the anguish of the day. In these dreams one frightful 
 vision, — a crowd, a scaffold, and the pale, majestic face of 
 her lover darkened by unutterable pangs of pride and sorrow, 
 — was forever present before her. Till now she and Ellinor 
 had always shared the same bed; this Madeline would no 
 longer suffer. In vain Ellinor wept and pleaded. 
 
 "No," said Madeline, with a hollow voice; "at night I see 
 him. My soul is alone with his; but — but," and she burst 
 into an agony of tears, "the most dreadful thought is this, — 
 I cannot master my dreams. And sometimes I start and 
 wake, and find that in sleep I have believed him guilty, 
 Nay, God! that his lips have proclaimed the guilt! And 
 shall any living being, shall any but God, who reads not 
 words, but hearts, hear this hideous falsehood, — this ghastly 
 mockery of the lying sleep ? No, I must be alone ! The 
 very stars should not hear what is forced from me in the 
 madness of my dreams." 
 
 But not in vain, or not excluded from her, was that elastic 
 and consoling spirit of which I have before spoken. As Aram 
 recovered the tenor of his self-jiossession, a more quiet and 
 peaceful calm diffused itself over the mind of Madeline. Her 
 high and starry nature could comprehend those sublime inspi- 
 rations of comfort which lift us from the lowest abyss of this 
 world to the contemplation of all that the yearning visions 
 of mankind have painted in another. vShe would sit, rapt 
 and absorbed for hours together, till these contemplations 
 assumed the color of a gentle and soft insanity. "Come, 
 dearest Madeline," Ellinor would say, — "come, you have 
 thought enough; my poor father asks to see you." 
 
 "Hush!" Madeline answered. "Hush! I have been walk- 
 ing with Eugene in heaven. And oh! there are green woods 
 and lulling waters above, as there are on earth, and we see 
 the stars quite near; and I cannot tell you how happy their 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 369 
 
 smile makes those who look upon them. And Eugene never 
 starts there, nor frowns, nor walks aside, nor looks on me 
 with an estranged and chilling look, but his face is as calm 
 and bright as the face of an angel. And his voice, — it thrills 
 amidst all the music which plays there night and day, softer 
 than their softest note. And we are married, Ellinor, at 
 last. We were married in heaven, and all the angels came to 
 the marriage! I am now so happy that we were not wed be- 
 fore! What! are you weeping, Ellinor? Ah! we never weep 
 in heaven; but we will all go there again, all of us, hand in 
 hand!" 
 
 These affecting hallucinations terrified them, lest they 
 should settle into a confirmed loss of reason; but perhaps 
 without cause. They never lasted long, and never occurred 
 but after moods of abstraction of unusual duration. To her 
 they probably supplied what sleep does to others, — a relaxa- 
 tion and refreshment, an escape from the consciousness of 
 life. And, indeed, it might always be noted that after such 
 harmless aberrations of the mind Madeline seemed more col- 
 lected and patient in thought, and for the moment even stronger 
 in frame than before. Yet the body evidently pined and lan- 
 guished, and each week made palpable decay in her vital 
 powers. 
 
 Every time Aram saw her, he was startled at the alteration ; 
 and kissing her cheek, her lips, her temples, in an agony of 
 grief, wondered that to him alone it was forbidden to weep. 
 Yet after all, when she was gone, and he again alone, he 
 could not but think death likely to prove to her the most 
 happy of earthly boons. He was not sanguine of acquittal; 
 and even in acquittal, a voice at his heart suggested insuper- 
 able barriers to their union, which had not existed when it 
 was first anticipated. 
 
 "Yes, let her die," he would say, "let her die, — she at least 
 is certain of heaven." But the human infirmity clung around 
 him; and notwithstanding this seeming resolution in her ab- 
 sence, he did not mourn the less, he was not stung the less, 
 when he saw her again, and beheld a new character from the 
 hand of death graven upon her form. No, we may triumph 
 
 24 
 
370 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 over all weakness but that of the affections ! Perhaps in this 
 dreary and haggard interval of time these two persons loved 
 each other more purely, more strongly, more enthusiastically 
 than they had ever done at any former period of their event- 
 ful history. Over the hardest stone, as over the softest turf, 
 the green moss will force its verdure and sustain its life. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE EVENING BEFORE THE TRIAL. THE COUSIN'S. THE CHANGE 
 
 IN MADELINE. THE FAMILY OF GRASSDALE MEET ONCE 
 
 MORE BENEATH ONE ROOF. 
 
 Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows, . . . 
 For Sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears, 
 Divides one thing entire to many objects. 
 
 [Hope] is a flatterer, 
 A parasite, a keeper back of death, — 
 Who gently would dissolve the bands of life, 
 Which false Hope lingers in extremity. — Richard II. 
 
 It was the evening before the trial. Lester and his daugh- 
 ters lodged at a retired and solitary house in the suburbs of 
 the town of York; and thither, from the village some miles 
 distant in which he had chosen his own retreat, Walter now 
 proceeded across fields laden with the ripening corn. The 
 last and the richest month of summer had commenced; but 
 the harvest was not yet begun, and deep and golden showed 
 the vegetation of life, bedded among the dark verdure of the 
 hedge-rows and the "merrie woods." The evening was serene 
 and lulled; at a distance arose the spires and chimneys of the 
 town, but no sound from the busy hum of men reached the 
 ear. Nothing perhaps gives a more entire idea of stillness 
 than the sight of those abodes where "noise dwelleth," but 
 where you cannot now hear even its murmurs. The stillness 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 371 
 
 of a city is far more impressive than that of Nature, for the 
 mind instantly compares the present silence with the wonted 
 uproar. The harvest-moon rose slowly from a copse of gloomy 
 firs, and infused its own unspeakable magic into the hush and 
 transparency of the night. As Walter walked slowly on, the 
 sound of voices from some rustic party going homeward broke 
 jocundly on the silence ; and when he paused for a moment at 
 the stile from which he first caught a glimpse of Lester's 
 house, he saw, winding along the green hedge-row, some vil- 
 lage pair, the "lover and the maid," who could meet only at 
 such hours, and to whom such hours were therefore especially 
 dear. It was altogether a scene of pure and true pastoral char- 
 acter, and there was all around a semblance of tranquillity, of 
 happiness, which suits with the poetical and the scriptural 
 paintings of a pastoral life, and which, perhaps, in a new and 
 fertile country may still find a realization. From this scene, 
 from these thoughts, the young loiterer turned with a sigh 
 towards the solitary house in which this night could awaken 
 none but the most anxious feelings, and that moon could beam 
 only on the most troubled hearts. 
 
 " Terra salutiferas herbas, eademque nocentes 
 Nutrit ; et urticae proxima saepe rosa est." ^ 
 
 He now walked more quickly on, as if stung by his reflec- 
 tions; and avoiding the path which led to the front of the 
 house, gained a little garden at the rear, and opening a gate 
 that admitted to a narrow and shaded walk, over which the 
 linden and nut trees made a sort of continuous and natural 
 arbor, the moon, piercing at broken intervals through the 
 boughs, rested on the form of Ellinor Lester. 
 
 "This is most kind, most like my own sweet cousin," said 
 Walter, approaching; "I cannot say how fearful I was lest 
 you should not meet me after all." 
 
 "Indeed, Walter," replied Ellinor, "I found some difficulty 
 in concealing your note, which was given me in Madeline's 
 presence, and still more in stealing out unobserved by her; 
 
 1 "The same earth produces health-bearing and deadly plants; and oft- 
 times the rose grows nearest to the nettle." 
 
372 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 for she has been, as you may well conceive, unusually restless 
 the whole of this agonizing day. Ah, Walter, would to God 
 you had never left us ! " 
 
 "Rather say," rejoined Walter, "would that this unhappy 
 man, against whom my father's ashes still seem to me to cry 
 aloud, had never come into our peaceful and happy valley! 
 Then 7jou would not have reproached me that I have sought 
 justice on a suspected murderer, nor / have longed for death 
 rather than, in that justice, have inflicted such distress and 
 horror on those whom I love the best ! " 
 
 "What, Walter, you yet believe, — you are yet convinced 
 that Eugene Aram is the real criminal ? " 
 
 "Let to-morrow show," answered Walter, "But poor, poor 
 Madeline! How does she bear up against this long suspense ? 
 You know I have not seen her for months." 
 
 "Oh, Walter," said Ellinor, weeping bitterly, "you would 
 not know her, so dreadfully is she altered. I fear " (here sobs 
 choked the sister's voice, so as to leave it scarcely audible) 
 " that she is not many weeks for this world ! " 
 
 " Just Heaven ! is it so ? " exclaimed Walter, so shocked 
 that the tree against which he leaned, scarcely preserved him 
 from falling to the ground, as the thousand remembrances of 
 his first love rushed upon his heart. " And Providence singled 
 me out of the whole world to strike this blow ! " 
 
 Despite her own grief, Ellinor was touched and smitten by 
 the violent emotion of her cousin; and the two young persons, 
 lovers, though love was at this time the least perceptible feel- 
 ing of their breast, mingled their emotions, and souglit at 
 least to console and cheer each other. 
 
 "It may yet be better than our fears," said Ellinor, sooth- 
 ingly. "Eugene may be found guiltless, and in that joy we 
 may forget all the past." 
 
 Walter shook his head despondingly. " Your heart, Ellinor, 
 was always kind to me. You now are the only one to do me 
 justice, and to see how utterly reproachless I am for all the 
 misery the crime of another occasions. But my uncle, — hnn, 
 too, I have not seen for some time : is he well ? " 
 
 "Yes, Walter, yes," said Ellinor, kindly disguising the 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 373 
 
 real truth, how much her father's vigorous frame had been 
 bowed by his state of mind. "And I, you see," added she, 
 with a faint attempt to smile, "I am in health at least, — the 
 same as when, this time last year, we were all happy and full 
 of hope." 
 
 Walter looked hard upon that face, once so vivid with the 
 rich color and the buoyant and arch expression of liveliness 
 and youth, now pale, subdued, and worn by the traces of con- 
 stant tears ; and, pressing his hand convulsively on his heart, 
 turned away. 
 
 " But can I not see my uncle ? " said he, after a pause. 
 
 "He is not at home; he has gone to the Castle," replied 
 Ellinor. 
 
 "I shall meet him, then, on his way home," returned 
 Walter. "But, Ellinor, there is surely no truth in a vague 
 rumor which I heard in the town, that Madeline intends to be 
 present at the trial to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I fear that she will. Both my father and myself 
 have sought strongly and urgently to dissuade her, but in 
 vain. You know, with all that gentleness, how resolute she 
 is when her mind is once determined on any object." 
 
 "But if the verdict should be against the prisoner, in her 
 state of health consider how terrible would be the shock! 
 Nay, even the joy of acquittal might be equally dangerous. 
 For Heaven's sake, do not suffer her." 
 
 " What is to be done, Walter ? " said Ellinor, wringing her 
 hands. " We cannot help it. My father has at last forbidden 
 me to contradict the wish. Contradiction, the physician him- 
 self says, might be as fatal as concession can be. And my 
 father adds, in a stern, calm voice which it breaks my heart 
 to hear : ' Be still, Ellinor. If the innocent is to perish, the 
 sooner she joins him the better: I would then have all my 
 ties on the other side the grave!'" 
 
 " How that strange man seems to have fascinated you all ! " 
 said Walter, bitterly. 
 
 Ellinor did not answer; over her the fascination had never 
 been to an equal degree with the rest of her family. 
 
 "Ellinor! '' said Walter, who had been walking for the last 
 
374 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 few moments to and fro with the rapid strides of a man de- 
 bating with himself, and who now suddenly paused, and laid 
 his hand on his cousin's arm, — "Ellinor! lam resolved. I 
 must, for the quiet of my soul I must, see Madeline this 
 night, and win her forgiveness for all I have been made the 
 unintentional agent of Providence to bring upon her. The 
 peace of my future life may depend on this single interview. 
 What if Aram be condemned ? And — in short, it is no mat- 
 ter, — I must see her." 
 
 "She would not hear of it, I fear," said Ellinor, in alarm. 
 "Indeed, you cannot; you do not know her state of mind." 
 
 "Ellinor!" said Walter, doggedly, "I am resolved." And 
 so saying, he moved towards the house. 
 
 "Well, then," said Ellinor, whose nerves had been greatly 
 shattered by the scenes and sorrow of the last several months, 
 " if it must be so, wait at least till I have gone in and con- 
 sulted with or prepared her." 
 
 "As you will, my gentlest, kindest cousin; I know your 
 prudence and affection. I leave you to obtain me this inter- 
 view; you can, and will, I am convinced." 
 
 " Do not be sanguine, Walter. I can only promise to use 
 my best endeavors, " answered Ellinor, blushing as he kissed 
 her hand; and, hurrying up the walk, she disappeared within 
 the house. 
 
 Walter walked for some moments about the alley in which 
 Ellinor had left him; but growing impatient, he at length 
 wound through the overhanging trees, and the house stood 
 immediately before him, the moonlight shining full on the 
 window-panes, and sleeping in quiet shadow over the green 
 turf in front. He approached yet nearer, and through one of 
 the windows, by a single light in the room, he saw Ellinor 
 leaning over a couch on which a form reclined that his heart, 
 rather than his sight, told him was his once-adored Madeline. 
 He stopped, and his breath heaved thick; he thought of their 
 common home at Grassdale, of the old manor-house, of the 
 little parlor, with the woodbine at its casement, of the group 
 within, once so happy and light-hearted, of which he had 
 formerly made the one most buoyant, and not least loved. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 375 
 
 And now this strange, this desolate house, himself estranged 
 from all once regarding him (and those broken-hearted), this 
 night ushering what a morrow! He groaned almost aloud, 
 and retreated once more into the shadow of the trees. In a 
 few minutes the door at the right of the building opened, and 
 Ellinor came forth with a quick step. 
 
 "Come in, dear Walter," said she, "Madeline has consented 
 to see you, — nay, when I told her you were here, and desired 
 an interview, she paused but for one instant, and then begged 
 me to admit you." 
 
 "God bless her!" said poor Walter, drawing his hand 
 across his eyes, and following Ellinor to the door. 
 
 "You will find her greatly changed! " whispered Ellinor, as 
 they gained the outer hall; "be prepared! " 
 
 Walter did not reply, save by an expressive gesture; and 
 Ellinor led him into a room which communicated, by one of 
 those glass doors often to be seen in the old-fashioned houses 
 of country towns, with the one in which he had previously 
 seen Madeline. With a noiseless step, and almost holding 
 his breath, he followed his fair guide through this apartment, 
 and he now stood by the couch on which Madeline still re- 
 clined. She held out her hand to him; he pressed it to his 
 lips, without daring to look her in the face, and after a mo- 
 ment's pause she said, — 
 
 " So you wished to see me, Walter ? It is an anxious night, 
 this, for all of us." 
 
 "For a7Z," repeated Walter, emphatically; "and for me not 
 the least." 
 
 "We have known some sad days since we last met," re- 
 newed Madeline; and there was another and an embarrassed 
 pause. 
 
 " Madeline, dearest Madeline ! " said Walter, and at length 
 dropping on his knee, "you whom while I was yet a boy I so 
 fondly, passionately loved, you who yet are, who, while I 
 live, ever will be, so inexpressibly dear to me, — say but one 
 word to me in this uncertain and dreadful epoch of our fate; 
 say but one word to me, — say you feel, you are conscious, 
 that throughout these terrible events / have not been to blame, 
 
376 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 /have not willingly brought this affliction upon our house; 
 least of all upon that heart which my own would have for- 
 feited its best blood to preserve from the slightest evil. Or 
 if you will not do me this justice, say at least that you for- 
 give me! " 
 
 "I forgive you, Walter! I do you justice, my cousin," re- 
 plied Madeline, with energy, and raising herself on her arm. 
 "It is long since I have felt how unreasonable it was to 
 throw any blame upon you, the mere and passive instrument 
 of Fate. If I have forborne to see you, it was not from an 
 angry feeling, but from a reluctant weakness. God bless and 
 preserve you, my dear cousin! I know that your own heart 
 has bled as profusely as ours ; and it was but this day that I 
 told my father, if we never met again, to express to you some 
 kind message as a last memorial from me. Don't weep, 
 Walter! It is a fearful thing to see men weep! It is only 
 once that I have seen him weep, — that was long, long ago! 
 He has no tears in the hour of dread and danger. But no 
 matter; this is a bad world, Walter, and I am tired of it. 
 Are not you ? Why do you look so at me, Ellinor ? I am 
 not mad. Has she told you that I am, Walter ? Don't be- 
 lieve her. Look at me! I am calm and collected! Yet to- 
 morrow is— O God! God! if — if_" 
 
 Madeline covered her face with her hands, and became 
 suddenly silent, though only for a short time ; when she again 
 lifted up her eyes, they encountered those of Walter, as 
 through those blinding and agonized tears which are wrung 
 from the grief of manhood he gazed upon that face on which 
 nothing of herself, save the divine and unearthly expression 
 which had always characterized her loveliness, was left. 
 
 "Yes, Walter, I am wearing fast away, — fast beyond the 
 power of chance ! Thank God, who tempers the wind to the 
 shorn lamb, if the worst happen, %ve cannot be divided long ! 
 Ere another Sabbath has passed, I may be with him in Para- 
 dise. What cause shall we then have for regret ? " 
 
 Ellinor flung herself on her sister's neck, sobbing violently. 
 "Yes, we shall regret you are not with us, Ellinor; but you 
 will also soon grow tired of the world. It is a sad place, it 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 377 
 
 is a wicked place, it is full of snares and pitfalls. In oui 
 walk to-day lies our destruction for to-morrow ! You will find 
 this soon, Ellinor ! And you, and my father, and Walter too, 
 shall join us! Hark! the clock strikes. By this time to- 
 morrow night, what triumph! — or, to me, at least [sinking 
 her voice into a whisper that thrilled through the very bones 
 of her listeners], what peace!" 
 
 Happily for all parties, this distressing scene was here in- 
 terrupted. Lester entered the room with the heavy step into 
 which his once elastic and cheerful tread had subsided. 
 
 " Ha, Walter ! " said he, irresolutely glancing over the 
 group; but Madeline had already sprung from her seat. 
 
 " You have seen him, you have seen him ! And how does 
 he — how does he look ? But that I know ; I know his brave 
 heart does not sink. And what message does he send to me ? 
 And — and — tell me all, my father ; quick, quick ! " 
 
 " Dear, miserable child ! and miserable old man ! " muttered 
 Lester, folding her in his arms. "But we ought to take 
 courage and comfort from him, Madeline. A hero on the eve 
 of battle could not be more firm, even more cheerful. He 
 smiled often, his old smile; and he only left tears and anx- 
 ieties to us. But of you, Madeline, we spoke mostly; he 
 would scarcely let me say a word on anything else. Oh, what 
 a kind heart, what a noble spirit! And perhaps a chance to- 
 morrow may quench both. But God, be just, and let the 
 avenging lightning fall on the real criminal, and not blast the 
 innocent man ! " 
 
 "Amen!" said Madeline, deeply. 
 
 "Amen! " repeated Walter, laying his hand on his heart, 
 
 " Let us pray ! " exclaimed Lester, animated by a sudden 
 impulse, and falling on his knees. The whole group followed 
 his example; and Lester, in a trembling and impassioned 
 voice, poured forth an extempore prayer that justice might 
 fall only where it was due. Never did that majestic and paus- 
 ing moon, which filled the lowly room as with the presence of 
 a spirit, witness a more impressive adjuration or a audience 
 more absorbed and rapt. Full streamed its holy rays upon 
 the now snowy locks and upward countenance of Lester, 
 
378 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 making his venerable person more striking from the contrast 
 it afforded to the dark and sunburnt cheek, the energetic 
 features, and chivalric and earnest head of the young man 
 beside him. Just in the shadow, the raven locks of Ellinor 
 were bowed over her clasped hands, nothing of her face visi- 
 ble, the graceful neck and heaving breast alone distinguished 
 from the shadow; and hushed in a death-like and solemn re- 
 pose, the parted lips moving inaudibly, the eye hxed on va- 
 cancy, the wan, transparent hands crossed upon her bosom, 
 the light shone with a more softened and tender ray upon the 
 faded but all-angelic form and countenance of her for whom 
 Heaven was already preparing its eternal recompense for the 
 ills of earth. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE TRIAL. 
 
 Equal to either fortune. — Speech of Eitgene Aram. 
 
 A THOUGHT comes over us sometimes, in our career of pleas- 
 ure or the troubled exultation of our ambitious pursuits, — a 
 thought comes over us, like a cloud, that around us and about 
 us Death, Shame, Crime, Despair, are busy at their work. I 
 have read somewhere of an enchanted land where the inmates 
 walked along voluptuous gardens, and built palaces, and heard 
 music, and made merry; while around and within-the land 
 were deep caverns, where the gnomes and the fiends dwelt, 
 and ever and anon their groans and laughter, and the so\inds 
 of their unutterable toils or ghastly revels, travelled to the 
 upper air, mixing in an awful strangeness with the summer 
 festivity and buoyant occupation of those above. And this is 
 the picture of human life! These reflections of the madden- 
 ing disparities of the world are dark, but salutary, — ■ 
 
 " They wrap our thoughts at banquets in the shroud ; " ^ 
 but we are seldom sadder without being also wiser men. 
 
 ^ Young. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 379 
 
 The 3d of August, 1759, rose bright, calm, and clear, — it 
 was the morning of the trial; and when Ellinor stole into 
 her sister's room she found Madeline sitting before the 
 glass, and braiding her rich locks with an evident attention 
 and care. 
 
 "I wish," said she, "that you had pleased me by dressing 
 as for a holiday. See, I am going to wear the dress I was to 
 have been married in." 
 
 Ellinor shuddered; for what is more appalling than to find 
 the signs of gayety accompanying the reality of anguish ? 
 
 "Yes," continued Madeline, with a smile of inexpressible 
 sweetness, "a little reflection will convince you that this day 
 ought not to be one of mourning. It was the suspense that 
 has so worn out our hearts. If he is acquitted, as we all be- 
 lieve and trust, think how appropriate will be the outward 
 seeming of our joy ! If not, why I shall go before him to our 
 marriage home and in marriage garments. Ay," she added, 
 after a moment's pause, and with a much more grave, settled, 
 and intense expression of voice and countenance, — "ay, do 
 you remember how Eugene once told us that if we went at 
 noon-day to the bottom of a deep pit, i we should be able to 
 see the stars, which on the level ground are invisible ? Even 
 so, from the depths of grief — worn, wretched, seared, and 
 dying — the blessed apparitions and tokens of heaven make 
 themselves visible to our eyes. And I know, I have seen, I 
 feel here," pressing her hand on her heart, "that my course 
 is run; a few sands only are left in the glass, — let us waste 
 them bravely. Stay, Ellinor! You see these poor withered 
 rose-leaves: Eugene gave them to me the day before — before 
 that fixed for our marriage. I shall wear them to-day as I 
 would have worn them on the wedding-day. When he gath- 
 ered the poor flower, how fresh it was ! and I kissed off the 
 dew: now see it! But come, come, — this is trifling; we must 
 not be late. Help me, Nell, help me; come, bustle, quick, 
 quick! Nay, be not so slovenly; I told you I would be dressed 
 with care to-day." 
 
 1 The remark is in Aristotle. Buffon quotes it, with his usual adroit 
 felicity, iu, I thiuk, tlie first volume of his great work. 
 
880 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 And when Madeline ivas dressed, though, the robe sat loose 
 and in large folds over her shrunken form, yet as she stood 
 erect, and looked, with a smile that saddened Ellinor more 
 than tears, at her image in the glass, perhaps her beauty never 
 seemed of a more striking and lofty character, — she looked 
 indeed a bride, but the bride of no earthly nuptials. Pres- 
 ently they heard an irresolute and trembling step at the door, 
 and Lester, knocking, asked if they were prepared. 
 
 "Come in, father," said Madeline, in a calm and even 
 cheerful voice; and the old man entered. 
 
 He cast a silent glance over Madeline's white dress, and 
 then at his own, which was deep mourning; the glance said 
 volumes, and its meaning was not marred by words from any 
 one of the three. 
 
 "Yes, father," said Madeline, breaking the pause, "we are 
 all ready. Is the carriage here ? " 
 
 "It is at the door, my child." 
 
 " Come then, Ellinor, come ! " and leaning on her arm, 
 Madeline walked towards the door. When she got to the 
 threshold, she paused, and looked round the room. 
 
 " What is it you want ? " asked Ellinor. 
 
 "I was but bidding all here farewell," replied Madeline, in 
 a soft and touching voice. "And now before we leave the 
 house, father, sister, one word with you. You have ever been 
 very, very kind to me, and most of all in this bitter trial, 
 when I must have taxed your patience sadly, — for I know all 
 is not right here [touching her forehead] : I cannot go forth 
 this day without thanking you. Ellinor, my dearest friend, 
 my fondest sister, my playmate in gladness, my comforter in 
 grief, my nurse in sickness, since we were little children we 
 have talked together and laughed together and wept together; 
 and though we knew all the thoughts of each other, we have 
 never known one thought that we would have concealed from 
 God. And now we are going to part — Do not stop me; it 
 must be so, I know it. But after a little while may you be 
 happy again, — not so buoyant as you have been, that can 
 never be, but still happy ! You are formed for love and home, 
 and for those ties you once thought would be mine. God 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 381 
 
 grant that I may have suffered for us both, and that when we 
 meet hereafter you may tell me you have been happy here ! 
 
 "But you, father," added Madeline, tearing herself from 
 the neck of her weeping sister, and sinking on her knees be- 
 fore Lester, who leaned against the wall convulsed with his 
 emotions and covering his face with his hands, — "but you, 
 what can I say to you ? You, who have never, no, not in ray 
 first childhood, said one harsh word to me; who have sunk 
 all a father's authority in a father's love, — how can I say 
 all that I feel for you, — the grateful, overflowing (painful, yet 
 oh, how sweet!) remembrances which crowd around and suffo- 
 cate me now ? The time will come when Ellinor and Ellinor's 
 children must be all in all to you ; when of your poor Made- 
 line nothing will be left but a memory : but they, they will 
 watch on you and tend you, and protect your gray hairs from 
 sorrow, as I might once have hoped I also was fated to do." 
 
 "My child, my child, you break my heart!" faltered forth 
 at last the poor old man, who till now had in vain endeavored 
 to speak. 
 
 "Give me your blessing, dear father," said Madeline, her- 
 self overcome by her feelings ; " put your hand on my head 
 and bless me, and say that if I have ever unconsciously given 
 you a moment's pain, I am forgiven ! " 
 
 "Forgiven!" repeated Lester, raising his daughter with 
 weak and trembling arms as his tears fell fast upon her cheek, 
 — " never did I feel what an angel had sat beside my hearth 
 till now! But be comforted, be cheered. What if Heaven 
 had reserved its crowning mercy till this day, and Eugene be 
 amongst us, free, acquitted, triumphant, before the night ! " 
 
 "Ha! " said Madeline, as if suddenly roused by the thought 
 into new life, "ha! let us hasten to find your words true. 
 Yes, yes, if it should be so, if it should! And," added she, in 
 a hollow voice (the enthusiasm checked), "if it were not for 
 my dreams, I might believe it would be so; but — Come, I 
 am ready now." 
 
 The carriage went slowly through the crowd that the fame 
 of the approaching trial had gathered along the streets ; but 
 the blinds were drawn down, and the father and daughter es- 
 
382 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 caped that worst of tortures, the curious gaze of strangers on 
 distress. Places had been kept for them in court; and as 
 they left the carriage and entered the fatal spot, the venera- 
 ble figure of Lester and the trembling and veiled forms that 
 clung to him arrested all eyes. They at length gained their 
 seats, and it was not long before a bustle in the courc drew 
 off attention from them. A buzz, a murmur, a movement, a 
 dread pause. Houseman was first arraigned on his former 
 indictment, acquitted, and admitted evidence against Aram, 
 who was thereupon arraigned. The prisoner stood at the bar. 
 Madeline gasped for breath, and clung, with a convulsive 
 motion, to her sister's arm. But presently, with a long 
 sigh, she recovered her self-possession, and sat quiet and si- 
 lent, fixing her eyes upon Aram's countenance; and the as- 
 pect of that countenance was well calculated to sustain her 
 courage and to mingle a sort of exulting pride with all the 
 strained and fearful acuteness of her sympathy. Something, 
 indeed, of what he had suffered was visible in the prisoner's 
 features, — the lines around the mouth, in which mental anx- 
 iety generally the most deeply writes its traces, were grown 
 marked and furrowed; gray hairs Avere here and there scat- 
 tered amongst the rich and long luxuriance of -his dark-brown 
 locks; and as, before his imprisonment, he had seemed con- 
 siderably younger than he was, so now time had atoned for 
 its past delay, and he might have appeared to have told more 
 years than had really gone over his head: but the remarkable 
 light and beauty of his eye was undimmed as ever, and still 
 the broad expanse of his forehead retained its unwrinkled 
 surface and striking expression of calmness and majesty. 
 High, self-collected, serene, and undaunted, he looked upon 
 the crowd, the scene, the judge, before and around him; and 
 even on those who believed him guilty, that involuntary and 
 irresistible respect which moral firmness always produces on 
 the mind, forced an unwilling interest in his fate, and even a 
 reluctant hope of his acquittal. 
 
 Houseman was called upon. No one could regard his face 
 without a certain mistrust and inward shudder. In men 
 prone to cruelty, it has generally been remarked that there is 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 883 
 
 an animal expression strongly prevalent in the countenance. 
 The murderer and the lustful man are often alike in the 
 physical structure. The bull-throat, the thicik lips, the re- 
 ceding forehead, the fierce, restless eye, which some one or 
 other says reminds you of the buffalo in the instant before he 
 becomes dangerous, are the outward tokens of the natural 
 animal unsoftened, unenlightened, unredeemed, consulting 
 only the immediate desires of his nature, whatever be the 
 passion (lust or revenge) to which they prompt. And this 
 animal expression, the witness of his character, was espe- 
 cially stamped upon Houseman's rugged and harsh features, — 
 rendered, if possible, still more remarkable at that time by a 
 mixture of sullenness and timidity. The conviction that his 
 own life was saved, could not prevent remorse at his treach- 
 ery in accusing his comrade, — a confused principle of honor 
 of which villains are the most susceptible when every other 
 honest sentiment has deserted them. 
 
 With a low, choked, and sometimes a faltering tone, House- 
 man deposed that in the night between the 7th and 8th of 
 February, 1744-5, some time before eleven o'clock, he went to 
 Aram's house; that they conversed on different matters; that 
 he stayed there about an hour; that some three hours after- 
 wards he passed, in company with Clarke, by Aram's house, 
 and Aram was outside the door, as if he were about to return 
 home; that Aram invited them both to come in; that they 
 did so; that Clarke, who intended to leave the town before 
 daybreak, in order, it was acknowledged, to make secretly 
 away with certain property in his possession, was about to 
 quit the house, when Aram proposed to accompany him out 
 of the toAvn ; that he (Aram) and Houseman then went forth 
 with Clarke; that when they came into the field where St. 
 Robert's Cave is, Aram and Clarke went into it, over the 
 hedge, and when they came within six or eight yards of the 
 cave, he saw them quarrelling; that he saw Aram strike 
 Clarke several times, upon which Clarke fell, and he never 
 saw him rise again; that he saw no instrument Aram had, 
 and knew not that he had any; that upon this, without any 
 interposition or alarm, he left them and returned home; that 
 
384 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 the next morning lie went to Aram's house, and asked what 
 business he had witli Clarke last night, and what he had done 
 with him ? Aram replied not to this question, but threatened 
 him if he spoke of his being in Clarke's company that night; 
 vowing revenge, either by himself or some other person, if 
 he mentioned anything relating to the affair. This was the 
 sum of Houseman's evidence. 
 
 A ]\Ir. Beckwith was next called, who deposed that Aram's 
 garden had been searched, owing to a vague suspicion that he 
 might have been an accomplice in the frauds of Clarke; that 
 some parts of clothing, and also some pieces of cambric 
 which he had sold to Clarke a little while before, were found 
 there. 
 
 The third witness was the watchman, Thomas Barnet, who 
 deposed that before midnight (it might be a little after eleven) 
 he saw a person come out from Aram's house, who had a wide 
 coat on, with the cape about his head, and seemed to shun 
 him; whereupon he went up to him and put by the cape of 
 his great-coat, and perceived it to be Bichard Houseman. He 
 contented himself with wishing him good night. 
 
 The officers who executed the warrant then gave their evi- 
 dence as to the arrest, and dwelt on some expressions dropped 
 by Aram before he arrived at Knaresborough, which however 
 were felt to be wholly unimportant. 
 
 After this evidence there was a short pause, and then a 
 shiver; that recoil and tremor which men feel at any exposi- 
 tion of the relics of the dead ran through the court : for the 
 next witness was mute, — it was the skull of the deceased. 
 On the left side there was a fracture, that from the nature of 
 it seemed as if it could only have been made by the stroke of 
 some blunt instrument. The piece was broken, and could not 
 be replaced but from within. 
 
 The surgeon, Mr. Locock, who produced it, gave it as his 
 opinion that no such breach could proceed from natural decay ; 
 that it was not a recent fracture, by the instrument with 
 which it was dug up, but seemed to be of many years' standing. 
 
 This made the chief part of the evidence against Aram; the 
 minor points we have omitted, and also such as, like that of 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 385 
 
 Aram's hostess, would merely have repeated what the reader 
 knew before. 
 
 And now closed the criminatory evidence ; and now the pris- 
 oner was asked the thrilling and awful question, What he 
 had to say in his own behalf ? Till now, Aram had not 
 changed his posture or his countenance; his dark and pierc 
 ing eye had for one instant fixed on each witness that appeared 
 against him, and then dropped its gaze upon the ground. But 
 at this moment a faint hectic flushed his cheek, and he seemed 
 to gather and knit himself up for defence. He glanced round 
 the court as if to see what had been the impression created 
 against him. His eye rested on the gray locks of Eowland 
 Lester, who, looking doAvn, had covered his face with his 
 hands. But beside that venerable form was the still and mar- 
 ble face of Madeline; and even at that distance from him, 
 Aram perceived how intent was the hushed suspense of her 
 emotions. But when she caught his eye, — that eye which, 
 even at such a moment, beamed unutterable love, pity, regret 
 for her, — a wild, a con\Tilsive smile of encouragement, of 
 anticipated triumph, broke the repose of her colorless features, 
 and suddenly dying away, left her lips apart, in that expres- 
 sion which the great masters of old, faithful to nature, give 
 alike to the struggle of hope and the pause of terror. 
 
 "My lord," began Aram, in that remarkable defence still 
 extant, and still considered as wholly unequalled from the 
 lips of one defending his own cause, — "my lord, I know not 
 whether it is of right, or through some indulgence of your 
 lordship, that I am allowed the liberty at this bar, and at this 
 time, to attempt a defence, incapable and uninstructed as I 
 am to speak. Since, while I see so many eyes upon me, so 
 numerous and awful a concourse, fixed with attention, and 
 filled with I know not what expectancy, I labor, not with 
 guilt, my lord, but with perplexity. For having never seen a 
 court but this, being wholly unacquainted with law, the cus- 
 toms of the bar, and all judiciary proceedings, I fear I shall 
 be so little capable of speaking with propriety that it might 
 reasonably be expected to exceed my hope should I be able to 
 speak at all. 
 
 25 
 
886 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 " I have heard, my lord, the indictment read, wherein I find 
 myself charged with the highest of human crimes. You will 
 grant me, then, your patience if I, single and unskilful, des- 
 titute of friends and unassisted by counsel, attempt something, 
 perhaps, like argument, in my defence. What I have to say 
 will be but short, and that brevity may be the best part of it. 
 
 " My lord, the tenor of my life contradicts this indictment. 
 Who can look back over what is known of my former years 
 and charge me with one vice, one offence ? No ! I concerted 
 not schemes of fraud, projected no violence, injured no man's 
 property or person. My days were honestly laborious, my 
 nights intensely studious. This egotism is not presumptuous, 
 is not unreasonable. What man, after a temperate use of life, 
 a series of thinking and acting regularly, without one single 
 deviation from a sober and even tenor of conduct, ever plunged 
 into the depth of crime precipitately and at once ? Mankind 
 are not instantaneously corrupted. Villany is always pro- 
 gressive. We decline from right not suddenly, but step after 
 step. 
 
 " If my life in general contradicts the indictment, my health, 
 at that time in particular, contradicts it more. A little time 
 before, I had been confined to my bed; I had suffered under a 
 long and severe disorder. The distemper left me but slowly, 
 and in part. So far from being well at the time I am charged 
 with this fact, I never, to this day, perfectly recovered. Could 
 a person in this condition execute violence against another ? 
 — I, feeble and valetudinary, with no inducement to engage, 
 no ability to accomplish, no weapon wherewith to perpetrate 
 such a fact, — without interest, without power, without mo- 
 tives, without means! 
 
 "My lord, Clarke disappeared, — true; but is that a proof of 
 his death ? The fallibility of all conclusions of such a sort, 
 from such a circumstance, is too obvious to require instances. 
 One instance is before you; this very castle affords it. 
 
 " In June, 1757, William Thompson, amidst all the vigilance 
 of this place, in open daylight and double-ironed, made his 
 escape. Notwithstanding an immediate inquiry set on foot, 
 notwithstanding all advertisements, all search, he was never 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 387 
 
 seen or heard of since. If this man escaped unseen, through 
 all these difficulties, how easy for Clarke, whom no difficul- 
 ties opposed! Yet what would be thought of a prosecution 
 commenced against any one seen last with Thompson ? 
 
 "These bones are discovered! Where? Of all places in 
 the world, can we think of any one, except, indeed, the 
 church-yard, where there is so great a certainty of finding 
 human bones as a hermitage ? In time past the hermitage 
 was a place, not only of religious retirement, but of burial. 
 And it has scarce, or never, been heard of but that every cell 
 now known contains or contained these relics of humanity, 
 some mutilated, some entire. Give me leave to remind your 
 lordship that here sat solitary sanctity, and here the her- 
 mit and the anchorite hoped that repose for their bones when 
 dead they here enjoyed when living. I glance over a few of 
 the many evidences that these cells were used as repositories 
 of the dead, and enumerate a few of the many caves similar in 
 origin to St. Robert's, in which human bones have been found." 
 Here the prisoner instanced, with remarkable felicity, several 
 places in which bones had been found, vmder circumstances 
 and in spots analogous to those in point. ^ And the reader 
 who will remember that it is the great principle of the law 
 that no man can be condemned for murder unless the remains 
 of the deceased be found, will perceive at once how important 
 this point was to the prisoner's defence. After concluding 
 his instances with two facts of skeletons found in fields in the 
 vicinity of Knaresborough, he burst forth, — 
 
 " Is, then, the invention of those bones forgotten, or indus- 
 triously concealed, that the discovery of these in question 
 may appear the more extraordinary ? Extraordinary, yet how 
 common an event! Every place conceals such remains. In 
 fields, in hills, in highway sides, on wastes, on commons, lie 
 frequent and unsuspected bones. And mark, — no example, 
 perhaps, occurs of more than one skeleton being found in one 
 cell. Here you find but one, agreeable to the peculiarity of 
 every known cell in Britain. Had two skeletons been discov- 
 ered, then alone might the fact have seemed suspicious and 
 1 See his published defence. 
 
388 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 uncommon. What! Have we forgotten how difficult, as in 
 the case of Perkm Warbeck and Lambert Symn«ll, it has been 
 sometimes to identify the living, and shall we now assign 
 personality to bones, — bones which may belong to either sex ? 
 How know you that this is even the skeleton of a man ? But 
 another skeleton was discovered by some laborer: was not 
 that skeleton averred to be Clarke's, full as confidently as 
 this ? 
 
 "My lord, my lord, must some of the living be made an- 
 swerable for all the bones that earth has concealed and chance 
 exposed ? The skull that has been produced has been declared 
 fractured. But who can surely tell whether it was the cause 
 or the consequence of death ? In May, 1732, the remains of 
 William Lord Archbishop of this province were taken up by 
 permission in their cathedral: the bones of the skull were 
 found broken, as these are; yet he died by no violence, by no 
 blow that could have caused that fracture. Let it be consid- 
 ered how easily the fracture on the skull is accounted for. At 
 the dissolution of the religious houses the ravages of the times 
 affected both the living and the dead. In search after imagi- 
 nary treasures, coffins were broken, graves and vaults dug open, 
 monuments ransacked, shrines demolished; Parliament itself 
 was called in to restrain these violations. And now, are the 
 depredations, the iniquities, of those times to be visited on 
 this ? But here, above all, was a castle vigorously besieged; 
 every spot around was the scene of a sally, a conflict, a flight, 
 a pursuit. Where the slaughtered fell, there were they buried. 
 What place is not burial-earth in war ? How many liones must 
 still remain in the vicinity of that siege, for futurity to dis- 
 cover! Can you, then, with so many probable circumstances, 
 choose the one least probable ? Can you impute to the living 
 what zeal in its fury may have done; what nature may have 
 taken off and piety interred; or what war alone may have de- 
 stroyed, alone deposited ? 
 
 "And now glance over the circumstantial evidence, — how 
 weak, how frail ! I almost scorn to allude to it. I will not 
 condescend to f/i'weZ/ upon it. The witness of one man, — ar- 
 raigned himself! Is there no chance that, to save his own 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 389 
 
 life, lie migM conspire against mine; no chance that he might 
 have committed tins murder, (/"murder hath indeed been done; 
 tliat conscience betrayed to his first exclamation; that craft 
 suggested his throwing that guilt on me, to the knowledge of 
 which he had unwittingly confessed ? He declares that he 
 saw me strike Clarke, that he saw him fall; yet he utters no 
 cry, no reproof. He calls for no aid; he returns quietly home; 
 he declares that he knows not what became of the body, yet 
 he tells where the body is laid. He declares that he went 
 straight home, and alone; yet the woman with whom I lodged 
 deposes that Houseman and I returned to my house in com- 
 pany together. What evidence is this, and from whom does 
 it come ? Ask yourselves. As for the rest of the evidence, 
 what does it amount to ? The watchman sees Houseman 
 leave my house at night. What more probable, but what less 
 connected with the murder, real or supposed, of Clarke ? Some 
 pieces of clothing are found buried in my garden: but how 
 can it be shown that they belonged to Clarke ? Who can 
 swear to, who can prove anything so vague ? And if found 
 there, even if belonging to Clarke, what proof that they were 
 there deposited by me ? How likely that the real criminal 
 may, in the dead of night, have preferred any spot rather than 
 that round his own home, to conceal the evidence of his crime ? 
 "How impotent such evidence as this, and how poor, how 
 precarious, even the strongest of mere circumstantial evidence 
 invariably is! Let it rise to probability, to the strongest de- 
 gree of probability, it is but probability still. Recollect the 
 case of the two Harrisons, recorded by Dr. Howell : both suf- 
 fered on circumstantial evidence on account of the disappear- 
 ance of a man, who, like Clarke, contracted debts, borrowed 
 money, and went off unseen. And this man returned several 
 years after their execution. Why remind you of Jacques du 
 Moulin, in the reign of Charles the Second; why of the un- 
 happy Coleman, convicted, though afterwards found innocent, 
 and whose children perished for want because the world be- 
 lieved the father guilty ? Why should I mention the perjury 
 of Smith, who, admitted king's evidence, screened himself by 
 accusing Fainloth and Loveday of the murder of Dunn ? The 
 
S90 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 first was executed, the second was about to share the same 
 fate, when the perjury of Smith was incontrovertibly proved. 
 
 "And now, my lord, having endeavored to show that the 
 whole of this charge is altogether repugnant to every part of 
 my life ; that it is inconsistent with my condition of health 
 about that time ; that no rational inference of the death of a 
 person can be drawn from his disappearance; that hermitages 
 were the constant repositories of the bones of the recluse; 
 that the proofs of these are well authenticated; that the revo- 
 lution in religion or the fortunes of war have mangled or bur- 
 ied the dead; that the strongest circumstantial evidence is 
 often lamentably fallacious ; that in my case that evidence, so 
 far from being strong, is weak, disconnected, contradictory, 
 — what remains? A conclusion perhaps no less reasonably 
 than impatiently wished for. I at last, after nearly a year's 
 confinement, equal to either fortune, intrust myself to the 
 candor, the justice, the humanity of your lordship, and to 
 yours, my countrymen, gentlemen of the jury." 
 
 The prisoner ceased; and the painful and choking sensa- 
 tions of sympathy, compassion, regret, admiration, all unit- 
 ing, all mellowing into one fearful hope for his acquittal, 
 made themselves felt through the crowded court. 
 
 In two persons only an uneasy sentiment remained, — a sen- 
 timent that the prisoner had not completed that which they 
 would have asked from him. The one was Lester. He had 
 expected a more warm, a more earnest, though perhaps a less 
 ingenious and artful, defence. He had expected Aram to 
 dwell far more on the improbable and contradictory evidence 
 of Houseman; and above all, to have explained away all that 
 was still left unaccounted for in his acquaintance with Clarke 
 (as we will still call the deceased), and the allegation that he 
 had gone out with him on the fatal night of the disappearance 
 of the latter. At every word of the prisoner's defence he had 
 waited almost breathlessly, in the hope that the next sentence 
 would begin an explanation or denial on this point; and when 
 Aram ceased, a chill, a depression, a disappointment, remained 
 vaguely on his mind. Yet so lightly and so haughtily had 
 Aram approached and glanced over the immediate evidence of 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 391 
 
 the witnesses against him that his silence here might have 
 been but the natural result of a disdain that belonged essen- 
 tially to his calm and proud character. The other person we 
 referred to, and whom his defence had not impressed with a 
 belief in its truth equal to an admiration for its skill, was one 
 far more important in deciding the prisoner's fate, — it was 
 the judge! 
 
 But Madeline — alas, alas ! how sanguine is a woman's 
 heart when the innocence, the fate, of the one she loves is 
 concerned ! A radiant flush broke over a face so colorless be- 
 fore ; and with a joyous look, a kindled eye, a lofty brow, she 
 turned to Ellinor, pressed her hand in silence, and once more 
 gave up her whole soul to the dread procedure of the court. 
 
 The judge now began. It is greatly to be regretted that we 
 have no minute and detailed memorial of the trial, except 
 only the prisoner's defence. The summing up of the judge 
 was considered at that time scarcely less remarkable than the 
 speech of the prisoner. He stated the evidence with peculiar 
 care and at great length to the jury. He observed how the 
 testimony of the other deponents confirmed that of Houseman; 
 and then, touching on the contradictory parts of the latter, he 
 made them understand how natural, how inevitable, was some 
 such contradiction in a witness who had not only to give evi- 
 dence against another, but to refrain from criminating him- 
 self. There could be no doubt but that Houseman was an 
 accomplice in the crime ; and all therefore that seemed improb- 
 able in his giving no alarm when the deed Avas done, etc., was 
 easily rendered natural and reconcilable with the other parts 
 of his evidence. Commenting then on the defence of the 
 prisoner (who, as if disdaining to rely on aught save his own 
 genius or his own innocence, had called no witnesses, as he 
 had employed no counsel), and eulogizing its eloquence and 
 art till he destroyed their effect, by guarding the jury against 
 that impression which eloquence and art produce in defiance 
 of simple fact, he contended that Aram had yet alleged noth- 
 ing to invalidate the positive evidence against him. 
 
 I have often heard, from men accustomed to courts of law, 
 that nothing is more marvellous than the sudden change in 
 
392 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 the mind of a jury which the summing up of the judge can 
 produce ; and in the present instance it was like magic. That 
 fatal look of a common intelligence, of a common assent, was 
 exchanged among the doomers of the prisoner's life and death 
 as the judge concluded. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 They found the prisoner guilty. 
 
 The judge drew on the black cap. 
 
 Aram received his sentence in profound composure. Before 
 he left the bar he drew himself up to his full height, and 
 looked slowly around the court with that thrilling and almost 
 sublime unmovedness of aspect which belonged to him alone 
 of all men, and which was rendered yet more impressive by a 
 smile — slight, but eloquent beyond all words — of a soul col- 
 lected in itself. No forced and convulsive effort vainly mask- 
 ing the terror or the pang, no mockery of self that would 
 mimic contempt for others, but more in majesty than bitter- 
 ness; rather as daring fate than defying the judgment of 
 others, — rather as if he wrapped himself in the independence 
 of a quiet, than the disdain of a despairing, heart. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE DEATH. THE PRISON. AN INTERVIEW. ITS RESULT. 
 
 . . . Lay her i' the earth : 
 
 And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
 
 May violets spring! 
 
 Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting, 
 That would not let me sleep. — Hamlet. 
 
 "Bear with me a little longer," said Madeline; "I shall be 
 well, quite well, presently." 
 
 Ellinor let down the carriage window to admit the air; and 
 she took the occasion to tell the coachman to drive faster. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 393 
 
 There was that change in Madeline's voice which alarmed 
 her. 
 
 "How noble was his look! you saw him smile! " continued 
 Madeline, talking to herself. "And they will murder him 
 after all! Let me see: this day week, — ay, ere this day week 
 we shall meet again." 
 
 "Faster; for God's sake, Ellinor, tell them to drive faster! " 
 cried Lester, as he felt the form that leaned on his bosom wax 
 heavier and heavier. They sped on; the house was in sight, 
 that lonely and cheerless house, — not their sweet home at 
 Grassdale, with the ivy round its porch and the quiet church 
 behind. The sun was setting slowly, and Ellinor drew the 
 blind to shade the glare from her sister's eye. 
 
 Madeline felt the kindness, and smiled. Ellinor wiped her 
 eyes and tried to smile again. The carriage stopped, and 
 Madeline was lifted out; she stood, supported by her father 
 and Ellinor, for a moment on the threshold. She looked on 
 the golden sun and the gentle earth, and the little motes 
 dancing in the western ray ; all was steeped in quiet, and full 
 of the peace and tranquillity of the pastoral life. "No, no," 
 she muttered, grasping her father's hand. "How is this? 
 This is not his hand! Ah, no, no; I am not with him! 
 Father," she added, in a louder and deeper voice, rising from 
 his breast, and standing alone and unaided, "Father, bury 
 this little packet with me, — they are his letters; do not break 
 the seal, — and — and tell him that I never felt how deeply I 
 — loved him — till all — the world — had — deserted him! " 
 
 She uttered a faint cry of pain, and fell at once to the 
 ground ; she lived a few hours longer, but never made speech 
 or sign, or evinced token of life b\it its breath, which died at 
 last gradually, imperceptibly, away. 
 
 On the following evening Walter obtained entrance to 
 Aram's cell: that morning the prisoner had seen Lester; that 
 morning he had heard of Madeline's death. He had shed no 
 tear; he had, in the affecting language of Scripture, "turned 
 his face to the wall; " none had seen his emotions: yet Lester 
 felt in that bitter interview that his daughter was duly 
 mourned. 
 
394 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 Aram did not lift his eyes when Walter was admitted, and 
 the young man stood almost at his knee before he perceived 
 him. Aram then looked up, and they gazed on each other foi 
 a moment, but without speaking, till Walter said in a hollow 
 voice, — 
 
 " Eugene Aram ! " 
 
 "Ay!" 
 
 "Madeline Lester is no more." 
 
 "I have heard it! I am reconciled. Better now than later." 
 
 " Aram ! " said Walter, in a tone trembling with emotion, 
 and passionately clasping his hands, "I entreat, I implore 
 you, at this awful time, if it be within your power to lift from 
 my heart a load that weighs it to the dust, that, if left there, 
 will make me through life a crushed and miserable man, — I 
 implore you, in the name of common humanity, by your hopes 
 of heaven, to remove it! The time now has irrevocably passed 
 when your denial or your confession could alter your doom; 
 your days are numbered ; there is no hope of reprieve : I im- 
 plore you, tlien, if you were led — I will not ask how, or 
 wherefore — to the execution of the crime for the charge of 
 which you die, to say, to whisper, to me but one word of con- 
 fession, and I, the sole child of the murdered man, will for- 
 give you from the bottom of my soul." 
 
 Walter paused, unable to proceed. 
 
 Aram's brow worked; he turned aside; he made no an- 
 swer; his head dropped on his bosom, and his eyes were 
 unmovedly fixed on the earth. 
 
 "Reflect," continued Walter, recovering himself, "reflect! 
 I have been the involuntary instrument in bringing you to 
 this awful fate, in destroying the happiness of my own house, 
 in — in — in breaking the heart of the woman whom I adored 
 even as a boy. If you be innocent, what a dreadful remem- 
 brance is left to me! Be merciful, Aram, be merciful! and 
 if this deed was done by your hand, say to me but one word 
 to remove the terrible uncertainty that now harrows up my 
 being. W^hat now is earth, is man, is opinion, to you ? God 
 onlj^ now can judge you. The eye of God reads your heart 
 while I speak; and in the awful hour when eternity opens to 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 395 
 
 you, if the guilt lias been indeed committed, think, oh ! think 
 how much lighter will be your offence if, by vanquishing the 
 stubborn heart, you can relieve a human being from a doubt 
 that otherwise will make the curse, the horror of an existence. 
 Aram, Aram, if the father's death came from you, shall 
 the life of the son be made a burden to him through you 
 also ? " 
 
 "What would you have of me? Speak!" said Aram, but 
 without lifting his face from his breast. 
 
 "Much of your nature belies this crime. You are wise, 
 calm, beneficent to the distressed. Revenge, passion, nay, 
 the sharp pangs of hunger, may have urged you to one crim- 
 inal deed; but your soul is not wholly hardened, — nay, I 
 think I can so far trust you that if at this dread "moment (the 
 clay of Madeline Lester scarce yet cold, woe busy and soften- 
 ing at your breast, and the son of the murdered dead before 
 you), if at this moment you can lay your hand on your heart, 
 and say, ' Before God, and at peril of my soul, I am innocent 
 of this deed,' I will depart, I will believe you, and bear, as 
 bear I may, the reflection that I have been one of the uncon- 
 scious agents in condemning to a fearful death an innocent 
 man! If innocent in this, how good, how perfect, in all else! 
 But if you cannot at so dark a crisis take that oath, then, oh 
 then! be just, be generous, even in guilt, and let me not be 
 haunted throughout life by the spectre of a ghastly and rest- 
 less doubt. Speak! oh, speak!" 
 
 Well, well may we judge how crushing must have been that 
 doubt m the breast of one naturally bold and fiery when it 
 thus humbled the very son of the murdered man to forget 
 wrath and vengeance and descend to prayer ! But Walter had 
 heard the defence of Aram ; he had marked his mien ; not once 
 in that trial had he taken his eyes from the prisoner; and he 
 had felt, like a bolt of ice through his heart, that the sentence 
 passed on the accused, his judgment could not have passed! 
 How dreadful must, then, have been the state of his mind 
 when, repairing to Lester's house, he found it the house of 
 death, — the pure, the beautiful spirit gone; the father mourn- 
 ing for his child, and not to be comforted; and Ellinor — No; 
 
396 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 scenes like these, thoughts like these, pluck the pride from a 
 man's heart! 
 
 *' Walter Lester, " said Aram, after a pause, but raising his 
 head with dignity, tliough on the features there was but one 
 expression, — woe, unutterable woe, "Walter Lester, I had 
 thought to quit life with my tale untold. But you have not 
 appealed to me in vain; I tear the self from my heart, — I re- 
 nounce the last haughty dream in which I wrapped myself from 
 the ills around me. You shall learn all, and judge accord- 
 ingly. But to your ear the tale can scarce be told; the son 
 cannot hear in silence that which, unless I too unjustly, too 
 wholly condemn myself, I must say of the dead. But time," 
 continued Aram, mutteringly, and with his eyes on vacancy, 
 "time does not press too fast. Better let the hand speak than 
 the tongue. Yes, the day of execution is — ay, ay — two days 
 yet to it — to-morrow ? No ! Young man, " he said abruptly, 
 turning to Walter, "on the day after to-morrow, about seven 
 in the evening, — the eve before that morn fated to be my last, 
 — come to me. At that time I will place in your hands a 
 paper containing the whole history that connects myself with 
 your father. On the word of a man on the brink of another 
 world, no truth that imports your interest therein shall be 
 omitted. But read it not till I am no more; and when read, 
 confide the tale to none till Lester's gray hairs have gone to 
 the grave. This swear; 'tis an oath difficult perhaps to keep, 
 but — " 
 
 " As my Redeemer lives, I will swear to both conditions ! " 
 cried Walter, with a solemn fervor. "But tell me now, at 
 least — " 
 
 "Ask me no more," interrupted Aram, in his turn. "The 
 time is near when you will know all; tarry that time, and 
 leave me! Yes, leave me now, at once; leave me." 
 
 To dwell lingeringly over those passages which excite pain 
 without satisfying curiosity, is scarcely the duty of the drama, 
 or of that province even nobler than the drama, — for it re- 
 quires minuter care, indulges in more complete description, 
 yields to more elaborate investigation of motives, commands a 
 greater variety of chords in the human heart, — to which, with 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 397 
 
 poor and feeble power for so high, yet so ill-appreciated a 
 task we now, not irreverently if rashly, aspire! 
 
 We glance not around us at the chamber of death; at the 
 broken heart of Lester; at the twofold agony of his surviving 
 child, — the agony which mourns and yet seeks to console an- 
 other; the mixed emotions of Walter, in which an unsleeping 
 eagerness to learn the fearful all formed the main part; the 
 solitary cell and solitary heart of the convicted, — we glance 
 not at these; we pass at once to the evening in which Aram 
 again saw Walter Lester, and for the last time. 
 
 "You are come, punctual to the hour," said he, in a low, 
 clear voice: "I have not forgotten my word; the fulfilment 
 of that promise has been a victory over myself which no man 
 can appreciate : but I owed it to you. I have discharged the 
 debt. Enough ! I have done more than 1 at first purposed. I 
 have extended my narration, but superficially in some parts, 
 over my life, — that prolixity perhaps I owed to myself. 
 Remember your promise: this seal is not broken till the pulse 
 is stilled in the hand which now gives you these papers! " 
 
 Walter renewed his oath, and Aram, pausing for a moment, 
 continued in an altered and softening voice, — 
 
 "Be kind to Lester; soothe, console him; never by a hint 
 let him think otherwise of me than he does. For his sake 
 more than mine I ask this. Venerable, kind old man! the 
 warmth of human affection has rarely glowed for me. To the 
 few who loved me, how deeply I have repaid the love! Bui 
 these are not words to pass between you and me. Farewell! 
 Yet before we part, say this much : whatever I have revealed 
 in this confession, whatever has been my wrong to you, or 
 whatever (a less offence) the language I have now, justifying 
 myself, used to — to your father — say that you grant me that 
 pardon which one man may grant another." 
 
 "Fully, cordially," said Walter. 
 
 " In the day that for you brings the death that to-morrow 
 awaits me," said Ai-am. in a deep tone, "be that forgiveness 
 accorded to yourself! Farewell. In that untried variety of 
 being which spreads beyond us, who knows but that, in our 
 several progress from grade to grade, and world to world, our 
 
398 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 souls, tliougli in far distant ages, may meet again, — one dim 
 and shadowy memory of this hour the link between us ! fare- 
 well, farewell ! " 
 
 For the reader's interest we think it better (and certainly 
 it is more immediately in the due course of narrative, if not 
 of actual events) to lay at once before him the confession that 
 Aram placed in Walter's hands, without waiting till that time 
 when Walter himself broke the seal of a confession, not of 
 deeds alone, but of thoughts how wild and entangled, of feel- 
 ings how strange and dark, of a starred soul that had wan- 
 dered from how proud an orbit to what perturbed and unholy 
 regions of night and chaos! For me, I have not sought to 
 derive the reader's interest from the vulgar sources that such 
 a tale might have afforded; I have suffered him, almost from 
 the beginning, to pierce into Aram's secret; and I have pre- 
 pared him for that guilt, with which other narrators of this 
 story might have only sought to surprise. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE confession; and the fate. 
 
 In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire 
 
 Witli good old folks and let them tell thee tales 
 
 Of woeful ages long ago betid ; 
 
 And ere thou bid good night, to quit their griefs, 
 
 Tell thou the lamentable fall of me. — Richard II. 
 
 August, 1759. 
 1 WAS born at Ramsgill, a little village in ISTetherdale. My 
 family had originally been of some rank; they were formerly 
 lords of the town of Aram, on the southern banks of the Tees. 
 >)Ut time had humbled these pretensions to consideration, 
 though they were still fondly cherished by the inheritors of 
 an ancient name and idle but haughty recollections. My 
 father resided on a small farm, and was especially skilful in 
 horticulture, — a taste I derived from him. When I was about 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 399 
 
 thirteen, the deep and intense passion that has made the demon 
 of my life, first stirred palpably within me. I had always 
 been, from my cradle, of a solitary disposition, and inclined 
 to revery and musing; these traits of character heralded the 
 love that now seized me, — the love of knowledge. Oppor- 
 tunity or accident first directed my attention to the abstruser 
 sciences. I poured my soul over that noble study which is 
 the best foundation of all true discovery; and the success I 
 met with soon turned my pursuits into more alluring chan- 
 nels. History, poetry, — the mastery of the past, and the 
 spell that admits us into the visionary world, — took the 
 place which lines and numbers had done before. I became 
 gradually more and more rapt and solitary in my habits; 
 knowledge assumed a yet more lovely and bewitching charac- 
 ter, and every day the passion to attain it increased upon me. 
 I do not — I have not now the heart to do it — enlarge upon 
 what I acquired without assistance, and with labor sweet in 
 proportion to its intensity.-' The world, the creation, all 
 things that lived, moved, and were, became to me objects 
 contributing to one passionate and, I fancied, one exalted end. 
 I suffered the lowlier pleasures of life, and the charms of its 
 more common ties, to glide away from me untasted and unfelt. 
 As you read, in the East, of men remaining motionless for 
 days together, with their eyes fixed upon the heavens, my 
 mind, absorbed in the contemplation of the things above its 
 reach, had no sight of what passed around. jMy parents died, 
 and I was an orphan. I had no home and no wealth; but 
 wherever the field contained a flower, or the heavens a star, 
 there was matter of thought, and food for deliglit, to me. I 
 wandered alone for months together, seldom sleeping but in 
 the open air, and shunning the human form as that part of 
 God's works from which I could learn the least. I came to 
 Knaresborough; the beauty of the country, a facility in ac- 
 quiring books from a neighboring library that was open to me, 
 made me resolve to settle there. And now, new desires opened 
 
 1 We learn from a letter of Eugene Aram, now extant, that his method of 
 acquiring ttie learned languages was to linger over five lines at a time, and 
 never to quit a passage till he thought he had comprehended its meaning. 
 
400 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 upon me with new stores, — I became haunted with the ambi- 
 tion to enlighten and instruct my race. At first I had loved 
 knowledge solely for itself; I now saw afar an object grander 
 than knowledge. To what end, said I, are these labors ? 
 Why do I feed a lamp which consumes itself in a desert 
 place ? Why do I heap up riches, without asking Avho shall 
 gather them ? I was restless and discontented. What could 
 I do ? I was friendless; I was strange to my kind; I saw my 
 desires checked when their aim was at the highest; all that 
 was aspiring in my hopes, and ardent in my nature, was 
 cramped and chilled. I exhausted the learning within my 
 reach. Where, with my appetite excited, not slaked, was I, 
 destitute and penniless, to search for more ? My abilities, 
 by bowing them to the lowliest tasks, biit kept me from fam- 
 ine : was this to be my lot forever? And all the while I was 
 grinding down my soul in order to satisfy the vile physical 
 wants, what golden hours, what glorious advantages, what 
 openings into new heavens of science, what chance of illumi- 
 nating mankind, were forever lost to me ! Sometimes, when 
 the young, to whom I taught some homely elements of know- 
 ledge, came around me ; when they looked me in the face with 
 their laughing eyes ; when (for they all loved me) they told 
 me their little pleasures and their petty sorrows, — I have 
 wished that I could have gone back again into childhood, and, 
 becoming as one of them, enter into that heaven of quiet which 
 was denied me now. Yet it was more often with an indignant 
 than a sorrowful spirit that I looked upon my lot. For there 
 lay my life, imprisoned in penury as in the walls of a jail. 
 Heaven smiled, and earth blossomed around; but how scale 
 the stern barriers, — how steal through the inexorable gate? 
 True, that by bodily labor I could give food to the body, — to 
 starve by such labor the craving wants of the mind. Beg I 
 could not. Whenever lived the real student, the true min- 
 ister and priest of Knowledge, who was not filled with the 
 lofty sense of the dignity of his calling ? Was I to show the 
 sores of my pride, and strip my heart from its clothing, and 
 ask the dull fools of wealth not to let a scholar starve ? No! 
 He whom the vilest poverty ever stooped to this, may be the 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 401 
 
 quack, but never the true disciple of Learning. What did I 
 then ? I devoted the meanest part of my knowledge to the 
 procuring the bare means of life; and the knowledge that 
 pierced to the depths of earth, and numbered the stars of 
 heaven, — why, that was valueless in the market! 
 
 In Knaresborough, at this time, I met a distant relation, 
 Richard Houseman. Sometimes in our walks we encountered 
 each other; for he sought me, and I could not always avoid 
 him. He was a man like myself, born to poverty, yet he had 
 always enjoyed what to him was wealth. This seemed a mys- 
 tery to me; and when we met, we sometimes conversed upon 
 it. "You are poor, with all your wisdom," said he. "I 
 know nothing ; but I am never poor. Why is this ? The 
 world is my treasury. I live upon my kind. Society is my 
 foe. Laws order me to starve; but self-preservation is an 
 instinct more sacred than society, and more imperious than 
 laws." 
 
 The audacity of his discourse revolted me. At first I turned 
 away in disgust; then I stood and heard — to ponder and in- 
 quire. Nothing so tasks the man of books as his first blunder- 
 ing guess at the problems of a guilty heart! Houseman had 
 been a soldier; he had seen the greatest part of Europe; he 
 possessed a strong, shrewd sense; he was a villain, — but a 
 villain bold, adroit, and not then thoroughly unredeemed. 
 Trouble seized me as I heard him, and the shadow of his life 
 stretched farther and darker over the wilderness of mine. 
 When Houseman asked me, "Wliat law befriended the man 
 without money? To what end I had cultivated my mind ? or 
 What good the voice of knowledge could effect while Poverty 
 forbade it to be heard ? " the answer died upon my lips. Then 
 I sought to escape from these terrible doubts. I plunged 
 again into my books. I called upon ray intellect to defend, 
 and my intellect betrayed me. For suddenly as I pored over 
 my scanty books, a gigantic discovery in science gleamed across 
 me. I saw the means of effecting a vast benefit to truth and 
 to man, — of adding a new conquest to that only empire which 
 no fate can overthrow, and no time wear away. And in this 
 discovery I was stopped by the total inadequacy of my means. 
 
 2(> 
 
402 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 The books and implements I required were not within my 
 reach; a handful of gold would buy them, — I had not where- 
 withal to buy bread for the morrow's meal! In my solitude 
 and misery tliis discovery haunted me like a visible form, — 
 it smiled upon me; a fiend that took the aspect of beauty, it 
 wooed me to its charms that it might lure my soul into its 
 fangs. I heard it murmur, "One bold deed, and I am thine! 
 Wilt thou lie down in the ditch and die the dog's death, or 
 hazard thy life for the means that may serve and illumine the 
 world ? Shrinkest thou from men's laws, though the laws bid 
 thee rot on their outskirts ? Is it not for the service of man 
 that thou shouldst for once break the law on behalf of that 
 knowledge from which all laws take their source ? If thou 
 wrongest the one, thou shalt repay it in boons to the million. 
 For the ill of an hour thou shalt give a blessing to ages!" 
 So spoke to me the tempter. And one day, when the tempter 
 spoke loudest, Houseman met me, accompanied by a stranger 
 who had just visited our town, for what purpose you know al- 
 ready. His name — supposed name — was Clarke. Man, lam 
 about to speak plainly of that stranger, — his character and his 
 fate. And yet — yet you are his son ! I would fain soften the 
 coloring; but I speak truth of myself, and I must not, unless 
 I would blacken my name yet deeper than it deserves, varnish 
 truth when I speak of others. Houseman joined, and pre- 
 sented to me this person. From the first I felt a dislike of 
 the stranger, which indeed it was easy to account for. He 
 was of a careless and somewhat insolent manner. His coun- 
 tenance was impressed with the lines and characters of a thou- 
 sand vices; you read in the brow and eye the history of a 
 sordid yet reckless life. His conversation was repellent to 
 me beyond expression. He uttered the meanest sentiments, 
 and he chuckled over them as the maxims of a superior sa- 
 gacity; he avowed himself a knave upon system, and upon 
 the lowest scale. To overreach, to • deceive, to elude, to 
 shuffle, to fawn, and to lie, were the arts to which he con- 
 fessed with so naked and cold a grossness that one perceived 
 that in the long habits of debasement he was unconscious of 
 what was not debased. Houseman seemed to draw him out. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 403 
 
 Clarke told us anecdotes of his rascality, and the distresses to 
 which it had brought him ; and he finished by saying : " Yet 
 you see me now almost rich, and wholly contented. I have 
 always been the luckiest of human beings ; no matter what ill 
 chances to-day, good turns up to-morrow. I confess that I 
 bring on myself the ill, and Providence sends me the good." 
 We met accidentally more than once, and his conversation 
 was always of the same strain, — his luck and his rascality; 
 he had no other theme, and no other boast. And did not this 
 aid the voice of the tempter ? Was it not an ordination that 
 called upon men to take fortune in their own hands when 
 Fate lavished her rewards on this low and creeping thing that 
 could only enter even Vice by its sewers and alleys ? Was it 
 worth while to be virtuous and look on, while the bad seized 
 upon the feast of life ? This man was but moved by the bas- 
 est passions, the pettiest desires; he gratified them, and Fate 
 smiled upon his daring. I, who had shut out from my heart 
 the poor temptations of sense ; I, who fed only the most glo- 
 rious visions, the most august desires, — I denied myself their 
 fruition, trembling and spellbound in the cerements of human 
 laws, without hope, without reward, losing the very powers 
 of virtue because I would not stray into crime! 
 
 These thoughts fell on me darkly and rapidly; but they led 
 as yet to no result. I saw nothing beyond them. I suffered 
 my indignation to gnaw my heart, and preserved the same 
 calm and serene demeanor which had grown with my growth 
 of mind. Strange that while I upbraided Fate, I did not cease 
 to love mankind. I coveted — what ? The power to serve 
 them. I had been kind and loving to all things from a boy; 
 there was not a dumb animal that would not single me from 
 a crowd as its protector,^ — and yet I was doomed — But 
 
 1 All the authentic anecdotes of Aram corroborate the fact of his natural 
 gentleness to all things. A clergyman (the Rev. Mr. Hinton) said that he 
 used frequently to observe Aram, when walking in the garden, stoop down to 
 remove a snail or worm from the path, to prevent its being destroyed. Mr. 
 Hinton ingeniously conjectured that Aram wished to atone for his crime by 
 showing mercy to every animal and insect ; but the fact is that there are 
 several anecdotes to show that he was equally humane before the crime was 
 committed. Such are the strange contradictions of the human heart. 
 
404 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 I must not forestall the dread catastrophe of my life. In 
 returning, at night, to my own home from my long and soli- 
 tary walks, I often jaassed the house in which Clarke lodged; 
 and sometimes I met him reeling by the door, insulting all 
 who passed, — and yet their resentment was absorbed in their 
 disgust. "And this loathsome and grovelling thing," said I, 
 inly, "squanders on low excesses, wastes upon oiitrages to 
 society, that with which I could make my soul as a burning 
 lamp that should shed a light over the world ! " 
 
 There was that in the man's vices which revolted me far 
 more than the villany of Houseman. The latter had pos- 
 sessed few advantages of education; he descended to no mi- 
 nutiae of sin; he was a plain, blunt, coarse wretch, and his 
 sense threw something respectable around his vices. But in 
 Clarke you saw the traces of happier opportunities, of better 
 education; it was in him not the coarseness of manner that 
 displeased, it was the lowness of sentiment that sickened me. 
 Had Houseman money in his purse, he would have paid a 
 debt and relieved a friend from mere indifference; not so the 
 other. Had Clarke been overflowing with wealth, he would 
 have slipped from a creditor and duped a friend; there was a 
 pitiful cunning in his nature which made him regard the low- 
 est meanness as the subtlest wit. His mind, too, was not 
 only degraded, but broken by his habits of life; he had the 
 laugh of the idiot at his own debasement. Houseman was 
 young, he might amend, — but Clarke had gray hairs and dim 
 eyes; was old in constitution, if not years; and everything in 
 him was hopeless and confirmed : the leprosy was in the sys- 
 tem. Time, in this, has made Houseman what Clarke was 
 then. 
 
 One day, in passing through the street, though it was broad 
 noon, I encountered Clarke in a state of intoxication, and 
 talking to a crowd he had collected around him. I sought to 
 pass in an opposite direction; he would not suffer me, — he, 
 whom I sickened to touch, to see, threw himself in my way, 
 and affected gibe and insult, nay, even threat. But when he 
 came near, he shrank before the mere glance of my eye, and 
 I passed on, unheeding him. The insult galled me; he had 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 406 
 
 taunted my poverty, — poverty was a favorite jest with him, 
 — it galled me. Anger ? revenge ? No; ^Aose passions I had 
 never felt for any man. I could not rouse them for the tirst 
 time at such a cause; yet I was lowered in my own eyes, 
 I was stung. Poverty! he taunt me! I wandered from the 
 town, antl paused by the winding and shagged hanks of the 
 river. It was a gloomy winter's day; the waters rolled on 
 black and sullen, and the dry leaves rustled desolately be- 
 neath my feet. Who shall tell us that outward Nature has 
 no effect upon our mood ? All around seemed to frown upon 
 my lot. I read in the face of heaven and earth a confirma- 
 tion of the curse which man hath set upon poverty. I leaned 
 against a tree that overhung the waters, and suffered my 
 thoughts to glide on in the bitter silence of their course. I 
 heard my name uttered, I felt a hand on my arm, I turned, 
 and Houseman was by my side. 
 
 "What! moralizing?" said he, with his rude smile. 
 
 I did not answer him. 
 
 "Look," said he, pointing to the waters, "where yonder fish 
 lies waiting his prey, — that prey his kind. Come, you have 
 read Nature : is it not so universally ? " 
 
 Still I did not answer him. 
 
 "They who do not as the rest," he renewed, "fulfil not the 
 object of their existence; they seek to be wiser than their 
 tribe, and are fools for their pains. Is it not so ? I am a 
 plain man, and would learn." 
 
 Still I did not answer him. 
 
 "You are silent," said he: "do I offend you ?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "Now, then," he continued, "strange as it may seem, we, 
 so different in mind, are at this moment alike in fortunes. I 
 have not a guinea in the wide world; you, perhaps, are equally 
 destitute. But mark the difference : I, the ignorant man, ere 
 three days have passed, will have filled my purse; you, the 
 wise man, will be still as poor. Come, cast away your wis- 
 dom, and do as I do." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Take from the superfluities of others what your necessi- 
 
406 EUGENE ARAJVI. 
 
 ties crave. My horse, my pistol, a ready hand, a stout heart, 
 these are to me what coffers are to others. There is the 
 chance of detection and death; I allow it; but is not this 
 chance better than some certainties ? " 
 
 The tempter with the glorious face and the demon fangs 
 rose again before me, and spoke in the robber's voice. 
 
 " Will you share the danger and the booty ? " renewed 
 Houseman, in a low voice. 
 
 "Speak out," said I; "explain your purpose! " 
 
 Houseman's looks brightened. 
 
 " Listen ! " said he ; " Clarke, despite his present wealth, 
 lawfully gained, is about to purloin more; he has converted 
 his legacy into jewels ; he has borrowed other jewels on false 
 pretences ; he intends to make these also his own, and to leave 
 the town in the dead of night : he has confided to me his pur- 
 pose and asked my aid. He and I, be it known to you, were 
 friends of old; we have shared together other dangers and 
 other spoils. Now do you guess my meaning ? Let us ease 
 him of his burden ! I offer to you the half ; share the enter- 
 prise and its fruits." 
 
 I rose, I walked away, I pressed my hands on my heart. 
 Houseman saw the conflict. He followed me ; he named the 
 value of the prize he proposed to gain: that which he called 
 my share placed all my wishes within my reach, — leisure, 
 independence, knowledge. The sublime Discovery, the pos- 
 session of the glorious Fiend, — all, all within my grasp, and 
 by a single deed; no frauds oft repeated, no sins long con- 
 tinued, — a single deed! I breathed heavily, but the weight 
 still lay upon my heart. I shut my eyes and shuddered: the 
 mortal shuddered, but still the demon smiled. 
 
 " Give me your hand, " said Houseman. 
 
 "Xo, no," I said, breaking away from him; "I must pause, 
 I must consider. I do not yet refuse, but I will not now 
 decide." 
 
 Houseman pressed, but I persevered in my determination; 
 he would have threatened me, but my nature was haughtier 
 than his, and I subdued him. It was agreed that he should 
 seek me that night and learn my choice; the next night was 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 40T 
 
 the one on which the robbery was to be committed. We 
 parted; I returned an altered man to my liome. Fate had 
 woven her mesh around me; a new incident had occurred, 
 which strengthened the web: there was a poor girl whom I 
 had been accustomed to see in my walks. She supported her 
 family by her dexterity in making lace, — a quiet, patient- 
 looking, gentle creature. Clarke had, a few days since, under 
 pretence of purchasing lace, decoyed her to his house (when 
 all but himself were from home), where he used the most 
 brutal violence towards her. The extreme poverty of the pa- 
 rents had enabled him easily to persuade them to hush up the 
 matter, but something of the story got abroad; the poor girl 
 was marked out for that gossip and scandal which among the 
 very lowest classes are as coarse in the expression as malig- 
 nant in the sentiment; and in the paroxysm of shame and 
 despair the unfortunate girl had that day destroyed herself. 
 This melancholy event wrung forth from the parents the real 
 story : the event and the story reached my ears at the very 
 hour in which my mind was wavering to and fro. " And it is 
 to such uses," said the tempter, "that this man puts his 
 gold!" 
 
 Houseman came punctual to our dark appointment. I gave 
 him my hand in silence. The tragic end of his victim, and 
 the indignation it caused, made Clarke yet more eager to leave 
 the town. He had settled with Houseman that he would ab- 
 scond that very night, — not wait for the next, as at first he 
 had intended. His jewels and property were put in a small 
 compass. He had arranged that he would, towards midnight 
 or later, quit his lodging, and about a mile from the town, 
 Houseman had engaged to have a chaise in readiness. For 
 this service Clarke had promised Houseman a reward with 
 which the latter appeared contented. It was agreed that I 
 should meet Houseman and Clarke at a certain spot in their 
 way from the town. Houseman appeared at first fearful lest 
 I should relent and waver in my purpose. It is never so with 
 men whose thoughts are deep and strong. To resolve was the 
 arduous step, — once resolved, and I cast not a look behind. 
 Houseman left me for the present. I could not rest in my 
 
408 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 chamber; I went forth and walked about the town. The 
 night deepened; I saw the lights in each house withdrawn, 
 one by one, and at length all was hushed, — Silence and Sleep 
 kept court over the abodes of men. Nature never seemed to 
 me to make so dread a pause. 
 
 The moon came out, but with a pale and sickly countenance. 
 It was winter; the snow, which had been falling towards eve, 
 lay deep upon the ground; and the frost seemed to lock the 
 universal nature into the same dread tranquillity which had 
 taken possession of my soul. 
 
 Houseman was to have come to me at midnight, just before 
 Clarke left his house ; but it was nearly two hours after that 
 time ere he arrived. I was then walking to and fro before 
 my own door. I saw that he was not alone, but with Clarke. 
 "Ha!" said he, "this is fortunate; I see you are just going 
 home. You were engaged, I recollect, at some distance from 
 the town, and have, I suppose, just returned. Will you ad- 
 mit Mr. Clarke and myself for a short time ? For to tell you 
 the truth," said he, in a lower voice, "the watchman is about, 
 and we must not be seen by him ! I have told Clarke that he 
 may trust you, — we are relatives! " 
 
 Clarke, who seemed strangely credulous and indifferent, 
 considering the character of his associate, — but those whom 
 Fate destroys she first blinds, — made the same request in a 
 careless tone, assigning the same cause. Unwillingly, I 
 opened the door and admitted them. We went up to my 
 chamber. Clarke spoke with the utmost unconcern of the 
 fraud he purposed, and with a heartlessness that made my 
 veins boil of the poor wretch his brutality had destroyed. 
 They stayed for nearly an hour, for the watchman remained 
 some time in that beat; and then Houseman asked me to ac- 
 company them a little way out of the town. Clarke seconded 
 the request. We walked forth. The rest why need I tell ? 
 I cannot, O God, I cannot! Houseman lied in the court. I 
 did not strike the blow, I never designed a murder. Crime 
 enough in a robber's deed! He fell, he grasped my hand, 
 raised not to strike, but to shield him ! Never more has the 
 right hand cursed by that dying clasp been given in pledge of 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 409 
 
 human faith and friendship. But the deed was done, and the 
 robber's comrade, in the eyes of man and hiw, was tlie mur- 
 derer's accomplice. 
 
 Houseman divided the booty; my share he buried in the 
 earth, leaving me to withdraw it when I chose. There, per- 
 haps, it lies still. I never touched what I had murdered my 
 oicm life to gain. His share, by the aid of a gypsy hag with 
 whom he had dealings. Houseman removed to London. And 
 now, mark what poor strugglers we are in the eternal web of 
 destiny ! Three days after that deed a relation, who neglected 
 me in life, died, and left me wealth, — wealth at least to me; 
 wealth greater than that for which I had . . . ! The news 
 fell on me as a thunderbolt. Had I waited but three little 
 days! Just Heaven! when they told me, I thought I heard 
 the devils laugh out at the fool who had boasted wisdom. 
 Had I waited but three days, three little days; had but a 
 dream been sent me, had but my heart cried within me, 
 "Thou hast suffered long, tarry yet!"^ No, it was for this, 
 for the guilt and its penance, for the wasted life and the 
 shameful death, — with all my thirst for good, my dreams of 
 glory, — that I was born, that I was marked from my first 
 sleep in the cradle. 
 
 The disappearance of Clarke of course created great excite- 
 ment; those whom he had overreached had naturally an inter- 
 
 1 Aram has hitherto been suffered to tell his own tale, without comment 
 or interruption. The chain of reasonings, the metaphysical labyrinth of 
 defence and motive, wliich he wrought around his guilt, it was, in justice to 
 him, necessary to give at length, iu order to throw a clearer light on his 
 ciiaracter, and lighten, perhaps, in some measure the colors of his crime. 
 No moral can be more impressive than that which teaches how man can 
 entaugle himself in his own sophisms ; that moral is better, viewed aright, 
 than volumes of homilies But here I must pause for one moment to bid the 
 reader remark that that event which confirmed Aram in the bewildering doc- 
 trines of his pernicious fatalism, ought rather to inculcate the divine virtue — 
 the foundation of all virtues, Heathen or Christian; that which Epictetus 
 made clear, and Christ sacred — Fortitude. The reader will note that the 
 answer to the reasonings that probably convinced the mind of Aram, and 
 blinded him to his crime, may be found in the change of feelings by which the 
 crime was followed. I must apologize for this interruption ; it seemed to me 
 advisable in this place. 
 
410 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 est in discovering him. Some vague surmises that he might 
 have been made away with were rumored abroad. Houseiiiau 
 and I, owing to some concurrence of circumstance, were ex- 
 amined, — not that suspicion attached to me before or after 
 the examination. That ceremony ended in nothing. House- 
 man did not betray himself; and I, who from a boy had mas- 
 tered my passions, could master also the nerves by which 
 passions are betrayed. But I read in the face of the woman 
 with whom I lodged that I was suspected. Houseman told 
 me that she had openly expressed her suspicion to him, — nay, 
 he entertained some design against her life, which he natur- 
 ally abandoned on quitting the town. This he did soon after- 
 wards, I did not linger long behind him. I received my 
 legacy, and departed on foot to Scotland, And now I was 
 above want : was I at rest ? Not yet. I felt urged on to 
 wander, — Cain's curse descends to Cain's children. I trav- 
 elled for some considerable time; I saw men and cities, and 
 I opened a new volume in my kind. It was strange, but be- 
 fore the deed I was as a child in the ways of the world, and a 
 child, despite my knowledge, might have duped me. The 
 moment after it, a light broke upon me, — it seemed as if my 
 eyes were touched with a charm, and rendered capable of 
 piercing the hearts of men! Yes, it was a charm, a new 
 charm, — it was Suspicion! I now practised myself in the 
 use of arms; they made my sole companions. Peaceful as I 
 seemed to the world, I felt there was that eternally within me 
 with which the world was at war. 
 
 And what became of the superb ambition which had undone 
 me ? Where vanished that Grand Discovery which was to 
 benefit the world ? The ambition died in remorse, and the 
 vessel that should have borne me to the far Land of Science 
 lay rotting piecemeal on a sea of blood. The Past destroyed 
 my old heritage in the Future, The consciousness that at 
 any hour, in the possession of honors, by the hearth of love, 
 I might be dragged forth and proclaimed a murderer; that I 
 held my life, my reputation, at the breath of accident; that 
 in the moment I least dreamed of, the earth might yield its 
 dead and the gibbet demand its victim, — this could I feel, all 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 411 
 
 this, and not see a spectre in the place of science ? — a spectre 
 that walked by my side, that slept in my bed, that rose from 
 my books, that glided between me and the stars of heaven, 
 that stole along the flowers and withered their sweet breath, 
 that whispered in my ear, "Toil, fool, and be wise; the gift 
 of wisdom is to place us above the reach of fortune, but thou 
 art her veriest minion ! " Yes ; I paused at last from my 
 wanderings, and surrounded myself with books, and know- 
 ledge became once more to me what it had been, — a thirst, — 
 but not what it had been, — a reward. I occupied my thoughts, 
 1 laid up new hoards within my mind, I looked around, and 
 I saw few whose stores were like my own ; but gone forever 
 the sublime desire of applying wisdom to the service of man- 
 kind! IVIankind had grown my foes. I looked upon them 
 with other eyes. I knew that I carried within me that secret 
 which, if bared to day, would make them loathe and hate me, 
 — yea, though I coined my future life into one series of bene- 
 fits to them and their posterity ! Was not this thought enough 
 to quell my ardor, to chill activity into rest ? The brighter 
 the honors I might win, the greater the services I inight be- 
 stow on the world, the more dread and fearful might be my 
 fall at last! I might be but piling up the scaffold from which 
 I was to be hurled ! Possessed by these thoughts, a new view 
 of human affairs siicceeded to my old aspirings; the moment 
 a man feels that an object has ceased to charm, his reasonings 
 reconcile himself to his loss. "Why," said I, "why flatter 
 myself that / can serve, that I can enlighten mankind ? Are 
 we fully sure that individual wisdom has ever, in reality, done 
 so ? Are we really better because Newton lived, and happier 
 because Bacon thought ? " These freezing reflections pleased 
 the present state of my mind more than the warm and yearn- 
 ing enthusiasm it had formerly nourished. Mere worldly am- 
 bition, from a boy I had disdained; the true worth of sceptres 
 and crowns, the disquietude of power, the humiliations of 
 vanity, had never been disguised from my sight. Intellectual 
 ambition had inspired me. I now regarded it equally as a 
 delusion. I coveted light solely for my own soul to bathe in. 
 Rest now became to me the sole to KaX6v, the sole charm of 
 
412 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 existence. I grew enainoured of the doctrine of those old mys- 
 tics who have placed happiness only in an even and balanced 
 quietude. And where but in utter loneliness was that quie- 
 tude to be enjoyed ? I no longer wondered that men in former 
 times, when consumed by the recollection of some haunting 
 guilt, fled to the desert and became hermits. Tranquillity 
 and solitude are the only soothers of a memory deeply troubled: 
 light griefs fly to the crowd, fierce tlioughts must battle them- 
 selves to rest. Many years had flown, and I had made my 
 home in many places. All that was turbulent, if not all that 
 was unquiet, in my recollections had died away. Time had 
 lulled me into a sense of security. I breathed more freely. 
 I sometimes stole from the past. Since I had quitted Knares- 
 borough chance had often thrown it in my power to serve my 
 brethren, — not by wisdom, but by charity or courage; by in- 
 dividual acts that it soothed me to remember. If the grand 
 aim of enlightening a world was gone, if to so enlarged a 
 benevolence had succeeded apathy or despair, still the man, 
 the human man, clung to my heart; still was I as prone to 
 pity, as prompt to defend, as glad to cheer, whenever the 
 vicissitudes of life afforded me the occasion, — and to poverty, 
 most of all, my hand never closed. For, oh, what a terrible 
 devil creeps into that man's soul who sees famine at his door! 
 One tender act, and hoAV many black designs, struggling into 
 life within, you may crush forever! He who deems the world 
 his foe, — convince hlin that he has one friend, and it is like 
 snatching a dagger from his hand! 
 
 I came to a beautiful and remote part of the country, — 
 Walter Lester, I came to Grassdale! The enchanting scenery 
 around, the sequestered and deep retirement of the place, 
 arrested me at once. "And among these valleys," I said, 
 "will I linger out the rest of my life, and among these quiet 
 graves shall mine be dug, and my secret shall die with me ! " 
 
 I rented the lonely house in which I dwelt when you first 
 knew me; thither I transported my books and instruments of 
 science, and a deep quiet, almost amounting to content, fell 
 like a sweet sleep upon my soul! 
 
 In this state of mind, the most free from memory that I had 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 413 
 
 known for twelve years, I first saw Madeline Lester. Even 
 with that first time a sudden and heavenly light seemed to 
 dawn upon me. Her face — its still, its serene, its touching 
 beauty — shone down on my desolation like a dream of mercy, 
 like a hope of pardon. My heart warmed as I beheld it, my 
 pulse woke from its even slowness. I was young once more; 
 young, — the youth, the freshness, the ardor, not of the frame 
 only, but of the soul. But I then only saw or spoke to her, 
 scarce knew her, not loved her; nor was it often that we met. 
 The south wind stirred the dark waters of my mind; but it 
 passed, and all became hushed again. It was not for two 
 years from the time we first saw each other that accident 
 brought us closely together. I pass over the rest. We loved! 
 Yet, oh! what struggles were mine during the progress of 
 that love. How unnatural did it seem to me to yield to a pas- 
 sion that united me to my kind; and as I loved her more, how 
 far more torturing grew my fear of the future! That which 
 had almost slept before, awoke again to terrible life. The 
 soil that covered the past might be riven, the dead awake, and 
 that ghastly chasm separate me forever from her! What a 
 doom, too, might I bring upon that breast which had begun 
 so confidingly to love me! Often, often I resolved to fly, to 
 forsake her, to seek some desert spot in the distant parts of 
 the world, and never to be betrayed again into human emo- 
 tions ! But as the bird flutters in the net, as the hare doubles 
 from its pursuers, I did but wrestle, I did but trifle, with an 
 irresistible doom. Mark how strange are the coincidences of 
 Fate, — Fate that gives us warnings, and takes away the power 
 to obey them, the idle prophetess, the juggling fiend! On the 
 same evening that brought me acquainted with Madeline Les- 
 ter, Houseman, led by schemes of fraud and violence into that 
 part of the country, discovered and sought me ! Imagine my 
 feelings when in the hush of night I opened the door of my 
 lonely home to his summons, and by the light of that moon 
 which had witnessed so never-to-be-forgotten a companionship 
 between us, beheld my accomplice in murder after the lapse 
 of so many years ! Time and a course of vice had changed 
 and hardened and lowered his nature ; and in the power, at 
 
414 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 tlie will, of that nature I beheld myself abruptly placed. He 
 passed that night under my roof. He was poor; I gave him 
 what was in my hands. He promised to leave that part of 
 England, to seek me no more. 
 
 The next day I could not bear my own thoughts, the revul- 
 sion was too sudden, too full of turbulent, fierce, torturing 
 emotions ; I fled for a short relief to the house to which Made- 
 line's father had invited me. But in vain I sought, by wine, 
 by converse, by human voices, human kindness, to fly the 
 ghost that had been raised from the grave of time. I soon 
 returned to my own thoughts. I resolved to wrap myself once 
 more in the solitude of my heart. But let me not repeat 
 what I have said before, somewhat prematurely, in my narra- 
 tive. I resolved, I struggled in vain; Fate had ordained 
 that the sweet life of Madeline Lester should wither beneath 
 the poison tree of mine. Houseman sought me again; and 
 now came on the humbling part of crime, — its low calcula- 
 tions, its poor -defence, its paltry trickery, its mean hypoc- 
 risy. They made my chiefest penance. I was to evade, to 
 beguile, to buy into silence this rude and despised ruffian. 
 No matter now to repeat how this task was fulfilled; I 
 surrendered nearly my all on the condition of his leaving 
 England forever. Not till I thought that condition already 
 fulfilled, till the day had passed on which he should have 
 left England, did I consent to allow Madeline's fate to be 
 irrevocably woven with mine. 
 
 How often, when the soul sins, are her loftiest feelings 
 punished through her lowest! To me, lone, rapt, forever on 
 the wing to unearthly speculation, galling and humbling was 
 it, indeed, to be suddenly called from the eminence of thought 
 to barter in pounds and pence for life, and with one like 
 Houseman ! These are the curses that deepen the tragedy of 
 life, by grinding down our pride. But I wander back to what 
 I have before said. I was to marry Madeline. I was once 
 more poor, but want did not rise before me ; I had succeeded 
 in obtaining the promise of a competence from one whom you 
 know. For that which I had once sought to force from my 
 kind, I asked noWj not with the spirit of the beggar, but of 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 415 
 
 the just claimant, and in that spirit it was granted. And now 
 I was really happy: Houseman I believed removed forever 
 from my path; Madeline was about to be mine. I surren- 
 dered myself to love, and, blind and deluded, I wandered on, 
 and awoke on the brink of that precipice into which I am 
 about to plunge. You know the rest. But oh, what now was 
 my horror! It had not been a mere worthless, isolated unit 
 in creation that I had seen blotted out of the sum of life, — 
 the miirder done in my presence, and of which Law would deem 
 me the accomplice, had been done upon the brother of him 
 whose child was my betrothed. Mysterious avenger, relent- 
 less Fate, how, when I deemed myself the farthest from her, 
 had I been sinking into her grasp! How incalculable, how 
 measureless, how viewless the consequences of one crime, even 
 when we think we have weighed them all with scales that 
 have turned with a hair's weight! Hear me, — as the voice 
 of a man who is on the brink of a world, the awful nature 
 of which reason cannot pierce, — hear me! When your heart 
 tempts to some wandering from the line allotted to the rest of 
 men, and whispers, " This may be crime in others, but is not 
 so in thee ; " or, " It is but one misdeed, it shall entail no 
 other, " — tremble ; cling fast, fast to the path you are lured 
 to leave. Remember me! 
 
 But in this state of mind I was yet forced to play the hypo- 
 crite. Had I been alone in the world, had Madeline and Les- 
 ter not been to me what they were, I might have disproved 
 the charge of fellowship in murder; I might have wrung from 
 the pale lips of Houseman the actual truth. But though I 
 might clear myself as the murderer, I must condemn myself 
 as the robber; and in avowal of that lesser guilt, though I 
 might have lessened the abhorrence of others, I should have 
 inflicted a blow, worse than that of my death itself, on the 
 hearts of those who deemed me sinless as themselves. Their 
 eyes were on me; their lives were set on my complete acquit- 
 tal, less even of life than honor, — my struggle against truth 
 was less for myself than them. My defence fulfilled its end : 
 Madeline died without distrusting the innocence of him she 
 loved. Lester, unless you betray me, will die in the same 
 
416 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 belief. In truth, since the arts of hypocrisy have been com- 
 menced, the pride of consistency would have made it sweet to 
 me to leave the world in a like error, or at least in doubt. 
 For you I conquer that desire, — the proud man's last frailty. 
 And now my tale is done. From what passes at this instant 
 within my heart, I lift not the veil. Whether beneath be 
 despair, or hope, or fiery emotions, or one settled and ominous 
 calm, matters not My last hours shall not belie my life; on 
 the verge of death I will not play the dastard, and tremble at 
 the Dim Unknown. Perhaps I am not without hope that the 
 Great Unseen Spirit, whose emanation within me I have 
 nursed and worshipped, though erringly and in vain, may see 
 in his fallen creature one bewildered by his reason rather than 
 yielding to his vices. The guide I received from heaven be- 
 trayed me, and I was lost; but I have not plunged wittingly 
 from crime to crime. Against one guilty deed, some good and 
 much suffering may be set; and dim and afar off from my 
 allotted bourn, T may behold in her glorious home the face of 
 her who taught me to love, and who, even there, could scarce 
 be blessed without shedding the light of her divine forgive- 
 ness upon me. Enough! ere you break this seal my doom 
 rests not with man nor earth. The burning desires I have 
 known, the resplendent visions I have nursed, the sublime 
 inspirings that have lifted me so often from sense and clay, 
 
 — these tell me that, whether for good or ill, I am the thing 
 of an Immortality and the creature of a God! As men of the 
 old wisdom drew their garments around their face and sat 
 down collectedly to die, I wrap myself in the settled resigna- 
 tion of a soul firm to the last, and taking not from man's ven- 
 geance even the method of its dismissal. The courses of my 
 life I swayed with my own hand; from mine own hand shall 
 come the manner and moment of death! 
 
 Eugene Aram. 
 
 On the day after that evening in which Aram had given the 
 above confession to Walter Lester, — on the day of execution, 
 
 — when they entered the condemned cell they found the pris- 
 oner lying on the bed; and when they approached to take off 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 41T 
 
 the irons, they found, that he neither stirred nor answered to 
 their call. They attempted to raise him, and he then uttered 
 some words in a faint voice. They perceived that he was 
 covered with blood. He had opened his veins in two places 
 in the arm with a sharp instrument which he had contrived 
 to conceal. A surgeon was instantly sent for, and by the 
 customary applications the prisoner in some measure was 
 brought to himself. Kesolved not to defraud the law of its 
 victim, they bore him, though he appeared unconscious of all 
 around, to the fatal spot. But when he arrived at that dread 
 place, his sense suddenly seemed to return. He looked has- 
 tily round the throng that swayed and murmured below, and 
 a faint flush rose to his cheek; he cast his eyes impatiently 
 above, and breathed hard and convulsively. The dire prepa- 
 rations were made, completed; but the prisoner drew back 
 for an instant. Was it from mortal fear ? He motioned to 
 the clergyman to approach, as if about to whisper some last 
 request in his ear. The clergyman bowed his head; there 
 was a minute's awful pause; Aram seemed to struggle as for 
 words; when, suddenly throwing himself back, a bright, tri- 
 umphant smile flashed over his whole face. With that smile 
 the haughty spirit passed away, and the law's last indignity 
 was wreaked upon a breathless corpse! 
 
 27 
 
418 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. AND LAST. 
 
 THE traveller's RETURN, THE COUNTRY VILLAGE ONCE 
 
 MORE VISITED. ITS INHABITANTS. THE REMEMBERED 
 
 BROOK. THE DESERTED MANOR-HOUSE. THE CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 THE TRAVELLER RESUMES HIS JOURNEY. THE COUNTRY 
 
 TOWN. A MEETING OF TWO LOVERS AFTER LONG ABSENCE 
 
 AND MUCH SORROW. CONCLUSION. 
 
 The lopped tree in time may grow again, 
 Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower ; 
 The sorriest wight may find release from pain, 
 The driest soil suck in some moistening shower : 
 Times go by turns, and chances change by course 
 From foul to fair. — Robert Southwell. 
 
 Sometimes, towards the end of a gloomy day, the sun, be- 
 fore but dimly visible, breaks suddenly out, and where before 
 you had noticed only the sterner outline of the mountains, 
 you turn with relief to the lowlier features of the vale. So 
 in this record of crime and sorrow, the ray that breaks forth 
 at the close brings into gentle light the shapes which the ear- 
 lier darkness had obscured. 
 
 It was some years after the date of the last event we have 
 recorded, and it was a fine, warm noon in the happy month 
 of May, when a horseman rode slowly through the long, strag- 
 gling village of Grassdale. He was a man, though in the 
 prime of youth (for he might yet want some two years of 
 thirty), who bore the steady and earnest air of one who has 
 wrestled with the world, — his eye keen but tranquil; his sun- 
 burnt though handsome features, which thought or care had 
 despoiled of the roundness of their early contour, leaving the 
 cheek somewhat sunken and the lines somewhat marked, were 
 characterized by a grave, and at that moment by a melan- 
 choly and soft, expression; and now, as his horse proceeded 
 slowly through the green lane which at every vista gave 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 419 
 
 glimpses of rich, verdant valleys, the sparkling river, or the 
 orchard ripe with the fragrant blossoms of spring, his head 
 drooped upon his breast and the tears started to his eyes. 
 The dress of the horseman was of foreign fashion, and at that 
 day, when the garb still denoted the calling, sufficiently mili- 
 tary to show the profession he had belonged to. And well 
 did the garb become the short, dark mustache, the sinewy 
 chest, and length of limb of the young horseman, — recom- 
 mendations, the two latter, not despised in the court of the 
 Great Frederick of Prussia, in whose service he had borne 
 arms. He had commenced his career in that battle terminat- 
 ing in the signal defeat of the bold Daun, when the fortunes 
 of that gallant general paled at last before the star of the 
 greatest of modern kings. The peace of 1763 had left Prussia 
 in the quiet enjoyment of the glory she had obtained, and the 
 young Englishman took the advantage it afforded him of see- 
 ing, as a traveller, not despoiler, the rest of Europe. 
 
 The adventure and the excitement of travel pleased, and left 
 him even now uncertain whether or not his present return to 
 England would be for long. He had not been a week returned, 
 and to this part of his native country he had hastened at once. 
 
 He checked his horse as he now passed the memorable sign 
 that yet swung before the door of Peter Dealtry; and tliere, 
 under the shade of the broad tree, now budding into all its 
 tenderest verdure, a pedestrian wayfarer sat enjoying the rest 
 and coolness of his shelter. Our horseman cast a look at the 
 open door, across which, in the bustle of housewifery, female 
 forms now and then glanced and vanished, and presently he 
 saw Peter himself saunter forth to chat with the traveller 
 beneath his tree. And Peter Dealtry was the same as ever, 
 only he seemed perhaps shorter and thinner than of old, as if 
 Time did not so much break as gradually wear away mine 
 host's slender person. 
 
 The horseman gazed for a moment, but observing Peter re- 
 turn the gaze, he turned aside his head, and putting his horse 
 into a canter, soon passed out of cognizance of The Spotted 
 Dog. 
 
 He now came in sight of the neat white cottage of the old 
 
420 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 corporal; and there, leaning over the pale, a crutch under one 
 arm and his friendly pipe in one corner of his shrewd mouth, 
 was the corporal himself. Perched upon the railing in a 
 semi-doze, the ears down, the eyes closed, sat a large brown 
 cat. Poor Jacobina, it was not thyself! death spares neither 
 cat nor king; but thy virtues lived in thy grandchild, and thy 
 grandchild (as age brings dotage) was loved even more than 
 thee by the worthy corporal. Long may thy race flourish! 
 for at this day it is not extinct. Nature rarely inflicts bar- 
 renness on the feline tribe ; they are essentially made for love 
 and love's soft cares, and a cat's lineage outlives the lineage 
 of kaisers. 
 
 At the sound of hoofs the corporal turned his head, and he 
 looked long and wistfully at the horseman as, relaxing his 
 horse's pace into a walk, our traveller rode slowly on. 
 
 "'Fore George," muttered the corporal, "a fine man, a very 
 fine man; 'bout my inches, augh! " 
 
 A smile, but a very faint smile, crossed the lip of the 
 horseman as he gazed on the figure of the stalwart corporal. 
 
 "He eyes me hard," thought he, "yet he does not seem to 
 remember me. I must be greatly changed. 'T is fortunate, 
 however, that I am not recognized; fain, indeed, at this time 
 would I come and go unnoticed and alone." 
 
 The horseman fell into a revery, which was broken by the 
 murmur of the sunny rivulet fretting over each little obstacle 
 it met, — the happy and spoiled child of Nature! That mur- 
 mur rang on the horseman's ear like a voice from his boyhood : 
 how familiar was it, how dear! No haunting tone of music 
 ever recalled so rushing a host of memories and associations 
 as that simple, restless, everlasting sound! Everlasting! 
 All had changed, — the trees had sprung up or decayed; some 
 cottages around were ruins, some new and unfamiliar ones 
 supplied their place; and on the stranger himself — on all 
 those whom the sound recalled to his heart — Time had been, 
 indeed, at work; but with the same exulting bound and happy 
 voice, that little brook leaped along its way. Ages hence, may 
 the course be as glad, and the murmur as full of mirth! They 
 are blessed things, those remote and unchanging streams, — 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 421 
 
 they fill us with the same love as if they were living crea- 
 tures; and in a green corner of the world there is one that, 
 for my part, I never see without forgetting myself to tears, 
 — tears that I would not lose for a king's ransom; tears that 
 no other sight or sound could call from their source; tears of 
 what affection, what soft regret; tears through the soft mists 
 of which I behold what I have lost on earth and hope to regain 
 in heaven! 
 
 The traveller, after a brief pause, continued his road; and 
 now he came full upon the old manor-house. The weeds were 
 grown up in the garden, the mossed paling was broken in 
 many places, the house itself was shut up, and the sun glanced 
 on the deep-sunk casements, without finding its way into the 
 desolate interior. High above the old hospitable gate hung a 
 board announcing that the house was for sale, and referring 
 the curious or the speculating to the attorney of the neighbor- 
 ing town. The horseman sighed heavily, and muttered to 
 himself; then, txirning up the road that led to the back en- 
 trance, he came into the court-yard, and leading his horse 
 into an empty stable, he proceeded on foot through the dis- 
 mantled premises, pausing with every moment, and holding 
 a sad and ever-changing commune with himself. An old 
 woman, a stranger to him, was the sole inmate of the house ; 
 and imagining he came to buy, or at least examine, she con- 
 ducted him through the house, pointing out its advantages 
 and lamenting its dilapidated state. Our traveller scarcely 
 heard her; but when he came to one room, Avhich he would 
 not enter till the last (it was the little parlor in which the 
 once happy family had been wont to sit), he sank down in the 
 chair that had been Lester's honored seat, and covering his 
 face with his hands, did not move or look up for several mo- 
 ments. The old woman gazed at him with surprise. "Per- 
 haps, sir, you knew the family ? They were greatly beloved." 
 
 The traveller did not answer ; but when he rose, he muttered 
 to himself: "No, the experiment is made in vain. Never, 
 never, could I live here again. It must be so, — the house of 
 my forefathers must pass into a stranger's hands." With this 
 reflection he hurried from the house, and re-entering the gar- 
 
422 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 den, turned through a little gate that swung half open on its 
 shattered hinges, and led into the green and quiet sanctuaries 
 of the dead. The same touching character of deep and undis- 
 turbed repose that hallows the country church-yard, — and that 
 one more than most, — yet brooded there, as when, years ago, 
 it woke his young mind to reflection, then unmingled with 
 regret. 
 
 He passed over the rude mounds of earth that covered the 
 deceased poor, and paused at a tomb of higher, though but of 
 simple pretensions; it was not yet discolored by the dews and 
 seasons, and the short inscription traced upon it was strik- 
 ingly legible in comparison with those around: — 
 
 EoAVLAND Lester. 
 
 Obiit 1760, aet. 64. 
 
 Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. 
 
 By that tomb the traveller remained in undisturbed contem- 
 plation for some time; and when he turned, all the swarthy 
 color had died from his cheek, his eyes were dim, and the 
 wonted pride of a young man's step and a soldier's bearing 
 was gone from his mien. 
 
 As he looked up, his eye caught afar, embedded among the 
 soft verdure of the spring, one lone and gray house, from 
 ■whose chimney there rose no smoke, — sad, inhospitable, dis- 
 mantled as that beside which he now stood, as if the curse 
 which had fallen on the inmates of either mansion still clung 
 to either roof. One hasty glance only the traveller gave to 
 the solitary and distant abode, and then started and quickened 
 his pace. 
 
 On re-entering the stables, the traveller found the corporal 
 examining his horse from head to foot with great care and 
 attention. 
 
 " Good hoofs too, humph ! " quoth the corporal, as he re- 
 leased the front leg; and turning round, saw, with some little 
 confusion, the owner of the steed he had been honoring with 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 423 
 
 so minute a survey. "Oh, augh! looking at the beastie, sir, 
 lest it might have cast a shoe. Thought your honor might 
 want some intelligent person to show you the premises, if so 
 be you have come to buy, — nothing but an old 'oman there; 
 dare say your honor does not like old 'omen, augh!" 
 
 " The owner is not in these parts ? " said the horseman. 
 
 "No, over seas, sir; a fine young gentleman, but hasty; 
 and, and — But Lord bless me! sure — no, it can't be — yes, 
 now you turn — it is — it is my young master ! " So saying, 
 the corporal, roused into affection, hobbled up to the wan- 
 derer and seized and kissed his hand. "Ah, sir, we shall be 
 glad indeed to see you back after such doings. But 's all 
 forgotten now, and gone by, augh. Poor Miss Ellinor, how 
 happy she '11 be to see your honor. Ah ! how she be changed, 
 surely ! " 
 
 "Changed ? Ay, I make no doubt! What, — does she look 
 in weak health ? " 
 
 "No; as to that, your honor, she be winsome enough still," 
 quoth the corporal, smacking his lips. " I seed her the week 
 
 afore last, when I went over to ; for I suppose you knows 
 
 as she lives there, all alone like, in a small house with a 
 green rail afore it and a brass knocker on the door at top of 
 
 the town, with a fine view of the hills in front ? Well, 
 
 sir, I seed her, and mighty handsome she looked, though a 
 little thinner than she was ; but for all that, she be greatly 
 changed." 
 
 " How, for the worse ? " 
 
 "For the worse indeed," answered the corporal, assuming 
 an air of melancholy and grave significance ; " she be grown 
 so religious, sir, think of that, — augh, bother, whaugh!" 
 
 " Is that all ? " said Walter, relieved, and with a slight 
 smile. " And she lives alone ? " 
 
 " Quite, poor young lady, as if she had made up her mind 
 to be an old maid, — though I know as how she refused Squire 
 Knyvett of the Grange; waiting for your honor's return, 
 mayhap ! " 
 
 " Lead out the horse, Bunting. But stay, I am sorry to see 
 you with a crutch : what 's the cause ? No accident, I trust ? " 
 
424 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 "Merely rheumatics, — will attack the youngest of us. 
 Never been quite myself since I went a travelling with your 
 honor, augh ! without going to Lunnon arter all. But I shall 
 be stronger next year, I dare to say ! " 
 
 " I hope you will, Bunting. And Miss Lester lives alone, 
 you say ? " 
 
 "Ay; and for all she be so religious, the poor about do bless 
 her very footsteps. She does a power of good, — she gave me 
 half-a-guinea last Tuesday fortnight. An excellent young 
 lady, so sensible like ! " 
 
 "Thank you; I can tighten the girths, — so! There, Bunt- 
 ing, there 's something for old companionship's sake." 
 
 "Thank your honor; you be too good, — always was, baugh! 
 But I hopes your honor be a coming to live here now; 'twill 
 make things smile again! " 
 
 "No, Bunting, I fear not," said Walter, spurring through 
 the gates of the yard. "Good day." 
 
 "Augh! then," cried the corporal, hobbling breathlessly 
 after him, " if so be as I sha 'n't see your honor agin, at 
 which I am extramely consarned, will your honor recollect 
 your promise touching the 'tato-grotind ? The steward, Mas- 
 ter Bailey, 'od rot him! has clean forgot it, augh!" 
 
 " The same old man, Bunting, eh ? Well, make your mind 
 easy; it shall be done." 
 
 " Lord bless your honor's good heart, thank ye; and — and," 
 laying his hand on the bridle, "your honor did say the bit cot 
 should be rent-free. You see, your honor," quoth the corpo- 
 ral, drawing up with a grave smile, "I may marry some day 
 or other, and have a large family, and the rent won't sit so 
 easy then, augh ! " 
 
 "Let go the rein. Bunting, and consider your house rent- 
 free." 
 
 " And your honor, and — " 
 
 But Walter was already in a brisk trot, and the remaining 
 petitions of the corporal died in empty air. 
 
 "A good day's work too," muttered Jacob, hobbling home- 
 ward. " What a green 'un 't is, still ! Never be a man of the 
 world, augh ! " 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 425 
 
 For two hours Walter did not relax the rapidity of his pace ; 
 and when he did so, at the descent of a steep hill, a small 
 country town lay before him, the sun glittering on its single 
 spire, and lighting up the long, clean centre street, with the 
 good old-fashioned garden stretching behind each house, and 
 detached cottages around, peeping forth here and there from 
 the blossoms and verdure of the young May. He rode into 
 the yard of the principal inn, and putting up his horse, in- 
 quired, in a tone that he persuaded himself was the tone of 
 indifference, for Miss Lester's house. 
 
 "John," said the landlady (landlord there was none), sum- 
 moning a little boy of about ten years old, " run on and show 
 this gentleman the good lady's house; and, stay, — his honor 
 will excuse you a moment, — just take up the nosegay you 
 cut for her this morning; she loves flowers. Ah! sir, an ex- 
 cellent young lady is Miss Lester," continued the hostess as 
 the boy ran back for the nosegay, — "so charitable, so kind, 
 so meek to all. Adversity, they say, softens some characters ; 
 but she must always have been good. Well, God bless her! 
 and that every one must say. My boy John, sir, — he is not 
 eleven yet, come next August, a 'cute boy, — calls her the 
 good lady; we now always call her so here. Come, John, 
 that 's right. You stay to dine here, sir ? Shall I put down 
 a chicken ? " 
 
 At the farther extremity of the town stood Miss Lester's 
 dwelling. It was the house in which her father had spent his 
 last days ; and there she had continued to reside when left by 
 his death to a small competence, which Walter, then abroad, 
 had persuaded her (for her pride was of the right kind) to 
 suffer him, though but slightly, to increase. It was a de- 
 tached and small building, standing a little from the road; 
 and Walter paused for some moments at the garden-gate and 
 gazed round him before he followed his young guide, who, 
 tripping lightly up the gravel-walk to the door, rang the bell 
 and inquired if Miss Lester was within. 
 
 Walter was left for some moments alone in a little parlor, 
 — he required these moments to recover himself from the past 
 that rushed sweepingly over him. And was it — yes, it was 
 
426 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 Ellinor that now stood before him ! Changed she was indeed, 
 — the slight girl had budded into woman; changed she was 
 indeed, — the bound liad forever left that step, once so elastic 
 with hope; the vivacity of the quick dark eye was soft and 
 quiet ; the rich color had given place to a hue fainter, though 
 not less lovely. But to repeat in verse what is poorly bodied 
 forth in prose, — 
 
 " And years had passed, and thus they met again. 
 The wind had swept along the flowers since then ; 
 O'er her fair cheek a paler lustre spread, 
 As if the white rose triumphed o'er the red. 
 No more she walked, exulting, on the air ; 
 Light though her step, there was a languor there. 
 No more — her spirit bursting from its hound — 
 She stood, like Hebe, scattering smiles around." 
 
 " Ellinor, " said Walter, mournfully, " thank God, we meet 
 at last!" 
 
 " That voice — that face — my cousin — my dear, dear 
 Walter!" 
 
 All reserve, all consciousness fled in the delight of that mo- 
 ment; and Ellinor leaned her head upon his shoulder and 
 scarcely felt the kiss that he pressed upon her lips. 
 
 "And so long absent! " said Ellinor, reproachfully, 
 
 "But did you not tell me that the blow that had fallen on 
 our house had stricken from you all thoughts of love, had di- 
 vided us forever ? And what, Ellinor, was England or home 
 without you ? " 
 
 "Ah! " said Ellinor, recovering herself, and a deep paleness 
 succeeding to the warm and delighted flush that had been 
 conjured to her cheek, " do not revive the past ; I have sought 
 for years — long, solitary, desolate years — to escape from its 
 dark recollections ! " 
 
 "You speak wisely, dearest Ellinor; let us assist each other 
 in doing so. We are alone in the world, — let us unite our 
 lots. Never, through all I have seen and felt, — in the starry 
 nightwatch of camps; in the blaze of courts; by the sunny 
 groves of Italy; in the deep forests of the Hartz, — never 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 427 
 
 have I forgotten you, my sweet and dear cousin. Your image 
 has linked itself indissolubly with all I conceived of home 
 and happiness and a tranquil and peaceful future ; and now 
 I return, and see you, and find you changed, — but oh, how 
 lovely! Ah, let us not part again! A consoler, a guide, a 
 soother, father, brother, husband, — all this my heart whis- 
 pers I could be to you ! " 
 
 Ellinor turned away her face, but her heart was very full. 
 The solitary years that had passed over her since they last met 
 rose up before her. The only living image that had mingled 
 through those years with the dreams of the departed was his 
 who now knelt at her feet, — her sole friend, her sole relative, 
 her first — her last love! Of all the world, he was the only 
 one with whom she could recur to the past, on whom she 
 might repose her bruised but still unconquered affections. 
 And Walter knew by that blush, that sigh, that tear that he 
 was remembered, that he was beloved, that his cousin was 
 his OAvn at last! 
 
 "But before you end," said my friend to whom I showed 
 the above pages, originally concluding my tale with the last 
 sentence, "you must — it is a comfortable and orthodox old 
 fashion — tell us about the fate of the other persons to whom 
 you have introduced us, — the wretch Houseman." 
 
 " True, in the mysterious course of mortal affairs the greater 
 villain had escaped, the more generous fallen. But though 
 Houseman died without violence, — died in his bed, as honest 
 men die, — we can scarcely believe that his life was not pun- 
 ishment enough. He lived in strict seclusion, — the seclusion 
 of poverty, — and maintained himself by dressing flax. His 
 life was several times attempted by the mob, for he was an 
 object of universal execration and horror; and even ten years 
 afterwards, when he died, his body was buried in secret at 
 the dead of night, for the hatred of the world survived him." 
 
 " And the corporal, did he marry in his old age ? " 
 
 " History telleth of one Jacob Bunting whose wife, several 
 years younger than himself, played him certain sorry pranks 
 with a rakish squire in the neighborhood; the said Jacob 
 
428 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 knowing nothing thereof, but furnishing great oblectation 
 unto his neighbors by boasting that he turned an excellent 
 penny by selling poultry to his honor above market prices, — 
 "for Bessy, my girl, I 'm a man of the world, augh! " 
 
 "Contented! a suitable fate for the old dog. But Peter 
 Dealtry ? " 
 
 "Of Peter Dealtry know we nothing more, save that we 
 have seen at Grassdale church-yard a small tombstone in- 
 scribed to his memory, with the following sacred posy thereto 
 appended : — 
 
 " ' We flourish, saith the holy text, 
 
 One hour, and are cut down the next ; 
 
 I was like grass but yesterday. 
 
 But deatli has mowed me into hay.' "^ 
 
 "And his namesake, Sir Peter Grindlescrew Hales ?" 
 
 " Went through a long life honored and respected, but met 
 with domestic misfo^'tunes in old age. His eldest son married 
 a servant-maid, and his youngest daughter — " 
 
 " Eloped with the groom ? " 
 
 "By no means, — with a young spendthrift, the very picture 
 of what Sir Peter was in his youth. They were both struck 
 out of their father's will; and Sir Peter died in the arms of 
 his eight remaining children, seven of whom never forgave 
 his memory for not being the eighth, — namely, chief heir." 
 
 "And his contemporary, John Courtland, the non-hypo- 
 chondriac ? " 
 
 " Died of sudden suffocation as he was crossing Hounslow 
 Heath." 
 
 "But Lord ?" 
 
 "Lived to a great age. His last days, owing to growing 
 infirmities, were spent out of the world; every one pitied 
 him, — it was the happiest time of his life." 
 
 " Dame Darkmans ? " 
 
 "Was found dead in her bed, — from over-fatigue, it was 
 supposed, in making merry at the funeral of a young girl on 
 the previous day." 
 
 ^ Verbatim. 
 
EUGENE ARAM. 429 
 
 "Well! — hem — and so Walter and his cousin were really 
 married. And did they never return to the old manor- 
 house ? " 
 
 "No; the memory that is allied only to melancholy grows 
 sweet with years, and hallows the spot which it haunts, — not 
 so the memory allied to dread, terror, and something too of 
 shame. Walter sold the property, with some pangs of natural 
 regret; after his marriage with Ellinor he returned abroad 
 for some time, but finally settling in England, engaged in ac- 
 tive life, and left to his posterity a name they still honor, 
 and to his country the memory of some services that will not 
 lightly pass away. 
 
 " But one dread and gloomy remembrance never forsook his 
 mind, and exercised the most powerful influence over the 
 actions and motives of his life. In every emergency, in every 
 temptation, there rose to his eyes the fate of him so gifted, 
 so noble in much, so formed for greatness in all things, 
 blasted by one crime, — a crime, the offspring of bewildered 
 reasonings, — all the while speculating upon virtue. And that 
 fate, revealing the darker secrets of our kind, in which the 
 true science of morals is chiefly found, taught him the two- 
 fold lesson, — caution for himself, and charity for others. He 
 knew henceforth that even the criminal is not all evil; the 
 angel within us is not easily expelled, — it survives sin, ay, 
 and many sins, and leaves us sometimes in amaze and marvel 
 at the good that lingers round the heart even of the hardiest 
 offender. 
 
 " And Ellinor clung with more than revived affection to one 
 with whose lot she was now allied. Walter was her last tie 
 upon earth, and in him she learned, day by day, more lav- 
 ishly to treasure up her heart. Adversity and trial had en- 
 nobled the character of both ; and she who had so long seen in 
 her cousin all she could love, beheld now in her husband all 
 that she could venerate and admire. A certain religious fer- 
 vor, in which, after the calamities of her family, she had 
 indulged, continued with her to the last; but (softened by 
 human ties and the reciprocation of earthly duties and affec- 
 tions) it was fortunately preserved either from the undue 
 
430 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 enthusiasm or the undue austerity into which it would other- 
 wise, in all likelihood, have merged. What remained, how- 
 ever, uniting her most cheerful thoughts with something 
 serious, and the happiest moments of the present with the 
 dim and solemn forecast of the future, elevated her nature, 
 not depressed, and made itself visible rather in tender than 
 in sombre hues. And it was sweet, when the thought of 
 Madeline and her father came across her, to recur at once for 
 consolation to that heaven in which she believed their tears 
 were dried, and their past sorrows but a forgotten dream. 
 There is, indeed, a time of life when these reflections make 
 our chief, though a melancholy, pleasure. As we grow older, 
 and sometimes a hope, sometimes a friend, vanishes from our 
 path, the thought of an immortality will press itself forcibly 
 upon us ; and there, by little and little, as the ant piles grain 
 after grain, the garners of a future sustenance, we learn to 
 carry our hopes and harvest, as it were, our wishes. 
 
 "Our cousins, then, were happy. Happy, — for they loved 
 one another entirely; and on those who do so love, I some- 
 times think that, barring physical pain and extreme poverty, 
 the ills of life fall with but idle malice. Yes, they were 
 happy, in spite of the past and in defiance of the future." 
 
 "I am satisfied, then," said my friend, "and your tale is 
 fairly done ! " 
 
 And now, reader, farewell ! If sometimes, as thou hast gone 
 with me to this our parting spot, thou hast suffered thy com- 
 panion to win the mastery over thine interest, to flash now on 
 thy convictions, to touch now thy heart, to guide thy hope, to 
 excite thy terror, to gain, it may be, to the sources of thy 
 tears, — then is there a tie between thee and me which cannot 
 readily be broken! And when thou hearest the malice that 
 wrongs, affect the candor which should judge, shall he not find 
 in thy sympathies the defence, or in thy charity the indul- 
 gence, of a friend ? 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 In the Preface to this Novel it was stated that the original intention 
 of its Author was to compose, upon the facts of Aram's gloomy history, 
 a tragedy instead of a romance. It may now be not altogether without 
 interest for the reader if 1 submit to his indulgence the rough outline 
 of the earlier scenes in the fragment of a drama, which, in all proba- 
 bility, will never be finished. So far as I have gone, the construction 
 of the tragedy differs, in some respects, materially from that of the 
 tale, although the whole of what is now presented to the reader must 
 be considered merely as a copy from the first hasty sketch of an uncom- 
 pleted design. 
 
 November, 1833. 
 
EUGENE ARAM, 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. Aram's Apartment. — Books, Maps, and Scientific 
 Instruments scattered around. In everything else the appear' 
 ance of the greatest poverty. 
 
 First Creditor [hehiyid the scenes']. — I must be paid. 
 Three moons have flitted since 
 You pledged your word to me. 
 
 Second Creditor. And me ! 
 
 Third Creditor. And me ! 
 
 Aram [entering]. — Away, I tell ye ! Will ye rend my garb ? 
 Away ! to-morrow. — Gentle sirs, to-morrow. 
 
 First Creditor. This is your constant word. 
 
 Second Creditor. We '11 wait no more. 
 
 Aram. Ye '11 wait no more ? Enough ! be seated, sirs. 
 Pray ye, be seated. Well ! with searching eyes 
 Ye do survey these walls ! Contain they aught — 
 Nay, take your leisure — to annul your claims ? 
 \^Turning to First Creditor]. See, sir, yon books — they're 
 
 yours, if you but tear 
 That fragment of spoiled paper — be not backward, 
 I give them with good will. This one is Greek ; 
 A golden work — sweet sir — a golden work ; 
 It teaches us to bear — what I have borne ! — 
 And to forbear men's ills, as you have done. 
 
 28 
 
434 EUGENE ARAM, 
 
 First Creditor. You mock me. Well — 
 
 Aram. Mock ! mock ! Alas ! 
 
 my friend, 
 Bo rags indulge in jesting ? Fie, sir, fie ! 
 [ Turning to Second Creditor'] . You will not wrong me so ? 
 
 Ou your receipt 
 Take this round orb ; it miniatures the world, — 
 And in its study I forgot the world ! 
 Take this yon table ; — a poor scholar's fare 
 Needs no such proud support ; — yon bed, too ! (Sleep 
 Is Night's sweet angel, leading fallen Man 
 Thro' yielding airs to Youth's lost paradise ; 
 But Sleep and I have quarrell'd ) ; — take it, sir ! 
 
 Second Creditor \_mnttering to the others']. Come, we must 
 
 leave him to the law, or famine. 
 You see his goods were costly at a groat ! 
 
 First Creditor. Well, henceforth I will grow more wise ! 
 
 ' T is said 
 Learning is better than a house or lands. 
 Let me be modest ! Learning shall go free ; 
 Give me security in house and lands. 
 
 Third Creditor [lingering after the other two depart, offers 
 
 a piece of money to Aram]. There, man ; I came to men- 
 ace you with law 
 And jails. You 're poorer than I thought you ! — there — 
 Aram [looking at the money']. What! and a beggar, too! 
 
 ' T is mighty well. 
 Good sir, I 'm grateful — I will not refuse you ; 
 ' T will win back Plato from the crabbed hands 
 Of him who lends on all things. Thank you, sir ; 
 Plato and I will thank you. 
 
 Third Creditor. Crazed, poor scholar ! 
 
 I '11 take my little one from school this day ! 
 
 Scene IL 
 
 Aram. Rogues thrive in ease ; and fools grow rich with toil ; 
 Wealth's wanton eye on Wisdom coldly dwells. 
 And turns to dote upon the green youth, Folly — 
 
A TRAGEDY. 435 
 
 life, vile life, with what soul-lavish love 
 
 We cling to thee — when all thy charms are fled — 
 
 Yea, the more foul thy withering aspect grows 
 
 The steadier burns our passion to possess thee. 
 
 To die ; ay, there 's the cure — tlie plashing stream 
 
 That girds these walls — the drug of the dank weeds 
 
 That rot the air below ; these hoard the balm 
 
 For broken, pining, and indignant hearts. 
 
 But the witch Hope forbids me to be wise ; 
 
 And, when I turn to these, Woe's only friends [pointing to his 
 
 books] 
 And with their weird and eloquent voices, soothe 
 The lulled Babel of the world within, 
 
 1 can but dream that my vexed years at last 
 Shall find the quiet of a hermit's cell. 
 
 And far from men's rude malice or low scorn, 
 Beneath the loved gaze of the lambent stars ; 
 And with the hollow rocks, and sparry caves, 
 And mystic waves, and music-murmuring winds — 
 My oracles and co-mates — watch my life 
 Glide down the stream of knowledge, and behold 
 Its waters with a musing stillness glass 
 The smiles of Nature and the eyes of Heaven ! 
 
 Sce:n^e III. Enter Boteler, sloicly tvatching him; as he re- 
 mains silent and in thought, Boteler touches him on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 Boteler. How now ! what ! gloomy ? and the day so bright ! 
 Why, the old dog that guards the court below 
 Hath crept from out his wooden den, and shakes 
 His gray hide in the fresh and merry air ; 
 Tuning his sullen and suspicious bark 
 Into a whine of welcome as I pass'd. 
 Come, rouse thee, Aram ; let us forth. 
 
 Aram. Nay, friend, 
 
 My spirit lackeys not the moody skies, 
 Nor changes — bright or darkling — with their change. 
 
436 EUGENE ARAM, 
 
 Farewell, good neighbor ; I must work this day ; — 
 Behold my tools — and scholars toil alone ! 
 
 BoTELER. Tush ! a few minutes wasted upon me 
 May well be spared from this long summer day. 
 Hast heard the news ? Monson ? — thou know'st the man ? 
 
 Aram. I do remember. He was poor. I knew him. 
 
 BoTELER. But he is poor no more. The all-changing wheel 
 Roll'd round, and scatter'd riches on his hearth. 
 A distant kinsman, while he lived a niggard, 
 Generous in death hath left his grateful heir 
 In our good neighbor. Why, you seem not glad ; 
 Does it not please you ? 
 
 Aram, Yes. 
 
 BoTELER. And so it should ; 
 
 ' T is a poor fool, but honest. Had Dame Fate 
 Done this for you — for me ; — 't is true our brains 
 Had taught us better how to spend the dross ; 
 But earth hath worse men than our neighbor. 
 
 Aram. Ay, 
 
 " Worse men " ! it may be so ! 
 
 BoTELER. Would I were rich ! 
 
 What loyal service, what complacent friendship, 
 What gracious love upon the lips of Beauty, 
 Bloom into life beneath the beams of gold. 
 Venus and Bacchus, the bright Care-dispellers, 
 Are never seen but in the train of Fortune. 
 Would I were rich ! 
 
 Aram. Shame on thy low ambition ! 
 
 Would I were rich, too, — but for other aims. 
 Oh ! what a glorious and time-hallow'd world 
 Would I invoke around me : and wall in 
 A haunted solitude with those bright souls. 
 That, with a still and warning aspect, gaze 
 Upon us from the hallowing shroud of books ! 
 By Heaven, there should not be a seer who left 
 The world one doctrine, but I 'd task his lore, 
 And commune with his spirit ! All the truths 
 Of all the tongues of earth — I 'd have them all, 
 
A TRAGEDY. 437 
 
 Had I the golden spell to raise their ghosts ! 
 
 I 'd build me domes, too ; from whose giddy height 
 
 My soul would watch the night stars, and unsphere 
 
 The destinies of man, or track the ways 
 
 Of God from world to world ; pursue the winds, 
 
 The clouds that womb the thunder — to their home j 
 
 Invoke and conquer Nature — share her throne 
 
 On earth, and ocean, and the chainless air ; 
 
 And on the Titan fabrics of old truths 
 
 Eaise the bold spirit to a height with heaven ! 
 
 Would — would my life might boast one year of wealth 
 
 Though death should bound it ! 
 
 BoTELER. Thou mayst have thy wish ! 
 
 Aram \_rapt, and abstractedly']. Who spoke ? Methoughtl 
 heard my genius say — 
 My evil genius — " Thou mayst have thy wish ! " 
 
 BoTELER. Thou heard'st aright ! Monson this eve will pass 
 By Nid's swift wave ; he bears his gold with him ; 
 The spot is lone — untenanted — remote ; 
 And, if thou hast but courage, — one bold deed. 
 And one short moment — thou art poor no more ! 
 
 Aram [after a pause, turning his eyes slowly on Boteler]. 
 Boteler, was that thy voice ? 
 
 BoTELER. How couldst thou doubt it ? 
 
 Aram. Methought its tone seem'd changed ; and now 
 methinks, 
 Now, that I look upon thy face, my eyes 
 Discover not its old familiar aspect. 
 Thou 'rt very sure thy name is Boteler ? 
 
 BoTELER. Pshaw, 
 
 Thou'rt dreaming still : — awake, and let thy mind 
 And heart drink all I breathe into thy ear. 
 I know thee, Aram, for a man humane, 
 Gentle, and musing ; but withal of stuff 
 That might have made a warrior ; and desires, 
 Though of a subtler nature than my own, 
 As high, and hard to limit. Care and want 
 Have made thee what they made thy friend long since. 
 
438 . EUGENE ARAM, 
 
 And when I wound my heart to a resolve, 
 Dangerous, but fraught with profit, I did fix 
 On thee as one whom Fate and jSTature made 
 A worthy partner in the nameless deed. 
 
 Aram. Go on. I pray thee pause not. 
 
 BoTELER. There remain 
 
 Few words to body forth my full design. 
 Know that — at my advice — this eve the guli'd 
 And credulous fool of Fortune quits his home. 
 Say but one word, and thou shalt share with me 
 The gold he bears about him. 
 
 Aram. At what price ? 
 
 BoTELER. A little courage. 
 
 Aram. And my soul ! — No more. 
 
 I see your project — 
 
 BoTELER. And embrace it ? 
 
 Aram. Lo ! 
 
 How many deathful, dread, and ghastly snares 
 Encompass him whom the stark hunger gnaws, 
 And the grim demon Penury shuts from out 
 The golden Eden of his bright desires ! 
 To-day, I thought to slay myself, and die, 
 No single hope once won ! — and now I hear 
 Dark words of blood, and quail not, nor recoil. — 
 ' T is but a death in either case ; — or mine 
 Or that poor dotard's ! — and the guilt — the guilt, — 
 Why, what is guilt ? — A word ! We are the tools, 
 From birth to death, of destiny ; and shaped, 
 For sin or virtue, by the iron force 
 Of the unseen, but unresisted hands 
 Of Fate, the august compeller of the world. 
 
 BoTELER [aside]. — It works. Behold the devil at all hearts ! 
 I am a soldier, and inured to blood ; 
 But he hath lived with moralists forsooth. 
 And yet one word to tempt him, and one sting 
 Of the food-craving clay, and the meek sage 
 Grasps at the crime he shuddered at before. 
 
 Aram [abruptly]. Thou hast broke thy fast this morning ? 
 
A TRAGEDY. 439 
 
 BoTELER. Ay, in truth. 
 
 Aram. But / have not since yestermorn, and ask'd 
 In the belief that certain thoughts unwont 
 To blacken the still mirror of my mind 
 Might be the phantoms of the sickening flesh 
 And the faint nature. I was wrong ; since you 
 Share the same thoughts, nor suffer the same ills. 
 
 BoTELER. Indeed, I knew not this. Come to my roof: 
 ' T is poor, but not so bare as to deny 
 A soldier's viands to a scholar's wants. 
 Come, and we '11 talk this over. I perceive 
 That your bold heart already is prepared. 
 And the details alone remain. — Come, friend, 
 Lean upon me, for you seem weak ; the air 
 Will breathe this languor into health. 
 
 Aram. Your hearth 
 
 Is widow'd, — we shall be alone ? 
 
 BoTELER. Alone. 
 
 Aram. Come, then ; — the private way. We '11 shun the 
 crowd. 
 I do not love the insolent eyes of men. 
 
 Scene IV. NigJit — a wild and gloomy Forest — the River 
 at a distance. 
 
 Enter Aram slowly. 
 
 Aram. Were it but done, methinks ' t would scarce bequeath 
 Much food for that dull hypocrite. Remorse. 
 ' T is a fool less on earth ! — a clod — a grain 
 From the o'er-rich creation ; — be it so. 
 But I, in one brief year, could give to men 
 More solid, glorious, undecaying good 
 Than his whole life could purchase : — yet without 
 The pitiful and niggard dross he wastes. 
 And / for lacking starve, my power is nought. 
 
440 EUGENE ARAM, 
 
 And the whole good undone ! Where, then, the crime, 
 Though by dread means, to compass that bright end ? 
 And yet — and yet — I falter, and my liesh 
 Creeps, and the horror of a ghastly thought 
 Makes stiff my hair, — my blood is cold, — my knees 
 Do smite each other, — and throughout my frame 
 Stern manhood melts away. Blow forth, sweet air, 
 Brace the mute nerves, — release the gathering ice 
 That curdles up my veins, — call forth the soul, 
 That, with a steady and unfailing front. 
 Hath look'd on want, and woe, and early death — 
 And walk'd with thee, sweet air, upon thy course 
 Away from earth through the rejoicing heaven ! 
 Who moves there ? — Speak ! — who art thou ? 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 Enter Boteler. 
 
 BoTELER. Murdoch Boteler ! 
 
 Hast thou forestall'd me ? Come, this bodeth well : 
 It proves thy courage, Aram. 
 
 Aram. Rather say 
 
 The restless fever that does spur us on 
 From a dark thought unto a darker deed. 
 
 Boteler. He should have come ere this. 
 
 Aram. I pray thee, Boteler, 
 
 Is it not told of some great painter — whom 
 Rome bore, and earth yet worships — that he slew 
 A man — a brother man — and without ire. 
 But with cool heart and hand, that he might fix 
 His gaze upon the wretch's dying pangs ; 
 And by them learn what mortal throes to paint 
 On the wrung features of a suffering god ? 
 
 Boteler. Ay : I have heard the tale. 
 
 Aram. And Tie is honor'd. 
 
 Men vaunt his glory, but forget his guilt. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 441 
 
 They see the triumph; nor, with woliish tongues, 
 Feed on the deed from which the triumph grew. 
 Is it not so ? 
 
 BoTELER. Thou triflest : this no hour 
 For tlie light legends of a gossip's lore — 
 
 Aram. Peace, man ! I did but question of the fact. 
 Enough. — I marvel why our victim lingers. 
 
 BoTELER. Hush ! dost thou hear no footsteps ? — Ha, he 
 comes, 
 I see him by yon pine-tree. Look, he smiles ; 
 Smiles as he walks, and sings — 
 
 Aram. Alas ! poor fool ! 
 
 So sport we all, while over us the pall 
 Hangs, and Fate's viewless hands prepare our shroud. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Enter Monson. 
 
 MoNSON. Ye have not waited, sirs ? 
 
 Boteler. N"ay, name it not. 
 
 MoNSON. The nights are long and bright : an hour the less 
 Makes little discount from the time. 
 
 Aram. An hour! 
 
 What deeds an hour may witness ! 
 
 MoNSON. It is true. 
 
 [To Boteler]. — Doth he upbraid ? — he has a gloomy brow : 
 I like him not. 
 
 Boteler. The husk hides goodly fruit. 
 
 ' T is a deep scholar, Monson ; and the gloom 
 Is not of malice, but of learned thought. 
 
 MoNsoN. Say'st thou ? — I love a scholar. Let us on : 
 We will not travel far to-night ? 
 
 Aram. Not far! 
 
 Boteler. Why, as our limbs avail ; — thou hast the gold ? 
 
 Monson. Ay, and my wife suspects not. \_Laugliing. 
 
442 EUGENE ARAM, 
 
 BoTELER. Come, that 's well. 
 
 I 'm an old soldier, Monson, and I love 
 This baffling of the Church's cankering ties. 
 We '11 find thee other wives, my friend ! — Who holds 
 The golden lure shall have no lack of loves. 
 
 Moxsox. Ha ! ha ! — both wise and merry. — [To Aram.'] 
 Come, sir, on. 
 
 Aram. I follow. 
 [Aside]. — Can men sin thus in a dream ? 
 
 Scene VII. Scene changes to a different part of the Forest — a 
 Cave., overhmig ivith firs and other trees — the Moon is at her 
 full, but clouds are rolling swiftly over her disc — Aram 
 rushes from the Cavern. 
 
 Aram. ' T is done ! — ' t is done ! — ' t is done ! — A life 
 is gone 
 Out of a crowded world ! I struck no more ! 
 God ! — I did not slay him ! 't was not I! 
 
 [£^?i^er BoTELER more slowly from the Cave, and looking round.] 
 
 BoTELER. Why didst thou leave me ere our task was o'er ? 
 
 Aram. Was he not dead then ? — Did he breathe again ? 
 Or cry, " Help, help " ? — I did not strike the blow ! 
 
 BoTELER. Dead ! — and no witness, save the blinded bat ! 
 But the gold, Aram ! thou didst leave the gold ? 
 
 Aram. The gold ! I had forgot. Thou hast the gold. 
 Come, let us share, and part — 
 
 BoTELER. Not here ; the spot 
 
 Is open, and the rolling moon may light 
 Some wanderer's footsteps hither. To the deeps 
 Which the stars pierce not — of the inmost wood — 
 We will withdraw and share — and weave our plans, 
 So that the world may know not of this deed. 
 
 Aram. Thou sayest well ! I did not strike the blow I 
 How red the moon looks ! let us hide from her ! 
 
A TRAGEDY. 443 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 [Time, Ten Years after the date of the first Act.'] 
 
 Scene I. Peasants dancing — a beautiful Wood Scene — a 
 Cottage in the front. 
 
 Madeline — Lamboukn — Michael. 
 
 [Lambourn comes forward.'] 
 
 Come, my sweet Madeline, though our fate denies 
 The pomp by which the great and wealthy mark 
 The white days of their lot, at least thy sire 
 Can light with joyous faces and glad hearts 
 The annual morn which brought so fair a boon, 
 And blest his rude hearth with a child like thee. 
 
 Madeline. My father, my dear father, since that morn 
 The sun hath call'd from out the depth of time 
 The shapes of twenty summers ; and no hour 
 That did not own to Heaven thy love — thy care ! 
 
 Lamboukn. Thou hast repaid me ; and mine eyes o'erflow 
 With tears that tell thy virtues, my sweet child ; 
 For ever from thy cradle thou wert fill'd 
 With meek and gentle thought ; thy step was soft 
 And thy voice tender ; and within thine eyes, 
 And on thy cloudless brow, lay deeply glass'd 
 The quiet and the beauty of thy soul. 
 As thou didst grow in years, the love and power 
 Of Nature wax'd upon thee ; — thou wouldst pore 
 On the sweet stillness of the summer hills. 
 Or the hush'd face of waters, as a book 
 Where God had written beauty ; and in turn 
 Books grew to thee, as Nature's page had grown, 
 And study and lone musing nursed thy youth. 
 Yet wert thou ever woman in thy mood, 
 And soft, though serious ; nor in abstract thought 
 
444 EUGENE ARAM, 
 
 Lost household zeal, or the meek cares of love. 
 
 Bless thee, my child. Thou look'st around for one 
 
 To chase the paler rose from that pure cheek, 
 
 And the vague sadness from those loving eyes. 
 
 Nay, turn not, Madeline, for I know, in truth, 
 
 No man to whom I would so freely give 
 
 Thy hand as his — no man so full of wisdom, 
 
 And yet so gentle in his bearing of it ; 
 
 No man so kindly in his thoughts of others, 
 
 So rigid of all virtues in himself, 
 
 As this same learned wonder, Eugene Aram. 
 
 Madeline. In sooth his name sounds lovelier for thy praise ; 
 Would he were by to hear it ! for methinks 
 His nature given too much to saddening thought. 
 And words like thine would cheer it. Oft he starts 
 And mutters to himself, and folds his arms, 
 And traces with keen eyes the empty air ; 
 Then shakes his head, and smiles — no happy smile ! 
 
 Lambourn. It is the way with students, for they live 
 In an ideal world, and people this 
 With shadows thrown from fairy forms afar. 
 Fear not ! — thy love, like some fair morn of May, 
 Shall chase the dreams in clothing earth with beauty. 
 But the noon wanes, and yet he does not come. 
 Neighbors, has one amongst you seen this day 
 The scholar, Aram ? 
 
 Michael. By the hoary oak 
 
 That overhangs the brook, I mark'd this morn 
 A bending figure, motionless and lonely. 
 I near'd it, but it heard — it saw me — not ; 
 It spoke — I listen'd — and it said, " Ye leaves 
 That from the old and changeful branches fall 
 Upon the waters, and are borne away 
 Whither none know, ye are men's worthless lives ; 
 Nor boots it whether ye drop off by time, 
 Or the rude anger of some violent wind 
 Scatter ye ere your hour. Amidst the mass 
 Of your green life, who misses one lost leaf ? " 
 
A TRAGEDY. 445 
 
 He said no more ; then I did come beside 
 The speaker : it was Aram. 
 
 Madeline \_aside']. Moody ever! 
 
 And yet he says he loves me and is happy ! 
 
 Michael. But he seem'd gall'd and sore at my approach ; 
 And when I told him I was hither bound, 
 And ask'd if aught I should convey from him, 
 He frown'd, and coldly turning on his heel, 
 Answer'd — that " he should meet me." I was pain'd 
 To think that I had vex'd so good a man. 
 
 First Neighbor. Ay, he is good as wise. All men love 
 Aram. 
 
 Second Neighbor. And with what justice ! My old 
 dame's complaint 
 Had baffled all the leeches ; but his art, 
 From a few simple herbs, distill'd a spirit 
 Has made her young again. 
 
 Third Neighbor. By his advice. 
 
 And foresight of the seasons, I did till 
 My land, and now my granaries scarce can hold 
 Their golden wealth ; while those who mock'd his words 
 Can scarcely from hard earth and treacherous air 
 Win aught to keep the wolf from off their door. 
 
 Michael. And while he stoops to what poor men should 
 know 
 They say that in the deep and secret lore 
 That scholars mostly prize he hath no peer. 
 Old men, who pale and care-begone have lived 
 A life amidst their books, will, at his name. 
 Lift up their hands, and cry, " The wondrous man ! " 
 
 Lambourn. His birth-place must thank Fortune for the fame 
 That he one day will win it. 
 
 Michael. Dost thou know 
 
 Whence Aram came, ere to these hamlet scenes 
 Ten summers since he wander'd ? 
 
 Lambourn. Michael, no ! 
 
 ' T was from some distant nook of our fair isle. 
 But he so sadly flies from what hath chanced 
 
446 EUGENE ARAM, 
 
 In his more youthful life, and there would seem 
 So much of winter in those April days, 
 That I have shunn'd vain question of the past. 
 Thus much I learn : he hath no kin alive ; 
 No parent to exult in such a son. 
 
 Michael. Poor soul ! You spake of sadness. Know you why 
 So good a man is sorrowful ? 
 
 Lambourx. Methinks 
 
 He hath been tried — not lightly — by the sharp 
 And everlasting curse to learning doom'd. 
 That which poor labor bears without a sigh, 
 But whose mere breath can wither genius — Want ! 
 Want — the harsh, hoary beldame — the obscene 
 Witch that hath povv^er o'er brave men's thews and nerves, 
 And lifts the mind from out itself. 
 
 Michael. Why think you 
 
 That he hath been thus cross'd ? His means appear 
 Enough, at least for his subdued desires. 
 
 Lambourx. I '11 tell thee wherefore. Do but speak of want, 
 And lo ! he winces, and his nether lip 
 Quivers impatient, and he sighs, and frowns, 
 And mutters — " Hunger is a fearful thing ; 
 And it is terrible that man's high soul 
 Should be made barren in its purest aims 
 By the mere lack of the earth's yellow clay." 
 Then will he pause — and pause — and come at last 
 And put some petty moneys in my hand. 
 And cry, '' Go, feed the wretch ; he must not starve. 
 Or he will sin. Men's throats are scarcely safe, 
 While Hunger prowls beside them ! " 
 
 Michael. The kind man ! 
 
 But this comes only from a gentle heart, 
 Not from a tried one. 
 
 Lambourn. Nay, not only so ; 
 
 For I have heard him, as he turn'd away. 
 Mutter, in stifled tones, "No man can tell 
 What Want is in his brother man, unless 
 Want's self hath taught him, — as the fiend taught me ! " 
 
A TRAGEDY. 447 
 
 Michael. And hath he ne'er enlarged upon these words, 
 Nor lit them into clearer knowledge by 
 A more pronounced detail ? 
 
 Lambourx. No ; nor have I 
 
 Much sought to question. In my younger days 
 I pass'd much time amid the scholar race, 
 The learned lamps which light the unpitying world 
 By their own self-consuming. They are proud — 
 A proud and jealous tribe — and proud men loathe 
 To speak of former sufferings : most of all 
 Want's suffering, in the which the bitterest sting 
 Is in the humiliation ; therefore I 
 Cover the past with silence. But whate'er 
 His origin or early fate, there lives 
 None whom I hold more dearly, or to whom 
 My hopes so well could trust my Madeline's lot. 
 
 Scene II. Tlie crowd at the hack of the Stage gives icay — 
 Aram sloidy enters — The Neighbors greet him with respect, 
 several appear to thank him for various benefits or charities — 
 Me returns the greeting in dumb shoiv, with great appearance 
 of modesty. 
 
 Aram. Nay, nay, good neighbors, ye do make me blush 
 To think that to so large a store of praise 
 There goes so poor desert. — My Madeline ! — Sweet, 
 I see thee, and all brightens ! 
 
 Lambourn. You are late — 
 
 But not less welcome. On my daughter's birthday 
 You scarce should be the last to wish her joy. 
 
 Aram. Joy — joy ! — Is life so poor and harsh a boon 
 That we should hail each year that wears its gloss 
 And glory into winter ? Shall we crown 
 With roses Time's bald temples, and rejoice — 
 For what ? — that we are hastening to the grave ? 
 No, no ! — I cannot look on thy young brow. 
 Beautiful Madeline ! nor, upon the day 
 Which makes thee one year nearer unto Heaven, 
 
448 EUGENE ARAJVI, 
 
 Feel sad for Earth, whose very soul thou art ; — 
 Or art, at least, to me ! — for wert thou not, 
 Earth would be dead and wither'd as the clay 
 Of her own offspring when the breath departs. 
 
 Lambourx. I scarce had thought a scholar's dusty tomes 
 Could teach his lips the golden ways to woo. 
 Howbeit, in all times, man never learns 
 To love, nor learns to flatter. 
 
 Well, my friends, 
 Will ye within ? — our simple fare invites. 
 Aram, when thou hast made thy peace with Madeline, 
 We shall be glad to welcome thee. — [To Michael]. This love 
 Is a most rigid faster, and would come 
 To a quick ending in an epicure. 
 
 [Exeunt Lambourn, tJie Neighbors, etc. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Madeline aiid Aram. 
 
 Aram. Alone with thee ! — Peace comes to earth again. 
 Beloved ! would our life could, like a brook 
 Watering a desert, glide unseen away, 
 Murmuring our own heart's music, — which is love, 
 And glassing only heaven, — which is love's life ! 
 I am not made to live among mankind ; 
 They stir dark memory from unwilling sleep, 
 And — But no matter. Madeline, it is strange 
 That one like thee, for whom, methinks, fair Love 
 Should wear its bravest and most gallant garb. 
 Should e'er have cast her heart's rich freight upon 
 A thing like me, — not f ashion'd in the mould 
 Which wins a maiden's eye, — austere of life, 
 And grave and sad of bearing, — and so long 
 Inured to solitude, as to have grown 
 A man that hath the shape, but not the soul, 
 Of the world's inmates. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 449 
 
 Madeline. 'T is for that I loved. 
 
 The world I love not — therefore I love thee ! 
 Come, shall I tell thee, — ' t is an oft-told tale, 
 Yet never wearies, — by what bright degrees 
 Thy empire rose, till it o'erspread my soul. 
 And made my all of being love ? Thou know'st 
 When first thou camest into these lone retreats. 
 My years yet dwelt in childhood ; but my thoughts 
 Went deeper than my playmates'. Books I loved. 
 But not the books that woo a woman's heart ; — 
 I loved not tales of war and stern emprise. 
 And man let loose on man — dark deeds, of which 
 The name was glory, but the nature crime, — 
 Nor themes of vulgar love — of maidens' hearts 
 Won by small worth, set off by gaudy show ; — 
 Those tales which win the wilder hearts, in me 
 Did move some anger and a world of scorn. 
 All that I dream'd of sympathy was given 
 Unto the lords of Mind — the victor chiefs 
 Of Wisdom — or of Wisdom's music — Song ; 
 And as I read of them, I dream'd and drew 
 In my soul's colors, shapes my soul might love. 
 And, loving, worship, — they were like to thee ! 
 Thou camest unknown and lonely, — and around 
 Thy coming, and thy bearing, and thy mood 
 Hung mystery, — and in guessing at its clew. 
 Mystery grew interest, and the interest love ! 
 
 Aram \aside\ woman ! how from that which she should 
 shun. 
 Does the poor trifler draw what charms her most ! 
 
 Madeline. Then, as Time won thee frequent to our hearth. 
 Thou from thy learning's height didst stoop to teach me 
 Nature's more gentle secrets, — the sweet lore 
 Of the green herb and the bee-worshipp'd flower ; 
 And when the night did o'er this nether earth 
 Distil meek quiet, and the heart of heaven 
 With love grew breathless, thou wert wont to raise 
 My wild thoughts to the weird and solemn stars ; 
 
 29 
 
450 EUGENE ARAM, 
 
 Tell of eacli orb the courses and the name ; 
 And of the winds, the clouds, th' invisible air, 
 Make eloquent discourse ; — until methought 
 No human life, but some diviner spirit 
 Alone could preach such truths of things divine. 
 And so — and so — 
 
 Aram. From heaven we turn'd to earth, 
 
 And Thought did father Passion ? — Gentlest love ! 
 If thou couldst know how hard it is for one 
 Who takes such feeble pleasure in this earth 
 To worship aiight earth-born, thou'dst learn how wild 
 The wonder of my passion and thy power. 
 But ere three days are past thou wilt be mine ! 
 And mine forever ! Oh, delicious thought ! 
 How glorious were the future, could I shut 
 The past — the past — from — Ha ! what stirr'd ? didst hear, 
 Madeline, — didst hear ? 
 
 Madeline. Hear what ? — the very air 
 
 Lies quiet as an infant in its sleep. 
 
 Aram [looki7ig round]. Methought I heard — 
 
 Madeline. What, love ? 
 
 Aram. It was a cheat 
 
 Of these poor fools, the senses. Come, thy hand ; 
 I love to feel thy touch, thou art so pure — 
 So soft — so sacred in thy loveliness, 
 That I feel safe with thee ! Great God himself 
 Would shun to launch upon the brow of guilt 
 His bolt while thou wert by ! 
 
 Madeline. Alas, alas ! 
 
 Why dost thou talk of guilt ? 
 
 Aram. Did I, sweet love, 
 
 Did I say guilt ? — it is an ugly word. 
 Why, sweet, indeed — did I say guilt, my Madeline ? 
 
 Madeline. In truth you did. Your hand is dry — the pulse 
 Beats quick and fever'd : you consume too much 
 Of life in thought — you over-rack the nerves — 
 And thus a shadow bids them quell and tremble ; 
 But when I queen it, Eugene, o'er your home, 
 
A TRAGEDY. 451 
 
 I '11 see this fault amended. 
 
 Aram. Ay, thou shalt. — 
 
 In sooth thou shalt. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Enter Michael. 
 
 Michael. Friend Lambourn sends his greeting, 
 And prays you to his simple banquet. 
 
 Madeline. Come ! 
 
 His raciest wine will in my father's cup 
 Seem dim till you can pledge him. Eugene, come ! 
 
 Aram. And if I linger o'er the draught, sweet love, 
 Thou 'It know I do but linger o'er the wish 
 For thee, which sheds its blessing on the bowl. 
 
 Scene. Sunset — a Wood-scene — a Cottage at a distance — in 
 the foreground a Woodman felling wood. 
 
 Enter Aram. 
 
 Wise men have praised the peasant's thoughtless lot, 
 And learned pride hath envied humble toil : 
 If they were right, why, let us burn our books, 
 And sit us down, and play the fool with Time, 
 Mocking the prophet Wisdom's grave decrees, 
 And walling this trite present with dark clouds, 
 Till night becomes our nature, and the ray 
 Ev'n of the stars but meteors that withdraw 
 The wandering spirit from the sluggish rest 
 Which makes its proper bliss. I will accost 
 This denizen of toil, who, with hard hands, 
 Prolongs from day to day unthinking life, 
 And ask if he be happy. — Friend, good eve. 
 
 Woodman. ' T is the great scholar ! — Worthy sir, good eve. 
 
452 EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 Aram. Thou seem'st o'erworn : through this long summer 
 day 
 Hast thou been laboring in the lonely glen ? 
 
 Woodman. Ay, save one hour at noon. 'T is weary work ; 
 But men like me, good sir, must not repine 
 At work which feeds the craving mouths at home. 
 
 Aram. Then thou art happy, friend, and with content 
 Thy life hath made a compact. Is it so ? 
 
 Woodman. Why, as to that, sir, I must surely feel 
 Some pangs when I behold the ease with which 
 The wealthy live ; while I, through heat and cold, 
 Can scarcely conquer Famine. 
 
 THE END.