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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 

GIFT  OF 
MR.   WARREN  STURTEVANT 


^Unlverst'      •  California^ 
IRVINF 


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in  2007  witii  funding  from 

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EUGENE    ARAM 


el'(;k.ne  akam. 


EUGENE   ARAM 


A    TALE 


BY 

EDWARD   BULWER   LYTTON 

(Lord  Lytton) 


Our  acts  our  angels  are,  or  good  or  ill. 

Our  fatal  Shadows  that  walk  by  us  still.  ' 

*  *  *  *  * 

*  *  *         All  things  that  are 
Made  for  our  general  uses  are  at  war — 
E'en  we  among  ourselves  I " 

John  Fletcher,  upon  "An  Honest  Man's  Fortune. 


GEORGE    ROUTLEDGE    AND    SONS 

London  :  Broadway,  Ludgate  Hill 
New  York  :  9  Lafayette  Place 


PR 

A\ 

\%%0z. 


TO  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT,  Bart^ 

&C.,   &C. 


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  world,  I  have 
paused  to  consider  if  it  were  worthy  to  be  inscribed  with 
your  great  name,  and  at  each  I  have  played  the  procrastinator, 
and  hoped  for  that  morrow  of  better  desert  which  never  came. 
But  defluat  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  admiration  with 
which  you  have  inspired  me  in  common  with  all  your  con- 
temporaries, 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  intellectual  greatness,  and  left  without  an  enemy  a 
man  who  has  no  living  equal  in  renown. 


DEDICATION. 


You  have  gone  for  a  while  from  the  scenes  you  liavc 
immortalised,  to  regain,  we  trust,  the  health  which  has  been 
impaired  by  your  noble  labours,  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«  tibi  creditum 
Debes  Virgiiiiim 
Reddae  incorjinem  ! "  ' 


You,  I  feel  assured,  will  not  deem  it  presumptuous  in  one 
who,  to  that  bright  and  undying  flame  which  now  streams 
from  the  grey  hills  of  Scotland, — the  last  halo  with  which 
you  have  crowned  her  literary  glories, — has  turned  from  his 
first  childhood  with  a  deep  and  unrelaxing  devotion ;  you, 
I  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." 

LOKIXJN,  December  22,   1831. 

*  Written  at  the  time  of  Sir  \V.  Scott's  risit  to  Italy— after  the  great  blow  to  hit 
Health  and  fortunes. 

*  O  »hip,  tLuu  owest  to  tu  Vir|;il — restore  ia  safety  him  whom  we  entrusted  tc  thee. 


PREFACE 
TO  THE  EDITION  OF   1831. 


Since  deai  Reader,  I  last  addressed  thee,  in  PAUL 
Cliffofo,  nearly  two  years  have  elapsed,  and  somewhat 
more  than  four  years  since,  in  Pelham,  our  familiarity  first 
began.  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  exercised  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  pro- 
tected by  historical  recollections.  The  book  was,  for  the  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  nugarzim,  but  also  to  be  totus  in 
illisn 

I  originally  intended  to  adapt  the  story  of  Eugene  Aram  to 

^  Not  only  to  be  meditating  I  know  not  what  of  trifles,  but  also  to  be  wholly 
engaged  on  them. 


via  PREFACE. 

the  Stajp.  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  more  transferable 
of  its  quahties.  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  conclude),  in  the  dull  monotony  of 
public  affairs,  and  in  these  long  winter  evenings,  when  we  gather 
round  the  fire,  prepared  for  the  gossip's  tale,  willing  to  indulge 
the  fear,  and  to  believe  the  legend,  perhaps,  dear  Reader,  thou 
mayest  turn,  not  reluctantly,  even  to  these  pages,  for  at  least 
a  newer  excitement  than  the  Cholera,  or  for  a  momentary  relief 
from  the  everlasting  discussion  on  "  tlie  BillT  * 

London,  Dteembtr  22,  iSjI. 

*  Tht  jeftr  of  the  Reform  BOL 


PREFACE 

TO   THE   EDITION   OF    1840, 


The  strange  history  of  Eugene  Aram  had  excited  my  interest 
and  wonder  long  before  the  present  work  was  composed  or 
conceived.  It  so  happened,  that  during  Aram's  residence  at 
Lynn,  his  reputation  for  learning  had  attracted  the  notice  of 
my  grandfather — a  country  gentleman  living  in  the  same  county, 
and  of  more  intelligence  and  accomplishments  than,  at  that  day, 
usually  characterised  his  class.  Aram  frequently  visited  at 
Heydon  (my  grandfather's  house),  and  gave  lessons,  probably  ia 
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  endeavoured  to  collect  such  anecdotes  of  Aram's  life  and 
manners  as  tradition  and  hearsay  still  kept  afloat.  These 
anecdotes  were  so  far  uniform  that  they  all  concurred  in  re* 
presenting  him  as  a  person  who,  till  the  detection  of  the  crime 


s  PREFACE. 

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.  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  mut- 
tering to  himself — a  singular  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,  viz. — murder 
for  the  sake  of  gain ;  that  a  crime  thus  committed  should  have 
been  so  episodical  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  duration,  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 


PREFACE.  si 

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  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  distinct 
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  para- 
doxes which  the  poetry  of  all  countries,  and  especially  of  our 
own,  has  always  delighted  to  contemplate  and  examine.  When- 
ever crime  appears  the  aberration  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  investigate  and  solve : — hence,  the  Macbeths  and 
Richards,  the  lagos  and  Othellos.  My  regret,  therefore,  is  not 
that  I  chose  a  subject  unworthy  of  elevated  fiction,  but  that 
such  a  subject  did  not  occur  to  some  one  capable  of  treating  it 
as  it  deserves  ;  and  I  never  felt  this  more  strongly  than  when 
the  late  Mr.  Godwin  (in  conversing  with  me  after  the  publica- 
tion 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  entertained  the  notion  of  making 
it  the  foundation  of  a  novel."     I  can  well  conceive  what  depth 

^  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,  viz.,  that  the  robbery  was  tbife 
crime  planned,  and  the  cause,  whether  accidental  or  otherwise,  of  the  murder. 


^  PREFACE. 

and  power  that  gloomy  record  would  have  taken  from  the 
dark  and  inquiring  genius  of  the  author  of  CaUi  Williams. 
In  fact,  the  crime  and  trial  of  Eugene  Aram  arrested  the  atten- 
tion 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  sensa- 
tion created  by  an  event  thus  completely  distinct  from  the 
ordinary  annals  of  human  crime,  that  even  History  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)  con- 
fessedly an  accomplice  of  the  crime,  and  a  partner  in  the 
booty  j  and  that,  in  the  present  day,  a  man  tried  upon  evidence 
so  scanty  and  suspicious  would  unquestionably  escape  conviction. 
Nevertheless,  I  must  frankly  own  that  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  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  ver)'  far  removed  from 
one  which  led  recently  to  a  remarkable  murder  in  Spain.  A 
priest  in  that  countrj-,  wholly  absorbed  in  learned  pursuits,  and 
*  See  Preface  to  the  Present  Edition,  p.  xviii. 


PREFACE.  sSi 

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  knowledge  which  he  could  not  otherwise  acquire, 
and  which  he  held  to  be  profitable  to  mankind.  Unfortunately, 
the  dissolute  rich  man  was  not  willing  to  be  robbed  for  so  ex- 
cellent a  purpose :  he  was  armed  and  he  resisted — a  struggle 
ensued,  and  the  crime  of  homicide  was  added  to  that  of 
robbery.  The  robbery  was  premeditated  :  the  murder  was  acci- 
dental. But  he  who  would  accept  some  similar  interpretation 
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  condition  of  the  criminal  at  the 
time :  severe  illness — intense  labour  of  the  brain — poverty 
bordering  upon  famine — the  mind  preternaturally  at  work, 
devising  schemes  and  excuses  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  horrible  hallucination — the  awful  dream  of  a  brief  but 
delirious  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,  for  ever  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  them- 
selves on  the  notice  and  sink  deep  into  the  heart.  The  en- 
tanglements 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 


«T  PREFACE. 

effect  of  conscience  in  frustrating  all  for  which  the  crime  was 
done — leaving  genius  without  hope,  knowledge  without  fruit — 
deadening  benevolence  into  mechanism — tainting  love  itself  with 
terror  and  suspicion;  such  reflections — leading,  with  subtler 
minds,  to  many  more  vast  and  complicated  theorems  in  the  con- 
sideration 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. 

B&vtssLs,  Ai^ust,  184a 


PREFACE 
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  ignor- 
ance of  the  true  morality  of  fiction,  a  few  critics  may  still  re- 
iterate the  old  commonplace  charges  of  "  selecting  heroes  from 
Newgate,"  or  "  investing  murderers  with  interest ;  "  but  the  firm 
hold  which  the  work  has  established  in  the  opinion  of  the 
general  public,  and  the  favour  it  has  received  in  every  country 
where  English  literature  is  known,  suffice  to  prove  that,  what- 
ever its  faults,  it  belongs  to  that  legitimate  class  of  fiction  which 
illustrates  life  and  truth,  and  only  deals  with  crime  as  the 
recognised  agency  of  pity  and  terror,  in  the  conduct  of  tragic 
narrative.  All  that  I  would  say  farther  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 


sH  PREFACE. 

truth,  the  ordinary  habits  of  life  and  attributes  of  character, 
which  all  record  and  remembrance  ascribed  to  Eugene  Aram, 
as  it  would  have  defeated  every  end  of  the  moral  inculcated  by 
his  g^ilt,  to  portray  in  the  caricature  of  the  murderer  of  melo- 
drame,  a  man  immersed  in  study,  of  whom  it  was  noted  that  he 
turned  aside  from  the  worm  in  his  path,  so  I  have  allowed  to 
him  whatever  contrasts  with  his  inexpiable  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.  Allow- 
ing all  by  which  attention  to  his  biography  may  explain  the 
tremendous  paradox  of  fearful  guilt  in  a  man  aspiring  after 
knowledge,  and  not  generally  inhumane — 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  imagination,  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  enormity,  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  exclude  whatever  humanity  of  character 
preceded  and  belied  it  from  all  active  exercise — all  social  con- 
fidence ;  how  the  knowledge  of  the  bar  between  the  minds  of 
others  and  his  own  deprived  the  criminal  of  all  motive  to  am- 
bition, and  blighted  knowledge  of  all  fruit.  Miserable  in  his 
affections,  barren  in  his  intellect — clinging  to  solitude,  yet 
accursed  in  it^-dreading  as  a   danger   the   fame  he  had   once 


PREFACE.  xvB 

coveted — obscure  in  spite  of  learning,  hopeless  in  spite  of  love, 
fruitless  and  joyless  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 
comprehension,  and  candid  mind,  such  is  the  moral  conveyed  hy 
the  fiction  of  Eugene  Aram."  ^ 

In  point  of  composition  EUGENE  Aram  is,  I  think,  entitled 
to  rank  amongst  the  best  of  my  fictions.  It  somewhat  humili- 
ates 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  I  have  since  sought  to  call  forth  higher  and  more  subtle 
passions,  I  doubt  if  I  have  ever  excited  the  two  elementary 
passions  of  tragedy,  viz.,  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  en- 
deavoured 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,  viz., 
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  attri- 
bute of  the  principal  character  whose  fate  colours  the  narrative. 
I  do  not  know  whether  it  has  been  observed  that  the  time  occu- 
pied 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 
jhanges  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,  I  recognise  one  of  my 

»  A  Word  to  the  Public,  1847. 

B 


sviil  PREFACE. 

earliest  but  most  successful  attempts  at  the  subtler  principles  ol 
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  incidental  to  the  robbery  in  which  he  was  an  accom- 
plice, 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  courtesy  of  a 
gentleman  by  whose  grandfather  it  was  received,  with  other 
papers  (especially  a  remarkable  '  Outline  of  a  New  Lexicon  * ), 
during  Aram'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  Antiquities,  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  consider- 
able 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  himself,  in  fending  to  a  gentleman  an  elegy  on  Sir  John 


PREFACE.  zb 

Armitage,  which  shows  much  but  undisciplined  power  of  versi- 
fication, 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  CHURN. 

These  rural  entertainments  and  usages  were  formerly  more 
general  all  over  England  than  they  are  at  present;  being 
become  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 
harvest,  and  compiled  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  festal 
night,  the  youth  especially,  of  both  sexes,  would  decline  serving 
them  for  the  future,  and  employ  their  labours  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  subject 
is  more  curious  than  important,  and  I  believe  altogether  un- 
touched ;  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 

B  3 


MX  PREFACE. 

names  in  different  counties,  and  often  in  the  same  county ;  as, 
meUupper^  chum  supper^  Jtarvest  supper^  /larvest  borne,  feast  of 
in-gatluring,  &c.  And  perhaps  this  feast  had  been  long 
observed,  and  by  different  tribes  of  people,  before  it  became 
preceptive  with  the  Jews.  However,  let  that  be  as  it  will,  the 
custom  very  lucidly  appears  from  the  following  passages  of 
S.  S,  Exod.  xxiii.  i6,  "And  the  feast  of  harvest,  the  first  fruits 
of  thy  labours,  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  con- 
sequence, is  met  with  prior  to  this,  for  we  find  that  "  Cain 
brought  of  the  fruit  of  the  ground  an  offering  to  the  Lord." — 
Gtn.  iv.  3. 

Yet  this  offering  of  the  first  fruits,  it  may  well  be  supposed, 
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  right  of  offering  their  Primitis,  and  of  solemnising 
a  festival  after  it,  in  religious  acknowledgment  for  the  blessing 
of  harvest,  though  that  acknowledgment  was  ignorantly  mis- 
applied in  being  directed  to  a  secondary,  not  the  primary, 
fountain  of  this  benefit ; — namely,  to  Apollo  or  the  Sun. 

For  Callimachus  affirms  that  these  Primitiae  were  sent  by  the 
people  of  every  nation  to  the  temple  of  Apollo  in  Delos,  the 


PREFACE.  xjJ 

most  distant  that  enjoyed  the  happiness  of  corn  and  harvest, 
even  by  the  Hyperboreans  in  particular,  Hymn  to  ApoL,  Ot 
fievToc  KoXafiTjv  re  kuX  lepa  Spdjfia  irpwroi  aaTdicvcoVf  "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  'lepa  ivZeZep^eva  iv 
KaKajxri  irvpoiv  e'l  'T7rep(36pecov,  "  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  Primitiae,  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 
gaiety  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  of  the  heathen  worship,  became  disused 
in  some  places  and  retained  in  others,  but  still  continued  de- 
clining after  the  promulgation  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.,  shoiUittg  the  churn,  is  observed  to  thia 


nU  PREFACE. 

day  by  the  reapers,  and  from  so  old  an  era ;  for  we  read  of  this 
exclamation,  Jsa.  xvi.  9:  "For  the  shouting  for  thy  summer 
fruits  and  for  thy  harvest  is  fallen  ; "  and  again,  ver.  10:  "And 
in  the  vineyards  there  shall  be  no  singing,  their  shouting  shall 
be  no  shouting."  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  com.  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  custom.  Bread  or  cakes  compose  part  of  the 
Hebrew  offering  {Levit  xxiii.  13),  and  a  cake  thrown  upon  the 
head  of  the  victim  was  also  part  of  the  Greek  offering  to  Apollo 
(see  Horn.  11.  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  adora- 
tion 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.  anfl  Prag. 
Idolatr.  I,  2),  have  been  preserved  in  Britain  ;  and  what  had 
been  anciently  offered  to  the  god,  the  reapers  as  prudently  eat 
up  themselves. 

At  last  the  use  of  the  meal  of  the  new  com  was  neglected,  and 
the  supper,  so  far  as  meal  was  concerned,  was  made  indifferently 
of  old  or  new  corn,  as  was  most  agreeable  to  the  founder.  And 
here  the  usage  itself  accounts  for  the  name  of  Mclsn/yper  {where 
mcl  signifies  meal,  or  else  the  instrument  called  with  us  a  Mell, 
wherewith   antiquity  reduced  their  corn  to  meal  in  a  mortar, 


PREPACK  ntUi 

which  still  amounts  to  the  same  thing)  for  provisions  of  meal,  or 
of  corn  in  furmity,  &c.,  composed  by  far  the  greatest  part  in 
these  elder  and  country  entertainments,  perfectly  conformable  tc 
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  other  things ;  as,  when  a  horse 
comes  last  in  the  race,  they  often  say  in  the  north,  **  he  has  got 
tJie  meli:* 

All  the  other  names  of  this  country  festivity  sufficiently 
explain  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  Chum- 
supper  because,  from  immemorial  times,  it  was  customary  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  custom  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,  &c.,  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.  Vicarious  ale  is  now  more 
approved,  and  the  tankard  almost  everywhere  politely  preferred 
to  the  Churn. 

This  Churn  (in  our  provincial  pronunciation  Kern)  is  the 
Hebrew  Kern,  pp  or  Keren,  from  its  being  circular  like  most 
horns :  and  it  is  the  Latin  corona,  named  so  either  from  radii, 


xxiv  PREFACE. 

resembling  horns,  as  on  some  very  antient  coins,  or  from  its 
encircling  the  head  ;  so  a  ring  of  people  is  called  corona.  Also 
the  Celtic  Koren,  Keren,  or  com,  which  continues  according  to 
its  old  pronunciation  in  Cornwall,  &c.,  and  our  modern  word 
horn  is  no  more  than  this ;  the  antient  hard  sound  of  k  in  corn 
being  softened  into  the  aspirate  //,  as  has  been  done  in  number- 
less instances. 

The  Irish  Celtae  also  called  a  round  stone  clogh  cretie,  where 
the  variation  is  merely  dialectic.  Hence,  too,  our  crane-berries» 
t>.,  round  berries,  from  this  Celtic  adjective  crenel  round. 

N.B. — The  quotations  from  Scripture  in  Aram's  original  MS. 
were  both  in  the  Hebrew  character,  and  their  value  in  English 
sounds 


EUGENE    ARAM. 


BOOK    I. 

T*»»     9ev,  (^eC'  (ppovdu  cos  ddvov  tvda  ji^  teXj^ 

\v(l  (ppOVOVVTl. 

*  *  •  •  • 

Ot.       T/  S*  fCTTiv  ;  is  advfios  eta-eXrjXvdas. 
T«.     "Acpfs  fi'  is  oucovs'  paara  yap  to  <r6v  re  ai 
KayoD  dioLaa>  T0vp.6v,  r^v  ifiol  irldrj. 

—  OIA.  TYP.  316-321. 

Tbi.  Alas  !  alas  I  how  sad  it  is  to  be  wise,  when  it  is  not  advantageous  to  him  wLo 
is  to. 

Ol.    But  what  is  the  cause  that  you  come  hither  sad  ? 

Tei.  Dismiss  me  to  my  house.    For  both  you  will  bear  your  fate  easier,  aod  I  mine, 
ii  Tou  take  my  advice. 


CHAPTER  I. 


THE   VILLAGE. — ITS    INHABITANTS. — AN    OLD    MANOR-HOUSE,    AND    AN    ENGLISH 
FAMILY  ;   THEIR  HISTORY,    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  without  dreading  or 
desiring  dissolution. — Numa  Pompilius. 

In  the  county  of  *  *  *  *  there  is  a  sequestered  hamlet  which 
I  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  a  landscape  of 
morr  pastoral  beauty.     The  hamlet,  to  which  I  shall  here  give 


J6  EUGENE   ARAM. 


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  described 
the  characteristics  of  the  English  peasantry.  It  has  been 
obser\'ed,  that  wherever  you  see  a  flower  in  a  cottage  garden,  or 
a  bird-cage  at  a  cottage  casement,  you  may  feel  sure  that  the 
inmates  are  better  and  wiser  than  their  neighbours  ;  and  such 
humble  tokens  of  attention  to  something  beyond  the  sterile 
labour  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  negligence, 
but  rather  to  sweeten  the  air  than  exclude  the  light.  Each  of 
the  cottages  possessed  at  its  rear  its  plot  of  ground  apportioned 
to  the  more  useful  and  nutritious  products  of  nature ;  while  the 
greater  part  of  them  fenced  also  from  the  unfrequented  road  a 
little  spot  for  a  lupin,  the  sweet  pea,  the  wallflower  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  ozier  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  \thom 
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 
hostelry  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  honoured  with  the  dignity  of 
clerk  to  the  parish,  he  was  deemed  by  his  neighbours  a  person 
of  no  small  accom[)lishments,  and  no  insignificant  distinction. 
He  was  a  little,  drj',  thin  man,  of  a  turn  rather  sentimental  than 


EUGENE  ARAM.  27 


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  composi- 
tion), often  gave  a  poetic  and  semi-religious  colouring  to  his 
conversation,  which  accorded  rather  with  his  dignity  in  the 
church  than  his  post  at  The  Spotted  Dog.  Yet  he  disliked  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  gentleman  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  devotion  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  indulgence  to  the  publican's  segments  of 
psalmody.  Jacob  was  a  tall,  comely,  and  perpendicular  person- 
age ;  his  threadbare  coat  was  .scrupulously  brushed,  and  his  hair 
punctiliously  plastered  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  something  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, 
had  in  it  a  military  and  Spartan  significance,  which  betrayed 
how  diflficult  it  often  is  for  a  man  to  forget  that  he  has  been  a 
corporal.     Occasionally,  indeed — for  where  but  in  farces  is  the 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


phraseology  of  the  humorist  always  the  same  ? — he  escaped 
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  luxuiy  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  neighbour  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  unfrequently  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  rivulet  we  have  before  honourably  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  churchyard,  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  grey  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  rivulet 
darkening  and  stealing  away  till  your  sight,  though  not  your  ear, 
lost  it  among  the  woodland. 

Trained  up  the  embrowned  paling,  on  either  side  of  the  gate, 
were  buslics  of  rustic  fruit ;  and  fruit  and  flowers  (through  plots 
of  which  grcn  and  winding  alleys  had  been  cut  with  no  untast»- 


EUGENE  ARAM.  49 


ful  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  arbour  covered  with  honeysuckles,  and 
tapestried  within  by  moss.  The  house,  a  grey  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  osten- 
tation 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  honeysuckle  ;  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  Lester. 
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  churchyard 
in  which  was  yet  chronicled  his  death.  The  present  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,  Geoflfrey, 
testified  a  roving  and  dissipated  turn.  Bold,  licentious,  extra- 
vagant, unprincipled — his  career  soon  outstripped  the  slender 
fortunes  of  a  cadet  in  the  family  of  a  country  squire.  He  was 
early  thrown  into  difficulties,  but  by  some  means  or  other  they 
never  seemed  to  overwhelm  him  ;  an  unexpected  turn — a  lucky 
adventure — presented  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 


EUGENE   ARAM. 


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  brijjht  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  conjec- 
tured, 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  transpired.  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 
wherever  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, 
in  recompense  of  long  desertion, 

•*  With  richest  hand    .     ,    .    barbaric  pearl  and  gold." 

But  we  must  return  to  the  forsaken  spouse.  Left  in  this 
abrupt  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  wholly  unpre- 
pared 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  persecutions  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 
Ijuxury  of  that  self-neglect.     The  wife  did  not  long  need  the 


EUGENE   ARAM.  jf 


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  brother's  Jomestic  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 
v/arm  feelings,  and  a  fine  and  resolute  sense  of  honour  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  attachment  to  the 
portionless  daughter  of  a  man  in  his  own  neighbourhood  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  gaieties  and  companionship  he  had 
before  courted  and  enlivened,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
the  mourner  felt  the  holiness  of  solitude.  As  his  nephew  and 
his  motherless  daughters  grew  up,  they  gave  an  object  to  his 
seclusion  and  a  relief  to  his  reflections.  He  found  a  pure  and 
unfailing  delight  in  watching  the  growth  of  their  young  minds, 
and  guiding  their  differing  dispositions  ;  and  as  time  at  length 
enabled  them  to  return  his  affection,  and  appreciate  his  cares,  he 
became  once  more  sensible  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 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  characteristics 
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  remark- 
able 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  neighbours,  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  con- 
firmed 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  superior 
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  EUinor  had 
also  her  pretensions  to  personal  loveliness,  and  pretensions  per- 
haps 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  slender  as  to  be 


EUGENE  ARAM.  33 


curtailed  of  the  roundness  and  feminine  luxuriance  of  beauty, 
her  shape  was  slighter,  feebler,  and  less  rich  in  its  symmecry 
than  her  sister's.  And  this  the  tendency  of  the  physical  frame 
to  require  elsewhere  support,  nor  to  feel  secure  of  strength,  per- 
haps 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  Ellinor 
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  not  for  maintenance,  on  the  kindness 
of  others.  This  reflection  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  ? 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  PUVUCAN,   A  SimiBR,  AND  A  STRANOEB. 

Ah,  Don  Alphonso,  is  it  you  ?    Agreeable  accident  t     Chance  presents  jroa  16  By 
e]res  «'here  you  were  least  expected. — Gil  Bias, 

It  was  an  evening  in  the  beginning  of  summer,  and  Peter 
Dealtry  and  the  ci-dei>ant  corporal  sat  beneath  the  sign  of  The 
Spotted  Dog  (as  it  hung  motionless  from  the  bough  of  a  friendly 
elm),  quafting  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  Dealtry  favoured  a  wiry  stone-coloured 
cur,  which  he  called  a  terrier),  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. 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Peter  Dealtry,  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  thuscnice  lines  in  the  hymn,  Master  Bunting:— 

'•  '  How  fair  ye  arc,  yc  little  hills  : 
Yc  little  fiel'ls  also  : 
Ye  murmuring  streams  that  sweetly  run» 
Ye  willows  in  a  row  1 ' 


EUGE-NE   ARAM.  35 


There  is  something  very  comfortable  in  sacred  verses,  Master 
Bunting :  but  you're  a  scoffer." 

"  Psha,  man  !  "  said  the  corporal,  throwing  out  his  right  leg  and 
leaning  back,  with  his  eyes  hatf  shut,  and  kis  chin  protrudec^  as 
he  took  an  unusually  long  inhalation  from  his  pipe.  "  Psba, 
man  ! — send  verses  to  the  right-about — fit  for  girls  going  to 
school  of  a  Sunday ;  full-grown  men  more  up  to  suufif.     I've  seen 

the   world,    Master   Dealtry; — the   world,    and    be    d d  to 

you  ! — augh  !  " 

"  Fie,  neighbour,  fie  !  What's  the  good  of  profaneness,  evil 
f.peaking,  and  slandering  ? — 

"  '  Oaths  are  the  debts  your  spendthrift  soul  must  pay  ; 
AH  scores  are  chalk'd  against  the  reckoning  day. ' 

Just  wait  a  bit,  neighbour ;  wait  till  I  light  my  pipe." 

"  Tell  you  what,"  said  the  corporal,  after  he  had  communicated 
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'll  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's,  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  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— psha  !  " 

"  Why  really,  neighbour,"  said  Peter,  composing  himself,  "  you 
must  let  a  man  laugh  now  and  then." 

"  Man  !  "  said  the  corporal ;  "  maiis  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  ! " 

C   2 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


"  Well ! "  said  the  good-humoured  landlord,  "  I  should  think 
Master  Aram  the  great  scholar  who  lives  down  the  vale  yonder, 
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  lie  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  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  no.se,  high  cheek-bones,  a  large  bony  jaw  from  which 
tiie  flesh  receded,  and  a  bull  throat  indicative  of  great  strength, 
constituted  his  claims  to  personal  attraction.  The  stately  cor- 
poral, without  moving,  kept  a  vigilant  and  suspicious  eye  upon 
the  new  comer,  muttering  to  Peter, — "  Customer  for  you  ;  rum 
customer  too — by  Gad  !  " 

The  strancjer  now  reached  the  little  table,  and  halting  short 
lowk  up  the  brown  jug,  without  ceremony  or  preface,  and  emptied 
it  at  a  draught. 

The  corporal  stared — the  corporal  frowned  ;  but  before — foi 


EUGENE  ARAM.  37 

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  produce — 
d'ye  hear  ? " 

Peter,  by  no  means  pleased  with  the  briskness  of  this  address, 
t-yed  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 " 

"  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.  Pm  clerk  to  the  parish — clerk  to  the  parish,  sir — 
and  ril  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  ta'ole,  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. 


38  EUGENE  ARAM. 


Peter  Dealtry  was  assuredly  a  personage  of  peaceable  dis- 
position ;  but  then  he  had  the  proper  pride  of  a  host  and  a 
clerk.  Uis  feelings  were  exceedingly  wounded  at  this  cavalier 
treatment :  before  the  very  eyes  of  his  wife,  too ! — what  an 
example  !  He  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his  breeches  pockets, 
and  strutting  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  manner 
of  means ;  and  if  you  don't  pay  for  the  ale  you  drank,  and  go 
quietly  about  your  business,  I'll  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  I  'fegs — you've 
a  soul,  man  1 — a  soul  fit  for  the  forty-second  I  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, — 

"  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  phjsiognomy,  '*  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  tabic,  added, — "  Come,  let's  have  no  more  of  this. 
Vou  see  I  can  j)ay  for  what  I  order ;  and  now,  do  recollect  that 
I  am  a  wear>'  and  hungrj'  man." 

Ko  sooner  did  Peter  behold  the  money,  than  a  sudden  placidity 


EUGENE  ARAM.  39 


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  neighbours. 
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.  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^ 
drily.     "  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  !  " 

Hera  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  traveller,  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. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


The  traveller  now  seemed  to  the  corporal  and  mine  host  a 
right  jolly,  good-humoured  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  in  the  circles  of  the 
village,  contrived,  before  the  viands  were  on  the  table  to  mono» 
polise  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  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. 

"  Rich ! — yes,  he's  well  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  nan, 
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  servants  ? 
— Corporal,  the  jug." 

"  Nay,"  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  ?" 


EUGENE   ARAM.  41 


"Aboi.t  six  miles  off;  you've  heard  of  my  Lord***,  I'll 
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  :uan,  you  must  know,  is  a  great  scholard,  a  wonder- 
fully learned  man  ;  there  yonder,  you  may  just  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  tall  uhat-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-a- 
days — eh,  coiporal  ?  " 

"  And  why  should  it .''  Zounds  !  can  it  teach  a  man  how  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." 

"  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  reverie ;  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. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


The  soldier  and  the  clerk  exchanged  looks,  and  now  outspake 
the  corporal — 

"Rum  tantrums  1  What  the  devil!  did  the  man  eat  your 
grand  motker  ? " 

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  kindness, 
my  friend.  Eugene  Aram  was  an  early  and  intimate  acquaint- 
ance 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 
ill  the  world  knew  that  1  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  obscurity  in  another. 
Besides,  I  have  never  been  in  this  part  of  the  world  before." 

Peter  was  about  to  reply,  when  he  heard  the  shrill  voice  of 
his  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 ;  accordingly 
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  tlic  landlady  of  The  Spotted  Dog,  as  she  now,  her  labours 
done,  sat  by  tiie  threshold,  within  hearing  of  the  convivial  group, 
and  plaiting  straw.  The  whole  family  of  Lester  were  so  beloved, 
that  we  question  whether  my  lord  himself,  as  the  great  noble- 
man of  the  place  was  always  called  (as  if  there  were  only  one 
lord  in  the  peerage),  would  have  obtained  the  same  degree  at 
respect  that  was  always  lavished  upon  them. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  43 

"  Don't  let  us  disturb  you,  good  people,"  said  Ellinor,  as  they 
now  moved  towards  the  boon  companions ;  when  her  eye  sud- 
denly falling  on  the  stranger,  she  stopped  short.  There  was 
something  in  his  appearance,  and  especially  in  the  expression 
of  his  countenance  at  that  moment,  which  no  one  could  have 
marked  for  the  first  time  without  apprehension  and  distrust ; 
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  lip,  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  oviar  his  garb,  "  not  in  distress,  I  hope  ? " 

"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  i* — 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  grey  house,  with  a  thingumbob  at  the 
top ;  a  'servatory  they  call  it.     That's  Master  Aram's." 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


"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-favoured  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  fellow- 
feeling  for  his  new  acquaintance's  blufTness  of  manner;  "what 
sinnifies  what  he  is .'  Served  his  country — that's  enough ; — 
never  told  me,  by  the  by,  his  regiment ; — set  me  a  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  HI. 

A  DIALOGUE  AND  AN  ALARM.— A  STUDENT'S  HOVSI. 

A  fellow  by  the  hand  of  Nature  marked. 
Quoted,  and  signed,  to  do  a  deed  of  shame. 

— Shaksi'Eake,  King  jfokm, 

•  •  •  •  * 

He  is  a  scholar,  if  a  man  may  trust 
The  liberal  voice  of  Fame  in  her  report 

•  •  •  •  • 
Myself  was  once  a  stu'lent,  and  indeed 
Fed  with  the  self->ame  humour  he  is  now. 

— Ben  Jonson,  Every  Man  in  his  Humour. 

The  tv\'0  sisters  pursued  their  walk  along  a  scene  which 
might  well  be  favoured  by  their  selection.  No  sooner  had 
they  crossed    the   stile    than  the  village  seemed  vanished  intc 


EUGENE  ARAM.  4 J 


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  twiUght  sky ;  to  the  left,  and  immediately 
along  thf:ir  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 
frequent  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  could 
be  at  hand,  and  this  air  of  perfect  solitude  and  quiet  gave  an 
additional  charm  to  the  spot." 

"  But  I  assure  you,"  said  EUinor,  earnestly  continuing  a  con- 
versation they  had  begun,  "  I  assure  you  I  was  not  mistaken : 
I  "law  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,  EUinor,"  said  Madeline,  smiling,  "  you  are 
not  very  mercifu\  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  neighbourhood  of  which  they  say  robberies  have 
been  frequent  of  late.  As  to  his  looks,  they  are,  I  own,  un- 
pardonable !  for  so  much  ugliness  there  can  be  no  excuse.  Had 
the  man  been  as  handsome  as  our    cousin   Walter,  you  would 


EUGENE  ARAVI. 


not,  perhaps,  have  been    so   uncharitable  in  your  fears  at  the 
pistol." 

"  Nonsense,  Madeline,"  said  EUinor,  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  neighbour.  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 
Madeline ;  "  for  he  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 !  "with  that  high  pale  brow,  and  those  deep,  unfathomable 
eyes," 

EUinor  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  verj'  words,  seems  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  inspires 
one  with  distrust,"  said  EUinor  ;  "  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  I " 

"Heaven    forbid!"    cried    EUinor,   turning  hastily  round    in 


EUGENE   ARAM.  47 


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. 

Sh^  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  imagina- 
tion of  both  had  been  already  so  worked  upon  by  Ellinor's  feaus, 
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  stealing  a  glance  behind, 
to  watch  the  progress  of  the  suspected  robber.  They  thought 
that  he  also  seemed  to  accelerate  his  movements  ;  and  this 
observation  increased  their  terror,  and  would  appear,  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  would  allow  them.  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,  Made- 
line, for  God's  sake  !  he  is  gaining  upon  us ! "  cried  Ellinor. 
The  path  grew  more  wild,  and  the  trees  more  thick  and  fre- 
quent ;  at  every  cluster  that  marked  their  progress,  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  endeavoured  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. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


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 } " 

"  But  are  you  sure  you  are  not  much  hurt .? "  said  poor 
Ellinor,  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  colour  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  in,  he  has  lost  com- 
mon humanity }  But  lean  more  on  me,  dearest ;  you  do  not 
know  how  strong  I  am  1  " 

Thus  alternately  chiding,  caressing,  and  encouraging  her 
sister,  Ellinor  led  on  the  sufferer,  till  they  had  crossed  the  plain, 
though  with  slowness  and  labour,  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  appre- 
hensions. 

Madeline  even  now  would  fain  have  detained  her  sister's  hand 
from  the  bell  that  hung  without  the  porch  half  imbedded  in 
ivy ;  but  Ellinor,  out  of  patience — as  she  well  might  be — with 
her  si-stcr's  unseasonable  prudery,  refused  any  longer  delay.  So 
singularly  still  and  solitary  was  the  plain  around  the  house,  that 


EUGENE  ARAM.  49 


the  sound  of  the  bell  breaking  the  silence  had  in  it  something 
startling,  and  appeared,  in  its  sudden  and  shrill  voice,  a  profana- 
tion of  the  deep  tranquillity  of  the  spot.  They  did  not  wait  long 
— a  step  was  heard  within — 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 
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  refinement  and 
the  dignity  of  intellect. 

Such  was  the  person — if  pictures  convey  a  faithful  re- 
semblance— 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 
surprised  ;  and  it  would  have  been  no  unworthy  subject  for  a 
picture — 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. 

D 


so  EUGENE  ARAM. 

No  sooner  did  Aram  learn  from  Ellinor  the  outline  of  their 
stor}',  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  respectful 
earnestness  with  which  this  recluse  scholar,  usually  so  cold  and 
abstracted  in  mood,  assisted  and  led  her  into  the  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  hef 
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  neighbourhood  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  gaiety  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  dead- 
ened her  natural  kindness  of  disposition,  in  preparing  fomenta- 
tions 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,  colouring;  "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 
)ou,  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  tliem  round  him  by  a  leather 
belt,  and  flinging  over  his  person,  to  conceal  weapons  so  alarming 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  ElHnor. 

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  the  old  womaa 
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  deserted  and 
uninhabited ;  and  when  Aram  settled  in  those  parts,  the  pro- 
prietor was  too  glad  to  get  rid  of  the  incumbrance  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  mantelpiece 
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  inclinea  to  reproduce  the  learning  he  acquired ;  what  he 
wrote  was  in  very  small  proportion  to  what  he  had  read. 

D  2 


SS  EUGENE  ARAM. 


So  high  and  grave  was  the  scholar's  reputation,  that  the 
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  mint),  we 
may  readily  conceive  that  the  room  presented  a  powerful  and 
pleasing  charm.  As  the  elder  sister  looked  round  in  silence, 
EUinor  attempted  to  draw  the  old  woman  into  conversation. 
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,"  answered  Madeline. 

"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  myself 
much  fear." 

"  But  these  bookmen  are  not  often  heroes,"  remarked  Ellinor; 
laughing. 

"For  shame,"  said  Madeline,  the  colour  mounting  to  her 
forehead.  "  Do  you  not  remember  how,  last  summer,  Eugene 
Aram  rescued  DameGrenfcld'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  Fair- 
leigh,  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." 


EUGENE  ARAM.  53 


"  Hush ! "  said  ElUnor,  under  her  breath,  and,  putting  her 
finger  to  her  mouth,  she  rose  and  stole  h'ghtly  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  recognised 
the  formidable  stranger.  Presently  the  bell  sounded,  and  the 
old  woman,  famihar  with  its  shrill  sound,  rose  from  her  kneeling 
position  beside  the  sufferer  to  attend  to  the  summons.  Ellinor 
sprang  forward  and  detained  her :  the  poor  old  woman  stared 
at  her  in  amazement,  wholly  unable  to  comprehend  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  admittance  to  the  stranger.  Mean- 
while, 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  unheeding  the  admonition.  Satisfied  at  having 
done  thus  much,  Ellinor  now  herself  hastened  to  the  door,  and 
secured  the  ingress  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 
Madeline,  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  repeating  a  sum- 
mons 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  sense.     He  gazed  upon 


EUGENE  ARAKf. 


her  evident  terror  for  a  moment  with  a  grim  smile  of  contempt : 
he  then  knocked  at  the  windo.v,  and  his  voice  broke  harshly  on 
a  silence  yet  more  dreadful  than  the  interruption. 

"  Ho,  ho  !  so  there  is  some  life  stirring !  I  b^  pardon, 
madam,  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  Madeline  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  ao  lukewarm  expecta- 
tion ;  the  stranger,  hov/ever,  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   IV. 

TBS  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  uutwatch  the  Bear, 
Or  thrice  great  Hermes  and  unsphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato.— Milton,  II  Penseroso. 

As  Aram  assisted  the  beautiful  Madeline  into  the  carriage — 
jts  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  solitary 
life,  agitated  his  breast.  Lester  held  out  his  hand  to  him  with 
a  frank  cordiality  which  the  scholar  could  not  resist. 

"Do  not  let  us  be  strangers,  Mr.  Aram,"  said  he,  warmly. 
"It  is  not  often  tliat  I  press  for  companionship  dut  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 


EUGENE  ARAM.  5$ 


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  reverie  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  holy  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,  soliloquising :  "  worlds  upon 
worlds — infinite — incalculable.  Bright  defiers  of  rest  and  change, 
rolling  for  ever  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  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  forsake  the 
chain,  and  yet  the  chain  be  unbroken  ?  Away,  then,  with  our 
vague  repinings,  and  our  blind  demands.    All  must  walk  onward 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


to  their  goal ;  be  he  the  wisest  who  looks  not  one  step  behind. 
The  colours  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  I     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  viotistrari  digito ;  the  gratification  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  who  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  labour,  and  having  accu- 
mulated all,  they  bestowed  nought;  they  were  the  arch- misers  of 
the  wealth  of  letters.  Wrapped  in  obscurity,  in  some  sheltered 
nook  remote  from  the  great  stir  of  men,  they  passed  a  life  at  once 
unprofitable  and  glorious;  the  kast  part  of  what  they  ransacked 
would  appal  the  industry  of  a  modern  student,  yet  the  most 
superficial  of  modern  students  might  effect  more  for  mankind. 
They  lived  among  oracles,  but  they  gave  none  forth.  And  yet, 
even  in  tills  very  barrenness,  there  seems  nothing  high  ;  it  was  a 


EUGENE  ARAM.  57 


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  vanity 
which  generally  accompanies  research ;  refusing  the  ignorant 
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  colour  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  intuitive  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  motives  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  metaphysical  frame,  never  quitted 
his  solitude  to  mix  with  others,  without  penetrating  into  the 
broad  traits  or  prevalent  infirmities  their  characters  possessed. 
In  this,  indeed  he  differed  from  the  scholar  tribe,  and  even  in 
abstraction  was  mechanically  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  subtle  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  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  amelioration.  Unlike 
the  present  race  of  schoolmen,  who  incline  to  the  consoling  hope 


5S  EUGENE  ARANL 


of  human  perfectibility,  he  saw  in  the  gloomy  past  but  a  dark 
prophecy  of  the  future.  As  Napoleon  wept  over  one  wounded 
•oldier  in  the  field  of  battle,  yet  ordered,  without  emotion,  thou- 
sands 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  disdain  and  profound  despondency,  was  perhaps 
the  case  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  diflSculties,  nearly 
all  the  languages  of  the  civilised  earth ;  the  profound  mathe- 
matician, 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  honour,  and  its  possessors  were  drawn  together  into  a 
sort  of  brotherhood  by  the  fellowship  of  their  pursuits.  And 
thoux^h  Aram  gave  little  or  nothing  to  the  world  himself,  he  was 
evei  willing  to  c«jmmu.iicate  to  others  any  benefit  or  honour 
deri/able  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  modesty  and  the  courtesy 
that  characterised  his  demeanour  ;  but  it  was  noticeable  that  he 
never  allowed  these  interruptions  to  be  more  than  temporary'. 
He  proffered  no  hospitality,  and  shrunk  back  from  all  oficrs  of 
fricndshij) ;  the  interview  lasted  its  hour,  and  was  seldom 
renewed.  Patronage  was  not  less  distasteful  to  him  than 
sociality.  S(jmc  occasional  visits  and  condescensions  of  the 
grt  at  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  fiave 


EUGENE  ARAM.  59 


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  neighbourhood 
loved  him  ;  even  the  reserve  of  a  man  so  eminent,  arising  as 
it  was  supposed  to  do  from  a  painful  modesty,  had  in  it 
something  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  characterised  the  ab- 
straction of  his  mood  ;  and  the  village  maiden,  as  she  courtseyed 
by  him,  stole  a  glance  at  his  handsome  but  melancholy  coun- 
tenance ;  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  favour  with  a  peculiar 
beam  one  long  track  amidst  the  waters,  leaving  the  rest  in 
comparative  obscurity ;  yet  all  the  while  she  is  no  niggard  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 
unfavouring  loveliness,  mirrors  herself  on  every  wave  : — even 
so,  perhaps,  happiness  falls  with  the  same  brightness  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  recollected 
that  Madeline  had  said  the  stranger  who  had  so  alarmed  them 
had  inquired  for  him ;  at  that  recollection  his  chtek  suddenly 
blanched,  but  again,  that  stranger  was  surely  only  some  poof 


te  EUGENE  ARAM. 


traveller  who  had  heard  of  his  wonted  charity,  and  had  called 
to  solicit  relief;  for  he  had  not  met  the  stranger  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  was  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. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  DI!(NER  AT  THE  SQIMRE'S  HALL. — A  CONVERSATION  BKTAVEEH  TWO  RBTIRKD 
MEN  WITH  DIFFkRENT  OBJECTS  IN  RETIREMENT. — DISTURBANCE  FIRST  IN- 
TRODUCED   INTO  A    I-EACEKUL   FAMILY. 

Can  he  not  be  sociable? — Troilus  and  Cressida. 

Sabit  quippe  etiam  ipsius  incrtix  dulcedo  ;  et  inviKa  prim6  dcs'.dia  postremo  amatur.^ 

.  —  Ttuitus. 

How  use  dolh  breed  a  habit  in  a  man  ! 
This  shadowy  desert,  unfrequented  woods, 
I  better  brook  than  flourishing  peopled  towns. — tVinUr't  TaU, 

The  next  day,  faithful  to  his  appointment,  Aram  arrived  at 
Lester's.  The  good  squire  received  him  with  a  warm  cordiality, 
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  A^as 
wheeled  into  the  hall  where  they  dined,  so  that  she  was  not 

'  Forasmuch  as  the  very  sweetness  of  idleness  stealthily  introchices  itself  into  the 
mind,  and  the  sloth,  which  wa,  at  fust  hateful,  becomes  at  length  beloved. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  6l 


absent  from  the  repast.  It  was  a  pleasant  room,  that  old  hall ! 
Thougfh  it  was  summer — more  for  cheerfulness  than  warmth, 
the  log  burnt  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  disclaiming  its 
own  excellent  merits,  by  affecting  the  shape  and  assuming  the 
adjuncts  of  venison.  Then  for  the  confectionery, — 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  potations ;  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  colour. 

But  (the  wine  excepted)  these  various  dainties  met  with  slight 
honour  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  minutely  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 


6»  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  attraction  to  one 
versed  in  antiquities,  and  able  to  explain  its  origin,  and  from 
such  explanation  deduce  a  thousand  classic  or  Celtic  episodes. 

No  subject  Nvas  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  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  in  every  word, 
unconscious  of  the  sweet  poison  she  imbibed.  Walter  alone 
seemed  not  carried  away  by  the  eloquence  of  their  guest.  He 
preserved  an  unadmiring  and  sullen  demeanour,  and  every  now 
and  then  regarded  Aram  with  looks  of  suspicion  and  dislike. 
This  was  more  remarkable  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  parlour,  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  lest 
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  existence — 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  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  indifference  as  the  happiest  which  earth 
can  bestow." 

"This  may  be  true  enough,"  said  Leeter,  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  1" 

"  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. 'I 
:  •  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  ardmiration,  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.' 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


But  now  an  Italian  mountebank  appeared  on  the  stajje, — 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  unnatural  postures.  The 
audience  were  transported  beyond  themselves :  if  they  had 
felt  delight  in  Hamlet,  they  glowed  with  rapture  at  the 
mountebank:  they  had  listened  with  attention  to  the  lofty 
thought,  but  they  were  snatched  from  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  impression  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  honour,"  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  aboux'  letting  the  water  from  the  great  pond, 
and  you  must  give  us  your  opinion  of  the  new  brewing." 

"  Thank  your  honour,  thank  you  ;  much  obliged,  I'm  sure.  I 
hope  your  honour  liked  the  trout  I  sent  up.  Beg  pardon,  Master 
Aram,  mayhap  you  would  condescend  to  accept  a  few  fish,  now 
and  then  ;  they're  very  fine  in  tliese  streams,  as  you  probably 
know  ;  if  you  please  to  let  me,  I'll  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 
proceeded  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  corporal, 


EUGENE  ARAM.  65 


who  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  ?  " 

"  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  honour  ? " 

"  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  assistance ;  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 
honour  }  "  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  little  real  harm 
in  him.  He  is  certainly  ill-favoured  enough  to  "  here,  inter- 
rupting himself,  and  breaking  into  a  new  sentence,  Aram  added  : 
"  but  at  all  events  he  will  frighten  your  nieces  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  expect 
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." 

£ 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


Lester  at  first  felt  a  little  offended,  but  when  he  recalled  the 
peculiar  habits  of  the  scholar,  he  saw  that  the  only  way  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,  therefore, 
without  further  discourse,  shook  hands  with  him,  and  they 
parted. 

When  Lester  regained  the  little  parlour,  he  found  his  nephew 
sitting,  silent  and  discontented,  by  the  window.  Madeline  had 
taken  up  a  book,  and  EUinor,  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  hapf)ened  ?"  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  coloured  and  sighed,  and  worked  faster  than  ever. 
Walter  threw  open  the  window,  and  whistled  a  favourite  air 
quite  out  of  tunc.  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  burnt  with  them  !"  answered  Walter,  sharply. 
**  He  seems  to  have  added  the  black  art  to  his  other  accomplish- 
ments, and  bewitched  my  fair  cousins  here  into  a  forgetfulness 
of  all  but  himself." 

•  Not  me  I "  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  1 "  cried  Walter,  passionately;  "you  confess  it  And 
so  for  a  stranger, — a  cold,  vain,  pedantic  egotist,  you  can  shut 


EUGENE  ARAM.  67 


your  ears  and  heart  to  those  who  have  known  and  loved  you  all 
your  life ;  and — and " 

"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  monopolise  the  whole  conversation  ? — What  but 
pedantry  could  make  him  bring  out  those  anecddtes,  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  historian 
— the  orator,  and  I  will  yield  to  none  of  you  :  no,  not  to  Made- 
line 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  anger,  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  another 
— 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  survey, 
"you  are  a  kind  girl— come  and  kiss  me  I" 


B  2 


6S  EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER  VL 

THE   »KHAVTOril  OF  THE  STUDENT.— A  SUMMER  SCENE.— ARAM'S  C0NTERSATI3II 
WITH  WALTER,   AND  SUBSEQUENT  COLLOQUY  WITH  HIMSELF. 

The  soft  sesson,  the  firmament  serene, 

The  loun  illuminate  air,  and  tinh  amene 

The  silver  scalit  fishes  on  the  grete 

O'er-thwart  clear  streanis  aprinkillond  for  the  heat 

— Cav/in  DougtoM, 

Ilia  subter 

Ctecum  vulnus  habes ;  sed  lato  balteus  auro 
Pnctegit. ' — Persius. 

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  accident ; 
but  Aram  himself  did  not  appear.  This  want  of  interest  certainly 
offended  Madeline,  although  she  still  drew  upon  herself  Walter's 
displeasure,  by  disputing  and  resenting  the  unfavourable  stric- 
tures 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  remon- 
strances of  his  uncle.  Lester  had,  indeed,  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  labour  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  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  invitation  that*Lester  sent  him,  though  couched 
in  friendly  terms,  was,  but  with  great  semblance  of  kindness, 
refused. 

•  You  Invc  a  wound  deep  hidden  in  your  heart,  but  the  broad  belt  of  gold  coi^ 
ccalt  it. 


EUGENE  ARA^L  6f 


**  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  susceptible  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  savages,  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  especially  lovely  in  the 
month  of  June,  and  not  without  reason  favoured  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  sprung  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  night-shade, 
the  silver-weed,  and  the  water-aven  ;  and  by  the  hedges  that 
now  and  then  neared  the  water,  the  guelder-rose,  and  the  white 
briony,  over-running  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  unseen  the  first  cuckoo  of  the  eve  began  its 
continuous  and  mellow  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. 

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, 


TO  EUGENE  ARAM. 


however,  in  a  favourable  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,  crushing  the 
rccds  at  every  step  into  that  fresh  and  delicious  odour  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  recognised  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  inteivals,  to  himself. 

The  words  were  so  scattered,  that  Walter  did  not  trace  their 
clue  ;  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." 

"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  plagiarise,  I  assure 
you.  from  any  scholastic  designs  you  might  have  been  giving 
'>cnt  to." 

Aram  looked  on  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  breathing 
heavily,  turned  away. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  71 

"  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  dislike  ; 
he  stretched  forth  his  hand  to  the  student,  and  hastened  to  ass>  re 
him  of  his  ready  forgiveness.  Aram  sighed  deeply  as  he  pressed 
the  young  man's  hand,  and  Walter  saw,  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 !  Not  for  us  is  the  bright  face  of  noonday 
or  the  smile  of  woman,  the  gay  unbending  of  the  heart,  the 
neighing  steed,  and  the  shrill  trump  ;  the  pride,  pomp,  and  cir- 
cumstance of  life.  Our  enjoyments  are  few  and  calm  ;  our 
labour  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  shrinks  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 
ivhy  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 
neighbours  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  greatly 
affected — it  took  him  by  surprise  ;  nothing  in  Aram's  ordinary 
demeanour  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  despise. 
Young  man,  I  wronged  you — you  have  forgiven  me.     Well,  well, 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


wc  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  humours  not 
common  tD  the  world — you  have  seen  an  example  of  this.  Judge 
for  yourself  if  I  be  fit  for  the  smoothness,  and  confidence,  and 
case  of  social  intercourse ;  I  am  not  fit,  I  feel  it!  I  am  doomed 
to  be  alone ;  tell  your  uncle  this — tell  him  to  sufier  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  Nature — 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 
mc  their  language  ;  the  stars — I  have  unravelled  their  mysteries  ; 
anu  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  protection  ;  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,  and 
as  if  willing  to  change  the  thread  of  conversation.  "  Fie  !  it  is 
a  treacherous  pursuit  ;  it  encourages  man  s  worst  propensities^— 
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  rclrcats." 

"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  tlie  gathering  evening— the  still 


EUGENE  ARAM.  73 


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  diversion  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  intolerable 
monotony ;  the  gaming  of  social  existence — the  feverish  and 
desperate  chances  of  honour  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  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  rancour  to  the  student.  Yet  there  mingled  even 
with  these  kindly  feelings  a  little  displeasure  at  the  superior 
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. 


74  EUGENE  ARAM. 


Meanwhile,  the  student  continued  his  path  along  the  uater 
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  in  him  there  was  no  cause  for  fear ; 
and  did  not  stir  from  the  turf  that  neighboured,  or  the  spray 
that  overhung  his  path. 

"So,"  said  he,  soliloquising,  but  not  without  casting  frequent 
and  jealous  glances  round  him,  and  in  a  murmur  so  indistinct 
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. 
'Tis  a  fine  youth  I  full  of  the  impulse  and  daring  of  his  years ; 
/  was  never  so  young  at  heart.  I  was — nay,  what  matters  it  f 
Who  is  answerable  for  his  nature  ?  Who  can  say,  *  I  controlled 
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  liking  to  love,  from  love  to  passion  ? 
No;— one,  whom  I  have  seen  but  little;  who,  it  is  true,  arrested 
try  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  wiih  me :  when  I  wake  I  am  haunted  by  her  image. 
Strange,  strange !  Is  love,  then,  after  all,  the  sudden  passion 
which  in  every  age  poetry  has  termed  it,  though  till  now  my 
reason  has  dihbclicved  the  notion .'  ....  And  now,  what 
is  the  qucbtion  ?  To  resist,  or  to  yield.  Her  father  invites  me, 
courts  mc;  and  I  stand  aloof!  Will  this  strength,  this  forbear- 
ance, last  ?  Shall  I  iucourage  my  mind  to  this  decision  >."  Here 
Aram  paused  nbiiiptly,  and  then  renewed:  "It  is  true!    I  ought 


EUGENE  ARAM.  75 


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  another  being  to  my  solitude,  to  set  an  everlasting 
watch  on  my  uprisings  and  my  downsittings ;  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  for  ever }  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  scathing-iron  these  yet  green  and  soft  emotions  of 
lingering  youth — and  freeze,  and  chain,  and  curdle  up  feeling, 
and  heart,  and  manhood,  into  ice  and  age  I  ** 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

THE  POWFR  OF  LOVE  OVER  THE  RESOLUTION  OF  THE  STUDENT.— ARAM  BECOMES 
A  FREQUENT  GUEST  AT  THE  MANOR-HOUSE. — A  WALK. — CONVERSATION  WITH 
DAME   iJARKMANS.— HER   HISTORY.— POVERTY  AND  ITS  EFFECTS. 

Afiu/.  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  breathle.-s— didst  thou  not  unroll 
The  volume  of  the  weird  Clialdean  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  ot  things  divine? 
And  so— and  so — 

Aram.  From  Heaven  we  tum'd  to  Earth 

And  Wisdom  fathered  Passion. 
•  *••*•# 

j4ram.  Wise  men  have  praised  the  Peasant's  thoughtless  lo^ 
And  learned  Pride  hath  envied  humble  Toil ; 
If  they  were  right,  wliy  let  us  burn  our  books. 
And  sit  us  down,  and  play  the  fool  with  Time, 
Mucking  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  sti.-s,  but  meteors  that  withdraw 
The  wandering  spirit  from  the  sluggish  rest  • 
Which  makes  its  proper  bliss.     I  will  accost 
This  denizen  of  toil " — from  Eugetit  Aram,  a  MS.  TrageJy, 


EUGENE   ARAM. 


A  wicked  hag,  and  envy's  self  excelling 

In  mischefe,  for  herself  she  only  vext, 

But  tliis  same,  both  herself  and  others  eke  perplext. 

•  •••••• 

Who  then  can  strive  with  strong  necessity, 

That  holds  the  world  in  his  still  changing  state?  &c.,  && 

Then  do  no  further  go,  no  further  stray, 

But  here  lie  down,  and  to  thy  rest  betake. — Sptnstr. 

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  reluc- 
tantly melted  away.  It  may  be  noted  that  the  enthusiasts  of 
learning  and  reverie  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  vehement  occupations  of 
life,  when  love  is  once  admitted  to  their  hearts,  there  is  no 
counter-check  to  its  emotions,  and  no  escape  from  its  excite- 
ment 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  proportion,  they  who  till  then  have 
wasted  the  prodigal  fervours  of  youth  upon  a  sterile  soil — who 
have  served  Ambition,  or,  like  Aram,  devoted  their  hearts  to 
Wisdom— relax  from  their  ardour,  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  luiman  pursuit  there  is  a  certain 
vanity,  and  as  every  hrquisition  contains  within  itself  the  seed  of 
disappointment,  so  there  is  a  period  of  life  when  we  pause  from 


EUGENE  ARAM.  77 


the  pursuit,  and  are  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 
exhaust  in  the  former  part  of  the  journey  all  the  foibles  of 
existence !  But  how  different  is  the  crude  and  evanescent  love 
of  that  age  when  thought  has  not  given  intensity  and  power  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  earnestness  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  feelings  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 
narrative  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  evident  senti- 
ment of  kindness  which  he  could  not  but  feel  Madeline  bore 
towards  him.  So  retiring  a  nature  as  his  might  never  have 
harboured  love  if  the  love  bore  the  character  of  presumption  ; 
but  that  one  so  beautiful  beyond  his  dreams  as  Madeline  Lester 

•  "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  Sucking. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


should  deign  to  cherish  for  him  a  tenderness  that  might  suffer 
him  to  hope  was  a  thought  that,  when  he  caught  her  eye  uncon- 
•ciously  fixed  upon  him,  and  noted  that  her  voice  grew  softer 
and  more  tremulous  when  she  addressed  him,  forced  itself  upon 
his  heait,  and  woke  there  a  strange  and  irresistible  emotion 
which  solitude  and  the  brooding  reflection  that  solitude  produces 
— a  reflection  so  much  more  intense  in  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  forcibly  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  conversation 
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  re- 
luctantly) the  expressions  of  dislike  which  he  had  once  lavished 
so  profusely  upon  Aram ;  and  Lester,  who,  forward  as  he  had 
seemed,  had  nevertheless  been  hitherto  a  little  checked  in  his 
advances  to  his  neighbour  by  the  hostility  of  his  nephew,  felt  no 
scruple  to  deter  him  from  urging  them  with  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  Lester  failed  to  win  entrance  to  his 
house,  he  was  thus  enabled  to  meet  the  student  in  his  frequent 
rambles,  and  with  a  seeming  freedom  from  design.  Actuated  by 
his  great  benevolence  of  character,  Lester  earnestly  desired  to 
win  his  solitary  and  unfriended  neighbour  from  a  mood  and 
habit  which  he  naturally  imagined  must  engender  a  growing 
melancholy  of  mind ;  and  since  Walter  had  detailed  to  him  the 
particulars  of  his  meeting  with  Aram,  this  desire  had  been  con- 
siderably increased.     There  is  not,  perhaps,  a  stronger  feeling  in 


EUGENE  ARAM.  79 


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  neighbour,  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  acci- 
dent, grew,  though  not  without  many  interruptions,  into  habit ; 
and,  at  length,  few  evenings  were  passed  by  the  inmates  of  the 
manor-house  v/ithout  the  society  of  the  student. 

As  his  reserve  wore  off,  his  conversation  mingled  with  its 
attractions  a  tender  and  affectionate  tone.  He  seemed  grateful 
for  the  pains  which  had  been  taken  to  allure  him  to  a  scene  in 
which,  at  last,  he  acknowledged  he  found  a  happiness  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  savoured  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. 
Moralising  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  humbled — the  lesser 
intellect  of  his  listeners :  and  even  this  air  of  unconscious 
superiority  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  from 
our  enemies  ;  seldom  safe  to  instruct  even  our  friends,"  * — ^Aram 

^  Lacon. 


8o  EUGENE  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  accom  • 
plished  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  labour  in  improving  its  result 

It  happened  that  the  study  of  botany  was  not,  at  that  day,  so 
favourite  and  common  a  diversion  with  young  ladies  as  it  is  now  ; 
and  EUinor,  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  through- 
out that  enchanting  country  ;  and  there  is  a  mysterious  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  de- 
livered 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  with- 
out many  throes  and  desperate  resistance,  that  love  at  length 
overwhelmed  and  subdued  him  ;  and  these  alternations  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  caprice  and 
the  change,  which  agitate  the  surface,  swell  also  the  tides,  of 
passion.  Woman,  too,  whose  love  is  so  much  the  creature 
of   her    imaiiination,    always   asks  something  of   mystery  and 


EUGENE  ARAM.  8l 


conjecture  in  the  object  of  her  affection.  It  is  a  luxury  to  her  to 
perplex  herself  with  a  thousand  apprehensions;  and  the  more 
restlessly  her  lover  occupies  her  mind,  the  more  deeply  he 
enthrals  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  confirma- 
tion 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 
which  she  conceived  to  pass  between  the  affection  he  evidently 
bore  her,  and  the  feelings  which  had  as  yet  restrained  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  latter, 
when  they  saw  an  old  woman  engaged  in  collecting  firewood 
among  the  bushes,  and  a  little  girl  holding  out  her  apron  to 
receive  the  sticks  with  which  the  crone's  skinny  arms  unspar- 
ingly filled  it.  The  child  trembled,  and  seemed  half-crying ; 
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  wrapp'd 
The  tattered  remnants  of  an  old  stript  hanging, 
That  served  to  keep  her  carcass  from  the  cold, 
So  there  was  nothing  of  a  piece  about  her. 
Her  lower  weeds  were  all  o'er  coarsely  patch'd 
With  different-coloured  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." 

F 


EUGE.VE  ARAM. 


**\Vhat!  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  labour  this  ?  "  said  the  student,  gently. 

The  old  woman  looked  up  askant — the  music  of  the  voice  that 
addressed  her  sounded  harsh  on  her  ear. 

"  Ay,  ay  I "  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 
^e  money,  what  was  it  ?  will  it  last  a  week  ?  Oh,  yes !  Ye 
^ink  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  'spose  ye 
calls  it }     Och !  fie  !     But  the  Bible's  the  poor  cretur'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  1 
the  Bible's  a  mighty  comfort ;  for  it  says  as  much  that  the  rich 
man  shall  not  /nter  the  kingdom  of  Heaven  1  There's  a  truth  for 
you  that  makes  the  poor  folks'  heart  chirp  like  a  cricket — ho! 
ho!  /  -sits  by  the  imbers  of  a  night,  and  I  thinks  and  thinks  as 
how  1  shall  see  you  all  burning ;  and  ye'll  ask  me  for  a  drop  o' 
water,  and  I  shall  laugh  thm  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 


EUGENE   ARAM.  83 


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 
ma!ice  as  ye  calls  it,  whose  fault's  that  ?  What  do  ye  tache  us  ? 
Eh? — Answer  me  that.  Ye  keeps  all  the  larning  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.  T/11  me  now,"  and  she 
approached,  and  familiarly  laid  her  bony  finger  on  the  student's 
arm ;  "  t/11  me, — have  ye  iver,  among  other  fine  things,  known 
poverty  ? " 

"  I  have,  woman  ! "  said  Aram,  sternly. 

"  Och,  ye  have  thm  !  And  did  ye  not  sit,  and  gloom,  and  eat 
up  your  otm  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 
honour,  tzll  me ! " 

And  the  crone  curtseyed  with  a  mock  air  of  beseeching 
humility. 

"  I  never  forgot,  even  in  want,  the  love  due  to  my  fellow- 
suflerers ;  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'll  tzll  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 

F  2 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


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,  calmi^ ,  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,  without 
toil,  for  some  days  at  least" 

"  Thank  your  honour :    an'  what  think  you  I'll  do  with  the 
money  ? " 
"What?" 

"  Drink,  drink,  drink  ! "  cried  the  hag,  fiercely.  "  There's 
nothing  like  drink  for  the  poor,  for  th/n  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  turn  in  the  winding  valley  hid 
her  from  his  sight 

"  That  is  a  strange  person,  Aram  ;  scarcely  a  favourable 
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 
woman,  so  gaunt  and  hideous  now,  was  the  beauty  of  the 
village.  She  married  an  Irish  soldier,  whose  regiment  passed 
through  Grassdale,  and  was  heard  o.  no  more  till  atout  ten 
years  hack,  when  she  returned  to  her  native  place,  the  discon- 
tented, envious,  altered  being  you  now  sec  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  strongs 


EUGENE   ARAM.  85 


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  literally  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  robber}'  committed  under 
aggravated  circumstances;  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  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  little  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  legislator-,  or  the  moralists  that  instruct  legislators,  do 
so  little,  then,  towards  universal  good  }  "  said  Lester,  doubtingly. 

"  Why,  what  can  they  do  but  forward  civilisation  }  And  what 
is  civilisation  but  an  increase  of  human  disparities  } 

"  The  more  the  luxury  of  the   few,  the  more  startling  the 


S6  *  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  other\\'ise  once  ;  but  I  now  regard  the  vast 
Idzar-house  around  us  without  hope  of  relief; — death  is  the  sole 
physician  1 " 

"Ah,  no,"  said  the  high-souled  Madeline,  eagerly;  "do  not 
take  away  from  us  the  best  feeling  and  the  highest  desire  wt 
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  incarnation  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  sentiment  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. 

'*  1  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  happi- 
ness we  can  create  is  formed  more  by  our  moral  than  our  mental 
qualities,  A  warm  heart,  though  accompanied  but  by  a  mediocre 
understanding,  is  even  more  likely  to  promote  the  happiness  of 
those  around,  than  are  the  absorbed  and  abstract,  though  kindly 
powers  of  a  more  elevated  genius  :  but  (observing  Lester  about 
t*  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  sprung." 

And  kindling,  as  he  ever  did,  the  moment  he  approached  a 
subject  so  dear  to  his  studies,  Aram  now  spoke  of  the  stant, 
which  began  to  sparkle  forth,— of  the  vast,  illimitable  career 
which  recent  science  had  opened  to  the  imagination, — and  oi 


EUGENE   ARAM.  Wf 


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  compared  to 
eloquence  ? — The  magic  of  the  tongue  is  the  most  dangerous 
of  all  spells  1 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

THE  PBIVILEGE  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  I 


Lis.  Spare  my  grief,  and  apprehend 
What  I  should  speak. 

— Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  7^  Lover's  Progress, 

In  the  course  of  the  various  conversations  our  family  of 
Grassdale  enjoyed  with  their  singular  neighbour,  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,  of  at  least 
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  reserve 
ivhich  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  : 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


they  partake  of  the  character  of  disciples  as  well  as  friends. 
There  lingers  about  the  human  heart  a  strongj  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  appro- 
priate to  ourselves  the  qualities  it  honours  in  others.  We  wed, — 
we  root  ourselves  to  the  natures  we  so  love  to  coAtemplate,  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  suddenly  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  ordinarj' 
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  order  of 
crime.  A  Socrates  may  claim  it  to-day — a  Napoleon  to-morrow ; 
nay,  a  brigand  chief,  illustrious  in  the  circle  in  which  he  lives, 
may  call  it  forth  no  less  powerfully  than  the  generous  failings 
of  a  Byron,  or  the  sublime  excellence  of  the  greater  Milton. 

Lester  saw  with  evident  complacency  the  passion  growing  up 
betv  een  his  friend  and  his  daughter ;  he  looked  upon  it  as  a  tie 
that  would  permanently  reconcile  Aram  to  the  hearth  of  social 
and  domestic  life  ;  a  tie  that  would  constitute  the  happiness  of 
his  daughter,  and  secure  to  himself  a  relation  in  the  man  he  felt 
most  inclined,  of  all  he  knew,  to  honour  and  esteem.  He  re- 
marked 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  peculiarities  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  walking 
in  his  garden,  when  he  perceived  his  nephew  at  some  distance, 
and  rcaiarked  that  Walter,  on  seeing  him,  instead  of  coming 


EUGENE  ARAM.  89 


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  pursuit 
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  unfavourable  prepossession  which  at  first  you 
testified  towards  our  excellent  neighbour.  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." 

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  which  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 
fortunately  now,  that  Madeline   early  contracted  that  studious 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


and  thoughtful  turn,  which,  I  must  own,  at  one  time  gave  mc 
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  justly  angr>' ;  **  I  do  not 
think,  even  if  Madeline  have  the  advantage  of  her  sister,  that 
you  can  find  any  fault  with  the  personal  or  mental  attractions  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  kind- 
ness of  heart  and  sweetness  of  temper." 

"  From  choosing  throughout  the  world  I "  repeated  Walter  ; 
"and  how  in  this  nook  am  I  to  see  the  world  ?" 

"Walter,  your  voice  is  reproachful  I     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  suffi- 
cient 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  enjoyments,  and  shown  you 
how  devoted  I  am  to  your  interests,  by  the  very  frankness  with 
which  I  have  consulted  }ou  on  my  own.  If  there  be  now  on 
your  mind  any  secret  grievance,  or  any  secret  wish,  speak  it. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  91 


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-coinposure  sufficient  to  reply. 

"  You  have  ever,  ever  been  to  me  all  that  the  kindest  parent, 
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.? 
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  from  his  cheek,  "  I  have  not  yet  recovered  myself ;  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  ?  " 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


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,  withdrawing 
his  own,  darted  down  one  of  the  intersecting  walks,  and  was 
almost  instantly  out  of  sight 


CHAPTER    IX 

TUX   tTATX   or    WALTER'S   MIND.— AN    ANGLER  AND  A   MAN    OW  THX   WOKLDl— 

A  COMPANION   FOUND   FOR  WALTER. 

This  great  disease  for  love  I  drt,'^ 

There  is  no  tDiii^ue  can  tell  the  wo ; 
I  love  the  love  that  loves  not  me, 

I  may  not  mend,  but  mourning  mo. 

—  T/te  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. — Jxaai  fValion, 

When  Walter  left  his  uncle,  he  hurried,  scarcely  conscious  of 
his  steps,  towards  his  favourite  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  solitude  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  agonising  jealousy,  he  penetrated  the  secret 
at  hn  own.  The  reader  has,  doubtless,  already  perceived,  that 
it  was  thi.s  jealousy  which  at  the  first  occas'oncd  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 

'  Bear. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  93 

effect.  Silently,  till  this  day,  he  had  gnawed  his  heart,  and  found 
for  its  despair  no  confidant  and  no  comfort.  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  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  Grass- 
dale  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  reverie  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  musk<^!  but  never  mind — I 
have  not  seen  the  world  for  nothing.  We  get  reconciled  to  all 
things :  that's  my  way — ^augh !  Now,  sir,  you  shall  watch  me 
catch  the  finest  trout  you  have  seen  this  summer  :  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  manceuvres  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. 


94  EUGENE  ARAM. 


— 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 
to  the  displeasing  fact  that  the  violet-fly  was  wholly  ineffi- 
cacious ;  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  fonvard,  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  con- 
venient distance  from  the  yellow-dun ;  lo,  he  surveys  it  stead- 
fastly ;  he  ponders,  he  see-saws  himself  to  and  fro.  The  yellow- 
dun  sails  away  in  aflfected  indifference ;  that  indifference  whets 
the  appetite  of  the  hesitating  gazer  ;  he  darts  forward  ;  he  is 
opp>osite  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  disappointed  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  I "  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  honour's 
pardon.  Minnow! — I  have  fished  with  the  yellow-dun  these 
twenty  years,  and  never  knew  it  fail  before.  Minnow  ! — baugh  1 
But  ask  pardon  ;  your  honour  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 


EUGENE  ARAM.  95 


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 
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.  Mary 
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  honour; 
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  honour  and  Miss  EUinor 
can  say  as  much." 

"I  and  MissEllinor !— you  forget  yourself  strangely.  Bunting." 
said  Walter,  colouring  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  vexa- 
tion,— "why  couple  me  with  Miss  Ellinor ?  Did  you  imagine 
that  we — we  were  in  love  with  each  other  ? " 

"  Indeed,  sir,  and  if  I  did,  'tis  no  more  than  my  neighbours 
imagine  too."  « 

"  Humph !  Your  neighbours  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,  howsomever — baugh  1 " 


EUGENE   ARAM. 


"  Pray  what  do  you  think,  Mr.  Bunting }  Why  do  you 
hesitate  ? " 

"'Fraid  of  offence — but  I  do  think  that  Mastei  Aram — ^your 
honour  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  familiarity  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  honour — much  of  a  muchness. 
I  have  seen  Master  Aram,  demure  as  he  looks,  start,  and  bite  his 
lip,  and  change  colour,  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  rumours  often  beget  truths — beg  pardon,  your  honour 
—  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  honour." 

"Not  at  all;  I  know  you  are  an  honest  man.  Bunting,  and 
well  affected  to  our  family :  at  the  same  time,  it  is  neither  pru- 
dent nor  charitable  to  speak  harshly  of  our  neighbours  without 


EUGENE   ARAM. 


sufficient  cause.  And  really  you  seem  to  me  to  be  a  little  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  lamed  schollard,  and  pass  I  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-natured  ;  '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  to  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  honour  ? " 

"  My  honour'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  honour'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,  recom- 
mending the  minnow  ;  and  neighbour  Dealtry,  though  his  ale  '9 
not  so  good  as  'twas  last  year  ;  and — and — but,  in  short,  I  always 
loved  your  honour — dandled  you  on  my  knees  ;■ — you  recollect 

6 


^8  EUGENE  ARAM. 


the  broadsword  excrci:>e  ? — one,  two,  three — augh  !  baugh  ! — and 
if  your  honour  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'll  go 
with  you  myself !  " 

This  alacrity  on  the  part  of  the  corporal  was  far  from  displeas- 
ing to  Walter.  The  prop>osal  he  had  at  first  made  unthinkingly, 
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  arrangements  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  1  ** 


CHAPTER  X. 

TH«  LOVERS. — THK  ENCOUNTER  AND  QUARREL  OF  THE  RIVAL8. 

Two  such  I  saw,  what  time  the  labour'd  ox 

In  his  loose  traces  from  the  furrow  came. — Comus. 

Pedro.  Now  do  me  noble  right 
Rod.      I'll  satisfy  you  ; 
But  not  by  the  sword. 

—Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  The  Pilgrim. 

While  Walter  and  the  corporal  enjoyed  the  above  conver- 
sation, Madeline  and  Aram,  whom  Lester  left  to  themselvesi, 
were  pursuing  their  walk  along  the  solitary  fields.  Their  love 
had  passed  from  the  eye  to  the  lip,  and  now  found  expression 
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  of  June,  I 
walked  through  these  fields,  a  grey  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  kuch,  Madeline,  is  the  change  that  has  conie  over  myself 


EUGENE  ARAM.  99 


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  enters 
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  pro- 
bably 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  contradiction  of 
all  the  elements  of  our  ordinary  nature  :  it  makes  the  proud 
man  meek, — the  cheerTul,  sad, — the  high-spirited,  tame  ;  our 
strongest  resolutions,  our  hardiest  energy,  fail  before  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  disappoint- 
ments 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  cause  themselves,  and  their 
fortunes  marred,  by  one  stroke  on  the  affections  of  th;ir  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  sympathise  with  him  who  has 
lest  you  ? " 

"  Ah,  Eugene  !  you  at  least  overrate  the  influence  which  love 

G  2 


loo  EUGENE   ARAM. 


produces  on  men.  A  little  resentment  and  a  little  absence  will 
soon  cure  my  cousin  of  an  ill-placed  and  ill-requited  attachment. 
You  do  not  think  how  easy  it  is  to  forget." 

**  Forget ! "  said  Aram,  stopping  abruptly  ;  '*  ay,  forget— it  is 
a  strange  truth  I  we  do  forget  1  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  Nature  preaches 
forget  fulness.  Its  very  order  is  the  progress  of  oblivion.  And 
I — I — give  me  your  hand,  Madeline, — I  ha  !  ha  I  1  forget  too  I  " 

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  fi.xed  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,  my  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  in 
your  presence.  All  studious  men — the  twilight  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 
l>cnding  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." 

The  place  in  which  the  lovers  rested  is  one  which  the  villagers 
to  this  day  call  "The  Lady's  Seat ;  "  for  Madeline,  whose  history 
is  fondly  preserved  in  that  district,  was  afterwards  wont 
const.intly  to  repair  to  that  bank  (during  a  short  absence  of  her 
lover,  hereafter  to  be  noted),  and  subsequent  events  stamped  with 
interest  ever)*  spot  she  was  known  to  have  favoured  with  resort. 
And  when  the  flower  had  been  duly  conned,  and  the  study  dis- 
missed, Aram,  to  whom  all  the  signs  of  the  seasons  were  familiar. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  lot 

pointed  to  her  the  thousand  symptoms  of  the  month  which  are 
unheeded  by  less  observant  eyes ;  not  forgetting,  as  they  thus 
rechned,  their  hands  clasped  together,  to  couple  each  remark 
with  some  allusion  to  his  love,  or  some  deduction  which 
heightened  compliment  into  poetry.  He  bade  her  mark  the 
light  gossamer  as  it  floated  on  the  air ;  now  soaring  high — high 
into  the  translucent  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  aloof  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  hare- 
bells, 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 
Realm — he  evoked,  and  poured  into  her  transported  ear.  It  was 
precisely  such  arts,  which  to  a  gayer  and  more  worldly  nature 
than  Madeline's  might  have  seemed  but  wearisome,  that  arrested 
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- 
panied her  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  listless- 
ness  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." 


lot  EUGENE  ARAM. 


"  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  or. 
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  pleas- 
ing 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  until  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  mountains,  or  is  formed  by  the  rains  of  heaven. 
Believe  me,  it  is  the  type  of  a  life  that  glides  into  solitude  from 

he  weariness  and  fretful  turmoil  of  the  world. 

•*  •  No  flattery,  hate,  or  envy  lodgeth  there  ; 

There  no  susnidon  walled  in  proved  steel. 
Yet  fearful  of  tne  arms  herself  doth  wear  ; 

I'ride  is  not  there  ;  no  tyrant  there  we  feel  I  '"* 

**  I  will  not  cope  with  you  in  simile  or  in  poetry,"  said  Walter, 
as  his  lip  cur\'cd  ;  "  it  is  enough  for  me  to  think  that  life  should 
be  spent  in  action.  I  hasten  to  prove  if  my  judgment  be 
erroneous." 

•*  Are  you,  then,  about  to  leave  us?"  inquired  Aram. 

•  Yes,  witliin  a  few  days." 

»  Phinea*  Fletcher. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  loj 


"  Indeed  !     I  regret  to  hear  it." 

The  answer  sounded  jarringly  on  the  irritated  nerves  of  the 
disappointed  rival. 

"  You  do  me  more  honour  than  I  desire,"  said  he,  "  in  interest- 
ing 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  con- 
ciliatory 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." 

Ararm  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,  colouring,  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  superiority,  not  only 
of  admonition  but  reproof!  My  uncle's  preference  towards  you 
gives  you  no  authority  over  me.  That  preference  I  do  not 
pretend  to  share." — He  paused  for  a  moment,  thinking  Aram 
might  hasten  to  reply ;  but  as  the  student  walked  on  with  his 
usual  calmness  of  demeanour,  he  added,  stung  by  the  indifference 
which  he  attributed,  not  altogether  without  truth,  to  disdain, — 
"  And  since  you  have  taken  upon  yourself  to  caution  me,  and  to 
forebode  my  inability  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  birth-place.  It  is  not  the  holy  only  that 
love  solitude ;  and  men  may  shun  the  world  from  another  motive 
than  that  of  philosophy." 


I04  EUGENE  ARAM. 

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  instance  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  humbled  from  his  late 
anger.  It  was  not  till  Aram  had  moved  with  a  slow  step  several 
paces  backward  toward  his  home,  that  the  bold  and  haughty 
temper  of  the  young  man  returned  to  his  aid.  Ashanlfed  of 
himself  for  the  momentary  weakness  he  had  betrayed,  and 
burning  to  redeem  it,  he  hastened  after  the  stately  form  of  his 
rival,  and,  planting  himself  full  in  his  path,  said,  in  a  voice 
half-choked  with  contending  emotions, — 

**  Hold ! — you  have  given  me  the  opportunity  I  have  long 
desired  ;  you  yourself  have  now  broken  that  peace  which  exi^ted 
between  us,  and  which  to  me  was  more  bitter  than  wormwood. 
You  have  dared, — yes,  dared  to  use  threatening  language  towards 
me!  I  cgll  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  check,  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  check,  in  which  the  wan  hues  neither 
deepened  nor  waned,  his  large  eye  raised  to  meet  Walter's,  bright. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  105 


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  provoke 
to  outrage.  Would  there  be  triumph  in  this,  or  disgrace  ? — A 
man,  whom  your  uncle  honours  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  I  ,^  I 
have  nothing  to  fear :  my  nerves  are  firm — my  heart  is  faithful 
to  my  will ;  my  habits  may  have  diminished  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  becomes  neither  my  station 
nor  my  habjts  of  life ;  but  I  learned  thus  much  from  books  long 
since,  '  Hold  thyself  prepared  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  discoloured  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  return. — I  have 
offended  you — I  have  incurred  your  hatred — why  ?  What  are 
my  sins  ?  " 


io6  EUGENE  ARAM. 


"  Do  you  ask  the  cause  ? "  said  Walter,  speaking  between  his 
ground  teeth.  "  Have  you  not  traversed  my  views — blighted 
uiy  hopes — charmed  away  from  me  the  affections  which  wQre 
more  to  me  than  the  world,  and  driven  me  to  wander  from  my 
home  with  a  crushed  spirit  and  a  cheerless  heart  ?  Are  tliese 
no  causes  for  hate  ? " 

"  Have  I  done  this  ? "  said  Aram,  recoiling,  and  evidently  and 
powerfully  affected.  "  Have  I  so  injured  you  ? — It  is  true  1  1 
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  ray  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 
better  and  brighter  hopes,  or  dared  to  soften  my  fate  with  the 
tender  and  endearing  ties  that  are  meet  alone  for  a  piore  genial 
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  unconsciously 
cost  you,  with  remorse — then  be  consoled  1 " 

"  It  is  enough,"  said  Walter  ;  "  let  us  part.  I  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,  advancing 
with  a  cordial  openness  of  mien  not  usual  to  him.  "  I  was  all 
to  blame ;  I  should  have  remembered  you  were  an  injured  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,  upbraid,  taunt  me,  I  will 
bear  it  all.  And,  indeed,  even  to  myself  there  appears  some 
witchcraft,  some  glamoury,  in  what  has  chanced.  What!  I 
favoured  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 


EUGENE  ARAM.  107 


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  reverie  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  question  obtruded 
itself  upon  him,  and,  while  he  sought  to  answer  it,  Aram,  regain- 
ing 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 " 

"  Be  it  so,"  interrupted  Aram  ;  "  I  underetand  you.  I  press 
my  goodwill  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  student'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  ? 


lol  EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THI  FAMILY  SrPrER.— THE  TWO  SISTERS  IN  THEIR  CIIAMHER. — A  MISUNDER- 
STANDING FOLLOWED  BY  A  CONFESSION.  — WALTERS  APPROACHING  DE- 
PARTt'kE,  AND  THE  CORPORAL'S  BEHAVIOUR  THERKON. — THE  CORPORAL'S 
FAVOURITE  INTKUUUCEU  TO  THE  READER.— THE  CORPORAL  PROVii^S  HIUSELF 
A  SUBTLE  DIPLOMATIST. 

So  we  PTCw  together 
Like  to  a  double  cnerry,  seeming  parted, 
But  yet  an  union  in  partition. 

— A  Muisummer  Nights  Dream, 

The  oocporal  had  not  taken  his  measures  so  badly  in  this  stroke  of  artillerysliip.— 
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 
Jurt"  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,  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  departure 
of  their  cousin.  Madeline  receive  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 :  merrj'  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  rogui<«h  eye,  with  a  moisture  in  it ;  full 
checks;  a  straight  nose  ;  Mack  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 


EUGENE   ARAM.  109 


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  extravagances :  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 
Marshalsea  ;  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  endeavoured  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,  how- 
ever, Madeline  had  retired,  and  they  were  alone,  he  drew  his  chair 
closer  to  Walter's,  and  changed  the  conversation  into  a  more 
serious  and  anxious  strain.  The  guardian  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  kindness  than  his  own 
sorrows. 

But  we  are  not  about  to  close  the  day  without  a  glance  at  the 
charpber  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  minutes  since.  Come, 
sister,  come  1 " 


EUGENE  /.RAM. 


"I  cannot  sleep,"  replied  Madeline,  sighing,  "and  think  that 
yon  light  streann  upon  those  studies  which  steal  the  healthful 
hues  from  his  cheek,  and  the  very  life  from  his  heart." 

**  You  are  -nfatuated — you  are  bewitched  by  that  man,"  said 
EUinor,  peevishly, 

"  And  have  I  not  cause — ample  cause  ?  **  returned  Madeline, 
with  all  a  girl's  beautiful  enthusiasm,  as  the  colour  mantled  her 
check,  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 
But  when  the  look  turns  to  me — when  the  voice  utters  my  name, 
ah  !  ElHnor,  t/ieti  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  ///;//  /  And,  indeed,  I  feel  assured  that  what  the 
world  calls  love  is  not  my  love.  Are  there  more  Eugenes 
in  the  world  than  one  ?  Who  but  Eugene  cou/d  be  loved  as  I 
love  ? 

"  What  I  arc  there  none  as  worthy .? "  said  Ellinor  half  smiling. 

"  Can  you  ask  it } "  answered  Madeline,  with  a  simple  wonder 
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  1" 

"Ay,  and  more  than  equal,"  said  Ellinor,  with  spirit,  and  a 
warm  and  angry  tone.  "  And,  indeed,  Madeline,"  she  continued 
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 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  imperfect,  and  which  in  this 
instance  did  not  desert  her.  She  gently  closed  the  window,  and 
gliding  to  the  bed,  threw  her  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 ; 
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 


IIS  EUGENE   ARAM. 


heart  was  affected  ;  and  Madeline,  in  the  natural  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  perceived  the  cause 
of  the  peevishness  Ellinor  had  just  manifested,  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  forgotten, 
and  with  eyes  no  longer  blinded  to  the  attractions  of  one  sister 
by  a  bootless  fancy  for  another.  And  though  Ellinor  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  hi? 
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  breath- 
lessly 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 
greyly  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 
departure.  At  that  time,  and  in  that  distant  part  of  the 
countr}',  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  service,  and  a 
strong  black  horse  with  a  Roman  nose  and  a  long  tail  was 
consigned  to  the  mastery  of  Corporal  Bunting.  The  squire 
was  delighted  that  his  nephew  had  secured  such  an  attendant 
For  the  soldier,  though  odd  and  selfish,  was  a  man  of  sense  and 


EUGENE  ARAM.  113 


experience,  and  Lester  thought  such  quaHties  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  semblance  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  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  rheumatism  paid  flying  visits  to 
the  bones  and  loins  of  the  worthy  corporal ;  and  to  think  of  his 
*' galavanting  about  the  country"  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 
seriously  inclined,  not  with  the  less  sympathy,  in  that  they 
invariably  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  honour.  Ever  at  this- 
peroration  the  eyes  of  the  squire  began  to  twinkle  and  new 
thanks  were  given  to  the  veteran  for  his  disinterested  affection,. 
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  even- 
ing, 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,  neighbour  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." 

n 


114  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"  My  age !  should  like  to  know — what  mean  by  that !  my  age, 
indeed  !~augh  ! — bother  !"  gjunted  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,  neighbour.  I  don't  mean  to  say 
you  arc  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  Cod  be  on  them  surely.'  " 

•*  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  /eurs 
sHSurrus — Anglic^,  purr!  rubbed  herself  to  and  fro  athwart  the 
corp)orars  legs, 

"  What  staring  there  for }  won't  ye  step  in,  man  "i  Can  climb 
the  stile,  I  suppose  } — augh  !  " 

"  No,  thank  ye,  neighbour.  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  perpendicular  Jacob 
liunting  as  any  insinuation  of  increasing  years  or  growing  in- 
firmities ;  but  at  this  moment,  as  he  meditated  putting  Dealtry 
to  some  use  he  prudently  conquered  the  gathering  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  prolonged  into 
one  of  unutterable  coaxingne.ss,  and  accompanied  with  a  beck  of 
the  hand  and  a  wheedling  wink. 


F.UGENL  ARAM.  115 


These  allurements  the  good  Peter  could  not  resist ;  he 
clambered  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 — a — nd — a  beautiful  cat, 
isn'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  goldfinches 
the  use  of  the  musket ;  dogs,  the  art  of  the  broadsword  ;  horses, 
to  dance  hornpipes  and  pick  pockets  ;  and  he  had  relieved  the 
ennui  of  his  solitary  moments  by  imparting  sundry  accomplish- 
ments 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  anyone  upon  whom  the  corporal 
thought  fit  to  set  her;  and,  above  all,  to  rob  larders,  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,  however  delightful  to  the  cor- 
poral, 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  neighbourhood.  Never  was  cat  in  such  bad  odour ;  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 
premature  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  expression 
of  countenance. 

H  2 


Ii6  EUGENE  ARAM. 


Various  deputations  had,  indeed,  from  time  to  time  arrived  at 
the  corporal's  cottage  requesting  the  death,  expulsion,  or  per- 
petual imprisonment  of  the  favourite.  But  the  stout  corporal 
received  them  grimly,  and  dismissed  them  gruffly,  and  the  cat 
went  on  waxing  in  size  and  wickedness,  and  baffling,  as  if  in- 
spired by  the  devil,  the  various  gins  and  traps  set  for  its  destruc- 
tion. But  never,  perhaps,  was  there  a  greater  disturbance  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  village  saw  itself 
overrun  with  a  race  and  a  perpetuity  of  corporal's  cats.  Perhaps, 
too,  their  teacher  growing  more  expert  by  practice,  the  descend- 
ants might  attain  to  even  greater  accomplishment  than  their 
nefarious  progenitor.  No  longer  did  the  faint  hope  of  being 
delivered  from  their  tormentor  by  an  untimely  or  even  natural 
death  occur  to  the  harassed  Grassdalians.  Death  was  an  in- 
cident natural  to  one  cat,  however  vivacious,  but  here  was  a 
dynasty  of  cats !     Principes  mortales,  respublica  cBterna  I 

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  safdy  in  his  absence.  He  was  aware  of  the 
general  enmity  she  had  inspired,  and  trembled  to  anticipate  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-hou.sc ;  but  the  squire's  cook  was  the  cat's  most 
embittered  enemy ;  and  what  man  can  answer  for  the  peaceable 
behaviour  of  his  cook  }  The  corporal,  tiierefore,  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  neighbours,  he  came  at  last  to  the  con- 
viction that  there  was  no  one  with  whom  he  could  so  safely 
intrust  his  cat  as  Peter  Dcaltry.  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 


EUGENE   ARAM.  117 


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  honour  with 
a  name,  somewhat  lengthy  for  a  cat  (but,  indeed,  this  was  no 
ordinary  cat!)  viz.  Jacobina — he  took  Jacobina  then,  we  Siay, 
upon  his  lap,  and  stroking  her  brindled  sides  with  great  tender- 
ness, he  bade  Dealtry  remark  how  singularly  quiet  the  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  honour  of  being  licked  by  the 
cat  in  return.  Jacobina,  who,  to  do  her  justice,  was  ahvays 
meek  enough  in  the  presence  and  at  the  will  of  her  master,  was, 
fortunately,  this  day,  on  her  very  best  behaviour. 

"  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  I  * 

"  'Though  slander's  breath  may  raise  a  storm. 
It  quickly  does  decay  1 ' " 

muttered  Peter. 

"  Very  well,  very  true  ;  sensible  verses  those,"  said  the  cor- 
poral, approvingly :  "  and  yet  mischiefs  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  faithful 
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 
candour,  "that  she's  wild,  saucy,  knows  her  friends  from  her 
foes,  steals  Goody  Solomon's  butler;  but  what  then?  Goody 
Solomon's  d — d  b — h  !     Goody  Solomon  sold  beer  in  opposition 


Il8  EUGLNE  ARAM. 

/ __^ 

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  Tomkins's 
canary  bird ;  and  did  not  John  Tomkins,  saucy  rascal !  say  you 
could  not  sing  better  nor  a  raven  ? " 

'•  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  the  poor  creature  for  that,"' 
said  Peter,  stroking  the  cat  of  his  own  accord.  "  Cats  wi//  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  ribands,  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  j^ou  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  Jacobina 
for  that ;  she  got  the  string.  Says  I  to  her  one  day,  as  I  was 
bitting,  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  Jacobina  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  I'ettr,  laughing,  "  poor  puss !  poor  pu.ssy !  poor 
little  pussy  ! " 

"  And  now,  Peter,"  said  the  corporal,  taking  his  friend's  hand, 


EUGENE  ARAM.  119 


"  I  am  going  to  prove  friendship  to  you — going  to  do  you  great 
favour." 

"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 " 

"  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  daybreak,  and 
in  my  absence  you  shall " 

"  What  ?  my  good  corporal." 

"  Take  charge  of  Jacobina ! " 

"  Take  charge  of  the  devil !  "  cried  Peter. 

"  A  ugh  ! — baugh ! — what  wqrds.  are  those  ?     Listen  to  me." 

"  I  won't ! " 

"You  shall!" 

"  I'll  be  d — d  if  I  do  ! "  quoth  Peteij,  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  1  Jacobina  knows  her 
friends  and  her  foes  as  well  as  her  master  !  Jacobina  never 
injures  her  friends,  never  forgives  foes.  Look  to  yourself!  look  to 
yourself !  insult  my  cat,  insult  me !    Swear  at  Jacobina,  indeed  I " 

"  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'll  listen.?'* 

"Yes." 

"  Know  then,  that  I  wanted  to  do  you  kindness," 

"Humph!" 

*'  Hold  jaw  :     I  taught  Jacobina  all  she  knows* 


EUGENE   ARAM. 


"  Morc'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  at 
home — navcr  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  invaluable 
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  oftcncst  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, 
a— 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  villainous  creature  is  to  take  her 
into  my  house." 

"Villainous!  You  ought  to  be  proud  of  her  affection.  S/ic 
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.  How- 
.somevcr,  you  know  I  shall  be  with  young  squire,  and  he'll  be 
master  here  one  of  these  days,  and  I  shall  have  an  influence 
over  him — you'll  sec — you'll  see.  Look  that  there's  not  another 
Spotted  Dog  set  up — augh  ! — bother  ! " 

"Hut  ub.it  would  my  wife  say,  if  I  took  the  cat.'  she  can't 
abide  its  n.inic." 

"  Let  n-iC  alone  to  talk  to  your  wife.  \Vl)at  would  she  say  if  I 
bring  her  from  Lunnun  town  a  fine  silk  gown,  or  a  neat  shawl 
with  a  blue  bonier—  VjUic  becomes  licr.  or  a  ta)-chest — that  will 
do    for   you   both,   and    would  set  off  the  little  back  parlour? 


EUGENE  ARAM.  121 


Mahofyany  tay-chest,  inlaid  at  top — initials  in  silver,  J.  B.  to  D. 
and  P.  D. ;  two  boxes  for  tay,  and  a  bowl  for  sugar  in  the 
middle. — Ah  !  ah  !  Love  me,  love  my  cat !  When  was  Jacob 
Bunting  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  injure ;  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  gentle 
enough."  » 

."Gentle  as  a  lamb,  soft  as  butter,  kind  as  cream,  and  such  a 
mo'iser !" 

"  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'll  see  to  it ! — we'll  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  }Our  sides  against  me. 
Jacobina  1  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  an)  thing  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, 


123  EUGENE  ARAM. 


Jacobina.  Why  ?  Is  it  that  you  do  worse  than  the  Vv  orld  do  ? 
You  has  no  moraUty  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  provided  for  you. — Heighol" 

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  h&d,  to  deal  with.  On 
Wednesday  morning  Jacobina  was  inducted  into  the  comforts  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 
nvho  knows  how  to  dispose  of  his  cat  I 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A  rrtANOE  HABIT.  — WAI.TF.k's  INTERVIFW  WITH  MADF.LINB. — HER  GENEROUS 
AND  CONFIDING  DISPOSITION. — WALTKR's  ANGER. — THE  PARTING  MEAL. — 
CONVr.RSATION  BKTWEEN  THE  UNCLE  AKD  NEPHEW. — WALTER  ALONE. — 
SLKEP   THE   BLKSSING   OF   THE   YOUNG. 

/"<«//.    Out,  out,  unworthy  to  speak  where  he  breatheth, 
•     •     •     •     &c. 

/Vw/.    Well  now,  my  wiiule  venture  is  forth,  I  will  resolve  to  depart. 

— Ben  Jonson,  Avery  Man  out  of  his  Humour. 

It  was  now  the  eve  before  Walter's  departure,  and  on  returning 
home  from  a  farewell  walk  among  his  favourite  haunts,  he  found 
Aram,  whose  visit  had  been  made  during  Walter's  absence,  now 


EUGENE   ARAM.  123 


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's  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,  smiling : 
"  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, 

"  Is  there  any  superstition  that  makes  you  think,  as  some  of 
the  ancients  did,  the  left  hand  luckier  than  the  right  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Aram  ;  "  a  superstition.     Adieu." 

The  student  departed  ;  Madehne  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 ;  somethiug  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  passion 
that  can  no  longer  be  worthily  indulged,  are  never  afterwards 
wholly  allayed.  Like  the  allies  which  a  nation  summons  to  its 
bosom  to  defend  it  from  its  foes,  they  expel  the  enemy  onl}'  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. 


tt4  EUGENE  ARAM. 


The  last  few  weeks  had  done  more  for  Walter's  character  than 
years  of  ordinary,  even  of  happy  emotion,  might  have  eflected. 
He  had  passed  from  youth  to  manhood,  and  with  the  sadness, 
had  acquired  also  something  of  the  dignity,  of  experience.  Not 
that  we  would  say  that  he  had  subdued  his  love,  but  he  had 
made  the  first  step  towards  it ;  he  had  resolved  that  at  all 
hazards  it  should  dr  subdued. 

As  he  now  joined  Madeline,  and  she  perceived  him  by  her 
^ide,  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  Madeline,  give  me  your  hand.  Nay,  do 
not  fear  me ;  I  know  what  you  think,  and  you  are  right :  I 
loved — 1  still  love  you  !  but  I  know  well  that  I  can  have  no 
hope  in  making  this  confession  ;  and  when  I  ask  you  for  your 
hand,  Madeline,  it  is  only  to  convince  you  that  I  have  no  suit  to 
press :  had  I,  I  would  not  dare  to  touch  that  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,  liut  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  tal^  of  any  suffering  I  may 
endure ;  I  am  come  only  to  give  )ou  the  parting  wishes,  the 
parting  blessing,  of  one  who,  wherever  he  goes,  or  whatever 
befall  him,  will  always  think  of  you  as  the  brightest  and  love- 
liest of  human  beings.  May  )'ou  be  hapj)/,  yes,  even  with 
another  I' 

"Oh,  Walter !  "  ^aid  Madeline,  affected  to  tears,  "if  I  ever 
encouraged — if  I  ever  ltd  you  to  hope  for  more  than  the  warm. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  125 


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  inquiring  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  brotlier  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  honour,  "  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  hap- 
pened to  him  ?  I  saw  him  as  lately  as  yourself.  Does  aught 
threaten  him  ?     Speak,  I  implore  you — quick  !  " 

"  I  know  of  no  danger  to  ///;//  / "  replied  Walter,  stung  to 
perceive  the  breathless  anxiety  v/ith  which  Madeline  spoke ; 
"  but  pause,  my  cousin ;  may  there  be  no  danger  to  you  from 
this  man .?" 

"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  dis- 
appointed rivalship  }  And  I  have  satisfied  my  conscience  that 
my  judgment  is  not  thus  biased.  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 !  Remember,  you  have  not  of  Aram,  as  of 
those  whom  you  have  hitherto  mixed  with,  the  eye-witness  of  a 
life !  You  ca/i  know  but  little  of  his  real  temper,  his  secret 
qualities ;  still  less  of  the  tenor  of  his  former  existence.     I  only 


1^  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  j^ou  should  descend  to  mark  down  each  incautious 
look — to  chronicle  every  heedless  word — to  draw  dark  deduc- 
tions 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  I  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 
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  honoured  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  I 
Love ! — methought  that  word  denoted  all  that  was  high  and 
noble  in  human  nature — confidence,  hope,  devotion,  sacrifice  of 
all  thought  of  self!  but  you  would  make  it  the  type  and  concen- 
tration of  all  that  lowers  and  debases  ! — suspicion — caviU— fear 
— selfishness  in  all  its  shapes  I     Out  on  you  ! — /ove  /" 

"  Enough,  enough !  Say  no  more,  Madeline  ;  say  no  more. 
We  part  not  as  I  had  hoped  :  but  be  it  so.  You  arc  changed 
indeed  if  your  conscience  smite  you  not  hereafter  for  this 
injustice.  Farewell,  and  may  you  never  regret,  not  only  the 
heart  you  have  rejected,  but  the  friendship  you  have  belied." 


EUGENE   ARAM.  187 


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  appro- 
priated 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  paroxysm  of 
tears. 

When  this  emotion  was  over,  he  felt  as  if  his  love  for  Madeline 
had  also  disappeared  ;  a  sore  and  insulted  feeling  was  all  that 
her  image  now  recalled  to  him.  This  idea  gave  him  some  con- 
solation. "Thank  Heaven!"  he  muttered;  "thank  Heaven,  I 
am  cured  at  last  1 " 

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  discover- 
ing him ;  but  he  remained  there  till  dark,  musing  on  her  appa- 
rition; and  before  he  went  down  stairs  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. 


128  EUGENE   ARAM. 


'*  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— grievously 
wrong.     I  will  perform  any  penance  you  may  enjoin." 

"Agreed,  then:  follow  my  admonitions." 

"Ah!  anything  else,"  said  Madeline,  gravely,  and  colouring 
deeply. 

Walter  said  no  more;  he  pressed  her  hand  lightly,  and  turned 
away. 

•*  Is  all  forgiven  ? "  said  she,  in  .so  bewitching  a  tone,  and  with 
so  bright  a  smile,  that  Walter,  against  his  conscience,  answered 
"  xes. 

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  clue  to  his  fate }  Who  knows," 
added  Lester,  with  a  smile,  "  but  that  you  may  find  him  a  rich 
nabob!  I  confess  that  I  snould  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, 
&c.  I  shall  wait  with  great  anxiety  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  yourself, 
can  have  felt  \v!)at  I  have — can  have  cherished  the  same  anxiety, 


EUGENE   ARAM.  129 


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.  Perhaps  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  colours  of  his 
conduct,  taught  me  still  to  prize  and  seek  for  a  father's  love ! " 

"You  have  a  kind  heart,  Walter,"  said  the  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  beckoned  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  waywardness  in  our  nature,  the 
restless  son  felt  his  interest  in  that  parent  the  livelier,  from  the 
very  circumstance  of  remembering  nothing  of  his  person.  Affec- 
tion 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  churchyard,  that  adjoined  the  house.     The  air  and 

I 


ly  EUGENE  ARAM. 


the  light  allayed  the  fitfulness  at  the  young  man's  heart,  but 
served  to  solemnise  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 
cominand : — for  there  comcth  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,  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. 

^  **Non  avium  cilharxi^uc^"  &c. — H9rat% 


BOOK    II. 


^—  Afi<f>i  y  dvQpo' 
Wtav  (f)p«T\v  afiirXaKtcu 
'Avapldliaroi  Kpifi-avTai, 

ToCto  8'  afia)(auou  evptivj 
'Ort  vw,  KOI  iv  TcXev- 

ra  (j)ipTca-o¥  dpdpt  rvxtlv. 

— PiND.  O.  tS.  4, 

Innumerous,  o'er  their  human  prey, 
Grim  errors  hang  the  hoarded  sorrow  : 

Thro'  vapour  gleams  the  present  day, 
And  darkness  wraps  the  morrow. 

— Paraphrase 


CHAPTER  I. 

TH«  MARRIAGE  SETTXED. — LESTER'S.  HOPES  AND  SCHEMES. — GAIETY  OT  TEMPER. 

— A  GOOD   SPECULATION. — THE    TRUTH   AND   FERVOUR   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  some- 
what 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  of  obscurity.  The  good 
Lester,  however,  proposed  to  bestow  upon  his  daughter  such 

I  2 


Ija  EUGENE   ARAM. 


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  wzs  now  the  middle  of  September,  and  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,  viz., 
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  favourite  project.  The  lively  and  ready 
temper  of  Ellinor,  her  household  turn,  her  merry  laugh,  a 
winning  playfulness  that  characterised  even  her  defects,  were 
all  more  after  Lester's  secret  heart  than  the  graver  and  higher 
nature  of  his  elder  daughter.  This  might  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  gaiety  and  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  twenty  gay.  Perhaps,  however,  it  may  be  said  that 
I  am  here  taking  the  cause  for  the  effect! 


EUGENE   ARAM.  133 


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  realisation  of  his  cherished  domestic 
scheme.  And  he  pleased  himself  with  thinking  that  when  all 
soreness  would,  by  this  double  wedding,  be  banished  from 
Walter's  mind,  it  would  be  impossible  to  conceive  a  family 
group  more  united  or  more  happy. 

And  EUinor  herself,  ever  since  the  parting  words  of  her  cousin, 
had  seemed,  so  far  from  being  inconsolable  for  his  absence,  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  another,  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  bridals  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  mistress  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  ardour  of  his  affections  seemed  to  increase. 
With  what  anxiety  he  watched  her  footsteps !  with  what  idolatry 
he  hung  upon  her  words !  with  what  unspeakable  and  yearning 
emotion  he  gazed  upon  the  changeful  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  beUeved  him  in  his  solitary 
home,  he  lingered  for  hours  around  the  house  to  look  up  to 
Madeline's  window,  charmed  to  the  spot  which  held  the  intoxica- 
tion of  her  presence.  Madeline  discovered  this  habit,  and  chiti 
it ;  but  so  tenderly,,  that  it  was  not  cured.    And  still  at  times. 


134  EUGENE   ARAM 


by  the  autumnal  moon,  she  marked  from  her  window  his  daik 
figure  gliding  among  the  shadows  of  the  trees,  or  pausing  by  the 
lowly  tombs  in  the  still  churchyard — the  resting-place  of  hearts 
that  once,  perhaps,  beat  as  wildly  as  his  ov/n. 

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  enthral 
a  girl  so  young,  so  romantic,  so  enthusiastic,  as  Madeline  Lester. 
How  intense  and  delicious  must  have  been  her  sense  of  happi- 
ness !  In  the  pure  heart  of  a  girl  loving  for  the  first  time,  love 
is  far  more  ecstatic  than  in  man,  inasmuch  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  KATOtniABLB  STBCIMKN  OF    A   NOBLEMAN   AND  A  COURTrER. — A  KAN  OV  SOMA 
FAULTS  AND   MANY  ACCOMPLISHMENTS. 

Titinios  Capito  is  to  rehearse.  He  is  a  man  of  an  excellent  disposition,  and  to  be 
numbered  among  the  chief  onuments  of  his  age.  He  cultivates  literature — he  loves 
men  of  learning,  &c.— LoRD  Orrery's  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,  wily,  accomplished,  but  capable  of  generous 
.sentiments  and  enlarged  views.  Though,  from  regard  to  his 
interests,  he  seized  and  lived  as  it  were  upon  the  fleeting  spirit 
of  the  day,  the  penetration  of  his  intellect  went  far  beyond  its 
reach.  He  claims  the  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  dwellers 


EUGENE    ARAM.  I35 

of  a  court  arc  condemned  to  live,  and  wliich  he  brightened  by 
his  abilities  and  graced  by  his  accomplishments,  the  sagacious 
and  far-sighted  mind  of  Lord  *  *  *  comprehended  the  vast 
field  without,  usually  invisible  to  those  of  his  habits  and  pro- 
fession. 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  analyse  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  vigour  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  knowledge  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  ostentation 
and  frivolity  were  charges  never  brought  against  himself.  As  a 
diplomatist  and  a  statesman,  he  was  of  the  old  and  erroneous 
school  of  intriguers ;  but  his  favourite  policy  was  the  science  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  honourable  as  the 


136  EUGENE   ARAM. 


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  reputation 
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  dis- 
tinguished 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  Bolingbroke 
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  intellectual 
acquisitions  were  more  profound  than  they  have  been  generally 
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  copious  erudi- 
tion. 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  of,  though  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  for- 
gotten to  seek  out  the  eminent  scholar  who  shed  an  honour 
upon  his  neighbourhood  ;  he  had  been  greatly  struck  wifh  the 
bearing  and  conversation  of  Aram  ;  and,  with  the  usual  felicity 
with  which  the  accomplished  earl  adapted  his  nature  to  those 
^\ith  whom  he  was  thrown,  he  had   succeeded   in  ingratiating 


EUGENE  ARAM.  137 


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  voluntarily 
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  occasion  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  occasionally 
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  vu\ga.r  pan>enus  who  mistake  rudeness  for  independence — 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  favourites  with  Lord  *  *  *  ;  and  the 
wealthier  but  less  honoured  squirearchs  of  the  county,  stiff  in 
awkward  pride,  and  bustling  with  yet  more  awkward  veneration, 
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  invitations  which  they 
received  to  his  most  familiar  festivities. 

Lord  ♦  ♦  *  was  no  sportsman  ;  and  one  morning,  when  all  his 
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 
grey  mists  capriciously  hovering  over  it,  a  dim  and  melancholy 
wildness.     A  broader  and  whiter  vapDur,  that  streaked  the  lower 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


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 
vi-andered  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  vapour  rose  above  its  surface 
like  the  chariots  of  the  water  genii,  and  broke  into  a  thousand 
hues  beneath  the  smiles  of  the  unexpected  sun  :  but  far  to  the 
right,  the  mists  around  it  yet  unbroken,  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 
moments  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  recognised  the 
comely  form  of  Rowland  Lester.  A  second  inspection  convinced 
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  recognised  as  a  cele- 
brated French  botanist,  who  had  lately  arrived  in  England,  and 
who  was  now  making  an  amateur  excursion  throughout  the 
more  attractive  districts  of  the  island. 

The  earl  gue>sed   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  succc.-,s,  and  that 
he  had  been  conducted  hither  as  to  a  place  affbrding  some 
specimen  or  another  not  unworthy  of  research.  He  now,  giving 
his  horse  to  his  groom,  joined  the  group. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  139 


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  us  to  be  wise, 
Yet  when  I  turn  to  these  — Woe  s  only  friends,      [Fointiitg  to  his  books. 
And  with  their  weird  and  eloquent  voices  calm 
The  stir  and  Babel  of  the  world  within, 
I  can  but  dream  that  my  vex'd  years  at  last 
Shall  find  the  quiet  of  a  hermit's  cell : — 
And,  neighbouring  not  this  worn  and  jaded  world. 
Beneath  the  lambent  eyes  of  the  loved  stars. 
And,  with  the  hollow  rocks  and  spany  caves, 
The  tides,  and  all  the  many-music'd  winds. 
My  I  racles  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. 

From  "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  refresh- 
ment 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. 

"  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  clung  to  a  state  of  pure 
and  all  self-dependent  intellect,  the  greater  our  chance  of  happi- 
ness. 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:  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  theory } " 

"  Not  so,  my  lord,"  answered  Aram,  colouring  slightly ;  "  my 


»#» 


EUGENfe   ARAM. 


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  neces- 
sarily the  gainer.  Mental  activity  and  moral  quietude  are  the 
two  states  which,  were  they  perfected  and  united,  would  blend 
into  happiness.  It  is  such  a  union  which  constitutes  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)  happier 
in  the  state  you  are  about  to  choose,"  said  the  earl.  "  Who  could 
look  at  that  enchanting  face "  (the  speaker  directed  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  tHum  forbid  all  general  argument: — and  confess  that 
there  is  for  the  majority  of  human  beings  a  greater  happiness  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  affections 
than  to  elevate  them  too  imperiously  into  our  masters  ?  Ncqut 
se  tiimium  erigerc,  nee  subjaccre  serviliterr 

"  Cicero  loved  philosophising  better  than  philosophy,"  said 
Aram,  coldly :  "  but  surely,  my  lord,  the  affections  give  us  pain 
as  well  as  pleasure  ?  The  doubt,  the  dread,  the  restlessness  of 
love, —  surely  these  prevent  the  passion  from  constituting  a 
happy  state  of  mind }  To  me,  one  knowledge  alone  seems 
sufficient  to  embitter  all  its  enjoyments — the  knowledge  that 
the  object  beloved  must  die.  What  a  perpetuity  of  fear  that 
knowledge  creates  !  The  avalanche  that  may  en  sh  us  depends 
upon  a  single  breath  !  " 

**  Is  not  that  too  refined  a  sentiment  ?  Custom  surely  blunts 
us  to  ever)'  chance,  every  clanger,  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  ovor  you  for  years,  and  not 


EUGENE   ARAM.  141 


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  excur- 
sion 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  Ararn,  "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  uncertainty 
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  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  dis- 
turbs. 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  common  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 


I4t  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  know- 
ledge lies  our  only  active  road  to  real  happiness.  Yet  here  how 
eternal  must  be  the  disappointments  even  of  the  most  success- 
ful !  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  conviction  how  feebly  our  per- 
formance 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  abcroe,  the  luminous  spirit  of  him  who 
aspires  to  Truth  ;  nor  will  it  back  to  the  vile  ar  d  heavy  clay 
from  which  it  sprang,  until  the  light  which  bore  it  upward  be 
no  more  t  * 


EUGENE   ARAM.  143 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A    DEEPER    EXAMINATION    INTO    THE    STUDENT'S    HEART. — THE    VISIT    TO    THB 
CASTLE.— I'HILOSOPHY   PUT  TO  THE  TRIAU 

I  weigh  not  Fortune's  frown  or  smile, 

I  joy  not  much  in  earthly  joys, 
I  seek  not  state,  I  seek  not  style, 

I  am  not  fond  of  Fancy's  toys  ; 
I  rest  so  pleased  with  what  I  have, 
I  wish  no  more,  no  more  I  crave. — Joshua  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.  Fortunately,  how- 
ever, 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  intellectual 
Paradise  beyond,  which  "the  sworded  angel"  forbids  us  to 
approach — that  daring,  yet  sorrowful  state  of  mind — that  sense 
of  defeat,  even  in  conque.st,  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  melancholy 
which  the  Great  Sculptor  breathed  into  the  repose  of  the  noblest 
of  mythological  heroes,  when  he  represented  the  god  resting 
after  his  labours,  as  if  more  convinced  of  their  vanity  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  bequeathed  to 
the  gaze  of  a  calmer  and  more  practical  posterity  the  burning 
and  restless  spirit — the  feverish  desire  for  knowledge  more  vague 
than  useful,  which  characterised  the  exact  epoch  in  the  intel- 
lectual history  of  Germany  in  which  the  poem  was  inspired 
and  produced. 


144  EUGENE  ARAM. 


At  these  bitter  waters,  the  Marah  of  the  streams  of  Wisdom, 
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  visionaries  of 
the  Hartz  and  the  Danube  might  indeed  have  preserved  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  realities  of  things  :— 

"to  spin 
A  shroud  of  thouj^ht^  to  hide  him  from  the  tan 
Of  this  familiar  life,  which  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  anatomise 
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  w«r 
Of  winds,  and  sigh  !—  but  tremble  not  1  " 

Much  in  him  was  a  type,  or  rather  forerunner,  of  the  intel- 
lectual spirit  that  broke  forth  among  our  countrymen,  when  we 
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  in- 
difference to  woi-ldly  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 
strugj^'lc,  he  had  given  way  to  the  emotions  that  agitate  his  kind, 
and  had  surrendered  himself  to  the  dominion  of  another.     This 


EUGENE  ARAM.  145 


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 
fervour  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  somewhat  sceptically,  assented  to 
the  exceptions,  and  was  driven  to  search  for  peculiar  clues  to  the 
eccentric  instance, — finding,  to  his  secret  triumph,  that  Aram 
had  admitted  one  intruding  emotion  into  his  boasted  circle  of 
indifference,  imagined  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 
administration,  and  he  was  especially  anxious  to  secure  the 
support  of  all  the  talent  that  he  could  enlist  on  his  behalf  The 
times  were  those  in  which  party  ran  high,  and  in  which  indi- 
,  vidual  political  writings  were  honoured  with  an  importance 
which  the  periodical  press  in  general  has  now  almost  wholly 
monopolised.  On  the  side  opposed  to  government,  writers  of 
great  name  and  high  attainments  had  shone  with  peculiar  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  acquisition  to  the  cause- 
of  the  earl's  party  ;  but  that  judicious  and  penetrating  nobleman- 
perceived  that  Ara^n's  abilities,  his  various  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  alT 
worldly  enterprise  and  worldly  temptation  which  Aram  affected'.." 
He  could  not  but  think  that,  to  a  man  poor  and  lowly  of  circum*- 
stance,  conscious  of  superior  acquirements,  about  to  increase  his 
wants  by  admitting  to  them  a  partner,  and  arrived  at  that  age- 

K 


146  EUGENE  AK  iM. 


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  hi<;h  fortunes  and  the  powerful  and  glittering  influence 
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  artfully  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  Lesters  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 
approaching  marriage  to  one  of  the  party,  it  filled  him  with  a 
sort  of  terror  and  foreboding  of  evil.  It  was  as  if  he  were 
passing  beyond  the  boundary  of  some  law,  on  which  the  verj' 
tenure  of  his  existence  depended.  After  he  had  consented,  a 
trembling  came  over  him  ;  he  hastily  left  the  room,  and,  till  the 
day  arrived,  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  thp  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 
vulgar  diffidence  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  exten- 
sive and  stately  terrace.  He  came  forward  to  receive  them  with 
the  polished  and  warm  kindness  which  he  bestowed  upon  all  his 


EUGENE   ARAM.  147 


infferiors  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  window.  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  reigning  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  seemingly 
careless  eye,  the  effect  which  so  sudden  a  contact  with  royalty 
itself  would  produce  on  the  mind  of  the  shy  and  secluded  student, 
whom  it  was  his  object  to  dazzle  and  overpower.  It  was  at  this 
moment  that  the  native  dignity  of  Aram,  which  his  studies, 
unworldly  as  they  were,  had  certainly  tended  to  increase,  dis- 
played itself,  in  a  trial  which,  poor  as  it  was  in  abstract  theory, 
was  far  from  despicable  in  the  eyes  of  the  sensible  and  practised 
courtier.  He  received  with  his  usual  modesty,  but  not  with  his 
usual  shrinking  and -embarrassment  on  such  occasions,  the  com- 
pliments he  received ;  a  certain  and  far  from  ungraceful  pride 
was  mingled  with  his  simplicity  of  demeanour  ;  no  fliittering  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  favourable  opportunity  for  com- 
paring 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  illustrated  each  from  the 

K   2 


I4S  EUGENE  ARAM. 


beautiful  anecdotes  and  golden  allusions  of  antiquity,  he  felt  that 
he  was  affording  to  Aram  a  gratification  he  could  never  have 
experienced  before  ;  and  in  the  expression  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  in  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  bixth  and 
fortune,  was  immeasurably  the  lowest  of  all. 

The  English  aristocracy,  whatever  be  the  faults  of  their 
education,  have  at  least  the  merit  of  being  alive  to  the  possession, 
and  easily  warmed  to  the  possessor,  of  classical  attainments : . 
perhaps  too  much  so  ;  for  they  are  thus  apt  to  judge  all  talent 
by  a  classical  standard,  and  all  theory  by  classical  experience. 
Without — save  in  very  rare  instances — the  right  to  boast  of  any 
deep  learning,  they  are  far  more  susceptible  than  the  nobility  oi 
any  other  nation  to  the  spiritum  Caimeua.  They  are  easily  and 
willingly  charmed  back  to  the  studies  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  ana  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, 
unconsciously,  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  culti- 
valcvl  minds  than  usual,  and  more  capable  than  most  (from  that 
acute  i)erception  of  real  talent,  which  is  produced  by  habitual 
political  warfare)  of  appreciating  not  only  his  endowments,  but 
his  £acility  in  applying  them, 

'*  You  are  right,  my  lord,"  said   Sir ,  the  whipper-in  of 


EUGENE  ARAM.  149 


the  *  *  *  *  party,   taking  the   earl   aside;   "he  would  be    an 
inestimable  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  country  at  least)  not  late, 
and  the  earl  was  one  of  the  first  introducers  of  the  polished 
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  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  decrj', 
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  in  dishabille  ?  And  with  what  asso- 
ciations of  the  brightest  traditions  connected  with  Nature  they 
link  her  more  luxuriant  loveliness!  Must  we  breathe  only  the 
malarui  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* 


150  EUGENE  ARAM. 


ward  bend  of  the  head  I  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  I ' " 

"  Was  it  not  that  longing,"  replied  Aram,  "  which  gave  to  the 
character  of  Cicero  its  poorest  and  most  frivolous  infirmity  ? 
Has  it  not  made  him,  glorious  as  he  is  despite  of  it,  a  byword  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  posterity, 
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.  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  the  imaginative.  Lucretius  is  said  to  have  composed  his 
sublime  poem  under  the  influence  of  a  delirium.  The  suscep- 
tibilities 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  faculties  of  the  body  in 
which  squinting  is  occasioned  by  an  inequality  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  willingly 
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  unconqucred,  than  if  he  had  conquered  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  ///Wand  then  burned  it,  would 


EL' GENE   ARAM.  151 


his  genius  have  been  less  ?  The  world  would  have  known 
nothing  of  him  ;  but  would  he  have  been  a  less  extraordinary- 
man  on  that  account  ?  We  are  too  apt,  my  lord,  to  confound 
greatness  and  fame." 

"There  is  one  circumstance,"  added  Aram,  after  a  pa\ise, 
"  that  should  diminish  our  respect  for  renown.  Errors  of  life,  as 
v/ell  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  frailties,  had  been 
inglorious!  The  light  that  you  so  admire  reaches  you  only 
through  the  distance  of  time,  on  account  of  the  angles  and  un- 
even n  ess  of  the  body  whence  it  emanates.  Were  the  surface 
of  the  moon  smooth  it  would  be  invisible." 

"  I  admire  your  illustrations," said  the  earl;  "but  I  reluctantly 
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  cultiva- 
tion 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  labours  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 


I5S  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  j'ou  justice,  and  the.nselves 
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  honour  and  an  obligation.  You  will  have 
your  own  separate  house  ;  or  apartments  in  mine,  solely  appro- 
priated to  your  use.  Your  privacy  will  never  be  disturbed. 
Every  arrangement  shall  be  made  for  yourself  and  your  bride 
that  either  of  you  can  suggest.  Leisure  for  your  own  pursuits 
you  will  have,  too,  in  abundance — there  are  others  who  will 
perform  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  inclination 
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  calmness, 
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  undeserved.  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  anion.;  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  mc 


EUGENE  ARAM.  153 


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  prefer  it !  Nay, 
nay  ;  consider — pause.  I  am  in  no  haste  for  your  decision;  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  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  thousand  eccentricities 
and  humours — its  cloud  and  shadow — to  the  eyes  of  strangers, 
or  veil  it  from  their  gaze  by  the  irksomeness  of  an  eternal  hypo- 
crisy }  No,  my  lord  I  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  offer  me  the  circle,  but  not  the  magic  which 
made  it  holy.  Books !  T/uy,  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  will  believe  that  philo- 


154  EUGENE  ARAM. 


sophy  may  exist  in  practice,  and  that  a  contempt  for  wealth  and 
for  honours  is  not  the  mere  profession  of  discontent  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  occasions,"  he  added,  with  a  smile,  "  when  a 
friend  becomes  a  necessary  evil,  call  to  mind  our  starlight  walk 
on  the  castle  terrace." 

Aram  did  not  mention  to  Lester,  or  even  Madeline,  the  above 
conversation.  The  whole  of  the  next  day  he  shut  himself  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  Lx>ndon. 

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  I"     He  was  mistaken. — Another  year  I 


CHAPTER  V. 

IK  WHICH  THE  STOItY  RETURNS  TO  WALTER  AND  THE  CORPORAT. — THE  REN- 
CONTRE WITH  A  STRANGER,  ANU  HOW  THE  STRANGER  PROVES  TO  BE  MOT 
ALTOGETHER  A  STRANGER. 

Being  got  out  cif  town  in  the  road  to  Penaflor,  master  of  my  own  action,  and  fortjr 
good  (Tuiats,  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  give  my  mule  her  head,  and  to  go  at  what 
pace  she  pleased. 

•  ••••• 

I  left  I  hem  in  the  inn,  and  continued  my  journey  ;  T  was  hardly  got  half  a  mile 
farther,  w  hen  I  met  a  cavalier  very  jjenleel,  ^c — Gtl  Bias. 

It  was  broad  and  sunny  noon  on  the  second  day  of  theit 
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  coqioral,  in  his  own  heart,  had  resolved  to  bait  his 
Koman-noscd  horse  and  refresh  himself.  Two  comely  inns  had 
the  younger  traveller  of  the  two  already  passed  with  an  indiffc- 


EUGENE  ARA^L  155 


rent  air,  as  if  neither  bait  nor  refreshment  made  any  part  of  the 
necessary  concerns  of  this  habitable  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,  how- 
ever, that  Walter  heard  neither  of  the  above  significant  admoni- 
tions ;  and  now  the  town  was  nearly  passed,  and  a  steep  hill,  that 
seemed  winding  away  into  eternity,  already  presented  itself  to 
the  rueful  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  honour — 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  honour'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,  entering 
the  yard  of  a  small  but  comfortable-looking  inn. 

The  host,  a  man  of  a  capacious  stomach  and  a  rosy  cheek — ia 
short,  a  host  whom  your  heart  warms  to  see,  stepped  forth 
immediately,  held  the  stirrup  for  the  young  squire  (for  the  cor- 
poral's movements  were  too  stately  to  be  rapid),  and  ushered  him 
with  a  bow,  a  smile,  and  a  flourish  of  his  napkin,  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  profession : 
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  accomplished  hero  had 
already  thrown  the  stables  into  commotion,  and  frightening  the 
two  ostlers  from  their  attendance  on  the  steeds  of  more  peaceable 


156  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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 

"  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 
business — where's  the  frj'ing-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-humour,  the  corporal 
presented  himself  to  his  master,  with  a  grave  countenance. 

"  Greatly  vexed,  your  honour — 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  several 
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  honour.  Stirrups  help  us  to  get  on,  so 
docs  discretion  ;  to  get  cff,  ditto  discretion.  Men  without  stirrups 
lock  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  honour,  but  don't  love  chatter." 


EUGENE   ARAM.  157 


"  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." 

"  Beg  pardon — you're  wrong,"  quoth  the  corporal,  nothing 
taken  by  surprise ;  "  spoke  of  the  new-fangled  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  admiration 
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  honour, — ^been 
many  robberies  in  these  here  parts." 

'•'Well,  we  are  fairly  mounted,  and  you  are  a  formidable- 
looking  fellow,  Bunting." 

"  Oh !  your  honour,"  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  honour  is  well-nigh  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 

^  Of  course  th-  corporal  does  not  speak  of  the  patent  stirrup  ;  that  would  be  an 
anachronism. 


I{t  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  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  honour  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 
sha'l  be  very  happy  in  your  company." 

The  corporal  uttered  aloud  "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  discontentedly. 
"  Howsomcver,  the  man  does  seem  like  a  decent  country  gentle- 
man, and  we  are  two  to  one :  besides,  he's  old,  little,  and — augh, 
baugh — I  dare  say  we  are  safe  enough,  for  all  that  A^  can  do." 

The  stranger  possessed  a  polished  and  well-bred  demeanour ; 
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 
endeavoured  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 


EUGENE  ARAM.  159 


been  in  my  possession  ;  and  if  the  rogues  robbed  one  civilly,  I 
should  not  so  much  mind  encountering  them  :  but  they  are  a 
desperate  set,  and  use  violence  when  there  is  nothing  to  be  got 
by  it.     Have  you  travelled  far  to-day,  sir  ? " 

"  Seme  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  obsequiousness 
when  he  heard  the  voice  of  Walter's  companion. 

"Ah,  Sir  Peter  !"  said  he,  "and  how  be'st  your  honour' — fine 
night,  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  *ay  as  I  knows  anything  agen  'em,  but  I  think 
your  honours  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  I 
where  is  that  servant  of  yours  ? " 

Walter  now  perceived,  with  great  vexation,  that  the  corporal 
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,  &c.,  he  beheld  two  men  eying 
the  tall  corporal  very  wistfully,  and  of  no  prepossessing  appear- 
ance themselves.     One,   indeed,  as  the  fire  played  full  on  his 


Ite  EUGENE  ARAM. 


countenance,  was  a  person  of  singularly  rugged  and  sinister 
features  ;  and  this  man,  he  now  remarked,  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  tliey  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  1 " 

'♦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  1  does  your  servant  recognise  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  I  "  cried  the  corporal ;  "  he's  d d  ugly,  anj  how ! " 

"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  1 " 

"Mem!"  cried  the  corporal,  again  coming  alongside  of  his 
master.  "  Beg  pardon,  sir — served  in  the  forty-second — nothing 
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.  "  Wc  are  a  match  at  least  for  them,  sir,"  said  he, 
to  his  new  acquaintance. 

"  I  am  devilish  glad  I  met  you,"  was  Sir  Peter's  rather  selfish 
rej)ly. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  l6t 


"  'Tis  he  !  'tis  the  devil ! "  grunted  the  corporal,  as  the  two  men 
now  gained  their  side  and  pulled  up ;  and  Walter  recognised  the 
faces  he  had  remarked  in  the  ale-house. 

"  Your  servant,  gentlemen,"  quoth  the  uglier  of  the  two ;  "  you 
ride  fast " 

"  And  ready  ; — bother — baugh ! "  chimed  in  the  corporal, 
plucking  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  f  on  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  reafh 
of  any  practical  answer  with  which  the  corporal  might  favour 
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-favoured  comrade. 

"  You  see  we  are  too  strong  for  them  ! "  cried  Sir  Peter,  gaily  ; 
"  evidently  highwaymen  !  How  very  fortunate  that  I  should 
have  fallen  in  with  you  !  " 

A  shower  of  rain  now  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  handkerchief, 
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 
heait  quite  w^armed  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  occa- 
sion 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." 

L 


i6a  EUGENE  ARAM. 

•*0h,  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  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  hairsbreadth  ;  but  I  lost  it  on  purpose :  it  would  have  half 
ruined  Johnny  Courtland  to  have  paid  me,  and  he  had  that 
dclicac}',  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  honour  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  honour  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 !  Rowy  ?— 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  I  or  playing  at  billiards,  or  hot  in  a 
.steeplechase ;  there  was  not  a  jollier,  better-humoured  fellow  in 
the  world  than  Rowy  Lester." 

"You  forget.  Sir  Peter,"  said  Walter,  laughing  at  a  description 
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 
)our  uncle  say  of  vief* 

"  That  when  he  knew  you,  you  were  all  generosity,  frankness, 
hospitality." 

"Humph,  humph!"  said  Sir  Peter,  looking  extremely  dis- 
concerted, a  confusion  which  Walter  imputed  solely  to  modesty, 


EUGENE  ARAM.  163 


**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  excellent  inn  is  the  *  Duke  of 
Cnmberland's  Head ; '  you  "Orill  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  1 " 


CHAPTER  VL 

SIR  PETER  UTSPLAYED. — ONE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD  SUFFERS  PROM  ANOTHBR.— 
THE  INCIDENT  OF  THE  BRIDLE  BEGETS  THE  INCIDENT  OF  THE  SADDLE  ; — 
THE  INCIDENT  OF  THE  SADDLE  BEGETS  THE  INCIDENT  OF  THE  WHIP  ; — 
THE  INCIDENT  OP  THE  WHIP  BEGETS  WHAT  THE  READER  MUST  READ  TO 
SEE. 

Nihil  est  tJiud  magnum  quam  multa  minuta.  ^ —  Vet.  Auct. 

**  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  "i — 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  ?  " 

Nor  k  Utere  anjribing  that  bath  so  great  a  power  as  the  aggregate  of  small  thfatgx. 

L  2 


l64  EUGENE   ARAM. 


The  waiter  smiled. 

"  Sir  Peter  gives  very  handsome  dinners,  sir ;  twice  a-year ! 
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  description 
my  uncle  gave  me  of  this  gentleman.  'Ask  me  too  often  to 
dinner,  indeed  I  * — '  offer  me  money  if  I  want  it ! ' — '  spend  a  month 
at  his  house  ! ' — '  most  hospitable  fellow  in  the  world  I  * — 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  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  and  forgot  other  people ;  that  was 
exactly  what  he  valued  himself  on  doing  now.  But  the  most 
absurd  thing  about  Sir  Peter  was,  that  while  he  was  for  ever 
•ictracting  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  much  more  esteemed  than  ever.  There  is  something 
conciliatory  in  a  saving  disposition  ;  but  people  put  themselves 
in  a  great  passion  when  a  man  is  too  liberal  with  his  own.  It  is 
an  insult  on  their  own  prudence.  "  What  right  has  he  to  be  so 
extravagant }  What  an  example  to  our  servants  !  "  But  your 
close  neighbour  does  not  humble  you.  You  love  your  close 
neighbour ;  you  respect  your  close  neighbour ;  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,  scaled  once  and  tied  with  the  smallest  possible  quantity 
of  string  ;  it  was  addressed  to  Mr.  James  Holwell,  Saddler,  — — 


EUGENE  ARAM.  165 


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  finds  y«  Duke  of  Cumber- 
land's Head ;   it  is  an  excellent  I". 

"  I  greatly  reg'  y'  you  are  unavoidy  oblig'd  to  go  on  to 
Lond° ;  for,  otherwise  I  sh^  have  had  the  sincerest  pleas'  in 
seeing  you  here  at  din',  &  introducing  you  to  L^  Hales.  Anoth' 
time  I  trust  we  may  be  more  fortunate. 

"As  you  pass  thro'  y*  litt*  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 
persony,  but  the  rain  has  given  me  a  m<*  sev*  cold  ; — hope  you 
have  escap'd,  tho',  by  y*  by,  you  had  no  cloke,  nor  wrapp"" ! 

"  My  kindest  regards  to  your  m"  excellent  unc^     I  am  sure 
he's  the  same  fine  merry  fell'*'  he  always  was  ! — tell  him  so  I 
"  D'  S^  Yours  faith 

"  Peter  Grindlescrew  Hales. 

"P.S.   You  know  perh*  y'  poor  Jn°  Court     your  uncle's  m** 

intim*  friend,  lives  in ,  the  town  in  which  your  serv'  will 

drop  y*  brid*.     He  is  much  alter'd, — poor  Jn° !  " 

"  Altered !  alteration  then  seems  the  fashion  with  my  uncle'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  honour ! "  grunted  the  corporal,  thrust- 
ing the  bridle  very  discontentedly  into  his  pocket,  where  it 
annoyed  him  the  whole  journey,  by  incessantly  getting  between 
his  seat  of  leather  and  his  seat  of  honour.  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, 


t66  EUGENE  ARAM. 


from  the  cause  we  have  before  assigned,  tlie  corporal  became 
thoroughly  out  of  humour. 

"  Pray,  Bunting,"  said  Walter,  calling  his  attendant  to  his  side, 
••  do  you  feel  sure  that  the  man  we  met  yesterday  at  the  ale- 
house is  the  same  you  saw  at  Grassdale  some  months  ago  ? " 

"  D — n  it ! "  cried  the  corporal  quickly,  and  clapping  his  hand 
behind. 

"How,  sir  I" 

**  Beg  pardon,  jour  honour — slip  tongue,  but  this  confounded 
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" 

"  Beg  pardon,  your  honour.  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 
acquaintance,  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  Master 
Holw^-ll  was  an  adept  in  his  craft,  and  that  a  newly-invented 
hunting  saddle  at  the  window  caught  Walter's  notice.  The 
artful  saddler  persuaded  the  young  traveller  to  dismount  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  incumbrance,  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  gentle- 
man'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 


EUGENE  ARAM.  167 


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  attention,  and  underneath  the  crest 
were  the  letters  G.  L.,  his  father's  initials. 

"  How  long  have  you  had  this  whip  ? "  said  he  to  the  saddler, 
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, 
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 ;  "  'tis  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  parlour  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  parlour 
nearly  a  year  to  be  in  the  way  like." 

"  Ah  !  I  thinks  I  do  remember  it  now,"  said  Master  HolwelL 
"  I  should  think  it's  a  matter  of  twelve  yearn  ago.  I  suppose 
I  may  sell  it  without  fear  of  the  gentleman's  claiming  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  lesi ;  I  can't  say 
exactly." 


i68  EUGENE  ARAM. 


"  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  clue,  which,  however  slight,  he  resolved 
to  follow  up,  he  inquired  the  way  to  Squire  Courtland's,  and 
proceeded  thither  at  once. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WALTER  VISITS  ANOTHER  OF  HIS  UNCLE's  FRIENDS.— MR.  C0URTLAND*8  STRAI^GE 
COMPLAINT.— WALTER  LEARNS  NEWS  OF  HIS  FATHER  WHICH  SURPRISES 
BIM. — THE  CHANGE  IN   HIS  DESTINATION. 

Gad's  my  life,  did  you  ever  hear  the  like,  what  a  strange  man  is  this  f 
What  you  have  possessed  mc  witlial,  I'll  discharge  it  amply. 

— Ben  Jonson,  Evay  Man  in  his  Humot$r. 

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."  Walter, 
however,  producing  from  his  pocket-book  the  introductory  letter 
given  him  by  his  uncle,  slipped  it  into  the  .servant's  hand,  ac- 
companied by  half-a-crown,  and  begged  to  be  announced  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 


EUGENE   ARAM.  169 


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  ligJUness.  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.  Never- 
theless, though  so  light,  it  seemed  to  Walter  anything  but 
cheerful.  The  sun  had  blistered  and  discoloured  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,  although  by  several  stumps  of 
trees  near  the  house,  Walter  perceived  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 ;  viz. 
a  most  disproportionate  plurality  of  windows,  a  commodious 
scantiness  of  furniture,  and  a  prospect  without  that  seemed  as  ii 
the  house  had  been  built  in  the  middle  of  Salisbury  Plain. 

Mr.  Courtland  himself,  a  stout  man,  still  preserving  the  rosy 
hues  and  comely  features,  though  certainly  not  the  hilarious 
expression,  which  Lester  had  attributed  to  him,  sat  in  a  large 


I70  EUGEI.E  ARAM. 


dialr,  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  ? 
1  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." 

"  My  dear  sir,  you  are  mistaken :  I  am  rather  cold,  on  the 
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  I  at  the  back  ;  and  a  row  of  chest- 
nut trees  in  the  front !  You  may  conceive  the  consequence,  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  sufifocattd  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  iafernal  chestnuts,  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  stih 
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  colour  to  my 
checks  :  the  blood  is  stagnant,  sir.  Would  to  Heaven  I  could 
see  niybclf  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  mc :  a.  h)  pochrondriac 


EUGENE  ARAM.  171 


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  him- 
self 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  I  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,  shaking 
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  far'hiiigs  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. 


171  EUGENE  ARAM. 


"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  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  clue  by  which  he  can  possibly  be  traced, 
would  be  to  us  all — to  me  in  particular — an  inestimable  obliga- 
tion." 

"  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,  hke  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  recog- 
nised 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.  Geoffrey  Lester  ever 
refused  to  accept.  Wc  dined  Utcrh-Ute, — 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   creditors, — such  manoeuvres,— 


EUGENE  ARAM.  173 


such  escapes !  After  dinner  he  asked  me  if  I  ever  corresponded 
with  his  brother.  I  told  him  no ;  that  we  were  very  jrood 
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  should  have  scraped  up  a  little 
money,  but  that  I  spent  it  as  fast  as  I  got  it.  However,  you 
know  that  I  was  always  proverbially  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  England,  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  Yorkshire  to  convert  the  chattels  into  gold — to  receive 
my  money  ;  and  I  shall  then  seek  out  my  good  brother,  my 
household  gods,  and,  perhaps,  though  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  remember  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  fearfully  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  }  " 

"  Never:  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.** 

"  Nor  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 


174  EUGENE  ARAM. 

giving  me  as  I  said  before,  in  his  own  humorous  strain,  the 
history  of  his  adventures,  his  hairbreadth  escapes  from  his  duns, 
the  various  dis|jui5es  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  character — was 
Clarke :  he  also  said,  by  the  way,  that  he  still  kept  to  that  name, 
and  was  very  merry  on  the  advantages  of  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  name- 
sakes.' 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  prevent 
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,  some- 
what cast  down  by  that  melancholy  admonition. 

"  Ah !  I'll  see — I'll  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  upon  the 
portly  frame  of  Mr.  Courtland  by  the  vegetable  life  of  the  de- 
parted 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  anything  else  more 
than  dinner,  it  is — supper! 

Mr.  Courtland  deliberately  pinned  the  napkin  to  his  waist- 


EUGENE   ARAM.  175 


coa*,  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  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 
iavalid, 

**  Et  cuncta  terraruin  subacta 

Praeter  atrocem  animum  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  un- 
willingness to  disturb  the  regular  establishment  of  the  invalid ; 
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 
favoured  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, — 

"  Entre  nous,  sir,  I  fear  this  may  be  a  wild-goose  chase.  Your 
father  was  too  facetious  to  confine  himself  to  fact — excuse  me, 
sir ;  and,  perhaps,  the  colonel  and  the  legacy,  were  merely  inven- 
tions pour  passer  le  temps ;  there  was  only  one  reason,  indeed, 
that  made  me  fully  believe  the  story." 

*  And  eyerything  of  earth  subdued,  except  the  resolute  mind  of  C«ta 


176  EUGENE  ARAM. 


"Wliat  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  gaieties  of 
the  metropolis,  Walter  had,  upon  this  dubious  clue,  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. 

WAtTEll*«  MltDfTATIOVS.— THE  CORPORAL'S  GRIEF  AND  ANGER.— THE  CORPORAL 
PERSONALLY  DESCRIBED. — AN  E.XPLANATION  WITH  HIS  MASTER, — THE  COR- 
PORAL 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  ;— OS  THE  VALUE  OF  WORDS  ; — ON  FIGHTING  ;— WITH  SUNDRY 
OTHER  MATTERS  OF  EQUAL  DELECTATION  AND  IMPROVEMENT. — AN  UNEX- 
PECTED EVENT. 

Quale  per  incertam  lunam  snb  Inoe  maligni 
Est  iter. '—Kir^//, 

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,  ni^ht  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  highway- 
men. 

Walter's  mind  was  full  of  the  project  on  which  he  was  bent. 
The  reader  can  fully  comprehend  how  vivid  were  the  emotions 

'  Efcn  as  a  journey  by  the  unpropitiout  light  of  the  uncertain  moan. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  m 


called  up  by  the  hope  of  a  solution  of  the  enigma  to  hij  father's 
fate ;  and  sanguinely  did  he  now  indulge  those  intense  medita- 
tions with  which  the  imaginative  minds  of  the  young  always 
brood  over  every  more  favourite  idea,  until  they  exalt  the  hope 
into  a  passion.  Everything  connected  with  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  sympathise  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  always  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  in- 
duced 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,  Avere  also  the  more  despondent,  he  speedily  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  expected  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  possible,  to  one  so  reckless  and 
changeful,  that  even,  after  receiving  the  legacy,  a  proposition 

M 


178  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  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  communications,  imagined  that  the  dissoluteness 
of  his  life  had  deprived  him  of  the  aflfections  of  his  family  ; 
and  deserving  so  well  to  have  the  proflfer  of  renewed  intercourse 
rejected,  believed  that  it  actually  was  so.  These,  and  a  hundred 
similar  conjectures,  found  favour  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  embarrassing  his  present  journey  by  those  researches 
among  the  dead  which  the  worthy  Courtland  had  so  con- 
siderately recommended  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  Madeline,  the 
love  he  had  once  thought  so  ineffaceable  had  faded  into  a  dim 


EUGENE  ARAM.  179 


and  sullen  hue;  and,  in  proportion  as  the  image  of  Madeline 
grew  indistinct,  that  of  her  sister  became  more  brilliant.  Often, 
now,  as  he  rode  slowly  onward,  in  the  quiet  of  the  deepening 
night,  and  the  mellow  stars  softening  all  on  which  they  shone, 
he  pressed  the  little  token  of  Ellinor's  affection  to  his  heart, 
and  wondered  that  it  was  only  within  the  last  few  days  he  had 
discovered  that  her  eyes  were  more  beautiful  than  Madeline's 
and  her  smile  more  touching.  Meanwhile  the  redoubted  corporal, 
who  was  by  no  means  pleased  with  the  change  in  his  master's 
plans,  lingered  behind,  whistling  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  finding  himself,  at  last,  within  one  day's  gentle  march  of  the 
metropolis.  And  no  young  lady,  suddenly  summoned  back  in 
the  first  flush  of  her  dibut  by  an  unseasonable  fit  of  gout  or 
economy  in  papa,  ever  felt  more  irreparably  aggrieved  than 
now  did  the  dejected  corporal.  His  master  had  not  yet  even 
acquainted  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  il  were  a  matter  with  which 
Heaven  should  be  acquainted  at  th^  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  favourite  ««^^ — bangh. 

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  moon- 
light. 

The  corporal,  then,  wore  on  his  head  a  small  cocked  hat, 
which  had  formerly  belonged  to  the  colonel  of  the  forty-second 
— 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 

M  7 


l8o  EUGENE  ARAM.    * 


though  tarnished,  and  the  cockade,  though  battered,  still  re- 
mained. 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  favourable  point  in  which  his  features  could  be 
regarded.  His  eyes,  which  were  small  and  shrewd,  were  hall 
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 
H  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 
A'ould  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  I  The  hat,  being  some- 
what 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  veteran 
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 
wholly  exposed.  And  that  part,  ah,  how  ample  I  Had  Liston 
seen  it,  he  would  have  hid  for  ever  his  diminished — opposite  to 
head!    No  wonder  the  corporal  had  been  so  annoyed  by  the 


EUGENE  ARAM.  l8l 


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  Grass- 
dale,  had  outgrown  it  prodigiously  across  the  chest  and  girth ; 
nevertheless  he  managed  to  button  it  up.  And  thus  the  mus- 
cular 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 
scrupulously  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  grey  worsted  ;  and  a  pair  of  laced 
boots,  that  reached  the  ascent  of  a  very  mountainous  calf,  but 
declined  any  further  progress,  completed  his  attire. 

Fancy  then  this  figure,  seated  with  laborious  and  unswerving 
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 
inouth  thrust  out,  and  the  bridle  drawn  as  tight  as  a  bowstring! 
its  ears  laid  sullenly  down,  as  if,  like  the  corporal,  it  complained 
of  going  to  Yorkshire ;  and  its  long  thick  tail,  not  set  up  in  a 
comely  and  well-educated  arch,  but  hanging  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  reverie  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— augh ! " 

"Bunting:  I  say,  do  you  hear.?" 


ii2  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"  Yes,  your  honour,  yes  ;  this  'ere  horse  is  so  'nation  sluggish." 

**  Sluggish  1  why  I  thought  he  was  too  much  the  reverse, 
Bunting.  I  thought  he  was  one  rather  requiring  the  bridle  than 
the  spur." 

**Augh!  your  honour,  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  honour,  that's  all ;  a  different 
thing  if  properly  broke.     There  be  a  many  like  him !" 

"  You  mean  to  be  personal,  Mr.  Bunting,"  said  Walter,  laugh- 
ing at  the  evident  ill-humour  of  his  attendant. 

"  Augh !  indeed  and  no ! — I  daren't — a  poor  man  like  me— 
go  for  to  presume  to  be  personal, — 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  honour  1  and  is  not  that  the  very  reason  why 
I'd  affront  him  ?  Surely,  it  is  not  my  betters  I  should  affront ; 
that  would  be  ill-bred,  your  honour, — quite  want  of  discipline." 

"  But  we  owe  it  to  our  great  commander,"  said  Walter,  "  to 
love  all  men." 

"  Augh  I  sir,  that's  very  good  maxim, — none  better — but 
shows  ignorance  of  the  world,  sir — great ! " 

"  Bunting,  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  creturs ! 
Howsomever,  it's  an  excellent  book  for  the  poor ;  keeps  'm  in 
order,  favours  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  honour  :  it's  a  mighty  long  way.  What  would 
the  squire  think  i* — ^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  tho.se  older,  and  who  are  experienced  in  the 
world  I  knows  what  I  knows,"  and  the  corporal  recommenced 
his  whistle. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  l8j 


*'  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 
honour, — I !  '  Tis  not  for  me  to  Hke  or  dislike.  Howsomever, 
llje  horses,  poor  creturs,  must  want  rest  for  some  days.  Them 
dumb  animals  can't  go  on  for  ever,  bumpety,  bumpety,  as  your 
honour  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 
honour  ben't  serious." 

"  Why,  if  yoti  continue  to  look  so  serious,  I  must  be  serious 
too.     You  understand.  Bunting  ?  " 

"  Augh  I  and  that's  all,  your  honour,"  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  honour,  my  pride  was  a-liurt ;  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'll  be  perfectly  satisfied  that  I  do  quite  right.  In  at 
word,  you  know  that  my  father  has  been  long  missing ;  I  have 
found  a  clue  by  which  I  yet  hope  to  trace  him.  This  is  the 
reason  of  my  journey  to  Yorkshire." 

"  Augh  I "  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  de  greatly  improved." 

"  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." 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


"Tis  'cause  I  knows  the  world,"  said  the  corporal,  exceedingly 
nettled,  '*  that  1  wants  to  get  back  to  it.  I  have  heard  of  some 
spoonics  as  never  kist  a  girl,  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 
corporal,  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  in  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  honour,"  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'll  tell  you,  sir,  what  I  thinks  of  love  :  'twixt  you  and  me,  sir, 
'tis  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 
docs  not  cat  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  ofl"  with  a  slight  rebuke  for  his  sneer  at 
religion,  we  grieve  to  say  that  an  attack  on  the  sa-'  redness 
of  love  seemed  a  crime  beyond  all  toleration  to  the  theologian 
of  twenty-one. 

The  corporal  bowed,  and  thrust  his  tongue  in  his  cheek. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  185 


There  was  a  pause  of  some  moments. 

"And  what,"  said  Waher,  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 ; — Hfe  in  Lunnon,  life  in  a  village — all  the 
difference  'twixt  healthy  walk  and  a  doze  in  armchair ;  by  the 
faith  of  a  man,  'tis  I " 

"  What !  it  is  pleasant  to  have  rascals  about  one  ?  " 

"  Sure/y  yes,"  returned  the  corporal,  dryly  :  "  what  so  delight- 
ful 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  knowledge  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.  'Tis  pleasant  enough  to  be  cheated  for  a 
little  while,  as  the  younkers  are,  and  as  you'll  be,  your  honour ; 
but  that's  a  pleasure  don't  last  long — t'other  lasts  all  your  life ; 
dare  say  your  honour's  often  heard  rich  gentlemen  say  to  their 
sons,  *  You  ought,  for  your  own  happiness'  sake  like,  my  lad,  to 
have  summut  to  do  ;  ought  to  have  some  profession,  be  you 
niver  so  rich : '  very  true,  your  honour ;  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?" 

"  Baugh !  can  your  honour  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." 

**Whj-,  the  soldier,"  said  the  corporal,    with    dignity, — ^"the 


(86  EUGENE  ARAM. 


private  soldier,  poor  fellow !  b  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  honour;  he  talks  to  tlie  world  'bout  honour, 
an'  glory,  and  love  of  his  country,  and  such  like  I  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  I  Gad  I  how  well  they  knows  the  world — one  quite 
envies  the  she-rogues ;  they  beats  the  wives  hollow  !  Augh  I 
and  your  honour  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  I  They  kisses  money  out  of 
the  miser,  and  sits  in  their  satins,  while  the  wife — 'drot  her! — 
sulks  in  a  gingham.  Oh,  they  be  clivcr  creturs,  and  they'll  do 
what  they  likes  with  Old  Nick,  when  they  gets  there,  for  'tis  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  honour;  what  they  calls  authors." 

"  Authors !  what  the  deuce  had  you  or  the  colonel  to  do 
with  authors  ? " 

"  Augh  !  then,  the  colonel  was  a  very  fine  gentleman,  what  the 
larncd  calls  a  my-seen-ass ;  wrote  little  songs  himself — 'cross- 
ticks,  you  knows,  your  honour :  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  ?  " 


EUGENE  ARAM.  187 


"  Fancy  it  did,  your  honour ;  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  a  clargyman ;  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  manage  'em — 
augh !  but,  cat-kindness, — paw  to-day,  claw  to-morrow.  And, 
then,  they  always  marries  young — the  poor  things  ! — and  have  a 
power  of  children,  and  live  on  the  fame  and  fortin  they  aj-e 
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 
:;o  many  varieties  in  men !  "  ^ 

"  Augh,  your  honour,  I  had  nothing  to  do  when  I  was  the 
cilonel'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,  some- 
how, do  what  will,  'tis  not  always  the  cliverest  as  foresees  the 
best.     But  I  be  young  yet,  your  honour  !  " 


IS8  EUGENE   ARAM. 


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.  Tis  the 
autumn  that  reaps,  spring  sows — augh !  bother  ! " 

•*  Very  true,  and  very  poetical  I  see  you  did  not  live  among 
authors  for  nothing." 

**  I  knows  summut  of  language,  your  honour,**  quoth  the 
corporal,  pedantically. 

"  It  is  evident" 

••  For,  to  be  a  man  of  the  world,  sir,  must  know  all  the  ina 
and  outs  of  speechifying ;  'tis  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  honour  ? " 

*'  Never  mind  who  it  was,"  said  Walter,  gravely ;  "  use  the  gift 
discreetly." 

"  Umph  !  "  said  the  corporal.  "  Yes,  your  honour,"  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  I 
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  I 
in  every  man's  mouth.  Augh  !  sir,  take  note  of  the  words^  and 
the  things  will  take  care  of  themselves — bother  1" 

"  Your  reflections  amaze  me.  Bunting,"  said  Walter,  smiling. 
"  But  the  night  begins  to  close  in :  I  trust  we  shall  not  meet 
with  any  misadventure." 

"  'Tis  an  ugsome  bit  of  road  I "  said  the  corporal,  looking  round 
him. 

"The  pistols?" 

"  Primed  and  loaded,  your  honour." 

"After  all,  Bunting,  a  little  skirmish  would  be  no  bad  sport— 
eh  ?  especially  to  an  old  soldier  like  you." 

"Augh  !  baugh  !     'Tis  no  pleasant  work  fighting,  without  pay 


EUGENE  ARAM.  189 


at  least.  Tis  not  like  love  and  eating,  your  honour :  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  honour.  Don't  take  the  liberty  to  talk  stuff 
to  my  master." 

They  continued  thus  to  beguile  the  way  till  Walter  again  sank 
into  a  reverie,  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  increased  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  corporal 
was  already  supping  in  idea.  That  incomparable  personage  was, 
however,  abruptly  recalled  to  the  present  instant  by  a  most 
violent  stumble  on  the  part  of  his  hard-mouthed,  Roman-nosed 
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  v.as  as  smooth  as  a 
bowling-green  I " 

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 


190  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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    IIL 


Ol    Kvitt)  itnX«rra  y'  f)  8ia(f>6elpovcra  fit, 
M.  £i€ivff  yap  fj  dtos,  aXX'  o/xox  tacn/iof* 
O.    Maviai  re 

•  •  •  • 

M.  ^amatrfiorav  Si  rdSf  voatls  iroiav  vtto  ; 

— 0PE2T.  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   LOVEllS' 
WALK.— THE  REAPPEARANCE. 

Au/.  Whence  comest  thou  ? — What  wouldest  thou  ? — Coriolanus. 

One  evening  Aram  and  Madeline  were  passing  through  the 
village  in  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 
honour,  robbed.     Squire  Tibson  was  tied  to  his  bed,  his  bureau 


t9S  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  than  four  men  all  masked, 
your  honour,  and  armed  with  pistols.  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  thev  in  wrath  shall  wring  { 
For  /  will  Hit  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  uncle.  I  know  we  have  a  whole  magazine  of  blunderbusses 
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,  tho'  flesh  is  gra.ss,  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 
neighbours.  Hadn'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  Dealtr>',  "  robbers  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  telescope,  or  a  pair  of  globes, 
or  a  great  folio,  covered  with  dust." 

"Ay,  your  honour ;  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  evening 
for  the  present" 

"  Do,  dearest  Eugene — do,  for  Heaven's  sake  !**  said  Madeline, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  as,  turning  from  Dealtry,  they  directed 


EUGENE  ARAM.  193 


their  steps  towards  the  quiet  valley,  at  the  end  of  which  the 
student's  house  was  situated,  and  which  was  now  more  than 
ever  Madeline's  favourite  walk ;  "  do,  dearest  Eugene,  come  up 
to  the  manor-house  till  these  wretches  are  apprehended.  Con- 
sider 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 !  dearest," 
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 
admit  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  w6nt  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 
colour  from  your  lip." 

"Ah,  indeed!"  said  Aram,  quickly;  "what!  you  watch  me 
so  closely  ?  " 

"  Can  you  wonder  that  I  do  ? "  said  Madeline,  with  an  earnest 
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- 

N 


IM  EUGENE  ARAM. 

pcndcnce  of  thought,  which  allows  no  watch,  and  forbids  account 
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 — Leav§ 
nu ! — 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 
Madeline,  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,  encountering 

the  full,  the  dark,  the  inscrutable  gaze  of  her  strange  lover,  she 
broke  off  in  a  sudden  fear,  which  she  could  not  analyse ;  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  brightened 
at  once  into  himself  in  his  happiest  mood.  He  poured  forth  a 
torrent  of  grateful  confidence,  of  buoyant  love,  that  soon  swept 
from  the  remembrance  of  the  blushing  and  enchanted  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  present,  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  hollow  loves  of 
the  distant  world  ?  Wc  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  engross  our 


EUGENE   ARAM.  195 


thoughts  and  occupy  oir  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  yourself.  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  unprepared  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  freedom  which  low  minds  call 
obscurity  is  the  aliment  of  life.  I  do  not  enter  the  temples  ot 
Nature  as  a  stranger,  but  the  priest :  nothing  can  ever  tire  me  ot 
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 
enthusiasm,  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,  quite  motionless,  and 
looking  on  the  pair  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  stood  the  ominous 
stranger  whom  the  second  chapter  of  our  first  Book  introduced 
to  the  reader. 

For  one  instant  Aram  seemed  utterly  appalled  and  overcome  ; 
his  cheek  grew  the  colour  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  on  :  and  slowly,  and 
with  his  usual  firm  but  gliding  step,  continued  his  way. 

N  2 


196  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"Good  evening,  Eugene  Aram,"  said  the  stranger  ;  and  as  he 
spoke,  he  touched  his  hat  sh'ghtly  to  Madeline. 

"  I  thank  you,"  replied  the  student,  in  a  calm  voice,  **  do  you 
want  aught  with  me  ? " 

•*  Humph  I — 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  manner 
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 — he  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  neighbourhood,  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 /^wr  contribution  :  I  can  easily  spare  him  enough  for  the 
present.     But  let  us  turn  back,  it  grows  chill." 

"  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?" 


EUGENE   ARAM.  197 


"  No,  not  this  night,  dearest." 

The  conversation  now  ceased  ;  Madeline  in  vain  endeavoured 
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  deepening 
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  IL 

THB  INTERVIEW  BETWEEN  ARAM  AND  THE  STRANGEI. 

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  chequered  only  by  a  few  clouds,  that  swept  in  long, 
white,  spectral  streaks  over  the  solemn  stars.  Now  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  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 
*  That  species  called  the  short-eared  owL 


198  EUGENE  ARAM. 


this  particular  period,  the  skyey  influences  seem  to  tincture  the 
animal  life  with  their  own  mysterious  and  wayward  spirit  of 
change.  The  birds  desert  their  summer  haunts ;  an  unaccount- 
able disquietude  pervades  the  brute  creation  ;  even  men  in  this 
unsettled  season  have  considered  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,  "  instead 
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  therefore  safer, 
if  not  more  pleasant,  to  lie  here  amidst  the  fern,  tlian  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  mc  enough  for  a  week's  ill-luck  at  the  hazard-table }  In 
a  word,  I  joined  my  gallant  friends,  and  intrusted  myself  to 
their  guidance.  Since  then,  we  have  cruised  around  the  country, 
regaled  ourselves  cheerily,  frightened  the  timid,  silenced  the 
fractious,  and  by  the  help  of  your  fate,  or  my  devil,  have  found 
ourselves,  by  accident,  brought  to  exhibit  our  valour  in  this  very 
district,  honoured  by  the  dwelling-place  of  my  learned  friend 
Eugene  Aram." 


EUGENE  ARAM.  199 


"  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  i " 

"  Ha !  was  that  villany  yours  ?  ** 

-"Villany!"  repeated  Houseman,  in  a  tone  of  sullen  offence. 
"  Come,  Mastei  Aram,  these  words  must  not  pass  between  you 
and  me,  friendr>  of  such  date,  and  on  such  a  footing." 

"  Talk  not  of  the  past,"  replied  Aram,  with  a  livid  lip,  "  and 
call  not  tho'je  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  between  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,  care- 
lcs.^ily. 

"  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  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  else- 
where, 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 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  I — 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  apprehension  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  with  a  vehemence  that  Houseman, 
though  a  man  of  great  strength  and  sinew,  impotently  attempted 
to  resist  "  Breathe  but  another  word  of  such  import ;  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,  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  distance  from 
each  other,  both  silent,  and  yet  with  something  unutterably 
fearful  in  tlicir  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 


EUGENE  ARAM.  20. 


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  coidd  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 
\\\\\  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  nothing 
to  say  ;  farewell  1 "  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  neighbourhood, 
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  advantages  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 
benevolent  heart  to  afford  me  relief.  I  knew  well  the  sum  I 
named  was  out  of  your  power,  unless,  indeed,  it  be  part  of  the 
marriage  portion  you  are  about  to  receive  with  your  bride.  Fie, 
Aram !  what  secrets  from  your  old  friend !  You  see  I  pick  up 
the  news  of  the  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 


•OS  EUGENE  ARAM. 


neighbourhood  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  cofler.  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  midnight 
schemes,  in  which  you  may  (and  the  tide  of  chances  runs 
towards  that  bourne)  be  seized  by  the  hand  of  Justice." 

"  Ho ! "  said  Houseman,  sullenly  ;  "  and  was  it  not  for  saying 
that  you  feared  this,  and  its  probable  consequences,  that  you 
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  Zcnos,  your  Platos  and  your  Epicuruses,  teach  you 
notable  distinctions,  truly  1" 

"  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  between 
myself  and  you  are  of  life  and  death ;  let  us  approach  them 
with  our  senses  collected  and  prepared.  What,  Houseman,  are 
you  bent  upon  your  own  destruction,  as  well  as  mine,  that  you 
persevere  in  courses  which  musi  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  accompanied  with  snares  and  danger. 
What  would  you  have  me  do  ? " 

•'Is  it  not  better,"  said  Aram,  "to   enjoy  peace  and  safety 


EUGENE   ARAM.  203 


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  forget  your- 
self, and  lay  hands  on  me " 

"  Threaten  not,  threaten  not,"  interrupted  Aram,  "  but  proceed  ] 
all  within  me  is  now  still  and  cold  as  ice.  Proceed  without  fear 
or  scruple." 

"  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 
forebode  your  own  doom.  You  ask  me,  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  torments.  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  afiront  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, — 


ao4  EUGENE  ARAM. 


'*!  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  e.ich  other  with  a  friendly  or  a  pitying 
eye.  But,  Houseman,*  I  KNOW  YOU  I — you  are  a  man  of 
vehement  passions,  but  interest  with  you  is  yet  stronger  than 
passion.  If  not,  our  conference  h  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  mc  — 
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  laat." 

"  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, 
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, 
lioustnian  paused  abrviptly — "  That  signal  is  from  my  comrades  ; 
1  must  away.     Hark  again  !     Farewell,  Aram." 

"  Farewell,  if  it  must  be  so."  said  Aram,  in  a  tone  of  dogged 
sullcnncss  ;  "  but  to-morrow,  should  you  know  of  any  means  by 


EUGENE   ARAM.  205 


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  answer  for  myself  ; 
it  is  not  always  that  I  can  leave  my  comrades  :  a  natural  jealousy 
makes  them  suspicious  of  the  absence  of  their  friends.  Yet  hold  ; 
the  night  after  to-morrow,  the  Sabbath  night,  most  virtuous 
Aram,  I  can  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  neighbourhood.  Adieu  !  on  Sunday 
night,  one  hour  before  midnight." 

The  robber,  for  such  then  he  was,  waved  his  hand,  and  hurried 
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  tJien  invent  ?  It  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!" 


2o6  EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER    III. 
wtxsn  Ai:.AitM  iw  th*  village. — Lester's  visit  to  aram.— a  trait  or  deli. 

CATS  KINDNESS  IN  THE  STUDENT.— MADELINE. — HER  PRONENESS  TO  CON- 
FIDE.— THE  CONVERSATION  BETWEEN  LESTER  AND  ARAM.— TUB  PERSONS  BY 
WHOM   IT  IS  INTLRRUPTEO. 

Not  my  ow-n  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  soul 

Of  the  wide  worH,  dreaming  on  things  to  come^ 

Can  yet  the  lease  of  my  true  love  control. 

— Shakspeare's  SffHmelt, 

Commend  me  to  their  love,  and  I  am  proud,  say. 
That  my  occasions  have  found  time  to  use  them, 
Toward  a  supply  of  money  ;  let  the  request 
Be  fifty  talents. — Tinwn  of  Athnis. 

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  neighbourhood,  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  officious  anxiety  of  some  of  his  neighbours ;  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,  surrounded, 
as  usual,  by  his  books,  but  not,  as  usual,  engaged  in  their  con- 
tents. With  hi^  face  leaning  on  his  hand,  and  his  eyes  gazing  on 
a  dull  fire,  that  crept  heavily  upward  through  the  damp  fuel,  he 
sat  by  his  hearth,  listless,  but  wrapped  in  thought. 

"  Well,  my  friend,"  said  Lester,  displacing  the  books  from  one 
of  the  chairs,  and  drawing  the  seat  near  the  student's — "you 
have  ere  this  heard  the  news  ;  and,  indeed,  in  a  county  so  quiet 
as  ours,  these  outrages  appear  the  more  fearful  from  their  being 
so  unlooked  for.  We  must  set  a  guard  on  the  village,  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  govcrnant  to  her  friends  in  the  village,  and  walk  back 
with  me  at  once  to  the  halL'* 


EUGENE  ARAM.  207 


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  a  vow,  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  have  set  up  a  watch,  and 
can  spare  you  a  couple  of  defenders.  They  shall  reconnoitre  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  your  house,  if  you  persevere  in  your  deter- 
mination ;  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  innocent  and  peaceful 
remembrance  could  allure  him  from  himself. 

"  This  room,"  said  Lester,  looking  round,  "  will  be,  T  conclude, 
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  melancholy 
expression  of  countenance.  "  Follow  me,  Lester ;  I  meant  this 
for  a  little  surprise  to  her.  But  Heaven  only  knows  if  I  shall 
ever  show  it  to  herself." 


toS  EUGENE  ARAM. 


"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 
vapour  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  ungraceful  care. 
Every  article  of  furniture  that  Madeline  might  most  fancy,  he 
had  procured  from  the  neighbouring  town.  And  some  of  the 
lighter  and  more  attractive  books  that  he  possessed,  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  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 
b  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  tlic  younger  heroes  of  the  village,  who  had 
volunteered  to  act  as  a  patrol,  and  who  were  now  marshalled 
by  Peter  Dcaltr)',  in  a  fit  of  heroic  enthusiasm. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  209 


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  instant 
he  was  off  his  guard.  By  his  side  the  redoubted  Jacobina,  who 
had  transferred  to  her  new  master  the  attachment  she  had 
originally  possessed  for  the  corporal,  trotted  peeringly  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  ardour,  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  succour  thee, 
And  rid  thee  out  of  thrall.' 

What  ho,  there !  Oh !  I  beg  your  honour's  pardon !  Your 
servant,  Mr.  Aram." 

"  What  patrolling  already  ? "  said  the  squire ;  "  your  men  will 
be  tired  before  they  are  wanted  ;  reserve  their  ardour  for  the 
night." 

"  Oh,  your  honour,  I  have  only  been  beating  up  for  recruits  ; 
and  we  are  going  to  consult  a  bit  at  home.  Ah  !  what  a  pity 
the  corporal  isn'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  honour  ;  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  45th  Psalm,  5th  verse  ? — 

•*  '  Go  forth  with  godly  speed,  in  meekness,  truth,  and  might. 

And  thy  right  hand  shall  thee  instruct  in  works  of  dreadful  night*** 

O 


aio  EUGENE  ARAM. 

Peter  quoted  these  verses,  especially  the  last,  with  a  truculent 
frovro,  and  a  brandishing  of  the  musket,  that  surprisingly 
encouraged  the  hearts  of  his  little  armament ;  and  with  a 
general  murmur  of  enthusiasm  the  warlike  band  marched  off  to 
The  Spotted  Dog. 

Lester  and  his  companion  found  Madeline  and  Ellinor 
standing  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  Hp,  the  buoyant  form,  from  which 
the  pure  and  innocent  gladness  she  felt  on  seeing  him  broke 
forth. 

There  was  a  remarkable  trustfulness  in  Madeline's  disposition. 
Thoughtful  and  grave  as  she  was  by  nature,  she  was  yet  ever 
inclined  to  the  more  sanguine  colourings  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  ail  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  character;  there  is 
something  so  unselfish  in  tempers  reluctant  to  despond.  You 
sec  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  calculation  ;  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,  uttering  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  I  am   given  over,  bound  and 


EUGENE  ARAM.  an 


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 !  wher- 
ever 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  potations, 
the  former  proposed  a  walk  before  the  evening  deepened.  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  ridding  himself;  at  length  the 
student  said,  rather  abruptly, — 

"  My  dear  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  three  hundred  pounds  with  which  you 
could  accommodate  me " 

"  Say  no  more,  Eugene,  say  no  more,"  inturrepted  the  squire  : 
"you  can  have  double  that  amount.  I  ought  to  have  foreseen 
that  your  preparations  for  your  approaching  marriage  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 

O  2 


sia  EUGENE  ARAM. 


now  that  we  are  on  this  subject,  let  mc  tell  you  what  I  intended 
as  a  gift  to  you  and  my  dear  Madeline  ;  it  is  but  small,  but  my 
estates  are  rig^idly  entailed  on  Walter,  and  of  poor  value  in  them- 
selves, 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  income  was 
scarcely,  at  the  most,  seven  hundred  a  year.  The  sum  men- 
tioned doubled  that  now  to  be  lent,  and  which  was  of  course  a 
part  of  it ;  an  equal  portion  was  reserved  for  EUinor. 

"  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  hun- 
dred 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,"  added  the  squire,  "  I  do 
hope  that  I  need  be  in  no  hurry  respecting  her,  dear  girl.  When 
Walter  returns,  I  trust  matters  may  be  arranged,  in  a  manner, 
and  through  a  channel,  that  would  gratify  the  most  cherished 
wish  of  my  heart.  I  am  convinced  that  ElHnor  is  exactly  suited 
to  him  ;  and  unless  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  stations — let  us  turn 


EUGENE  ARAM.  213 


back.  Indeed,  Aram,  I  can  assure  you,  that  I,  for  my  own  part, 
have  some  strong  reasons  to  take  precautions  against  any  attack ; 
for  besides  the  old  family  plate  (though  that's  not  much),  I 
have, — you  know  the  bureau  in  the  parlour  to  the  left  of  the 
hall  ? — well,  I  have  in  that  bureau  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." 

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  neighbours — 
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  magisterial 
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  honour,"  said  the  elder  clown,  in  the 
peculiar  accent  of  the  country,  "  but  we  be  come  from  Gladsmuir, 
and   be   going   to   work   at    Squire    Nixon's,    at   Mowhall,    on 


tl4  EUGENE  ARAAL 


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  honour." 

"  Humph  !  humph  !     What's  your  name  ? " 
"Joe    Wood,    your    honour;    and   this    here    chap  is  Will 
Ilutchings." 

"  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  honour *' 

"  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  particularised  less ;  and  you  observed  that 
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 
our  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  indifference  or 
trample  on  with  disdain.  Poor  child  of  toil,  from  the  grey 
dawn  to  the  setting  sun,  one  long  task  ! — no  idea  elicited — no 
thought  awakened  bc)ond  those  that  suffice  to  make  him  the 
machine  of  others — tiie  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 
labour   for   an    instant,  in  that   instant   how  many  temptations 


EUGENE  ARAM.  21$ 


spring  up  to  him!  And  yet  we  have  no  mercy  for  /its  errors; 
the  gaol — the  transport  ship — the  gallows ;  those  are  the  illus- 
trations 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 ;  and  yet 
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  above 
pain.  Better,  perhaps,  to  let  it  sleep,  smce  in  waking  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    FREPARATIONS. — THE     COMMANDER    AND     HIS    MEN. — ARAM    18     PER. 
SUADED   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  their  beUies  no  bigger  than  pins'  heads. 
—FirU  Part  of  ''King  Hmry  JV." 

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   watrh   were    not    by   any   means   the   hardy    nrd 


ai6  EUGENE  ARAM. 


experienced  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  valorous  Peter, 
who  had  sustained  his  own  courage  by  repeated  applications  to 
a  little  bottle,  which  he  never  failed  to  carry  about  him  in  all  the 
more  bustling  and  enterprising  occasions  of  life,  endeavoured, 
but  with  partial  success,  to  maintain  the  ardour  of  his  band. 
Seated  in  the  servants'  hall  of  the  manor-house,  in  a  large  arm- 
chair, Jacobina  on  his  knee,  and  his  trusty  musket,  which,  to 
the  gfreat  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.  Sternhold  and  Hopkins,  and 
psalmodic  versions  of  a  more  doubtful  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  hero 
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  drugget,  a 
world  too  loose,  above  a  leather  jerkin  ,  his  breeches  of  corduroy 
were  met  all  of  a  sudden,  half  way  up  the  thigh,  by  a  detach- 
ment of  Hessians,  formerly  in  the  service  of  the  corporal,  and 
bought  some  time  since  by  Peter  Dealtry  to  wear  when  employed 
in  shooting  snipes  for  the  squire,  to  whom  he  occasionally  per- 
formed the  office  of  gamekeeper;  suspended  round  his  wrist 
by  a  bit  of  black  riband  was  his  constable's  baton  :  he  shouldered 
his  musket  gallantly,  and  he  carried  his  person  as  erect  as  if  the 
leait  deflection  from  its  perpendicularity  were  to  cost  him  his 
life.  One  may  judge  of  the  revolution  that  had  taken  place  in 
the  village,  when  so  peaceable  a  man  as  Peter  Dealtry  was  thus 
metamorphosed   into  a  conimandcr-in-chicf !     The  rest  of  the 


EUGENE  ARAM.  217 


regiment  hung  sheepishly  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  squire,  taking  the  pipe  from 
his  mouth,  turned  round  on  his  easy  chair,  and  nodded  com- 
placently to  the  little  corps  and  the  great  commander. 

"We  are  all  ready  now,  your  honour,"  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  upright !  " 

"  I  have  practised  my  present  wattitude  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  praiae 
In  all  the  people's  sight  ! ' 

Jacobina,  behave  yourself,  child.     I  don't  think,  your  honour,* 
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  honour,"  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  huddled 
up  one  after  the  other,  like  a  flock  of  geese,  whom  Jacobina 


nS  EUGENE   ARAM. 


might  be  supposed  to  have  set  in  motion,  and  each  scraping 
to  the  ladies,  as  they  shuffled,  sneaked,  bundled,  and  bustled  out 
at  the  door. 

"  Wc  are  well  guarded  now,  Madeline,"  said  EUinor.  "  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  arbour,  as  a  robber  in  Grassdale.  But  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  favour." 

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  Madeline  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  inter- 
view 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  ni^ht. 

"  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  v/eather  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    example. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  819 


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  EUinor,  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  valour." 

"  Never  mind,  girl,"  said  Lester,  gaily  chucking  her  under  the 
chin,  "  we  are  quite  strong  enough  now  to  resist  them.  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  Hp,  hurried 
away,  to  avoid  the  thanks ;  which,  indeed,  whatever  gratitude  he 
might  feel,  Aram  was  ill  able  to  express, 


aao  EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THB  SISTERS  ALONS.— THE  GOSSIP  OP  LOVE.— AN  ALARM,   AND  AIT  XVBNT. 

Juliet.  My  true  love  li.is  grown  to  such  excess, 
I  cannot  sum  up  half  my  sum  of  wealth.  —Ronuo  andjulitt, 

Eros.  Oh,  a  man  in  arras  : 
His  weapon  drawn  too  I — Tht  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,  indeed,  was  the 
usual  time  for  their  little  confidences,  and  their  mutual  dilations 
over  those  hopes  and  plans  for  the  future,  which  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  experience  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  nightdress;  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  1" 

"  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." 


EUGENE  ARAM, 


"  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  EUinor,  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." 

"  I  will — I  will ;  but  you  began  it** 

As  Ellinor  now  finished  her  task,  and  kissed  her  sister's  fore- 
head, 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  impossible 
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 


7M  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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,  T  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  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  passages  which  call  peculiarly 
for  worship  and  adoration." 

"Yes,  dearest,"  said  Madeline,  fervently,  '*!  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  I  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  robbers  would  be 
abroad  in  such  weather !  " 

"  I  have  heard."  said  Madeline,  "that  robbers  generally  choose 
these  dark  stormy  nights  for  their  designs ;  but  I  confess  I  don't 


EUGENE  ARAM.  223 


feel  much  alarm,  and  he  is  in  the  house.  Draw  nearer  to  the 
fire,  Ellinor ;  is  it  not  pleasant  to  see  how  serenely  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  beloved  one. 
And  Madeline  felt  it,  and  smiled  too. 

"  Hist  ! "  said  Ellinor,  abruptly ;  "  did  you  not  hear  a  low, 
grating  noise  below  "i  Ah !  the  winds  now  prevent  your  catching 
the  sound ;  but  hush,  hush  ! — the  wind  pauses,  there  it  is  again  !  " 

"Yes,  I  hear  it,"  said  Madeline,  turning  pale;  "it  seems  in 
the  little  parlour  ;  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  Ellinor, 
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  landing-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  apart- 
ment, 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 
broad  sword  in  his  hand,  and  his  long  grey  hair  floating  behind, 
was  the  first  to  appear :  the  servants,  old  and  young,  male  and 
female,  now  came  thronging  simultaneously  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 


axi  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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 
bad  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. 

"  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  I"  muttered  Aram,  who  had  hitherto  seemed  unconscious 
of  all  around  him  ;  so  fixed  had  been  his  eye,  so  colourless  his 
cheek,  so  motionless  his  posture.  "  Ha  !  say  you  so  1 — think  you 
I  have  slain  him  ? — No,  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  wound  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  have /<?«//</  no  one  ?  "  said  he,  "  no  dying  man  } — Ha  !— 
well — well — well  I  they  must  doi/t  have  escaped ;  the  night  must 
favour  them." 

**Do  you  fancy  the  villain  was  severely  wounded  ?" 

"  Not  so — I  ti:ust  not  so'i  he  seemed  able  to But  stop— oh 

God  !— stop  !  your  foot  is  dabbling  in  blood — blood  shed  by  7/ie, 
—off!  off!" 

Lester  moved  aside  with  a  quick  abhorrence,  as  he  saw  that 
his  feet  were  indeed  smearing  the  blood  over  the  polished  and 


EUGENE  ARAM.  aiS 


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  doik  strangers ! " 

"  Ah,  I  thought  so,  I  knew  so,"  said  Lester,  plucking  the 
instrument  from  the  bureau.  "  I  knew  they  could  be  no  Grass- 
dale  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,  overcome 
by  her  feelings,  had  slid  to  the  ground  from  that  momentary 
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  himselfi 
he  knelt  down,  and  weaving  his  arms  around  her,  supported  her 
head  on  his  breast,  and  called  upon  her  with  the  most  passionate 
and  moving  exclamations. 

But  when  the  faint  bloom  retinged  her  cheek,  and  her  lips 
stirred,  he  printed  a  long  kiss  on  that  cheek — on  those  lips,  and 
surrendered  his  post  to  EJlinor;  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  excused 
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  over- 
heard Lester's  communication  as  to  the  sum  in  his  house,  and  the 
place  where  it  was  stored  ;  he  had  not  undressed  himself,  but 

r 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


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,  enabled  him  to  catch  the  sound  of  the  file  at  the  bars, 
even  before  EUinor,  notwithstanding  the  distance  of  his  own 
chamber  from  the  place,  and  seizing  the  sword  which  had  been 
left  in  his  room  (the  pistol  was  his  own),  he  had  descended  to  the 
room  below. 

"What!"  said  Lester,  "and  without  a  light?" 

**  The  darkness  is  familiar  to  me,"  said  Aram.  "  I  could  walk 
by  the  edge  of  a  precipice  in  the  darkest  night  without  one 
fabe  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  Madeline,  whom 
he  now  met  on  the  landing-place,  leaning  on  Ellinor'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\'ants  were 
grouped  around  the  place  of  encounter ;  he  entered  the  room, 
and  again  started  at  the  sight  of  the  blood. 

"  Brin^'  water,"  said  he,  fiercely :  "  will  you  let  the  stagnant 
gore  007.C  and  rot  into  the  boards,  to  startle  the  eye  and  still  the 
heart  with  its  filthy  and  unutterable  stain  ? — Water,  I  say  1  water!" 

They  hurried  to  obey  him,  and  Lester  coming  into  the  room 
to  see  the  window  reclosed  by  the  help  of  boards,  &c.,  found 
the  student  bending  over  the  servants  as  they  performed  their 
reluctant  task,  and  rating  them  with  a  raised  and  harsh  voic( 
for  the  hastiness  with  which  he  accused  them  of  seeking  to  slut 
it  over. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  227 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AKAM  ALOMS  AMONO  THE    MOUNTAINS, — HIS    SOLILOQUY  AND    PROJECT. —SCENE 

BETWEEN   HIMSELF  AND  MADELINE. 

Luce  non  grati  fruor  ; 
Treoidante  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  Dealtry  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  conviction 
"that  nobody  at  Grassdale  could  ever  really  be  robbed;"  and 
promised,  with  sincere  contrition,  that  they  would  be  most  ex- 
cellent guards  for  the  future.  Peter  was,  in  sooth,  singularly 
chop-fallen,  and  could  only  defend  himself  by  an  incoherent 
mi.tter ;  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  quitted  his 
sleepless  chamber,  and   though  the   clouds   at  that   time  still 

^  I  live  a  life  of  'wsetchedness ;  my  heart  perpetually  trembling,  not  through  fear  of 
death,  but 

P  2 


siS  EUGENE  ARAM. 


poured  down  in  a  dull  and  heavy  sleet,  wandered  away,  whither 
he  neither  knew  nor  heeded.  He  was  now  hurrying,  with  un- 
abated speed,  though  with  no  purposed  bourne  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  deter- 
mine. If,  after  this  interview,  I  feel  that  I  cannot  command 
and  bind  Houseman's  perpetual  secrecy,  T  will  surrender  Made- 
line at  once.  She  has  loved  me  generously  and  trustingly.  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  grey 
hairs  of  Lester  be  brought,  with  the  sorrow  of  my  shame,  to 
a  dishonoured  and  untimely  grave.  And  after  the  outrage  of 
last  night,  the  daring  outrage,  how  can  I  calculate  on  the 
safety  of  a  day  ?  Though  Houseman  ^vas  not  present,  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 
clue  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  s\xh]QcVtkee  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  v  or'dngs  that,  but  the 
moment  before,  distorted  its  wonted  serenity  with  a  maniac 
wild  n  ess. 

He  now  pursued  his  desultory  way  with  a  calmer  step. 

"What  a  night!"  said  he,  again  breaking  into  the  low 
murmur  in  which  he  was  accustomed  to  hold  commune  with 
himself  "  Had  Houseman  been  one  of  the  ruffians  a  shot 
might  have  freed  me,  and  without  a  crime,  for  ever;  and  till 
the  light  flashed  on  their  brows,  I  thought  the  smaller  man 
bore  his  aspect.     Ha!   out,  tempting  thought!   out  on  thee  I** 


EUGENE  ARAM.  229 


he  cried  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  reverie,  "  it  is  a  tempting,  a  wondrously  tempting 
thought.  And  it  struck  athwart  me  like  a  flash  of  lightning 
when  this  hand  was  at  his  throat — a  tighter  strain,  another 
moment,  and  Eugene  Aram  had  not  an  enemy,  a  witness 
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  wandered  round, 
with  a  blood-shot  and  unquiet  glare.  "  Enough,"  at  length  he 
said  calmly;  and  with  the  manner  of  one  '  w/io  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  consider — 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  fast,  why  fare- 
well Madeline,  and  I  myself  leave  this  land  for  ever.  Come  what 
will  to  me — death  in  its  vilest  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  instant  that  Madeline  is  mine  I  will  fly  these 
scenes  ;  I  will  seek  a  yet  obscurer  and  remoter  corner  of  earth  : 
I  will  choose  another  name — ^Fool  !  why  did  I  not  so  before  ? 
But  matters  it  t  What  is  writ  is  writ.  Who  can  struggle  with 
the  invisible  and  giant  hand  that  launched  the  world  itself  into 
motion ;  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- 
hausted, found  himself  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Lester's  house. 

'  Eastern  saying. 


»!• 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  grey  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  devoted.  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  seem- 
ingly waiting  till  the  ceasing  of  the  bell  should  announce  the 
time  to  enter  the  sacred  mansion,  he  beheld  the  figure  of  Made- 
line Lester.  Her  head,  at  the  moment,  was  averted  from  him,  as 
if  she  were  looking  after  Ellinor  and  her  father,  who  were  in  the 
churchyard  among  a  little  group  of  their  homely  neighbours ; 
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 
tliat  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  al- 
ready opened  the  gate,  and  bounding  forward,  met  him 
half  way. 

"  Ah,  truant,  truant,"  said  she  ,-  "  the  whole  day  absent,  with- 
out inquiry  or  farewell !  After  this,  when  shall  I  believe  that 
thou  really  lovest  me  }  But,"  continued  Madeline,  gazing  on  his 
countenance,  which  bore  witness,  in  its  present  languor,  to  the 
fierce  emotions  which  hail  latcl)-  raged  within,  "  but,  Heavens! 
dearest,  how  pale  you  look ;  you  are  fatigued  ;  give  me  your 
hand.  Eugene, — it  is  parched  and  dr}-.  Come  into  tlie  house  j — 
you  must  need  rest  and  refreshment." 


EUGENE  ARAM.  231 


"  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  f'jar,  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  Madeline  ! — sJie  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  declining  year  an  impressive  yet  a 
mild  solemnity. 

There  are  seasons,  often  in  the  most  dark  or  turbulent  periods 
of  our  life,  when  (why,  we  know  not)  we  are  suddenly  called 
from  ourselves,  by  the  remembrances  of  early  childhood  :  some- 
thing touches  the  electric  chain,  and,  lo  !  a  host  of  shadowy  and 
sweet  recollections  steal  upon  us.  The  wheel  rests,  the  oar 
is  suspended,  we  are  snatched  from  the  labour  and  travail  of 
present  life  ;  we  are  born  again,  and  live  anew.  As  the  secret 
page  in  which  the  characters  once  written  seem  for  ever  efi"aced, 
but  which,  if  breathed  upon,  gives  them  again  into  view ;  so  the 


S3»  EUGENE  ARAM. 


memory  can  revive  the  imaj^'es  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 
thb  spot,  and  gazed  upon  this  landscape,  a  likeness  to  the  scenes 
of  my  childish  life,  which  it  now  seems  to  me  to  present,  never, 
occurred  to  me  before.  Yes,  yonder,  in  that  cottage,  with  the 
sycamores  in  front,  and  the  orchard  extending  behind,  tiU  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  exhaustless  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 
fragrant  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  wkat  of  low  or  sordid  did  there  mingle  with  that 
desire  ?  The  petty  avarice,  the  mean  ambition,  the  debasing 
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  eyrie  ?  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  glor}'  of  my  youth  is  gone,  my  veins  are  chilled,  my  frame 
is  bowed,  my  heart  ir>  -nawtd  with  cares,  my  nerves  are  unstrung 
as  a  loosened  bow  :  and  Avliat,  after  all,  is  my  gain  ?  Oh,  God, 
what  is  my  f;ain  }  " 

*'  Eu^'cnc,  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  ?  " 


EUGENE  ARAM.  aS3 


"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  tenderness 
of  remembrance,  Aram  now  related,  with  that  vividness  of  dic- 
tion, which,  though  we  feel  we  can  very  indequately  convey  its 
effect,  characterised  his  conversation,  and  gave  something  of 
poetic  interest  to  all  he  uttered,  those  reminiscences  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  deepening 
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 
neighbouring  country)  stole  upon  the  silence  with  its  swelling  and 
solemn  note.  There  was  something  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  if  an  angel  spoke ! "  That  sound,  so  pecu- 
liarly adapted  to  express  sacred  and  unearthly  emotion,  none 
who  have  ever  mourned  or  sinned  can  hear,  at  an  unlooked-for 
moment,  without  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 


134  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  1 ), — 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  guilt- 
less, and  at  peace ;  hope  and  the  future  one  word  ! 

He  bowed  his  head  lower  and  lower  ;  the  hardness  and  hypo- 
crisies of  pride,  the  sense  of  danger  and  of  horror,  that,  in 
agitating,  still  supported,  the  mind  of  this  resolute  and  scheming 
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  liis  head  upon 
that  faithful  bosom,  and  wept  aloud. 


CHAPTER  VIL 


A&Alf'S  SECRET  IXPRDITION.— A  SCENE  WORTHY  THE  ACTORS. — ARAM'S  ADDRESS 

AND  POWERS  OF  PERSUASION  OR  HYPOCRISY. — THEIR  RESULT.— A  FEARFUL 
MIGHT.— ARAM's  SOLITARY  RIUE  HOMEWARD. — WHOM  HE  MEETS  BY  TKS 
WAY,   AND  WHAT  HE  SEES. 

Macbeth.      Now  o'er  one  half  the  world 
Nature  seems  dead. 

•  •  •  • 

Donalbain.  Our  separated  fortune 

Shall  keep  us  both  the  safer. 

•  •  •  • 

Old  Man.     Hours  dreadful  and  things  strange. — Machdh* 

"And  you  must  really  go  to  *****  ,  to  pay  your  impor- 
tunate 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  80,  you  had  better  start," 


EUGENE  ARAM.  235 


"  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  inefficient, 
viz.,  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  clue  to 
these  robberies  discovered  throughout  the  day  ? " 

"  None :  to-morrow  the  magistrates  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  remain 
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  neighbourhood  of  the  place  in  which  he  was  to  meet  House- 
man :  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 


•36  EUGENE   ARAM. 


through  the  heavy  air ;  the  moon  herself  was  abroad,  but  on 
her  dedine,  and  looked  forth  with  a  wan  and  saddened  aspect 
as  she  travelled  from  cloud  to  cloud.  It  has  been  the  necessary 
course  of  our  narrative  to  portray  Aram  more  often  in  his 
weaker  moments  than,  to  give  an  exact  notion  of  his  character, 
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  awakened  to  the 
encounter ;  and  the  mind  which  his  life  had  so  austerely  culti- 
vated 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  character  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 
valleys  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  perpendicular  mountain  was 
covered  v.ith  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  motionless  and  gloomy 
foliage.  Of  all  the  offspring  of  the  forest,  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  Jiorror  uvtbrarum  ^  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.  Perhaps,  too,  this  effect  is  increased  by  the  sterile 
and  drear)'  soil  on  which,  when  in  groves,  it  is  generally  found  » 
and  its  very  hardiness,  the  very  pertinacity  with  which  it  draws 

'  Shadowy  horror. 


EUGENE.  ARAM.  237 


its  strange  unfluctuating  life  from  the  sternest  wastes  and  most 
reluctant  strata,  enhance,  unconsciously,  the  unwelcome  effect  it 
is  calculated  tx)  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  dark- 
ness, partially  broken  by  the  stars,  and  the  hoarse  roar  of  their 
chafed  course,  a  yet  more  grim  and  savage  sublimity  to  the  scene; 

Winding  a  narrow  path  (for  the  whole  country  was  as  familiar 
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  of  the  waters,  that 
the  appointed  spot  was  nearly  gained ;  and  presently  the 
glimmering  and  imperfect  light  of  the  skies  revealed  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  suddenly  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  a-down  the  giant  cataract  the  stars 
were  reflected ;  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  thundered  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  conferences 
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 


ajS  EUGENE   ARAM. 

character,  with  danger  for  its  main  topic,  and  death  itself  for 
its  colouring,  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  mountain  giant  as  he 
rushed  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  demeanour;  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  House- 
man'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  proceed ;  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 
npt  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  St.  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 
^'ou  through  the  thicket  : — that  is  your  left  hand,"  observed 
Houseman,  with  a  sharp  and  angry  suspicion  in  his  tone;  "give 
me  the  right" 


EUGENE    ARAM.  239 


**  As  you  will/*  said  Aram,  in  a  subdued,  yet  meaning  voice, 
that  seemed  to  come  from  his  heart ;  and  thrilled,  for  an  instant, 
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, 

"Pshaw!"  said  he,  as  if  indignant  at  himself;  "what  scruples 
at  a  shadow !  Come  "  (grasping  the  hand)  "  that's  well — so,  so ; 
now  we  are  in  the  thicket — tread  firm — this  way — hold,"  con- 
tinued 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  about  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  clue. 

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  aftd  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  briars,  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  oflf  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  con- 
jectured himself  in  the  cavern  Houseman  had  spoken  of. 


rfO  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"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  honour  to  entertain .  * 

In  a  few  moments  a  light  was  produced,  and  placed  aloft  on  a 
crag  in  the  cavern  ;  but  the  ray  it  gave  was  feeble  and  dull,  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  thousand  sparks, 
and  freeing  itself  gradually  from  the  clouds  of  smokt;  in  which  it 
was  enveloped.  It  now  mounted  into  a  ruddy  and  cheering  flame, 
and  the  warm  glow  played  picturesquely  upon  the  grey  sides 
of  the  cavern,  which  was  of  a  rugged  shape,  and  small  dimen- 
sions, 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-favoured,  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  an'l  rugged  features, 
his  weapons,  and  a  certain  reckless,  bravo  air  which  indescribably 
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  rude  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 


EUGENE   ARAM.  34t 

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  striking  ihan  the  con- 
trast between  the  ruffian  form  of  his  companion  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  country. 
Two— our  general  spies, — had  been,  of  their  own  accord,  into 
your  neighbourhood,  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  neighbours  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  vigi- 
lance 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  .^* 

Q 


xp  EUGENE  i^RAM. 

"  Oh,  he  will  recover — he  will  recover ;  our  men  are  no 
chickens.  But  I  own  I  thought  it  natural  that  you  might 
suspect  me  of  sharing  in  the  attack  ;  and  though,  as  I  have 
said  before,  1  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." 

"  I  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  population  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  quitting  them  at  any  moment  I  will  ?  of 
seeking  a  hiding-place  which  might  baffle,  not  only  your  vigilance, 
to  discover  rae,  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,  reluctantly; 
"  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  cool- 
ness of  his  manner  :  and  continuing  the  deep  and  sagacious 
hypocrisy  by  which  he  sought  to  baffle  the  dogged  covetousness 
and  keen  sense  of  interest  with  which  he  had  to  contend.  "  It 
is  oot  easy  for  either  of  us  to  deceive  the  other.  We  are  men, 
whose  perception  a  life  of  danger  has  sharpened  upon  all  points  ; 
I  speak  to  you   frankly,  for  disguise  is  unavailing.     Though  I 


liiJL/ENE   ARAM.  243 

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  appre- 
hension 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  accomplishment 
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  for  ever :  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  taw'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  perse- 
cutions ;  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  "i  If  not,  I  can  say  no  more  ;  and  I  again  cast 
myself  passive  into  the  arms  of  fate." 

"Yciu   ask,"   said   Houseman,   whose  fears   were  allayed  by 

Q  2 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  favour  of 
a  man — to  desert  his  country  for  ever;  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  for  ever ! " 

"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  for  ever  cease  the  moment  you 
set  foot  on  any  part  of  English  ground  ;  or,  mark  also,  at  the 
moment  of  my  death.  I  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  cannot  even  meditate  the  design 
of  extorting  more.  I  shall  know  that  you  will  not  menace  my 
life;  for  my  death  would  be  the  destruction  of  your  fortunes. 
We  shall  live  thus  separate  and  secure  from  each  other ;  you 
will  have  only  cau.se  to  hope  for  my  safety ;  and  I  shall  have  no 
reason  to  shudder  at  your  pursuits.  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  myself — your  Hfe  will  probably  be  longer  than  mine; 
and,  even  were  it  otherwise,  why  should  we  destroy  one  another  .' 
I  will  solemnly  swear  to  respect  your  secret  at  my  death-bed  ; 
why  not  on  your  part,  I  say  not  swear,  but  resolve,  to  respect 
mihc.^  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 


EUGENE   ARAM.  345 


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  sacrifices 
enjoined  by  this  alternative,  I  might  have  sought  only  to 
counteract  your  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 
solitude  in  which  I  seek  to  forget,  or  the  one  solace  with  which 
I,  perhaps  vainly,  endeavour  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  wanton- 
ness 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  humbling 
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  pursue.  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,  Houseman,"  said  Aram,  with  a  half  smile,  "you  shall 
have  all  I  first  mentioned ;  that  is,  all  beyond  what  nature  craves, 
honourably  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  our- 
selves 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 


246  EUGENE  ARAM. 

expect  from  my  future  father-in-law  is  all  that  I  can  at  present 
obtain.  The  whole  of  that  dowry  is  insignificant  as  a  sum. 
But  if  this  does  not  suffice  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.'  But  then,  hark  you,  I  must  have  half  settled 
on  my  little  daughter." 

"What I  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  summoned  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,  English 
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 
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,  mean- 
while, you  must  engage  to  leave  this  neighbourhood,  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." 


EUGENE   ARAM.  247 


"  Now  that  we  are  on  good  terms,"  replied  Houseman,  "  I  will 
not  scruple  to  oblige  you  in  these  particulars.  My  comrades 
ifitend  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  Peveril  Lane.  The  last  house  to  the  right,  towards 
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  un- 
accountable. 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." 

"  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  longevity 
—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.  'Sdeath ! 
how  it  rains ! — lightning  too ! — I  could  look  with  less  fear  on  a 


248  EUGENE  ARAM. 


naked  sword  than  those  red,  forked,  blinding  flashes. — Hark  I 
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  aflfected  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  congratulation  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  the  cataract.  No  earthly  scene,  perhaps,  could 
surpass  the  appalling  sublimity  of  that  which  they  beheld  ; — 
every  instant  the  lightning,  which  became  more  and  more 
frequent,  converting  the  black  waters  into  billows  of  living  fire, 
or  wreathing  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  breast  of 
the  gulf  that  raved  below.  And  the  sounds  that  filled  the  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 


EUGENE   ARAM.  249 


hand  calmly  raised,  and  his  cheek  pale,  but  dauntless  and  com- 
posed,— "  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  tlie 
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  stm  ner  day. 
By  the  charm  of  a  deeper  mind  and  a  subtler  tongue,  I  have 
conquered  this  desperate  foe  ;  I  have  silenced  this  inveterate  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  cord  of  the  com- 
pact ;  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  farther  apprehension  of  Houseman,  I  will  yet 
place  myself  wliolly  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 


aSO  EUGENE   ARAM. 


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  necessary  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,"  muttered  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  which  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,  thej'  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  instant,  a 
broad  flash  of  lightning  illumining  the  space  around,  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  recognised  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 


EUGENE  ARAM.  251 


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  the 
rufBans,  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  unusual  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  afi"right ;  and  the  horseman,  looking  up  at  the 
cause,  beheld  the  gibbet  of  which  Houseman  had  spoken,  imme- 
diately fronting  his  path,  with  its  ghastly  tenant  wiiving  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. 


B  Kvirptr  ov  vdvirjfiot'  ikdirx*o  r^v  Btov  ilwittf 

•  •  •  •  • 

nPASUs'O'H.  Oapfff,  Ztairvpiotp,  yXvKtpop  rcxos,  o4  Xtytt  oirt^vt^ 
rOPrO,   Al<rBdv*Teu  to  fipi<Pos,  yai  rav  n&rpuu/' 

— GEOKP. 

Tbe  Vemu,  not  the  vulgar  !  propitiate  the  divinity,  terming  her  the  Uranian. — 
•  ••••• 

Pkaxinoe.  6«  of  good  cheer,  Zopyrion,  dear  child ;  I  do  not  speak  of  thy  iJOhcr. 
Go&GO.  The  boy  comprehends,  by  Proserpine. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN   WHICH  WE  RETURN   TO  WALTER.— HIS  DEBT  OF  GRATITUDE  TO  MR.  PERTINAX 
FILLGRAVE.  — THE  CORPORAL'S  ADVICE,   AND  THE  CORPORAL'S  VICTORY. 

I^t  a  physician  be  ever  so  excellent,  there  will  be  those  that  censure  hino. — GU  Bias. 

We  left  Walter  in  a  situation  of  that  critical  nature  that  it 
(vould  be  inhuman  to  delay  our  return  to  him  any  longer.  The 
blow  by  which  he  had  been  felled  stunned  him  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  himself,  he 
felt  that  the  ruffians  were  dragging  him  towards  the  hedge,  and 
the  thought  flashed  upon  him  that  their  object  was  murder. 
Nerved  by  tills  idea  he  collected  his  strength,  and  suddenly 
cresting  himself  from  the  grasp  of  one  of  the  ruffians  who  had 


EUGENE   ARAM.  253 


seized  him  by  the  collar,  he  had  already  gained  his  knee,  and 
now  his  feet,  when  a  second  blow  once  more  deprived  him  of 
sense. 

When  a  dim  and  struggling  consciousness  recurre'd  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  struggle,  when  one 
of  the  ruffians  said — 

"  1  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,  'tis  an  ugly  thing  to  think  of  afterwards. 
Besides,  what  us^  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  eijfclamation.  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  somewhat  clearer  view  of  his  features,  the 
supposition  was  heightened,  though  not  absolutely  confirmed. 
But  Walter  had  no  farther  power  to  observe  his  plunderers : 
aj^ain  his  brain  reeled ;  the  dark  trees,  the  grim  shadows  of 
huHTan  forms,  swam  before  his  glazing  eye ;  and  he  sunk  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  conclirsion  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  precipitous  hill  with  as  much 
despatch  as  if  it  had  been  the  last  stage  to  "  Lunnun." 

*'  My  poor  young  master ! "  muttered  he.     "  But  if  the  worst 


S54  EUGENE   ARAM. 


comes  to  the  worst,  the  chief  part  of  the  money's  in  the  saddle- 
bags, any  how ;  and  so,  messieurs  thieves,  you're  bit — baugh  ! " 

The  corporal  was  not  long  in  reaching  the  town,  and  alarming 
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  succour  "  the  poor  gentleman  wJiat  was 
already  murdered." 

They  had  not  got  far  befpre  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,  how- 
ever, 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  straggler'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 
himself  on  the  road,  that  the  poor  creature  might  not,  at  least, 
bo  buried  without  his  assistance.  So  eager  was  he  to  begin 
that  he  scarce  suffered  the  unfortunate  Walter  to  be  taken 
within  before  he  whipped  out  his  instruments,  and  set  to  work 
with  the  smack  of  an  amateur. 

Although  the  surgeon  declared  his  patient  to  be  in  the  greatest 


EUGENE   ARAM.  255 


possible  danger,  the  sagacious  corporal,  \vho  thought  himself 
privileged  to  knovt  more  about  wounds  than  any  man  of  peace, 
by  profession,  however  destructive  by  practice,  could  possibly 
be,  had  himself  examined  those  his  master  had  received  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  farthest. 

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  knowledge 
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  dejected  expression  of 
countenance. 

"  And  well,  sir,  what  does  the  doctor  say?"  asked  the  corporal, 
drawing  aside  the  curtains. 

"Ah  1  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.    "Well, 
sir,  if  I  had  had  the  dressing  of  you — 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  I  ** 


a56  EUGENE   ARAM. 

*  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.  Gd.  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  atn 
now ;  I  make  progress  from  worse  to  worse.  Ah !  Bunting,  if 
Peter  Dealtry  were  here,  he  might  help  me  to  an  appropriate 
epitaph  :  as  it  is,  I  suppose  I  shall  be  very  simply  labelled. 
Fillgrave  will  do  the  whole  business,  and  put  it  down  in  his  bill 
— item,  nine  draughts— item,  one  epitaph." 

"  Lord-a-mercy,  your  honour  ! "  said  the  corporal,  drawing  out 
a  little  red-spotted  pocket-handkerchief;  "  how  can — jest  so? — 
it's  quite  moving." 

"  I  wish  we  were  moving  I "  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  honour'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 
sacrifice  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  verj' 
gently  (yes,  hearses  always  go  very  gently  I)  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  I  " 

"He  seems  resolved  that  I  shall  be  a  man  of  another  world ! " 
said  Walter. 

"  Tell  ye  what,  sir — take  my  advice — your  honour  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  your- 
self again ! " 


EUGENE   ARAM.  257 


**  Bunting !  the  horses  out  to-morrow  ? — Faith,  I  don't  think  I 
could  walk  across  the  room." 

"Just  try,  your  honour." 

"  Ah  !  I'm  very  weak,  very  weak — my  dressing-gown  and 
slippers — your  arm.  Bunting — well,  upon  my  honour,  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." 

"  Now  I'm  out  of  bed,  I  don't  think  I  shall  go  back  again 
to  it" 

"  Would  not,  if  I  was  your  honour." 

"After  so  much  exercise,  I  really  fancy  IVe  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  honour!  not  I — been  in  the  forty-second— 
knows  discipline — only  rude  to  the  privates  !  " 

The  corporal  having  seen  his  master  conduct  himself  respect- 
ably towards  the  viands  with  which  he  supplied  him — having  set 
his  room  to  rights,  brought  him  the  candles,  borrowed  him  a 
book,  and  left  him,  for  the  present  in  extremely  good  spirits,  and 
prepared  for  the  flight  of  the  morrow  ;  the  corporal,  I  say,  now 
lighting  his  pipe,  stationed  himself  at  the  door  of  the  inn,  and 
waited  for  Mr.  Pertinax  Fillgrave.  Presently  the  doctor,  who 
was  a  little  thin  man,  came  bustling  across  the  street,  and  was 
about,  with  a  familiar  "  Good  evening,"  to  pass  by  the  corporal, 
when  that  worthy,  dropping  his  pipe,    said    respectfully,  "Beg 

R 


EUGENE   ARAM. 


pardon,  sir, — want  to  speak  to  you — a  little  favour.      Will  your 
honour  walk  into  the  back  parlour  ?" 

"  Oh  !  another  patient,"  thought  the  doctor ;  "  these  soldiers 
arc  careless  fellows— often  get  into  scrapes.  Yes,  friend,  I'm  at 
your  service." 

The  corporal  showed  the  man  of  phials  into  the  back  parlour 
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  mc  ? " 

"  Indeed,  your  honour,  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  honour'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  honour'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  seems  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 

.mj'  bill    instantly,   before    I    dress   your   master's   wound   once 

more  I" 

"  Augh  ! "  said  the  corporal,  who  was  delighted  to  find  the 
doctor  come  so  immediately  into  the  snare : — "  won't  be  sc 
cruel,  surely : — why,  you'll  leave  us  without  a  shiner  to  pay  my 
host  here  I  ** 


EUGENE  ARAM.  ^9 


"  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  rap  :  so  I'm  sure,  since  your 
honour'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  out  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  conse- 
quently on  the  brink  of  that  happier  world,  where,  since  the  in- 
habitants 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  putting 
his  arms  a-kimbo,  "  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  expectations  1 
The  next  morning  Walter  was  once  more  oa  the  road. 


R  2 


•60  EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER   II. 

HEW  TRACES  OF  THE  FATE  OF  GEOFFREY  LESTER. — WALTER  AND  THE  CORPORAL 
PROCEED  ON  A  FRESH  EXPEDITION. — THE  CORPORAL  IS  ESPECIALLY  SAGA- 
CIOUS 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 
•edate  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,  viz.  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  sum  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  dis- 
covered that  a  Mr.  Jonas  Elmore,  the  only  surviving  executor  of 
the  will,  and  a  distant  relation  of  the  deceased  colonel's,  lived 
about  fifty  miles  from  York,  and  could,  in  all  probability,  better 
than  any  one,  afford  Walter  those  farther  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  happened  that  the  lawyer  could  not,  for  three  or  four  days, 
leave  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  farther  delay.     And  behold,  therefore, 


EUGENE   ARAM.  261 


our  worthy  corporal  and  his  master  again  mounted,  and  com- 
mencing a  new  journey. 

The  corporal,  always  fond  of  adventure,  was  in  high  spirits. 

"  See,  sir,"  said  he  to  his  master,  patting  with  great  aflection 
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  honour,  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  honour, — no  offence, — but 
should  like  to  give  you  some  advice ;  'tis  ticklish  place  that 
Lunnon  ;  and  though  you  be  by  no  manner  of  means  deficient 
in  genius,  yet,  sir,  you  be  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  grey  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  honour'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  'tis 
not  them  as  affects  to  be  most  knowing  as  be  so  at  bottom. 
Begging  your  honour'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  } " 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


•  As  to  that,  sir,"  quoth  the  corporal,  "  'tis  not  being  of  this 
calling  or  of  that  calling  that  helps  one  on ;  'tis  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  honour, 
as  I  said  afore,  I  was  own  sarvant  to  Colonel  D}sart ;  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  larning  what's  what  among  the  best  set ;  at  his  honour's 
expense,  too,— raugh !  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  loves,  and  tries 
to  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. 

"  Docs  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  bsed  to  laugh  in  my  sleeve  like, 
when  1  saw  my  master,  who  was  thought  the  knowingest  gentle- 
man 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  settled  'twixt  man  and  wife  aforehand ! 
And  while  the  colonel  laughed  at  the  cuckold,  the  cuckold 
laughed  at  the  dupe.  For  you  sees,  sir,  as  how  the  colonel  was  a 
rich  man,  and  the  jewels  as  he  bought  for  tiie  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  colour  highly  ;  and  by  the  wa)-,  I  observe  that  whenever 
you  find  any  man  committing  a  roguish  action,  instead  of  calling 


EUGENE  ARAM.  363 


him  a  scoundrel,  you  show  those  great  teeth  of  yours,  and 
chuckle  out  '  A  man  of  the  world  !  a  man  of  the  world  ! ' " 

"  To  be  sure,  your  honour ;  the  proper  name,  too.  'Tis  your 
greenhorns  who  fly  into  a  passion,  and  use  hard  words.  You 
see,  sir,  there's  one  thing  we  lam  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  persons  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  uttered 
something  prodigiously  fine, — "  augh  !  and  did  I  not  tell  you, 
t'other  day  to  look  at  the  professions,  your  honour.'  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  .'s  well.' — profess  to  know  what  don't  know.' 
thrust  solemn  phizzes  into  every  abomination,  as  if  larning  lay 

hid  in  a ?  and  all  for  their  neighbour's  money,  or  their  own 

reputation,  which  makes  money — augh  !  In  short,  sir,  look  where 
will,  impossible  to  see  so  much  cheating  allowed,  praised,  en- 
couraged, 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,  respect- 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


able  man, — how  thick  his  bread's  buttcr«?d  !  pull  off  your  hat 
to  him  :  * — when  I  sees  that,  my  heart  warms  :  there's  the  true 
man  of  the  world — a  ugh  I " 

"  Well,  Bunting,"  said  Walter,  laughing,  "  though  you  are  thus 
lenient  to  those  unfortunate  gentlemen  whom  others  call  rogues, 
and  thus  laudatory  of  gentlemen  who  are  at  best  discreetly 
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  honour,"  answered  the  corporal,  "  so 
far  as  vartue's  concerned,  there's  a  deal  in  constitution ;  but  as 
for  knowledge  of  the  world,  one  gets  it  oneself  I " 

"  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  honour  mistakes  ;  I  am  no  mice-and-trope. 
Men  are  neither  one  thing  nor  t'other,  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 
honour,  as  I  said,  vartue's  '\  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  places,  your  honour 
— sorry  to  move — that's  a  sure  sign  she  won't  tire  easily ;  but 
that  if  she  like  you  now  from  fancy,  she'll  like  you  by  and  by 
from  custom.  Thirdly,  your  honour,  she  should  not  beavarse  to 
dress — a  leaning  that  way  shows  she  has  a  desire  to  please : 
people  '.\lio  don't  care  about  pleasing  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  honour,  if  she  wanted  anything  expensive,  need  not 


EUGENE  ARAM.  365 

give  It — augh  !  Fifthly,  must  not  set  up  for  a  saint,  your  honour  ; 
they  pye-house  she-creaturs  always  thinks  themsels  so  much 
better  nor  we  men ;  don't  understand  our  language  and  ways, 
your  honour  ;  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  honour  may  have  it  already — Miss  Ellinor's  jist  the 
llxing." 

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  Jier,  thought  that  a  few  random  shots  of 
eulogium  were  wortli  throwing  away  on  a  chance,  and  conse- 
quently continued, — 

"  Augh,  your  honour, — 'tis  not  cause  I  have  eyes,  that  I  he's  a 
fool.  Miss  EUinor  and  your  honour  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  humour  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  honour,  '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  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 
favoured  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,  howsomever  it  makes  'gainst 
your  honour  and  myself,  for  that  matter — that  don't  think  one  is 
a  bit  more  lucky  with  the  ladies  for  being  so  handsome !  'Tis 
Jill  very  well  with  them  'ere  willing  ones,  your  honour — caught  at 


sM  EUGENE  ARAM. 


a  glance ;  but  as  for  the  better  sort,  one's  beauty's  all  bother  1 
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  squints — and  a  fourth  might  be 
shown  for  a  //ape!  Neither,  sir,  is  it  your  soft,  insinivating, 
die-away  youths,  as  seem  at  first  so  seductive  ;  they  do  very  well 
for  lovers,  your  honour:  but  then  it's  always — rejected  onesl 
Neither,  your  honour,  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  I  The 
■whole  science,  sir,  consists  in  these  two  rules — '  Ax  soon,  and  ax 
often.'" 

•*  There  seems  no  great  i  .fficulty  in  them,  Bunting." 
"  Not  to  us  who  has  gumption,  sir  ;  but  then  there  is  summut 
in  the  manner  of  axing— one  can't  be  too  hot — can't  flatter  too 
much — and,  above  all,  one  must  never  take  a  refusal.  There,  sir, 
now, — if  you  takes  my  advice — may  break  the  peace  of  all  the 
husbands  in  Lunnon — bother — whaugh  1 " 

"  My  uncle,  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  lame- 
ness (which  he  effected  by  slyly  inserting  a  stone  between  the 
shoe  and  the  hoof),  that  required  immediate  attention  and  a  night's 
rest ;  so  that  it  was  not  till  the  early  noon  of  the  next  day  that 
our  travellers  entered  the  village  in  which  Mr,  Jones  Elmore 
resided. 

It  was  a  soft  tranquil  day,  though  one  of  the  very  last  in 
October ;  for  the  reader  will  remember  that  time  had  not 
stood  still  during  Walter's  submission  to  the  care  of  Mr.  Pertinax 
Fillgrave,  and  his  subsequent  journey  and  researches. 

The  sun-Hj^ht  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 
descended  the  gentle  hill  that  led  into  this  remote  hamlet,  wide 


EUGENE  ARAM.  ad? 


and  flat  meadows,  interspersed  with  several  fresh  and  shaded 
ponds,  stretched  away  towards  a  belt  of  rich  woodland  gorgeous 
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. 

"  After  all,"  said  Walter  aloud,  "  the  scholar  was  right — there 
is  nothing  like  the  country  I 


**  *  Oh,  happiness  of  sweet  retired  content. 
To  be  at  once  secure  and  mnocent ! '  " 


"  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  recollect 
right,  set  the  Psalms  to  verse.^  I  hope  they  meet  with  your 
approbation  ? " 

"  Indeed,  sir,  and  no — since  they  ben't  in  the  Psalms." 

"And  why,  Mr.  Critic?  *' 

"  'Cause  what's  the  use  of  security,  if  one's  innocent,  and  does 
not  mean  to  take  advantage  of  it  ? — baugh !  One  does  not  lock 
the  door  for  nothing,  your  honour  !" 

"  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, 

^  Denham. 


•M  EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER    III. 

A  SCHOLAB,  »ITT  OF  A  DIFFERENT  MOULD  FROM  THE  STUDENT  OF  GRASSDALB.— 
NEW  PARTICULARS  CONCERNING  GEOFFREY  LESTER. — THE  JOURNEY  RECOM» 
MENCXO. 

Insenuitque 
Libris. ' — Horat. 

Volat,  aml)iguis 
Mobilis  alls,  Honu* — Sttuca. 

Upon  inquiring  for  Mr.  Elmore,  Walter  was  shown  into  a 
handsome  librarj',  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  mouldering  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  I  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  collection  may  be 
carried  about  in  one's  waistcoat  pocket,  and  a  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  evident  care  and 
precision;  a  snuff-coloured  coat  was  adorned  with  a  respectable 
profusion  of  gold  lace;  his  breeches  were  of  plum-coloured  satin; 
his  salmon-coloured  .stockings,  scrupulously  drawn  up,  displayed 
a  ver>'  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  splendour  of  diamonds.     Mr.  Jonas  Elmore 

•  And  he  hath  grown  old  in  books. 

'  Time  flies,  still  moving  on  uncertain  win£. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  269 


was  a  beau,  a  wit,  and  a  scholar  of  the  old  school.  He  abounded 
in  jests,  in  quotations,  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  cultivated 
the  literas  humaniores.  Pray  sit  down — ay,  I  see,  you  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  re- 
commend virtue  in  a  more  efficacious  and  powerful  manner  than 
philosophers  by  their  dry  precepts,  and  are  more  capable  of 
amending  the  vicious,  than  the  best  moral  lessons  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  painting.  *  Doctl  rntionem 
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  gentleman  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 
«iy  footstool — Qiiem  tu,  Melpomene,  &c. — You  are  not  yet  subject 
*  The  learned  understand  the  reason  of  art,  the  unlearned  the  pleasure. 


SfD  EUGENE   ARAM. 


Xo  govit,  (iira  f'odagra.  By  the  way,  how  is  the  worthy  doctor, 
since  his  attack  ? — Ah,  see  now,  if  you  have  not  still,  by  your 
deh'ghtful  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  business  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  edictnm,  post  prandia  Callirhoen,'  &e. 

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  modem 
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. 

"  Oh  !  I  see,  I  see ! "  he  said  refolding  the  epistle,  and  placing 
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  clue  to  discover  him 
will  be  highly  acceptable.  I  gather,  sir,  from  my  friend's  letter, 
that  this  is  the  substance  of  your  business  with  me,  caput  negotii; 
— although,  like  Timanthes,  the  painter,  he  leaves  more  to  be 
understood  than  is  described,  '  intelligitur  plus  quant  pijigitur'  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  important  will  be 
any  information  you  can  give  me,  that  I  shall  esteem  it  a " 

"  Not  a  ver>'  great  favour,  eh  .^ — not  very  great  I " 


EUGENE   ARAM.  271 


"Yes,  indeed,  a  very  great  obligation," 

**  I  hope  not,  sir ;  for  what  says  Tacitus — that  profound  reader 
of  the  human  heart  ? — '  bencficia  co  usque  Iceta  sunt^  &c. ;  favours 
easily  repaid  beget  affection — favours  beyond  return  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  farther  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  barbaric  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  profitable  speculation  in  London.  Accordingly  we  came 
to  terms  :  I  sold  the  greater  part  of  them  to  him  for  a  sum  a  little 
exceeding  a  thousand  pounds.  He  was  pleased  with  his  bargain  ; 
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 


•19  EUGENE  ARAM. 


habits,  of  a  hasty  temper,  and  a  wandering  manner  of  h'fe  ;  yet 
it  is  scarcely  probable  that  he  took  this  sudden  manner  of  leaving 
the  country  either  Irom  whim  or  some  secret  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  connec- 
tions were  entirely  unknown  in  these  parts,  and  his  character  not 
very  highly  estimated, — whether  fro.n  his  manner,  or  his  con- 
versation, or  some  undefined  and  vajue  rumours,  I  cannot  say), 
— it  was  considered  by  no  means  improbable  that  he  had 
decamped  with  his  property  in  this  sudden  manner  in  order  '^^ 
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  KnaresboroughJ,  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  repayment.  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  might  have  been  robbed  and  murdered  was  strongly  enter- 
tained for  some  time  ;  but  as  his  body  was  never  found,  nor 
suspicion  directed  against  any  particular  person,  these  conjectures 
insensibly  died  away ;  and,  being  so  complete  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  j-ou  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  unsatisfactory 
intelligence  caused  in  the  adventurous  son  of  the  lost  wanderer. 
He  continued  to  throw  out  additional  guesses,  and  to  make 
farther  inquiries  concerning  a  tale  which  seemed  to  him  so 
mysterious,  but  without  effect  ;  and  he  had  the  mortification  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. 


EUGENE    ARAM.  273 


"And,"  added  Elmore,  "I  am  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  f ' "  1 

"  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  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.  Fortu- 
nately this  vein  of  conversation,  however  tedious  to  Walter,, 
preserved  him  from  the  necessity  of  rejoinder,  and  left  him  ta 
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  p/acens  uxor — the  pleasing  wife,  whom,  in  passing 
through  the  hall,  he  eulogised  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  ta 
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,  I  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 

*  Go,  where  your  feet  and  fortune  take  youi 

s 


174  EUGENE  ARAM. 

whether  you  will  agree  with  me,  but  I  think  a  slight  tendency 
to  gourmandism  is  absolutely  necessary  to  complete  the  character 
of  a  truly  classical  mind.  So  many  beautiful  touches  are  there 
in  the  ancient  poets — so  many  delicate  allusions  in  history  and 
in  anecdote  relating  to  the  gratification  of  the  palate,  that,  if 
a  man  have  no  correspondent  sympathy  with  the  illustrious 
epicures  of  old,  he  is  rendered  incapable  of  enjoying  the  most 
beautiful  passages  that Come,  sir,  the  dinner  is  served : — 

"  *  Nutrimus  lautis  mollissima  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  Miss  Elmore  that  reminded  Walter 
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  appear- 
ance of  the  second  course,  when  Elmore,  throwing  himself  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 
dignified  and  rational  part  of  a  repast, — 

•* «  Quod  nunc  ratio  est,  impetus  ante  fuiL*  "• 

"Ah!  Mr.  Elmore,"  said  the  lady,  glancing  towards  a  brace 
of  \tty  fine  pigeons,  "  I  cannot  tell  you  how  vexed  I  am  at  a 
mistake  of  the  gardener's ;  you  remember  my  poor  pet  pigeons, 
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  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  afforded  to  you  in  Valerius 
Maximus  : — '  Ubi  idem  et  maximus  et  honestissimus  amor  est, 
aliquando  praestat  morte  jungi  quam  vitd  distrahi ! '  which,  being 

^  We  nourish  softest  bodies  at  luxurious  banquetik 
'  That  which  is  now  reason  at  iunl  was  but  dc 


EUGENE   ARAM.  275 


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,  before 
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  exceedingly 
reserved." 

"  Aram  I "  repeated  Walter. 

**  What !  you  know  him  then  ? — and  where  does  he  live  now }" 

*'  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  certain 
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  nov/  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 

*  The  roaster  has  but  sorry  remuneration  for  his  teaching. 

S  2 


176  EUGENE   ARAM. 


relation  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  04*  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 !  /  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  st*e 
is Sir,  let  us  drink  the  ladies.'* 

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,  continue 
the  clue  that  Elmore's  account  had,  to  present  appearance, 
broken.  The  pursuit  in  which  he  was  engaged,  combined, 
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  dignity 
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  preseijtiment — 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  dthioAmeitt,  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  intense  and  painful  resolve 
with  which,  in  the  tragic  representations  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  Grassdalc, 
and  thither  we  now  return. 

*  Whom  wise  Minenra  Uught  with  bosom  cbast*. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  '277 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Aram's  departure. — Madeline. — exaggeration  of  sentiment  n.^tdral  in 
LOVE. —  Madeline's  letter.  —  Walter's. —  the  walk. — two  very  dif- 
ferent persons,  yet  both  inmates  of  the  same  country  village.— 

THE    humours    of    LIFE    AND    ITS   DARK  PASSIONS,   ARE  FOUND    IN    JUXTA- 
POSITION everywhere. 

Her  thoughts  as  pure  as  the  chaste  morning's  breath. 
When  from  the  Nijjht's  cold  arms  it  creeps  away, 
Were  clothed  in  words. 

— Detraction  Execrated,  by  SiR  J,  SUCKLINO. 

Urticae  proxima  saepe  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 — wj  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  faithfully 
reporting  to  you  all  that  I  can  learn  towards  removing  your 
anxiety." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it ;  no  heart  is  so  kind  as  yours,  Eugene. 
You  will  not  depart  without  receiving  the  additional  sum  you 
are  entitled  to  claim  from  me,  since  you  think  it  may  be  useful 
to  you  in  London,  should  you  find  a  favourable  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 
*  The  rose  is  often  nearest  to  the  nettle. 


S|8*  EUGENE  ARAM. 


and  approaching  death  of  his  last  living  relation,  was  readily  be- 
lieved by  the  simple  family  to  whom  it  was  told ;  and  Madeline 
herself  checked  her  tears,  that  she  might  not,  for  his  sake, 
sadden  a  departure  that  seemed  inevitable.  Aram  accordingly 
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  clo  id 
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  them  to  each  other ;  and  that  first  absence,  when 
softened  by  so  many  hopes  as  smiled  upon  her,  is  perhaps  one 
of  the  most  touching  passages  in  the  history  of  a  woinan'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  discovering  so  many  new  trea- 
sures, 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." 

We  do  wrong  when  we  censure  a  certain  exaggeration  in  the 
sentiments  of  those  we  love.  True  passion  is  necessarily 
heightened  by  its  very  ardour  to  an  elevation  that  seems  ex- 
travagant only  to  those  who  cannot  feel  it.  The  lofty  language 
of  a  hero  is  a  part  of  his  character ;  without  that  largeness  of 
idea  he  had  not  been  a  hero.  With  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 
affectioiia     Thnt  is  a  very  poor,  nay,  a  very  coarse,  love,  \a 


EUGENE    ARAM.  279 


which  the  imagination  makes  not  the  greater  part.  And  the 
Frenchman  who  censured  the  love  of  his  mistress  because  it  was 
so  niixec!  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  fitful ness  of  her  lover — his  strange  and  mysterious  com- 
munings 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  visible 
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  herself, 
although  to  Ellinor  she  so  affected,  ascribe  this  cloudiness  and 
caprice  of  mood  merely  to  the  result  of  a  solitary  and  medita- 
tive 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  austerely  blame- 
less, 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  Madeline's,  the  conception  of 
such  a  thought.  And  so,  with  a  patient  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'. 

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  have  received, 


aSo  EUGENE   ARAM. 


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  Madeline 
—vain  girl  1 — 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  you 
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!  And  would  that  your  Madeline  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  soothes  me  better  than 
the  smile.  *  ♦  • 

"  We  have  heard  nothing  more  of  Walter,  and  my  father 
continues  to  be  seriously  alarmed  about  him.  Your  account  too, 
corrcborates  that  alarm.  It  is  strange  that  he  has  not  yet 
visited  London,  and  that  you  can  obtain  no  clue  of  him.  He  is 
evidently  still  in  search  of  his  lost  parent,  and  following  some 
obscure  and  uncertain  track.  Poor  Walter  !  God  speed  him  1 
The  singular  fate  of  his  father,  and  the  many  conjectures  re- 
specting him,  have,  I   believe,  preyed  on  Walter's  mind  more 


EUGENE   ARAM.  281 


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  information  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  dis- 
cover 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  re- 
searches ?  Sometimes  I  do  ;  but  the  flower  now  has  no  fragrance, 
and  the  herb  no  secret,  that  I  (^re  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  be- 
ing 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 
t€ll  this  to  you,  though  I  write  it :  is  it  not  strange  that  letters 
should  be  more  faithful  than  the  tongue  }  And  even  your  letter, 
mournful  cte  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,  my  kind,  my  beloved 
Eugene.  I  was  praying  for  the  happiness  of  your  future  years, — 
praying  that  I  might  requite  your  love.  Whenever  I  feel  the 
mo2t,  I  am  the  most  inclined  to  prayer.  Sorrow,  joy,  tenderness, 
all  emotion,  lift  up  my  heart  to  God.     And  what  a  delicious 


aSa  EUGENE  ARAM. 


overflow  of  the  heart  is  prayer !  Wlien  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  excess.  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! — what  were  either  without  the  feelings  } 

"  When — when — when  will  you  return  ?  I  think  I  love  you 
now  more  than  ever.  I  think  I  have  more  courage  to  tell  you 
sa  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  by  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  Uncle, 

"  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, 
Mr.  Courtland,  partly  by  accident,  found  what  I  hope  may  prove 
a  clue  to  the  fate  of  my  father.  I  am  now  departing  to  put  this 
hope  to  the  issue.  More  I  would  fain  say  ;  but,  lest  the  ex- 
pectation should  prove  fallacious,  I  will  not  dwell  on  circum- 
stances which  would,  in  that  case,  only  create  in  you  a 
disappointment  similar  to  my  own.  Only  this  take  with  you, 
that  my  fatlier's  proverbial  good  luck  seems  to  have  visited  him 


EUGENE   ARA^L  883 


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  reserv^e 
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  adven- 
ture 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  additional 
explanation,  but  that  explanation  came  not ;  and  they  were 
forced  to  console  themselves  with  the  evident  exhilaration  under 
which  Walter  wrote,  and  the  probable  supposition  that  he 
delayed  further  information  until  it  could  be  ample  and  satis- 
factory. "  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  mentions  nothing  about 
that  excellent  personage." 

"  A  shrewd  guess,  Nell  ;  but  pray,  why  should  Walter  carry 
the  purse  about  him  so  carefully  ?  Ah,  you  blush  :  well,  will 
you  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. 


«84  EUGENE  ARAM. 


The  neighbourhood  was  now  tranquil  and  at  peace;  the 
nightly  depredators  that  had  infested  the  green  valleys  ol 
Grassdale  were  heard  of  no  more  ;  it  seemed  a  sudden  incur- 
sion of  fraud  and  crime,  which  was  too  unnatural  to  the  character 
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  EUinor,  arclily. 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Madeline,  in  the  same  vein,  but  in  a  whisper 
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!  No,  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  I 

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  neighbouring  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  honour,"  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  honour,  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, 

Thiuku  sliglit  of  ihcy  as  stays  at  home.'* 

"A  notable  distich,  Peter ;  yf)ur  own  composition,  I  warrant." 
"Mine!  Lord  love  your  honour,  I  has  no  genus,  but  I  has 
memory  ;  and  when  them  'ere  beautiful  lines  of  poetry-like  comes 


EUGENE   ARAM,  285 


into  my  head  they  stays  there,  and  stays  till  they  pops  out  at  my 
tongue  like  a  bottle  of  ginger-beer.  I  do  gloves  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  honour." 

"  Nothing  better  ;  you  speak  like  an  oracle." 

"  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  honour, — for  that's  what  the  heathen  did, 
as  you  well  know,  sir. 

••  *And  when  I  does  discourse  of  thing* 
Most  holy  to  their  trilie, 
What  does  they  do  ? — they  mocks  at  mCf 
And  makes  my  heart  a  gibe.' 

*'  'Tis  not  what  /  calls  pretty.  Miss  Ellinor." 

"Certainly  not,  Peter  ;  I  wonder,  with  your  talents  for  verse, 
you  never  indulge  in  a  little  satire  against  such  perverse  taste." 

"  Satire !    what's  that  "i     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'll  see,  we'll  see. 
Do  you  know,  your  honour," — here  Peter  altered  his  air  to  one 
of  serious  importance,  as  if  about  to  impart  a  most  sagacious 
conjecture,  "  I  thinks  there  be  one  reason  why  the  corporal  has 
not  written  to  me." 

*'  And  what's  that,  Peter  } " 

"'Cause,  your  honour,  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  honour,  the  corporal's  got  a  tarn  for  con- 
versation-like ;  he  be  a  mighty  fine  talker,  sure/y  f  but  he  be 
shy  o'  the  pen ;  'tis  not  every  man  whaJ:  talks  biggest  what's  the 
best  schollard  at  bottom.  Why,  there's  the  newspaper  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 


s86  EUGENE  ARAM. 


no  better  than  ninnies  when  they  gets  upon  paper;  and  that's 
the  corporal's  case  I  sispect :  I  suppose  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  honour;  and  I'm  afraid  the  country's 
greatly  bubbled  in  that  '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  I  " 

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." 

"  'Tis  not  for  a  clerk  of  the  parish  to  have  too  great  a  knack  at 
the  weapons  of  the  flesh,"  said  Peter,  sanctimoniously,  and  turn- 
ing aside  to  conceal  a  slight  confusion  at  the  unlucky  reminiscence 
of  his  warlike  exploits ;  "  but  lauk,  sir,  even  as  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  wife's  well,  I  hope  ?  And  Jacobina  (is  not  that  the  cat's 
name?)  in  high  health  and  favour  ?" 

"  Hem,  hem  I  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.  Af}^  pheasants !  inf  best  pre- 
serves !  and  poor  Goody  Truman's  cream,  too!   a  perfect  devil* 


EUGENE   ARAM.  287 


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  fathers 
compassion  for  Goody  Truman's  cream." 

"  Pooh  !"  said  the  squire  :  "  a  pheasant's  a  serious  thing,  child  ; 
but  you  women  don't  understand  matters." 

They  had  now  crossed  through  the  village  into  the  fields,  and 
were  slowly  sauntering  by 

"  Hedge-row  elms  on  hill«cks  green," 

when,  seated  under  a  stunted  pollard,  they  came  suddenly  on  the 
ill-favoured  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  applewoman. 
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 

"  'Tis  well-nigh  winter  now ;  'tis  not  easy  for  poor  folks  to 
fare  well  at  this  time  o'  year.  Where  be  we  to  get  the  firewood, 
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'll  wear  it 
at  your  widding,  for  they  says  you  be  going  to  git  married  to 


»S8  EUGENE  AR.i»L 


the  larned  man  yandcr.  Wish  ye  well,  ma'am  ;  wish  ye 
well." 

The  old  hag  grinned  as  she  uttered  this  benediction,  that 
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  withered,  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'll  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  ofiended — 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 
colour  shall  it  be  ? " 

"  Why,  what  colour  would  you  like  best,  dame — red  ? " 

"  Red  !  no  !  like  a  gipsy-quean,  indeed  !  Besides,  they  all  has 
red  cloaks  in  the  village,  yonder.  No ;  a  handsome  dark  grey, 
or  a  gay,  cheersome  black,  an'  then  I'll  dance  in  mourning  at 
your  wedding,  young  lady  ;  and  that's  what  ye'll  like.  But 
what  ha'  ye  done  with  the  merry  bridegroom,  ma'am  ?  Gone 
away,  1  hear.  Ah,  ye'll  have  a  happy  life  on  it,  with  a  gentle- 
man like  him.  I  never  seed  him  laugh  once.  Why  does  not  he 
hire  me  as  your  sarvant ;  would  not  I  be  a  favourite,  thin  ?  I'd 
stand  on  the  thrishold,  and  give  ye  good  morrow  every  day.  Ohl 
it  does  me  a  deal  of  good  to  say  a  blessing  to  them  as  be  younger 
and  gayer  than  me.  Madge  Darkmans'  blessing  I  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, 


EUGENE   ARAM.  289 


yonder,  at  Master  Aram's?  His  old  'oman's  a  gossip  of  mine; 
we  were  young  togither ;  and  the  lads  did  not  know  which  to 
like  the  best.  So  we  often  meets  and  talks  of  the  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 
an't  all  mhie  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  Lester, 
*'  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  .-ven  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  ±he  conversation  to  other  topics. 

As,  concluding  their  walk,  they  re-entered  the  village,  they 
•ncountered  that  most  welcome  of  all  visitants  to  a  country 
village,  the  postman — a  tall,  thin  pedestrian,  famous  for  swift- 
ness of  foot,  with  a  cheerful  face,  a  swinging  gait,  and  Lester's 

T 


a90  EUGENE  ARAM. 


bag  slunjj  over  his  shoulder.  Our  little  party  quickened  their 
pace— one  letter — for  Madeline — Aram's  handwriting.  Happy 
blush — bright  sniile !  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  realised  or 
destroyed.  Natural  enough,  too ;  it  is  what  I  should  have  done, 
if  I  had  been  in  his  place." 

"  Natural  I "  said  Ellinor,  who  now  attacked  where  she  before 
defended — "  natural  not  to  give  us  one  line,  to  say  he  is  well  and 
safe  ! — Natural !  /could  not  have  been  so  remiss  I" 

"  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  behind, 
she  devoured  the  contents  of  her  letter. 

"  He  is  coming  home  immediately,  dear  father  ;  perhaps  he 
maybe  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  colour  danced  joyously 
over  her  check  and  neck. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  quoth  Lester ;  "  we  shall  have  him  at 
last  beat  even  Ellinor  in  gaiety  1" 

"That  may  easily  be,"  sighed  Ellinor  to  herself,  as  she  glided 
past  them  into  the  house,  and  sought  her  own  chamber. 


EUGENE   ARAM,  191 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  lEFLECTION  NEW  AND  STRANGE. — THE  STREETS  OF  LONDON. — A  OBKAT 
man's  LIBRARY. — A  CONVERSATION  BETWEEN  THE  STUDENT  AND  AN  AC- 
QUAINTANCE  OF  THE   reader's.— ITS   RESULTS. 

Here's  a  statesman  i 
•  •  •  •  • 

Rolla.  Ask  for  thyself. 

Lot.      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 — Eugene  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  insight  it  gives  into  the  hearts  of  the  common  herd ! 
— with  what  a  strange  interest  it  may  inspire  us  for  the  humblest, 
the  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  ingeniL* 

^  Fc*  the  power  of  the  intellect  is  increased  by  the  amplitude  of  the  things  thai 
feed  it 


29*  EUGENE  ARAM. 


There  was  that  in  Aram's  person  which  irresistibly  commanded 
attention.  The  earnest  composure  of  his  countenance,  its  thought- 
ful paleness,  the  long  hair  falling  back,  the  peculiar  and  estranged 
air  of  his  whole  figure,  accompanied  as  it  was  by  a  mildness  of 
expression,  and  that  lofty  abstraction  which  characterises  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  courtyard,  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  unseason- 
able visitor. 

"  I  am  glad  to  find  he  is  at  home,"  rejoined  Aram,  gliding  past 
the  servant  with  an  air  of  quiet  and  unconscious  command,  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  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  univer- 
sal courtesy  and  deference,  to  the  lowest  stranger,  as  well  as  to 
the  highest  guest.  And  trifling  as  this  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 


EUGENE  ARAM.  993 


precaution.  The  valet,  therefore,  replied  to  the  visitor's  inquiry 
with  great  politeness  ;  he  recollected  Aram's  name  and  repute  ; 
and  as  the  earl,  taking  delight  in  the  company  of  men  of  letters, 
was  generally  easy  of  access  to  all  such — the  great  man's  great 
man  instantly  conducted  the  student  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  engaged  in  official 
pursuits,  will  turn  in  the  momentary  intervals  of  more  arid  and 
toilsome  life  to  those  lighter  studies  which  perhaps  they  in 
reahty  the  most  enjoy. 

One  of  these  books,  a  volume  of  Shaftesbury,  Aram  carefully 
took  up ;  it  opened  of  its  own  accord  at  that  most  beautiful  and 
profound  passage,  which  contains  perhaps  the  justest  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  irregularity  of  that  social  love  and 
common  affection  which  is  natural  to  mankind — for  the  opposite 
of  sociableness  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  men  of  moderation.  They  are 
secure  of  their  temper,  and  possess  themselves  too  well  to  be  in 
danger  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  Themis- 
tius,  '  If  you  should  form  only  three  or  four  philosophers,  you 
would  contribute  more  essentially  to  the  happiness  of  mankind 
than  many  kings  united.'     Yet,  if  all  men  were  philosophers,  I 


t^  EUGENE  ARAM. 


doubt  whether,  though  more  men  would  be  virtuous,  there  would 
be  so  many  instances  of  an  extraordinary  virtue.  The  violent 
passions  produce  dazzling  irregularities." 

The  student  was  still  engaged  with  this  note  when  the  carl 
entered  the  room.  As  the  door  through  which  he  passed  was 
behind  Aram,  and  he  trod  with  a  soft  step,  he  was  not  perceived 
by  tlie  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  a//,  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  deprive  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  office  ; — we,  who  have 
the  honour  of  exciting  the  envy  of  all  England  for  being  made 
magnificently  wretched." 

"  I  am  glad  you  allow  so  much,  my  lord,"  said  Aram,  smiling; 
"/could  not  have  said  more.  Ambition  only  makes  a  favourite 
to  make  an  ingrate  ; — she  has  lavished  her  honours  on  Lord 
•  *  *  *,  and  hear  how  he  speaks  of  her  bounty  I " 

"  Nay,"  said  the  earl,  "  I  spoke  wantonly,  and  stand  corrected. 
I  have  no  reason  to  complain  of  tiie  course  I  have  chosen. 
Ambition,  like  any  other  passion,  gives  us  unhappy  moments  , 
but  it  gives  us  also  an  animated  life.     In  its  pursuit,  the  minor 


EUGENE   ARAM.  295 


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  no 
private  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  the  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,  embar- 
rassment, "  I  fear  that,  in  the  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  with  impunity.  Some 
time  since,  you  tendered  u.e  offers  that  would  have  dazzled 
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  those  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  generosity, 
which  proffered  to  me  then  so  large  a  bounty.  Certain  circum- 
stances have  taken  from  me  the  small  pittance  which  supplied 
my  wants ; — I  require  only  the  power  to  pursue  my  quiet  and 
obscure  cr.reer  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  lordship's  interest 
could  obtain  me  this  favour.  Let  me  add,  however,  that  I  can 
offer  nothing  in  return  !  Party  politics — sectarian  interests — 
are  for  ever  dead  to  me :  even  my  common  studies  are  of  small 
general  utility  to  mankind.     I  am  conscious  of  this — would  it 

were  otherwise  ! — Once   I  hoped  it  would  be — but "  Aram 

here  turned  deadly  pale,  gasped  for  breath,  mastered  his  emo- 
tion, 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 


S96  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  favour  of  the  public  ;  they  call, 
perhaps,  more  than  any  species  of  intellectual  culture,  for  the 
protection  of  a  government ;  and  though  in  me  would  be  a  poor 
selection,  the  principle  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  subdues  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  favour  to  himself,  he  may  be  only 
asking  the  power  to  enlighten  the  world  ? 

"  Say  no  more,  sir,"  said  the  earl,  affected  deeply,  and 
gracefully  giving  way  to  the  feeling;  "the  affair  is  settled. 
Consider  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  tne  claims 
of  younger  sons  and  widowed  dowagers — accustomed  to  the 
hungry  cravings  of  petitioners  without  merit,  who  considered 
birth  the  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  administrators 
of  the  common  stock — none  to  claim  aftluence." 

"  Would  to  Heaven  !"  said  the  earl,  smiling,  "  that  all  claimants 
were  like  you  ;  pension-lists  would  not  then  call  for  indignation  ; 
and  ministers  would  not  blush  to  support  the  justice  of  the 
favours  they  conferred.  But  are  you  .still  firm  in  rejecting  a 
mors  public  career,  with  all  its  deserved  emoluments  and  just 


EUGENE  ARAM.  297 


honours  ?     The  offer  I  made  you  once,  I  renew  with  increased 
avidity  now." 

"  '  Despiciam  dites^  "  answered  Aram,  "  and,  thanks  to  you,  I 
may  add, ' despiciamque fainetn* " ^ 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  THAMES  AT  NIGHT.— A  THOUGHT. — THE  STUDENT    RESEEKS   TH«    KUFFIAM* 
— A   HUMAN    FEELING   EVEN   IN   THE  WORST  SOIL. 

Ciem.  'Tis  our  last  interview  ! 

Siai.    Pray  Heav'n  it  be  1 — Clemantha. 

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  retain. 
And  hence  his  visit,  and  hence  his  petition,  to  Lord  *  *  *  *. 
He  now  bent  his  way  to  the  spot  in  which  Houseman  had 
appointed  their  meeting.  To  the  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 
relieved  by  the  wan  lamps  that  vistaed  the  streets,  and  a  few 
dim  stars  that  struggled  through  the  reeking  haze  that  curtained 

'  "Let  me  despise  wealth,"  and,  thanks  to  you,  I  may  add,  "  and  let  me  look  down 
on  famine." 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


the  great  city.     Aram  had  now  gained  one  of  the  bridges  "  that 
arch  the  royal  Thames,"  and,  at  no  time  dead  to  scenic  attrac 
tion,  he  there  paused  for  a  moment,  and  looked  along  the  dark 
river  that  rushed  below. 

Oh,  God  I  how  many  wild  and  stormy  hearts  have  stilled 
themselves  on  that  spot,  for  one  dread  instant  of  thought — of 
calculation — 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  grey  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  honour,  some  handful  of  the  fiercest  of  the  strugglers 
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  below. 

The  mist  obscured  and  saddened  the  few  lights  scattered  on 
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  reverie  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 


EUGENE   ARAM.  299 


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  the  lowest  order  of  ruffian 
and  harlot  issued  noisily  from  the  door,  and  suddenly  oL.-.tructed 
his  way :  through  this  vile  press,  reeking  with  the  stamp  and 
odour  of  the  most  repellent  character  of  vice,  was  the  lofty  and 
cold  student  to  force  his  path !  The  darkness,  his  quick  step, 
his  downcast  head,  favoured  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  summons  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  HousemEn 
himself  caii  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  hastily 
unbarred.  All  within  was  utterly  dark;  but  Aram  felt  with  a 
thrill  of  repugnance  the  gripe  of  his  strange  acquaintance  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, 
well-nigh  in  its  socket,  broke  on  the  previous  darkness)  ;  here  we 
are  !  here  we  are  I     And  how  goes  it — eh  ? " 

Houseman  now  bustling  about,  did  the  honours  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  unwashed  and  carpetless  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  cari- 
catures of  the  large  coarse  fashion  of  the  day,  decorated  the 


90O  EUGENE  ARAM. 


walls;  and  carelessly  thrown  on  another  table,  lay  a  pair  of 
huge  horse-pistols,  an  immense  shovel  hat,  a  false  moustache,  a 
rouge-pot,  and  a  riding-whip.  All  this  the  student  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  Aran,  giving  him  a  paper;  "there  you  will 
perceive  that  the  sum  mentioned  is  secured  to  you  the  moment 
you  quit  this  country.  When  shall  that  be  ?  Let  me  entreat 
haste." 

"  Your  prayer  shall  be  granted.  Before  daybreak  to-morrow  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  fiave  done.  Within 
four  days,  if  the  wind  set  fair,  I  am  in  France." 

"  My  business  is  done ;  I  will  believe  you,"  said  Aram,  frankly 
and  rising. 

''You  may,"  answered  Houseman.  "Stay — I  will  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,  reconducted  the  student.  And  as  Aram  turned 
from  the  door,  he  flung  his  arms  wildly  aloft,  and  exclaimed,  in 
the  voice  of  one  from  whose  heart  a  load  is  lifted, — "  Now,  now, 
for  Madeline  I     I  breathe  freely  at  last ! " 

Meanwhile,  Houseman  turned  musingly  back,  and  regained  his 
room,  muttering — 

"  Yes — yes — viy  business  here  is  also  done  I  Competence  and 
safety  abroad — after  all,  what  a  bugbear  is  this  conscience  !— 
fourteen  years  have  rolled  away — and  lo  I  nothing  discovered  1 
nothing  known  I  And  easy  circumstances — the  very  consequence 


EUGENE  ARAM,  301 


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 
woman  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 
attraction,  and  drawing  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  hand- 
some, 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, 
sho.ving  a  set  of  teeth  as  white  as  ivory,  with  pleasure  partly  at 
the  flattery,  partly  at  the  proposition :  "  you  are  a  good  fellow, 
Dick,  that  you  are." 

"  Humph  ! "  said  Houseman,  whose  hard,  shrewd  mind  was  not 
easily  cajoled  ;  "  but  what's  that  paper  in  your  bosom,  Bess  ?  A 
love-letter,  I'll  swear." 

"  'Tis  to  you  then ;  came  to  you  this  morning,  only  somehow 
or  othej^  I  forgot  to  give  it  you  till  now ! " 


yot  EUGENE  ARAM. 


*'  Ha !  a  letter  to  me  ! "  said  Houseman,  seizinj;  the  epistle  in 
question.  "  Hem  !  the  Knaresbro'  postmark — my  mother-in-law's 
crabbed  hand,  too  !     What  can  the  old  crone  want  ^  " 

He  opened  the  letter,  and  hastily  scanning  its  '•ontents, 
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  I " 

"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:  "you  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,  nretch,  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. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

KADEUM,   HER  HOPES. — A  MILD  AUTUMN    CHARACTSRtSED. — A    LANDSCAPE.— A 

RETURN. 

Tis  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  'gainrt  a  cold  : 
Welcome — welcome  shall  fly  round  ! 
—Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Seng^  in  th*  Lovet^t  Progreti, 

As  when  the  great  poet, 

"  Escaped  the  Stygian  pool,  though  long  detain'd 
In  that  obscure  sojourn  ;  while,  in  his  flight. 
Through  utter  and  through  middle  darkness  bomfl^ 
lie  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 


EUGENE  ARAM.  303 


kindles  into  the  solemn  joyfulness  of  adjuring  song;  so  rises  the 
mind  from  the  contemplation  of  the  gloom  and  guilt  of  life,  "the 
utter  and  the  middle  darkness,"  to  some  pure  and  bright  redemp- 
tion 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  Madeline  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  recognise  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  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  characterises  that  period  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  summer  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,  retained  some- 
thing of  their  verdure ;  and  the  thousand  glories  of  the  woodland 
around  Grassdale  were  still  chequered  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  con- 
tinued to  remember  that  in  youth  he  himself  had  been  but  a 
negligent  correspondent;    and   the   anxiety  he   felt  had  lately 


304  EUGENE  ARAM. 


assumed  rather  the  character  of  anger  at  Walter's  forgetfulncss 
than  of  fear  for  his  safety.  There  were  moments  when  EHinor 
silently  mourned  and  pined  ;  but  she  loved  her  sister  not  less 
even  than  her  cousin  ;  and  in  the  prospect  of  Madeline's  happi- 
ness 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  parlour,  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  imme- 
diately above  them,  and  one  of  those  beautiful  sun  showers,  that 
rather  characterise  the  spring  than  autumn,  began  to  fall.  The 
rain  was  rather  sharp,  and  descended  with  a  pleasant  and  fresh- 
ening noise  through  the  boughs,  all  shining  in  the  sun-light:  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  general  chorus- -the  last  hynm  of 
the  declining  day.  The  sparkling  drops  fell  fast  and  gratefully 
from  the  trees,  and  over  the  whole  scene  there  breathed  an 
inexpressible  sense  of  gladness, — 

"The  odour  and  the  harmony  cf  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." 

"Husn!"  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  diamond 
rain  glittered  on  the  locks  of  his  long  hair ;  his  cheeks  were 
flusked  by  exercise,  or  more  probably  the  joy  of  return ;  a  smile, 


EUGENE  ARAM.  305 


in  which  there  was  no  shade  or  sadness,  played  over  his  features, 
which  caught  also  a  fictitious  semblance  of  gladness  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  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  I " 


CHAPTER  VHI. 

AFFECTION  :    ITS    GODLIKE   NATURE. — THE  CONVERSATION  BETWEEN    ARAM    AKD< 
MADELINE. — THE   FATALIST  FORGETS   FATE. 

Hope  is  a  lover's  staff ;  walk  hence  with  that. 
And  nnanage  it  against  despairing  thoughts. 

—  Titio  GentUj)un  of  Vh-ofn. 

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 
8}  stem.  What  a  beautiful  fabric  would  be  human  nature — what 
a  divine  guide  would  be  human  reason — if  love  were  indeed  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 

U 


306  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  permanently  wiser  and 
better,  have  we  lost  in  losing  that  picture ! 

Certainly,  love  assumes  a  more  touching  and  earnest  semblance 
when  we  find  it  in  some  retired  and  sequestered  hollow  of  the 
world  ;  when  it  is  not  mixed  up  with  the  daily  frivolities  and 
petty  emotions  of  which  a  life  passed  in  cities  is  so  necessarily 
composed  :  we  cannot  but  believe  it  a  deeper  and  a  more  absorb- 
ing 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  spectacle  might  have 
seemed  to  him  more  appropriate  to  that  pastoral  spot,  or  more 
elevated  in  the  character  of  its  tenderness  above  the  fierce  and 
shortlived  passions  of  the  ordinary  world,  than  the  love  that 
existed  between  Madeline  and  her  betrothed.  Their  natures 
seemed  so  suited  to  each  other !  the  solemn  and  undiurnal  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  Madeline'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  happiness, 
the  change  in  Aram  supplied  the  want.  The  sudden  starts,  the 
abrupt  changes  of  mood  and  countenance,  that  had  formerly 
characterised  him,  were  now  scarcely,  if  ever,  visible.  He 
seemed  to  have  resigned  himself  with  confidence  to  the  prospects 

^  "  Intclligitur  sentire  mater  et  titoere,  ae  k  mortuo  lacle  languincin  lam  bat" 


EUGENE  ARAM.  307 


of  the  future,  and  to  have  forsworn  the  haggard  recoHections  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  separate  and  strange  exist- 
ence 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,  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  Jieart — 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  rve  before 
their  bridals.  Aram  had  deemed  it  prudent  to  tell  Lester  that 
he  had  sold  his  annuity,  and  that  he  had  applied  to  th-^  earl  for 
the  pension  which  we  have  seen  he  had  been  promisei.  As  to 
his  supposed  relation — the  illness  he  had  created  h<  suffered 
now  to  cease ;  and  indeed  the  approaching  ceremony  ^ave  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  Madeline 
were  walking  along  the  valley  that  led  to  the  hous*:  of  the 
former, 

"How  fortunate  it  is,"  said  Madeline,  "that  our  future  resi- 
dence will  be  so  near  my  father's.  I  cannot  tell  you  with  what 
delight  he  looks  forward  to  the  pleasant  circle  we  shz'l  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  cours-  of  the 
vaiious  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,  EugctK  .' " 

"Would  it  grieve  thee,  irremediably,  dearest,  were  if  i;o.^" 
rejoined  Aram,  evasively. 

"  Irremediably !  What  could  grieve  me  irremediably  tht^.'  did 
not  happen  to  you  } " 

"  Should,  then,  circumstances  occur  to  induce  us  to  leave  this 

U  2 


joS  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  tiien  he 
yet  more  to  me  than  ever  I " 

"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  gaiety,  nor 
youth  nor  beauty,  did  you  behold  in  me.  Whatever  attracted 
you  towards  me,  that  which  must  have  been  sufficiently  powerful 
to  make  you  overlook  these  ordinary  allurements,  will  be  also 
sufficiently  enduring  to  resist  all  ordinary  changes.  But  listen, 
Madeline.  Do  not  yet  ask  me  wherefore ;  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  Madeline, 
sighing. 

"  Do  not,  on  any  account,  mention  this  conversation  to  him,  or 
to  Ellinor:  '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  niitsi  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 
protest.'itions  of  love,  and  those  anticipations  of  the  future,  which 
befitted  the  eve  of  a  morrow  so  full  of  auspicious  promise. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  309 


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  unprophetic  of 
the  storm,  was  charged  with  the  thunderbolt  of  a  doom  he  had 
protracted,  not  escaped. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WALTER  AND  THE  CORPORAL  ON  THE  ROAD.— THE  EVENING  SETS  IN.— THK 
GIPSY  TENTS. — ADVENTURE  WITH  THE  HORSEMAN. — THE  CORPORAL  DIS- 
COMFITED,  AND   THE  ARRIVAL  AT  KNARESBRO'. 

Long  had  he  wandered,  when  from  far  he  sees 
A  ruddy  flame  that  gleam'd  betwixt  the  trees. 

Sir  Gawaine  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 
honour,"  answered  the  corporal,  wiping  his  brows. 

"  Which  beast,  Bunting  > " 

"  Augh  ! — now  your  honour'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  honour  heard  how  they  be  doing  at  Grassdale  "i  " 

"  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  clue, 
which  I  fear  is  now  broken,  that  I  have  constantly  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  Knaresbro',  I  shall  write  from  that 
place  a  detailed  account  of  our  proceedings." 


3IO  EUGENE  ARAM. 


"  And  I  hopes  you  will  say  as  how  I  have  g^ven  your  honour 
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  honour's  good  offices, 
should  let  me  have  the  bit  cottage  rent  free." 

"  A  man  of  the  world,  Bunting ;  a  man  of  the  world !  ** 

"Your  honour's  mighty  oblceging,"  said  the  corporal,  putting 
his  hand  to  his  hat;  '*!  wonders,"  renewed  he,  after  a  short 
pause,  "  I  wonders  how  poor  neighbour  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  ;  djes  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  hke — augh  ! 
And  I  hopes  as  how  Peter  airs  the  bit  cottage  now  and  then  ; 
but  the  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 
reverie,  from  which  he  was  shortly  roused  by  the  corporal. 

"  I  'spose  Miss  Madeline  be  married  afore  now,  your  honour? 
Well,  pray  Heaven  she  be  happy  with  that  'ere  lamed  man!" 

Walter's  heart  beat  faster  for  a  moment  at  this  sudden  remark, 
but  he  was  pleased  to  find  that  the  time  when  the  thought  oi 
Madeline's  marriage  was  accompanied  with  painful  emotion  was 
entirely  gone  by  ;  the  reflection,  however,  induced  a  new  train  of 
idea,  and  without  replying  to  the  corporal,  he  sank  into  a  deeper 
meditation  than  before. 

Tiie  shrewd  Bunting  saw  that  it  was  not  a  favourable  moment 
for  renewing  the  conversation;  he  therefore  suffered  his  horse  to 
fall  back,  and  taking  a  quid  from   his  tobacco-box,  was  soon  as 


EUGENE  ARAM.  311 


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  gipsy's  encampment ;  the  scene  was  so  sudden 
and  picturesque,  that  it  aroused  the  y<iung  traveller  from  his 
reverie,  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  ri.sen  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  England  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  gipsy  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  permission  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  meanwhile,  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  ^ed  and  weird-like  glow. 

The  reader  must  not  imagine  we  are  now  about  to  call  his 
credulity  in  aid  to  eke  out  any  interest  he  may  feel  in  our  story  ; 
the  old  crone  was  but  a  vulgar  gipsy,  and  she  predicted  to 
Walter  the  same  fortune  she  always  predicted  to  those  who  paid 
a  shilling  for  the  prophecy — an  heiress  with  blue  eyes — seven 


3ia  EUGENE  ARA^L 


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  inquiring  whether  the 
journey  on  which  he  was  at  present  bent  was  likely  to  prove 
successful  in  its  object. 

'•  *Tis  an  ill  night,"  said  the  old  woman,  lifting  up  her  wild 
face  and  elfin  locks  with  a  mysterious  air — *'  'tis  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  predictions, 
and  was  now  about  to  thrust  forth  his  own  hand  to  the  sooth- 
sayer, when  from  ar  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 
Knaresbro'  ?  " 

The  gipsy  drew 'back,  and  gazed  on  the  countenance  of  the 
rider,  on  which  the  red  glare  of  the  pine-brand  shone  full. 

"  To  Knaresbro',  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  gipsy — "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  Knaresbro',  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,  drily.  "I  have  not 
seen  him  thc^e  fourteen  years  ;  but  it  is  not  Bess  Airlie  who  is 


EUGENE   ARAM.  313 


apt  to  forgit  friend  or  foe.  Well,  sir,  shall  I  tell  your  honour's 
good  luck  ?  " — (here  she  turned  to  the  corporal,  who  sat  erect  on 
his  saddle,  with  his  hand  on  his  holster,) — "  the  colour  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  favour- 
able to  the  soothsayer,  had  undergone  a  deadly  reversion. 
•'  Please  your  honour,  it's  getting  late,  we  had  better  be  jogging  !" 

"You  are  right,"  said  Walter,  spurring  his  jaded  horse;  and. 
nodding  his  adieu  to  the  gipsy,  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 — 'tis  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  lav 
under  the  hedge,  and  so  nearly  escaped  murder  !  If  I  am  right, 
it  was,  however,  the  mildest  of  the  ruffians ;  the  one  who  coun- 
selled his  comrades  against  despatching  me." 
The  corporal  shuddered.  — 

"  Pray,  sir,"  said  he,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  do  see  if  your 
pistols  are  printed  : — so — so.  'Tis  not  out  o'  nature  that  the 
man  may  have  some  'complices  hereabout,  and  may  think  to 
waylay  us.  The  old  gipsy,  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  Knaresbro*,  it  will  be  prudent  to  ride  on  as  fast  as  our 
horses  will  allow  us.     Keep  up  alongside." 

"  Certainly — I'll  purtect  your  honour,"  said  the  corporal, 
getting  on  that  side  where  the  hedge  being  thinnest,  an  ambush 


$14  EUGENE  ARAM. 

was  less  likely  to  be  laid.  "  I  care  more  for  your  honour'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  recognised  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  Knaresbro'  ?  " 

"  Don't  answer  him,  your  honour,"  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  inclosures,  and  I  now  scarcely  recognise  anything 
familiar.  Curse  on  this  brute !  curse  on  it,  I  say  !  "  repeated  the 
horseman  through  his  ground  teeth,  in  a  tone  of  angry  vehe- 
mence :  "  I  never  wanted  to  ride  so  quick  before,  and  the  beast  has 
fallen  as  lame  as  a  tree.  This  comes  of  trying  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 —  I 
it  is  a  bitter  gnawing  state  of  mind. — I  may  reach  Knaresbro'  to 
find  my  only  daughter  dead,  sir  I — dead  !  " 

Despite  Walter's  suspicions  of  the  speaker,  he  could  not  but 
feel  a  thrill  of  sympathy  at  the  visible  distress  with  which  these 
words  were  said. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  315 


"  I  hope  not,"  said  he,  involuntarily. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  replied  the  horseman,  trying  ineffectually  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  honour,"  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  horseman, 
sullenly.  "  There  was  a  time,  man,  when  I  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 — fearful 
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  !  ** 

"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   myselC      I    will 


3l«  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  I  " 

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  Houseman,  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  honour,  /  am  no  fooL** 

"Bunting!" 

"  Sir." 

"  You  forget  yourself.** 

•'  Augh  I " 

"  So  you  don't  think  I  should  have  lent  the  horse  I  * 

•'  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, — baugh  !  " 

"Rascal,  dismount,  I  say!"  said  Walter,  angrily:  for  the 
cur}>oral  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. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  317 

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,  soliloquising,  "  certainly  the  man  is  a 
rascal ;  yet  he  was  evidently  sincere  in  his  emotion.  Certainly 
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 
agaimst  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  favouring  his  master  with  his  company,  to  procure  himseh' 
an  ally  immediately  at  hand,  should  his  suspicions  prove  true. 
But  for  once  his  knowledge  of  the  world  deceived  him  :  no  sicrn 
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. 


Jit  EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER  X. 

WAL1T»'l  EKFLBCTTONS. — MINE  HOST. — A  OENTLE  CHARACTER  AND  A  GREVN 
OLD  AGE.— THE  GARDEN,  AND  THAT  WHICH  IT  TEACHETH. — A  DIALOGU* 
WHEREIN  NEW  HINTS  TOWARDS  THE  WISHED-FOR  DISCOVERY  ARE  SUG- 
GESTED.— THE  CURATE. — A  VISIT  TO  A  SPOT  OF  DEEP  INTEREST  TO  THB 
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  Hirbert, 

•     •     •     •     The  time  approaches, 

That  will  with  due  precision  make  tu  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  uncon- 
sciously 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  clue  could  be  here  discovered  by  the 
inquiry  he  purposed,  at  this  spot  would  terminate  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  recognised  the  finger  of  Destiny 
guiding  him  from  step  to  step,  and  now  resting  on  the  scene  to 


EUGENE  ARAM.  31J 


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  remote  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  attained.  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 
sxiielled  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  ever  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  green  ways," 

struck  forcibly  upon  him.  ]\Iine  host,  too,  was  one  whose 
appearance  was  better  suited  to  his  occupation  than  his  pro- 
fession. He  might  have  told  some  three-and-sixty  years,  but  it 
was  a  comely  and  green  old  age ;  his  cheek  was  firm  and  ruddy, 


EUGENE   ARAM. 


not  with  nightly  cups,  but  the  fresh  witness  of  the  morninj 
breezes  it  was  wont  to  court ;  his  frame  was  robust,  not  cor- 
pulent ;  and  his  long  gray  hair,  which  fell  almost  to  his  shoulders, 
his  clear  blue  eyes,  and  a  pleasant  curve  in  a  mouth  characterised 
by  habitual  good  humour,  completed  a  portrait  that  even  many 
a  dull  observer  would  have  paused  to  gate  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  neighbourhood  ;  nay,  the  likeness 
had  been  multiplied  into  engravings,  somewhat  rude  and  some- 
what unfaithful,  which  might  be  seen  occupying  no  unconspicuous 
nor  dusty  corner  in  the  principal  printshop  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  I  had  never  halted  at 
this  limit.  The  country  innkeeper  might  have  furnished  Gold- 
smith with  a  counterpart  to  his  country  curate ;  his  house  was 
equally  hospitable  to  the  poor — his  heart  equally  tender,  in  a 
nature  wiser  than  experience,  to  error,  and  equally  open,  in  its 
warm  simplicity,  to  distress.  Peace  be  with  thee  *  •  •  *  •  j 
Our  grandsire  was  thy  patron — yet  a  patron  thou  didst  not  want. 
Merit  in  thy  capacity  is  seldom  bare  of  reward.  The  public 
want  no  indicators  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 
garden  stretching  away  on  either  side  with  its  boundaries  lost 
among  the  thick  evergreen),  something  of  that  grateful  and 
moralising  stillness  with  which  some  country  scene  generally 
inspires  us,  when  we  awake  to  its  consciousness  from  the  troubled 
dream  of  dark  and  unquiet  thought,  stole  over  his  mind  :  aad 
certain  old  lines  which  his  uncle,  who  loved  the  soft  and  rustic 


EUGENE   ARAM.  3ti 


morality  that  pervades  the  ancient  race  of  English  minstrels, 
had  taught  him,  when  a  boy,  came  pleasantly  into  his  re- 
collection : — 

"  With  all,  as  in  some  rare  limned  book,  we  see 
Here  painted  lectures  of  God's  sacred  will. 
The  daisy  teacheth  lowliness  of  mind  ; 
The  camomile,  we  should  be  patient  still ; 
The  rue,  our  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. 

"  'Tis  a  winning  thing,  sir,  a  garden !  It  brings  us  an  object 
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  parlour,  all  about  fishing, 
and  full  of  so  many  pretty  sayings  about  a  country  life,  and 
meditation,  and  so  forth,  that  it  does  one  as  much  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  accident  that 
made  me  take  to  gardening." 

^  Henry  Peacham. 

X 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


"  And  what  was  that  ? " 

*•  Why,  sir,  you  must  know  there  was  a  great  scholar,  though 
he  was  but  a  youth  then,  living  in  this  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  ofi",  he  stopped  and  plucked  some  herbs  that  seemed  to  me 
common  enough,  but  which  he  declared  were  most  curious  and 
rare  things,  and  he  carried  them  carefully  away.  I  heard  after- 
wards 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 
offer  him  relief  He  lived  quite  alone,  and  usually  avoided 
every  one  in  his  walks  ;  but,  sir,  there  was  something  so  engaging 
and  patient  in  his  manner,  and  his  voice,  and  his  pale,  mild 
countenance,  which,  young  as  he  was  then,  for  he  was  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 
neighbours  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 


EUGENE  ARAM.  323 


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  talked  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 
lellow-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  ofif  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 
remember  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 
Knaresbro' — there  were  many  suspicions  of  foul  play  about  it. 
For  my  part,  I  too  had  ray  thoughts,  but  that's  neither  here 
nor  there  ; "  and  the  old  man  recommenced  weeding  with  great 
diligence. 

"My  friend,"  said  Walter,  mastering  his  emotion,  "you 
would  serve  me  more  deeply  than  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  evor  hear  of  one  Richard 
Houseman  ? " 

"  Houseman  !  yes.     He  knew  my  poor ,  I  mean  he  knew. 

X   2 


314  EUGENE   ARAM. 


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.  **  Go  on — 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  sus- 
pected of  having  occasionally  taken  to  the  high  road  ;  and  a 
stranger,  who  stopped  once  at  my  little  inn,  assured  me  privately, 
that  though  he  could  not  positively  swear  to  his  person,  he 
felt  convinced  that  he  had  been  stopped  a  year  before  on  the 
London  road  by  Houseman.  Notwithstanding  all  this,  as 
Houseman  had  some  respectable  connections  in  the  town — 
among  his  relations,  by  the  by,  was  Mr.  Aram — as  he  was  a 
thoroughly  boon  companion — a  good  shot — a  bold  rider — ex- 
cellent 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. 
CUrke   disappeared,  I    had   been  on    an  excursion  with   some 


EUGENE  ARAM.  325 


gentlemen ;  and  in  consequence  of  the  snow  which  had  been 
heavy  during  the  latter  part  of  the  day,  I  did  not  return  to 
Knaresbro'  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 
greatcoat,  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-bye 
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  charactes 
— this  Houseman — intimate  with  Aram  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all ;  but  being  distantly  related,  and  Houseman  being 
a  familiar,  pushing  sort  of  a  fellow,  Aram  could  not,  perhaps, 
always  shake  him  off;  and  Aram  allowed  that  Houseman  had 
spent  the  evening  with  him." 

"  And  no  suspicion  rested  on  Aram  ? " 

The  host  turned  round  in  amazement. — "  Heavens  above,  no  I 
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?" 


EUGENE   ARAM. 


"Consider  also  the  dissolute  and  bold  character  of  House- 
man. 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  occasionally  gone  up 
to  town  to  see  him." 

"And  Aram — he  also  left  Knaresbro'  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  London — 
the  best  place  for  such  clever  scholars." 

"  Ha !  but  are  you  sure  that  the  aunt  died,  that  the  legacy 
was  left.^  Might  this  be  no  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 
Qn  this  head.  I  knew  the  old  lady  well,  and  my  wife  was  at 
York  when  she  died.  Besides,  every  one  here  knows  something 
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  ? " 

"  Certainly,  sir,  with  the  biggest  pleasure,"  said  mine  host ; 
"  but  you  must  first  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  which  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, 


EUGENE  ARAM.  327 


quaint-fashioned  fowling-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  peep- 
ing out  from  its  venerable  pages ;  and,  close  nestling  to  it,  re- 
calling 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  contents  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  w£is  hastily  concluding  his  repast,  a  little 
knock  at  the  door  was  heard,  and  presently  an  elderly  gentle- 
man in  black  put  his  head  into  the  room,  and,  perceiving  the 
stranger,  would  have  drawn  back ;  but  both  landlady  and  land- 
lord, bustling  up,  entreated  him  to  enter  by  the  appellation  of 
Mr.  Summers.  And  then,  as  the  gentleman  smilingly  yielded  to 
the  invitation,  the  landlady,  turning  to  Walter,  said, — "  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  advantage  to 
a  Knaresbro'  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  arras,  and  I  hear 
he  is  almost  in  a  state  of  frenzy." 

^  Shcnstone's  Schoolmistrau 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


The  host  and  hostess  signified  their  commiseration.  "Poof 
little  girl  I "  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  1     Yet  he  was  fond  of  her." 

"  My  reason  for  calling  on  you  was  this,"  renewed  the  clergy- 
man, addressing  the  host :  "  you  knew  Houseman  formerly ;  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  consolation  }  He  may 
be  poor :  /  can  pay  for  the  poor  child's  burial.  I  loved  her ;  she 
was  the  best  girl  at  Mrs.  Summers's  schooL" 

"  Certainly,  sir,  I  will  seek  him,"  said  the  landlord,  hesitating  ; 
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  forgetting  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  Walter, 
Dffered  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. 
Summers  was  no  Contemptible  antiquary ;  and  he  sought  to 
beguile  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  tradition: 
look  yonder"  (pointing  above,  as  an  opening  in  the  road  gave  to 
view  the  frowning  and  beetled  ruins  of  the  shattered  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  ii  or  I2  towres  in  the  walles  of  the 
castel,  and  one  very  fayre  beside  in  the  second  area.'  In  that 
castle,  the  four  knightly  murderers  of  the  haughty  Becket  (the 
Wolscy  of  his  age)  remained  for  a  whole  year,  defying  the  weak 
justice  of  the  times.     There,  too.  the  unfortunate  Richard  the 


EUGENE  ARAM.  329 


Second — the  Stuart  of  the  Plantagenets — passed  some  portion  of 
his  bitter  imprisonment.  And  there,  after  the  battle  of  Marston 
Moor,  waved  the  banners  of  the  loyahsts  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.  Fortu- 
nately, 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  singular,  by 
the  way,  that  it  was  twice  captured  by  men  of  the  name  of 
Lilburn  or  Lillburne  ;  once  in  the  reign  of  Edward  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  bom,  is 
worthy  of  the  tradition." 

*•  You  spoke  just  now,"  said  Walter,  who  had  not  very  patiently 
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  remarkable 
youth.     I    have   noted    him  from    his   childhood   upward,   long 


S9»  EUGENE  ARAM. 


before  he  came  to  Knaresbro',  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  I 
Never  did  I  see  one  whom  Nature  so  emphatically  marked 
to  be  GREAT.  I  often  wonder  that  his  name  has  not  long  ere 
this  been  more  universally  noised  abroad,  whatever  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.  Perhaps,  yet,  before  he 
dies, — he  is  still  young, — the  presentiment  will  be  realised.  You, 
too,  know  him,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes !  I  have  known  him.  Stay — dare  I  ask  you  a  question, 
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  acquaintance  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  fnay  be  satisfactorily  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  reverie  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  remembrance.  And  there  seems  to 
me  inexplicably  to  hang  over  his  heart  some  gloomy  recollection, 
which  I  cannot  divest  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  (lowering  his 
voice) — "  I  will  tell  you  :  Aram  did  undergo  examination — 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 


EUGENE  ARAM.  '  331 


of  sharing  with  Houseman  some  part  of  the  jewels  with  which 
Clarke  was  known  to  have  left  the  town.  This  suspicion  of 
robber>'  could  not,  however,  be  brought  home,  even  to  Houseman, 
and  Aram  was  satisfactorily  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  susceptible.  This,  I  believe,  was  the  real  reason  of 
his  quitting  Knaresbro'  almost  immediately  after  that  exam- 
ination. 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  well-nigh  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  interested 
in  the  fate  of  Clarke,  that  since  that  period  rumours  have  reached 
my  ear  that  the  woman  at  whose  house  Aram  lodged,  has  from 
time  to  time  dropped  words  that  require  explanation — hints  that 
she  could  tell  a  tale — that  she  knows  more  than  men  will  readily 
believe — nay,  once  she  is  even  reported  to  have  said  that  the  life 
of  Eugene  Aram  was  in  her  power." 

"Father  of  mercy  !  and  did  inquiry  sleep  on  W9rds  so  calling 
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  endeavouring  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,  however,  you  have  now  reawakened 
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." 


3|»  EUGENE   ARAM. 

*  I  thank  you !  I  thank  you  ! — I  will  not  let  slip  one  thread 
of  this  dark  clue ! " 

"And  now,"  said  the  curate,  pointing  to  a  decent  house,  "  wc 
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  cor4ial 
respect,  which  attested  the  well-deserved  popularity  of  the 
former. 

"We  have  come,"  said  the  curate,  "to  ask  you  some  questions 
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  relation, 
never  heard  of  Mr.  Clarke  since  he  left  the  town.^  Strange  I— 
this  room,  this  very  room,  was  the  one  Mr.  Clarke  occupied,  and 
next  to  this, — here — (opening  a  dooi")  was  his  bedchamber  I " 

It  was  not  without  powerful  emotion  that  Walter  found  him- 
self 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  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  window-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  familiar  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  tapestry,  and  above  its  dark  and  polished 
summit  were  hcarselike  and  heavy  trappings.  Old  commodes 
of  rudely  carved  oak,  a  discoloured  glass  in  a  japan  frame,  a 
ponderous  arm-chair  of  Elizabethan  fashion,  and  covered  with 
the  same  tapestry  as  the  bed,  altogether  gave  that  uneasy  and 


EUGENE   ARAM.  ^33 


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.  Houseman 
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  woiJd  occasionally  make  me  take 
a  glass  or  so,  sir." 

"  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  1     And  where,  if  so,  did  he  talk  of  going  } " 

"Oh!  first  to  London.  I  have  often  heard  him  talk  of  going 
to  London,  and  then  taking  a  trip  to  see  some  relations  of  his  in 
a  distant  part  of  the  country.  I  remember  his  caressing  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  valuables ; 
heavy  luggage  he  had  none.  He  was  a  cunning  gentleman  ;  he 
never  loved  paying  a  bill.     He  was  greatly  in  debt  in  different 


334  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  dis- 
appearance was  intentional ;  that  though  nothing  has  since 
been  heard  of  him,  none  of  tlie  blacker  rumours  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's  ? 
Did  you  ever  see  them  together  ? " 

"  Never  at  this  house.  I  fancy  Houseman  once  presented  Mr. 
Aram  to  Clarke;  and  that  they  may  have  mettand  conversed 
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  endeavoured,  by  as  minute  an  examina- 
tion as  his  ingenuity  could  suggest,  to  obtain  some  additional 
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  furni.sh  him  with  anything 
worthy  of  narration.  With  a  spirit  somewhat  damped  and  dis- 
appointed, Walter,  accompanied  by  the  curate,  recommenced 
his  expedition. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  335 


CHAPTER  XI. 

OKIEF  IN  A  RUFFIAN. —THE  CHAMBER  OF  EARLY  DEATH.— A  HOMELY  YETt 
MOMF.NTOUS  CONFESSION. —  THE  EARTH'S  SECRETS. —  THE  CAVERN. —  THK 
ACCUSATION. 

All  is  not  well, 
I  doubt  some  foul  play. 
•  •  •  •  • 

Foul  deeds  will  rise, 
Though  all  the  earth  o'er  whelm  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  ordinary 
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." 

"Ah,  sir!"  said  an  old  man,  leaning  on  his  stick,  and  lifting 
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  into  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  passage, 
and  presently  Houseman  was  seen  at  the  far  end,  driving  some 
women  before  him  with  vehement  gesticulaJtions. 

"  I  tell  you,  ye  hell-hags ! "  shrieked  his  harsh  and  now 
straining  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 


336  EUGENE  ARAM. 


Walter  recognised  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,  neighbours!  "  said  he  at  length  with 
a  fierce  laugh  :  "  this  is  kind !  You  have  come  to  welcome 
Richard  Houseman  home,  have  ye  ? — Good,  good !  Not  to 
gloat  at  his  distress  ? — Lord  !  no.  Ye  have  no  idle  curiosity 
— no  prying,  searching,  gossiping  devil  within  ye,  that  make? 
ye  love  to  flock,  and  gape,  and  chatter,  when  poor  men  suffer  i 
This  is  all  pure  compassion  ;  and  Houseman,  the  good,  gentle, 
peaceful,  honest  Houseman,  you  feel  for  hint, — I  know  you  dol 

Hark  ye:  begone — away — march — tramp — or Ha,  ha  !  there 

they  go — there  they  go ! "  laughing  wildly  again  as  the  frightened 
neighbours  shrunk  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  ! " 
"  Lives  there  one  man  for  whom  prayer  is  unavailing  "i " 
"  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,  ap- 
proaching the  curate,  said,  in  a  more  collected  tone, — "  I  pray 
you,  sir,  since  you  are  a  clergyman  (I  recollect  your  face,  and  I 
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  yod.  Halloo  I 
(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— —  I 
how  long  she  is.    Yet  the  hat  was  left  below.     But  when  a  death 


EUGENE  ARAM.  337 


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 
withering  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  features,  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  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  inter- 
cession)— 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  Houseman  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  impression  the  scene 
had  left  upon  their  minds,  once  more  resumed  their  erraad. 

"This  is  no  time,"  said  Walter,  musingly,  "for  an  exam- 
ination of  Houseman;  yet  it  must  not  be  forgotten." 

The  curate  did  not  reply  for  some  moments  ;  and  then,  as 

Y 


338  EUGENE   ARAM. 

an  answer  to  the  remark,  observed  that  the  conversation  they 
anticipated  with  Aram's  former  hostess  might  throw  some  h'ght 
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  something  strange, 
sad,  and  ominous.  Some  houses  have  an  expression,  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  grey,  discoloured  wall ;  the  pale,  in  part,  was  broken  and 
jagged  ;  and  rank  weeds  sprang  up  in  the  neglected  garden, 
through  which  they  walked  towards  the  porch.  The  door  was 
open ;  they  entered,  and  found  an  old  woman  of  coarse  appear- 
ance sitting  by  the  fireside,  and  gazing  on  spcice  with  that  vacant 
stare  which  so  often  characterises  the  repose  and  relaxation  of 
the  uneducated  p>oor.  Walter  felt  an  involuntary  thrill  of  dislike 
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  "i  You're  welcome,  sir.  I  wishes  I 
could  offer  you  a  glass  of  summut,  but  the  bottle's  dry — ^he  I 
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!  'tis  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  i  * 

"  A— well— yes  1 " 

••  An  excellent  man " 

"  Humph." 

"  A  most  admirable  man  I** 


EUGENE  ARAM.  339 


"  A-humph  !  he  I — 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  vpice,  "I  could  hang  him  1" 

"  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?" 

"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,  rocking 
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  entice- 
ment 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  up  stairs,  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,  when  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   up  stairs   to   Mr.   Aram's 

Y  2 


9«B  EUGENE  ARAM. 

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  soor. 
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.'  '  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'll  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  whicb  seemed  to  belong  to  wearing  apparel ;  and 
there,  too,  was  a  handkerchief  which  I  had  obsarved  Houseman 
wear  (for  it  was  a  very  curious  handkerchief,  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  hand- 
kerchief; and  I  said  to  him,  'What  has  come  of  Clarke  .''  an' 
he  frowned,  and,  looking  at  me,  said,  *  Hark  ye,  I  know  not 
wliat  you  mean  :  but,  as  sure  as  the  devil  keeps  watch  for  souls, 
I  will  shoot  you  through  the  head  if  )0u  ever  let  that  d — d 
tongue  of  yours  let  slip  a  single  word  about  Clarke,  or  me,  of 
Mr.  Aram  ;  so  look  to  yourself! ' 


EUGENE   ARAM.  34I 


"An'  I  was  all  scared,  and  trimbled  from  limb  to  limb  ;  an' 
for  two  whole  yearn  afterwards  (long  arter  Aram  and  Houseman 
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  tongue  now  an'  then, 
for  it's  a  hard  thing,  sir,  to  know  a  secret  o'  that  sort  and  be 
quiet  and  still  about  it ;  and,  indeed,  I  was  not  the  same  cretur 
when  I  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 
magistrate,  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  neighbourhood  of 
Knaresborough,  called  Thistle  Hill. 


34*  EUGENE   ARAM. 

'•  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  honour  ;  but  I  hears  as  how  Jem 
Ninnings,  digging  for  stone  for  the  limekiln,  have  dug  out  a  big 
wooden  chest." 

A  shout  from  the  group  broke  in  on  the  peasant's  explanation 
— 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  instinct 
— seemed  to  attract  them  involuntarily  to  the  spot  whence  that 
sound  arose  ; — they  quickened  their  pace — they  made  their  way 
through  the  throng.  A  deep  chest,  that  had  been  violently 
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  1 "  said  one  old  man,  with  grey  hair,  leaning  on  a  pick- 
axe ;  "  it  is  now  about  fourteen  years  since  the  Jew  pedlar 
disappeared  ; — these  are  probably  his  bones — he  was  supposed 
to  have  been  murdered  I " 

"  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'll  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  farther 
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  clamour. 

"  And  wiiat  do  you  here,  fools  ?  "  said  a  voice  abruptly.  The 
spectators  turned — a  new  comer  had  been  added  to  the  throng; 


EUGENE   ARAM.  343 


—it  was  Richard  Houseman.  His  dress,  loose  and  disarranged 
— his  flushed  cheeks  and  rolling  eyes — betrayed  the  source  of 
consolation  to  which  he  had  flown  from  his  domestic  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  disappeared  some  years  ago ! "  cried  two  or  three 
voices  in  concert. 

"  Clarke's  ? "  repeated  Houseman,  stooping  down  and  picking 
up  a  thigh-bone,  which  lay  at  a  little  distance  from  the  rest ; 
"  Clarke's } — ha  !  ha  !  they  are  no  more  Clarke's  than  miae ! " 

"  Behold  ! "  shouted  Walter,  in  a  voice  that  rang  from  clift 
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  murderer  !" 

"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  i/iey  He  } "  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  tuni  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,  which,  according 
to  tradition,  was  formerly  the  hermitage  of  one  of  those  early 
enthusiasts  who  made  their  solitude  in  the  sternest  recesses  of 
earth,  and  from  the  austerest  thoughts,  and  the  bitterest  penance 


344  EUGENE  ARAM. 

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  to  send  on  before 
for  torches,  for  the  wintry  evening  now  darkened  round  them, 
and  the  light  from  the  torch-bearers,  who  met  them  at  the  cavern, 
cast  forth  its  red  and  lurid  flare  at  the  mouth  of  the  chasm. 
One  of  these  torches  Walter  himself  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  endeavouring  to  speak,  for  the  words  died  inarticu- 
late and  choked  within  him,  advancing  a  few  steps,  pointed 
towards  a  spot  on  which,  the  next  moment,  fell  the  concentrated 
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  I 

"  Can  you  swear,"  said  the  priest,  solemnly,  as  he  turned  to 
Houseman,  "  that  these  are  the  bones  of  Clarke  ?" 

"  Beiore  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  tiiat  exclamation  completed  the  awe  and  horror 


EUGENE   ARAM.  34S 


which  prevailed  in  the  breasts  of  all  present.  Stung  by  a  sense 
of  the  danger  he  had  drawn  upon  himself,  and  despair  and  excite- 
ment restoring,  in  some  measure,  not  only  his  natural  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." 

"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  I" 

"  Aram  ! "  shouted  Walter,  starting  to  his  feet :  "  O  God,  thy 
hand  hath  directed  me  hither  ! "  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^  Koxi  rrSxn  ai^p  aXX<p  icaxi  rn'^Mff 
H  dc  jcox^  fiovkf]  r^  fiovXtv<rairn  kokIott]. 

'H2I0A. 

Stirdy  the  man  that  plotteth  ill  against  his  neighbour  perpetrateth  ill  against  himself 
•nd  the  evil  design  is  most  evil  to  him  that  deviseth  it. 


CHAPTER  I. 

GRASSDALK. — ^THB    MORNING    OF    THE    MARRIAGE. — THE    CRONES*    GOSSIP. — TUK 
BRIDE  AT   HER  TOILET. — THE  ARRIVAL. 

Jam  veniet  vlrgo,  jam  dicetur  Hymenxus, 

Hymen,  O  Hymenaee  !  Hymen  ades,  O  Hymennee  I  * 

— CATt;LLi;s,  CartiieH  Nuptialt. 

It  was  now  the  morning  in  which  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  transplanted  from  Lester's 
household,  to  meet  the  additional  cares  that  the  change  of 
circumstances  brought  to  Aram's)  had  invited  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 

1  Now   shall    the    Virgin    arrive ;     now   shall    be  sung   the   Hjrmeneal — Hymea 
Hyroenxui  !     Be  present,  O  Hymen  Ilymemrus  ! 


EUGENE   ARAM.  347 


old  crone,  whom  our  readers  will  recognise  as  Dame  Darkmans, 
placing  a  bowl  of  exotics  on  the  table.  "  They  does  not  look 
nigh  so  cheerful  as  them  as  grows  in  the  open  air." 

"  Tush  !  Goody  Darkmans,"  said  the  second  gossip.  "  They 
be  much  prettier  and  finer  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, 
Madge !  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,  wliile  the  more 
omijious  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  thus  on  his  marriage 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


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 
gipsy  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  spirals  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  living  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'  grey  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 
crcturs  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  superstitiously  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  with  this  narration,  the  dark 
figure  of  the  student  passed  the  window,  and  the  old  women. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  349 


Starting  up,  appeared  in  all  the  bustle  of  preparation,  as  Aram 
now  entered  the  apartment. 

"  A  happy  day,  your  honour — 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  reverie,  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 
servants  ;  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  tlie  lords  of  life, 
Through  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  vicinity  of 
the  church  to  the  house  brought  that  sound,  so  inexpressibly 
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  than  discretion. 
Before  her  glass  stood  the  beautiful,  the  virgin,  the  glorious 
form   of  Madeline  Lester;   and  Ellinor,  with  trembling  hands 


350  EUGENE   ARAM. 


(and  a  voice  between  a  laugh  and  a  cry),  was  braiding  up  her 
sister's  rich  hair,  and  uttering  her  hopes,  her  wishes,  her  con- 
gratulations. 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,  shivering ; 
"  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  will  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  sitting 
down  she  drew  EUinor  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  Madeline, 
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  housekeeping,  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  grey  hair 
and  his  good  fine  face,  with  a  tear  of  kind  feeling  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 
— anJ  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  alchymists,  with  their  fine 
old  dreams.  Ah !  it  will  be  such  a  happy  Christmas !  And 
then,  when  spring  comes,  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 


EUGENE  ARA\L  351 


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  EUinor,  smiling  through  her  tears. 

While  the  sisters  were  thus  engaged,  and  Madeline  was  trying, 
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  churchyard  ran  forth  to  gaze,  and  the  bells  rang  merrily  all 
the  while,  two  chaises  whirled  by  Madeline'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  AIXJXE  TN  HIS  CHAMBER.— THE  INTERRUPTION. — FAITHFUI.  LOTK. 

Nequicquam  thalamo  graves 
Hastas 


Vitabis,  strepitumque,  et  celerem  seqoi 
Ajacem. — Horat.  Od.  xv.  lib.  i.^ 


Alone  in  his  favourite  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,  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. 

'  In  vain  within  yonr  nuptial  chamber  will  you  shun  the  deadly  spean,  the  hostile 
shout,  and  Ajax  eager  in  pursuit. 


3Sa  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  pacing  the  apartment  with  folded  arms, — "  yes, 
aII  is  safe !  He  will  not  again  return  ;  the  dead  sleeps  now  with- 
out 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  thy.self, 
henceforth  and  for  ever,  my  busy  heart  I  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,  faithful,  anxious — but  a  watch. 
Farewell  the  unguarded  hour  ! — the  soul's  relief  in  speech — the 
dark  and  broken,  yet  how  grateful  I  confidence  with  self— fare- 
well !  And  come,  thou  veil !  subtle,  close,  unvarying,  the  ever- 
lasting curse  of  entire  hypocrisy,  that  under  thee,  as  night,  the 
vexed  world  within  may  sleep,  and  stir  not  I  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  vapour  girded  the  melancholy  orb.  Far  at 
the  entrance  of  the  valley  the  wild  fern  showed  red  and  faded, 
and  the  first  march  of  the  deadly  winter  was  already  heralded 
by  that  drear  and  silent  desolation  which  cradles  the  winds  and 
storms.  But  amidst  this  cheerless  scene,  the  distant  note  of  the 
merry  marriage-bell  floated  by,  like  the  good  spirit  of  the  wilder- 
ness, and  the  student  rather  paused  to  hearken  to  the  note  than 
to  survey  the  scene. 

"My  marriage-bell  I  "  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  the  honour 
and  the  wealth  //^r  son  was  to  acquire  I  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  bc^ 
happy  now  I     Memor>',  I  defy  tiiee !  ** 


EUGENE   ARAM.  3S3 


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  minutes 
the  sole  thought  of  the  soliloquist  was  love.  But  scarce  con- 
sciously to  himself,  a  spirit  not,  to  all  seeming,  befitted  to  that 
bridal-day, — vague,  restless,  impressed  with  the  dark  and  flutter- 
ing shadow  of  coming  change,  had  taken  possession  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  1  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,  changing  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  instruments  of  the  scorner  Fate ; — the  very 
mind,  the  very  reason,  a  bound  slave  to  the  desires,  the  weak- 
ness 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  idiocy,  or  delirious  raving,  by  a  putrid  ex- 
halation ! — 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  I     Strange,  strange, 

Z 


J54  EUGENE  ARAM. 


how  my  heart  sinks.  Well,  the  better  sign,  the  better  sign  !  in 
danger  it  never  sank." 

Absorbed  in  these  reflections,  Aram  had  not  for  some  minutes 
noticed  the  sudden  ceasing  of  the  bell  ;  but  now,  as  he  again 
paused  from  his  irregular  and  abrupt  pacings  along  the  chamber, 
the  silence  struck  him,  and  looking  forth,  and  striving  again  to 
catch  the  note,  he  saw  a  little  group  of  men,  among  whom  he 
marked  the  erect  and  comely  form  of  Rowland  Lester,  approach- 
ing 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  atten- 
tion from  my  good  father-in-law ;  I  must  thank  him  for  it. 
What !  my  hand  trembles  ;  how  weak  are  these  poor  nerves  ;  I 
must  rest  and  recall  my  mind  to  itself  1 " 

And,  indeed,  whether  or  not  from  the  novelty  and  importance 
of  the  event  he  was  about  to  celebrate,  or  from  some  presenti- 
ment, occasioned,  as  he  would  fain  believe,  by  the  mournful  and 
sudden  change  in  the  atmosphere,  an  embarrassment,  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  recollect  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  God  ! "  he  exclaimed,  clasping  his  hands,  "  Murderer  ! 
-»-was  that  the  word  T  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  active 
and  alarmed  mind  ran  over  the  whole  field  of  expedient  and 
conjecture.  Again,  "  Murderer  I "  "  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 
(jf  flight  from  the  casement  I — the  door  ? — he  heard   loud  stepi 


EUGENE  ARAM.  355 


already  jtiurrj'ing  up  the  stairs  ; — his  hands  clutched  convulsively 
at  his  breast,  where  his  fire-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  doggedly  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  moment ; 
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  Walter;  "he  is  my  father's 
murderer.  God  hath  given  justice  to  my  hands."  These  words, 
uttered  in  a  lower  key  than  before,  were  but  indistinctly  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.     Is  it  a  friend  who  asks  it  ? " 

"I  ask  it,"  said  Rowland  Lester,  in  a  trembling  and  agitated 
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 

z  2 


3S6  EUGENE  ARAM. 


back  for  a  moment,  as  they  beheld  the  lofty  brow,  the  majestic 
presence,  the  features  so  unutterably  calm,  of  Eujjene  Aram. 

"What  want  you,  sirs?"  said  he,  unmoved  and  unfaltering, 
though  in  the  officers  of  justice  he  recognised  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  eyes  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  authority 
meet  for  me  to  answer ; — for  you,  boy,  my  answer  is  contempt." 

"  Big  words  shall  not  save  thee,  murderer  I "  cried  Walter, 
breaking  from  his  uncle,  who  in  vain  endeavoured  to  hold  him  ; 
and  laying  his  powerful  grasp  upon  Aram's  shoulder.  Livid 
was  the  glare  that  shot  from  the  student's  eye  upon  his  assailer ; 
and  so  fearfully  did  his  features  work  and  change  with  the 
passions  within  him,  that  even  Walter  felt  a  strange  shudder 
thrill  through  his  frame. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Aram,  at  last,  mastering  his  emotions, 
and   resuming   some   portion  of  the   remarkable   dignity  that 


EUGENE  ARAM.  *  357 


characterised  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  muttered 
voice, — 

"  My  passion  misled  me ;  violence  is  unworthy  my  solemn 
cause.     God  and  Justice — not  these  hands — are  my  avengers." 

"  F(£?«r  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  daughter,  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  your  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 
walk  aside  to  save  a  worm !  "  and  the  poor  old  man,  overcome 
with  his  emotions,  could  literally  say  no  more. 

Aram  looked  down  on  Lester  with  a  compassionate  ex- 
pression, and  soothing  him  with  kind  words,  and  promises  that 
all  would  be  explained,  gently  moved  from  his  hold,  and, 
anxious  to  terminate  the  scene,  silently  motioned  the  officers  to 
proceed.     Struck  with  the  calmness  and  dignity  of  his  manner. 


jfS  *  EUGENE    ARAM. 


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  farther  words. 

The  three  old  women,  who  had  remained  in  listening  astonish- 
ment at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  gave  way  as  the  men  descended ; 
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  kindness  had  endeared  him  to 
her  humble  and  faithful  heart,  and  exclaimed, — 

"  \\  hat  are  they  doing?  Have  they  the  heart  to  ill-use  you  ? 
O  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 
Rowland  Lester,— 

"  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  waa 
remembered.  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  pa.sscd  his  threshold ! 

"  Ho,  ho  I "  muttered  the  old  hag,  whose  predictions  in  the 


EUGENE  ARAAL  *  359 


morning  had  been  so  ominous, — "  Ho,  ho !  you'll  believe  Goody 
Darkmans  another  time!  Providence  respects  the  sayings  of 
the  ould.  'Tvvas  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 
endeavoured  to  cheer  the  prisoner's  spirits  and  his  own,  by 
insisting  on  the  madness  of  the  charge,  and  the  certainty  of 
instant  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 
tliis  yourself? " 

"  I ! — O  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 
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  for  ever  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  apprehensions, 
and  then  follow  us  with  haste  ?  I  am  alone  among  enemies  till 
you  come." 


36o  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  I  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  disappointed 
love — of  anticipated  despair — she  rose,  and  gradually  recoiling 
with  a  fear  which  struck  dumb  her  voice,  thrice  attempted  to 
speak,  and  thrice  failed. 

"  But  what — what  is — what  means  this  } "  exclaimed  Ellinor. 
"  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  cousin,  speak ! " 

"Speak  I"  cried  Madeline,  finding  voice  at  length,  but  in  the 
sharp  and  straining  tone  of  wild  terror,  in  which  they  recognised 
no  note  of  the  natural  music.  The  single  word  sounded  rather 
as  a  shriek  than  an  adjuration  ;  and  so  piercingly  it  ran  through 
the  hearts  of  all  present,  that  the  very  officers,  hardened  as  their 
trade  had  made  them,  felt  as  if  they  would  rather  have  faced 
death  than  answered  that  command, 

A  dead,  long,  drear}'  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  !" 

"  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  leal  charge ;  pardon  me,  I  wronged  you  :  now, 
know  all  !     They  accuse  me,  I  say,  of  crime.     Of  what  crime? 


EUGENE  ARAM.  361 


you  ask.     Ay,  I  scarce  know,  so  vague  is  the  charge — so  fierce 
the  accuser  :  but  prepare,  Madeline — it  is  of  murder  ! " 

Raised  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  forgetfulness ;  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  i* — Of  what  ?  of  crimes  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  this.  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  ;  t/its  had  not  struck  upon  him  with  a  due 
force  till  now ! 

"  Mercy — yon  talk  of  mercy  !  I  knew  it  could  not  be  true  !  '* 
said  Madeline,  trying  to  pluck  her  cousin's  hand  from  his  face  : 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


"  you  could  not  have  dreamed  of  wrong  to  Eugene — and — and 
upon  this  day.  Say  we  have  erred,  or  that  you  have  erred,  an4 
we  will  forgive  and  bless  you  even  now  I " 

Aram  had  not  interfered  in  this  scene.  He  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  cousins,  not  uninterested  to  see  what  effect 
Madeline's  touching  words  might  produce  on  his  accuser  :  mean- 
while, she  continued, — "  Speak  to  me,  Walter — dear  Walter, 
speak  to  me!  Are  you,  ray  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 — your  own 
home — your  childhood's  home  ?  What  have  you  done  ?  what 
have  you  dared  to  do  ?  Accuse  Aim  I — of  what  ?  Murder  ! 
speak,  speak. — Murder,  ha  !  ha  1 — 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  I " 

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  1 " 

**  Your  father  1 "  said  Madeline,  staggering  back — "  my  lost 
uncle  1  Nay, — now  I  know  indeed  what  a  shadow  has  appalled 
us  all !  Did  you  know  my  uncle,  Eugene  ?  Did  you  ever  sec 
Geofifrey  Lester } ' 

"  Never,  as  I  believe,  so  help  me  God  1"  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  tc  leave  you  now — now 
in  the  hour  of  dread — I  will  not  Nay,  look  not  so  I  I  swear 
I  will  not  1     Father,  dear  father,  come,  and  plead  for  me — say  I 


EUGENE  ARAM.  363 


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.  You  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  tliis 
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 — I  see  it ! " 

"  O  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  v/as  supporting 
EUinor,  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. 

By  this  time  some  of  Lester's  servants,  who  had  from  a  dis- 
tance 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 — Ellinor, 
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. 


EUGENE  ARA&L 


CHAPTER  IIL 

THE  JtrsnCK. —  THX  DEPARTURB. — ^THE  EQUANIMITY  OP  THE  CORPORAL  IN 
BEARING  THE  MISFORTUNES  OF  OTHER  PEOPLE.  -  THE  EXAMINATION;  ITS 
RESULT. — Aram's  conduct  in  prison. — THE  ELASTICITY  OF  OUR  HUMAN 
NATURE.— A  VISIT  FROM  THE  EARU — WALTER'S  DETERMINATION. — MADELINE. 

Bear  me  to  prison,  where  I  am  committed. 

— Miosure /or  Afeasurt. 

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  endorsed  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  disproved, 
and  a  few  other  courteous  commonplaces,  he  gave  Aram  to 
understand  that  the  matter  now  did  not  rest  with  him,  but 
that  it  was  to  Yorkshire  that  the  officers  were  bound,  and 
before  Mr.  Thornton,  a  magistrate  of  that  county,  that  the 
examination  was  to  take  place.  *'  All  I  can  do,"  said  the  magis- 
trate, "  I  have  already  done  ;  but  I  wished  for  an  opportunity 
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  sufficient  refutation  of  so 
monstrous  a  charge." 

For  the  first  time  a  visible  embarrassment  came  over  the 
firm  nerves  of  the  prisoner :  he  seemed  to  look  with  great  un- 
easiness at  the  prospect  of  this  long  and  dreary  journey,  and 
for  such  an  end.  Perhaps,  the  very  notion  of  returning  as  a 
suspected  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 


EUGENE   ARAM.  36; 


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  colour 
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  friendship ! 
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. 

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  bourne  to  which  he  was 
bound. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Walter,  seizing  his  uncle's  hands, 
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  fascination  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  innocence  of 
the  accused.  Still,  however,  the  deep  sincerity  of  his  nephew's 
manner  in  some  measure  served  to  soften  his  resentment 
towards  him. 

**  No,  no,  boy  I "  said  he,  drawing  away  his  hand  ;  **  Rowland 


366  EUGENE   ARAM. 


Lester  is  not  the  one  to  desert  a  friend  in  the  day  of  darkness 
and  the  hour  of  need.  Be  silent,  I  say ! — My  brotlier,  my  poor 
brother,  you  tell  me,  has  been  murdered.  I  will  see  justice  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  murdered  father  is  a  dread 
and  awful  memory  to  a  son  !  What  wonder  that  the  thought 
warps  your  judgment  ?  But  go  I  Eugene  was  to  me  both  a 
guide  and  a  blessing  ;  a  father  in  wisdom,  a  son  in  love.  I  can- 
not look  on  his  accuser's  face  without  anguish.  Go !  we  shall 
meet  again. —  How !     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  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  dis- 
tress more  sad  than  the  portrait  of  some  individual  sitting 
indifferently  looking  on  in  the  back-ground.  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  melan- 
choly depth  of  humour  that  steeps  both  our  fancy  and  3ur 
heart  in  the  immortal  romance  of  Cervantes  (for,  how  pro- 
foundly melancholy  is  it  to  be  compelled  by  one  gallant  folly  to 
laugh  at  all  that  is  gentle,  and  brave,  and  wise,  and  generous)  I 
nothing  grates  on  us  more  than  when — last  .scene  of  all — the 
poor  knight  lies  dead, — his  exploits  for  ever  over — for  ever  dumb 
his  eloquent  discourses :  that  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 


EUGENE   ARAM.  367 


is  not  the  best  part  of  it.  Certain  it  was,  that  when  Walter,  full 
of  contending  emotions  at  all  he  had  witnessed, — harassed, 
tortured,  yet  also  elevated  by  his  feelings — stopped  opposite  the 
cottage  door,  and  saw  there  the  corporal  sitting  comfortably  in 
the  porch, — his  vile  modicum  Sabiiii  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  experi- 
enced 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,  slowly  rising,  "  how  did  it 
go  off? — wasn't  the  villain  'bash'd  to  the  dust  ? — YouVe  nabbed 
him  safe,  I  hope  ? " 

"  Silence  I "  said  Walter,  sternly  ;  "  prepare  for  our  departure. 
The  chaise  will  be  here  forthwith ;  we  return  to  Yorkshire  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  in. 
Walter's  foot  was  on  the  step  :  but  before  the  corporal  mounted 
the  rumbling  dickey,  that  invaluable  domestic  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  suffering, 
that  elapsed,  till  the  prisoner  and  his  companions  reached 
Knaresbro'.  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  procure  evidence,  or 


36S  EUGENE  ARAM. 


remember  circumstances,  sufficient  on  tlic  instant  to  set  aside 
such  presumption, — he  yet  dwelt  partly  on  the  hope  of  ultimate 
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.  Always 
in  my  brightest  and  youngest  hours  I  have  wrapped  my  heart  in 
the  contemplation  of  an  august  futurity  : — 

**  •  The  sonl,  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 
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  Madeline,  as  if 
imbued  with  a  deeper  and  more  mournful  penetration  into  the  . 
future,  listened  in  tearless  and  breathless  attention.  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  proclaim'd  '  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 
underwent  his  examination.  Though  he  denied  most  of  the 
particulars  in  Houseman's  evidence,  and  expressly  the  charge  of 

*  Lofw. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  369 


murder,  his  commitment  was  made  out ;  and  that  day  he  was 
removed  by  the  oflficers  (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  through- 
out the  country  was  wholly  unequalled.  Not  only  in  Yorkshire, 
and  the  county  in  which  he  had  of  late  resided,  where  his  per- 
sonal habits  were  known,  but  even  in  the  metropolis,  and 
amongst  men  of  all  classes  in  England,  it  appears  to  have 
caused  one  mingled  feeling  of  astonishment,  horror,  and  in- 
credulity, which  in  our  times  has  no  parallel  in  any  criminal 
prosecution.  The  peculiar  attributes  of  the  prisoner — his  genius 
— his  learning — his  moral  life — the  interest  that  by  students  had 
been  for  years  attached  to  his  name — his  approaching  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 
cliscovered — the  imperfect  rumours — the  dark  and  suspicious 
evidence, — all  combined  to  make  a  tale  of  such  mar\'ellous 
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  permanent  histories  of 
the  period. 

Previous  to  Walter's  departure  from  Knaresbro'  to  Grassdale,. 
and  immediately  subsequent  to  the  discovery  at  St.  Robert's- 
Cave,  the  coroner's  inquest  had  been  held  upon  the  bones  so- 
mysteriously  and  suddenly  brought  to  light.  Upon  the  witness 
of  the  old  woman  at  whose  house  Aram  had  lodged,  and  upon^ 
that  of  Houseman,  aided  by  some  circumstantial  and  less 
weighty  evidence,  had  been  issued  that  warrant  on  which  we 
have  seen  the  prisoner  appreheitded. 

With  most  men  there  was  an  intimate  and  indignant  persua- 
sion 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    circumstantial 

A   A 


379  EUGENE  ARAM. 


evidence  which  identified  Clarke  with  GcofTiey  Lester — r.  stcry 
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  the  old 
man's  presence ;  at  others,  he  would  shrink  from  Lester's 
proffered  hand,  and  start  abruptly  from  his  professions  of  un- 
altered, unalterable  regard ;  sometimes  he  would  sit  silently, 
and,  with  a  changeless  and  stony  countenance,  look  upon  Made- 
line 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  I  What  was  he 
to  you?  Yet  it  is  dreadful  to  think  of — dreadful,  dreadful!" 
and  then  again  his  voice  ceased  ;  but  his  lips  moved  convulsively, 
and  his  eyes  seemed  to  speak  meanings  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  intended  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  ward  punishment  from  himself  by 
imputing  crime  to  another.  Naturally,  then,  they  frequently 
sought  to  turn  the  conversation  upon  Houseman,  and  on  the 


EUGENE  ARAM.  371 


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,  how- 
ever, such  as  it  was,  threw  much  h'ght  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  calculcations  of  an 
ordinary  wickedness ;  we  knew  each  other  irom  our  relationship, 
but  seldom  met,  and  still  more  rarely  held  long  intercourse 
together.  After  we  separated,  when  I  left  Knaresbro',  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  understand  ? — 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  depended 
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  b!ame  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  would  not  wed  while  I  thought 
this  danger  could  burst  upon  me.  I  believed  that,  before  my 
marriage  day.  Houseman  had  left  the  country.  It  was  not  so  : 
Fate  ordered  otherwise.  It  seems  that  Houseman  came  to 
Knaresbro'  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 

A  A  2 


37*  EUGENE  ARAM. 

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  ? 
— owning  that  danger  was  around  me — owning  that  a  wild  and 
terrific  secret  was  heavy  at  my  breast ;  nay,  once,  walking  with 
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  searching 
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's  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  abstraction 
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 
unworldly  habits  than  with  the  haughty  character  of  Aram,  that 
he  should  seek,  circumstanced  as  he  was,  to  silence  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  circumstance,  which  after  all 
had  not  transpired,  nor  seemed  likely  to  transpire;  and  he 
attributed  the  prisoner's  aversion  to  enter  fartht;r  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 


EUGENE   ARAM.  373 


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  for  ever 
blast  the  happiness  of  his  family,  and  which  might,  notwithstand- 
ing such  a  verdict,  leave  on  Walter's  own  mind  an  impression  of 
the  prisoner's  innocence,  and  an  uneasy  consciousness  that  he, 
through  his  investigations,  had  brought  him  to  that  doom. 

Walter  remained  in  Yorkshire,  seeing  little  of  his  family — 
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  indeed 
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  instrument  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  demeanour  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  mountain  bleak,  or  tangled  forest, 
Had  learnt  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 
"  "  Remorse."  by  S.  T.  Coleridge. 


374  EUGENE   ARAM. 


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 
the  desolate  scenes  where  Mortality  struggles  with  Despa  r;  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  remembrance — all  was 
forgotten,  and  his  spirit  was  abroad,  and  his  step  upon  the 
mountain  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  circumstance, 
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  physical  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  dormant  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  intervab,  but  the  stepping-stone  it  had  created  and  placed 
at  each  ;  and,  by  that  moral  dreaming  which  for  ever  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    equalising  all  states  and  all  times    in    the 


EUGENE  ARAM.  375 


varying  tide  of  life  are  these  two  rulers  yet  levellers  of  mankind, 
Hope  and  Custom,  that  the  very  idea  of  an  eternal  punishment 
includes  that  of  an  utter  alteration  of  the  whole  mechanism  of 
the  soul  in  its  human  state;  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  chainless  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  neighbourhood,  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;  services,  at  such  a  moment, no  individual 
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  particulars  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  counsel,  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  rumours  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  Ions'  enoujih 
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,  that  I  have  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  notable. 


376  EUGLNE  ARAM. 


at  such  a  time,  to  converse  on  more  indifferent  themes,  the  last 
interview  he  ever  had  with  Aram  terminated  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  genius.  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  prisoner 
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  volun- 
tary exile,  uiid  a  life  that  may  lead  to  forget  fulness,  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  naturally  full  of  fire  and 
action.  One  dark  dfscovery  quells  his  spirit,  unstrings  his  heart, 
and  stales  to  him  for  ever  the  uses  of  the  world.  I  now  com- 
prehend 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,  im- 
petuous, headstrong  youth.  I  scarcely  recognise  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  vapour,  darkening  one  moment,  and  gene  the  next. 
But,  my  young  friend,  let  us  hope  ihc  best     I  firmly  believe  in 


EUGENE  ARAM.  377 


Aram's  innocence — firmly! — more  rootedly  than  I  can  express. 
The  real  criminal  will  appear  on  the  trial.  All  bitterness  between 
you  and  Aram  must  cease  at  his  acquittal ;  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  worst,"  continued  the  earl,  pressing  his  hand  in 
parting,  "if  you  should  persist  in  your  resolution  to  leave  the 
country,  write  to  me,  and  I  can  furnish  you  with  an  honourable 
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  grey,  and  to  bleach  the  grey  to  white.  And  this 
suspense — suspense  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  colour,  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  preter- 
natural hectic,  which,  once  settled,  rarely  yields  its  place  but  to 
the  colours  of  the  grave.  Her  form  shrank  from  its  rounded  and 
noble  proportions.  Deep  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 
*  See  Mr.  Wakefield's  work  On  the  Punishnutit  of  Death. 


378  EUGENE  ARAM. 


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,  were  for  ever  present  before  her.  Till  now  she 
and  EUinor  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,  O  God ! 
that  his  lips  have  proclaimed  the  guilt  I  And  shaH  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  dream.s." 

But  not  in  vain,  or  not  excluded  from  Iter,  was  that  elastic  and 
consoling  spirit  of  which  I  have  before  spoken.  As  Aram  re- 
covered the  tenor  of  his  self-possession,  a  more  quiet  and  peaceful 
calm  diffused  itself  over  the  mind  of  Madeline.  Her  high  and 
starry  nature  could  comprehend  those  sublime  inspirations  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.  She  would  sit,  rapt  and  absorbed  for  hours 
together,  till  the.se  contemplations  assumed  the  colour  of  a  gentle 
and  soft  insanity.  "Come,  dearest  Madeline,"  Ellinor  would 
say, — "  come,  you  have  thought  enough ;  my  poor  father  asks  to 
see  you." 

••Ilush!"  Madeline  answered.  "  Hush,  I  have  been  walking 
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  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  I — it  thrills  amidst  all  the 


EUGENE   ARAM.  379 


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  before  !  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  relaxation  and  refreshment — ar 
escape  from  the  consciousness  of  life.  And,  indeed,  it  might 
always  be  noted,  that  after  such  harmless  aberrations  of  the  mind 
Madeline  seemed  more  collected  and  patient  in  thought,  and  for 
the  moment  even  stronger  in  frame  than  before.  Yet  the  body 
evidently  pined  and  languished,  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  insuperable  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  absence, 
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  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  eventful  history.  Over  the  hardest 
stone,  as  over  the  softest  turf,  the  green  moss  will  force  it.^ 
ve«'dure  and  sustain  its  life  ! 


jto  EUGENE   ARANf. 


CHAPTER  IV, 

THB  KTENING  BEFORE  THB  TRIAL. — THE  COUSINS. — THE  CHANGE  IN  MADELINE. 
— TU£  FAMILY  OF  GRASSDALB  MEET  ONCE  MORE  BENEATH  ONE  ROOF. 

Each  substance  of  a  grief  hath  twenty  shadow% 
For  Sorrow's  eye,  glazed  with  blinding  tears, 
Divides  one  thing  entire  to  many  object*. 

•  •  •  •  # 

Hope  is  a  flatterer, 
A  parasite,  a  keeper  back  of  death  ; 
Who  gently  would  dissolve  the  bands  of  death 
Which  false  Hope  lingers  in  extremity. — Ru hard  It, 

It  was  the  evening  before  the  trial.  Lester  and  his  daughters 
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  hedgerows,  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  hi:ar 
even  its  murmurs.  The  stillness  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 
un.«!peakable  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  .-ilong  the 
green  hedgerow,  some  village  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 


EUGENE  |AR\M.  381 


pure  and  true  pastoral  character,  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 
realisation.  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  nocente* 
Nutrit ;  et  urticae  proxitna  saepe  rosa  est. "  * 

He  now  walked  more  quickly  on,  as  if  stung  by  his  reflections, 
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  rmtural  arbour,  the  moon,  piercing 
at  broken  intervals  through  the  boughs,  rested  on  the  form  of 
EUinor  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, 
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  joii 
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  ? " 

^  The  same  earth  produces  health-bearing  and  deadly  plants  ;  and  ofttimes  the  rose 
grows  nearest  to  the  nettle. 


Stt,  EUGENE  ARAM. 


"  Let  to-morrow  show,"  answered  Walter.  "  Rut  poor,  poof 
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  I " 

"Just  Heaven!  is  it  so.'"  exclaimed  Walter,  so  shocked,  that 
the  tree  against  which  he  leant  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  I  " 

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  feeling 
of  their  breast,  mingled  their  emotions,  and  sought,  at  least,  to 
console  and  cheer  each  other. 

"  It  may  yet  be  better  than  our  fears,"  said  Ellinor,  soothingly. 
•*  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 — him,  too, 
I  have  not  seen  for  some  time  :  is  he  well  ? " 

"  Yes,  Walter,  yes,"  said  Ellinor,  kindly  disguising  the  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  colour  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. 

"  Rut  can  I  not  see  my  uncle  ?"  said  he,  after  a  pause. 

"He  is  not  at  home:  he  has  gone  to  the  Castle,"  replied 
Ellinor. 


EUGENE    ARAM.  38^ 


"  I  shall  meet  him,  then,  on  his  way  home,"  returned  Walter. 
"But,  Ellinor,  there  is  surely  no  truth  in  a  vague  rumour. 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,  forbid  me 
to  contradict  the  wish.  Contradiction,  the  physician  himself 
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  fascinatiorf  had  never 
been  to  an  equal  degree  with  the  rest  of  her  family. 

"  Ellinor ! "  said  Walter,  who  had  been  walking  for  the  last 
fiew  moments  to  and  fro  with  the  rapid  strides  of  a  man  debating 
with  himself,  and  who  now  suddenly  paused,  and  laid  his  hand 
on  his  cousin's  arm — "  Ellinor !  I  am  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  matter — 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 


^  EUGENE   ARAM. 


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  consulted 
or  prepared  her.** 

"  As  you  will,  my  gentlest,  kindest  cousin ;  I  know  your 
prudence  and  affection.  I  leave  you  to  obtain  me  this  interview ; 
you  can,  and  will,  I  am  convinced." 

"  Do  not  be  sanguine,  Walter.  I  can  only  promise  to  use  my 
best  endeavours,"  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  parlour,  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.  And 
now  this  strange,  this  desolate  house,  himself  estranged  from  all 
once  regarding  him  (and  those  broken-hearted),  this  night 
ushering  what  a  morrow  1  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 
inter\'iew,  she  paused  but  for  one  instant,  and  then  begged  me 
to  admit  you." 

"God  bless  herl"  said  poor  Walter,  drawing  his  hand  across 
his  eyes,  and  following  Ellinor  to  the  door. 

"You  will  find  her  greatly  changed!"  whispered  Ellinor,  aa 
they  gained  the  outer  hall ;  "  be  prepared  I " 


EUGENE  ARAM.  385 


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  reclined.  She  held 
out  her  hand  to  him — he  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  without  daring  to 
look  her  in  the  face  ;  and  after  a  moment's  pause,  she  said — 

"So,  you  wished  to  see  me,  Walter!  It  is  an  anxious  night 
this  for  all  of  us!" 

"For  a///"  repeated  Walter,  emphatically ;  "and  for  me  not 
the  least!" 

"  We  have  known  some  sad  days  since  we  last  met ! "  renewed 
Madeline :  and  there  was  another  and  an  embarrassed  pause. 

"Madehne — 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 — /  have  not  willingly 
brought  this  affliction  upon  our  house — least  of  all  upon  that 
heart  which  my  own  would  have  forfeited  its  best  blood  to  pre- 
serve from  the  slightest  evil ; — or,  if  you  will  not  do  me  this 
justice,  say  at  least  that  you  forgive  me ! " 

"  I  forgive  you,  Walter ! — I  do  you  justice,  my  cousin  ! "  replied 
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  fearf..l  thing 
to  see  men  weep  1  It  is  only  once  that  I  have  seen  /iim  weep, — 
that  was  long,  long  ago  I     He  has  no  tears  in  the  hour  of  dread 

B  B 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


and  danger.  But  no  matter:  this  is  a  bad  woild,  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  believe  her !  Look  at  me !  I  am  calm  and  collected  ! 
Yet  to-morrow  is O  God  !  O  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  agonised  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  characterised  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,  Wf  cannot  be  divided  long.  Ere 
another  Sabbath  has  passed,  I  may  be  with  him  in  Paradise. 
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  is  a 
wicked  place — it  is  full  of  snares  and  pit-falls.  In  our  walk 
to-day  lies  our  destruction  for  to-morrow  I  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  I  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  u.an!"  muttered 
Lester,  folding  her  in  his  arms ;  "  but  we  ought  to  take  courage 


EUGENE  ARAM  387 


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  anxieties  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  tc-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  pausing  moon, 
which  filled  the  lowly  room  as  with  the  presence  of  a  spirit, 
witness  a  more  impressive  adjuration,  or  an  audience  more  ab- 
sorbed and  wrapt.  Full  streamed  its  holy  rays  upon  the  now 
snowy  locks  and  upward  countenance  of  Lester,  making  his 
venerable  person  more  striking  from  the  contrast  it  afforded  to 
the  dark  and  sunburnt  cheek — the  energetic  features,  and  chival- 
ric  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  facq  visible ;  the  graceful  neck 
and  heaving  breast  alone  distinguished  from  the  shadow  ; — and, 
hushed  in  a  death-like  and  solemn  repose,  the  parted  lips  moving 
inaudibly ;  the  eye  fixed  on  vacancy ;  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  recompenFe  for  the  ills  of  earth  1 


B  B  2 


388  EUGENE  AKAM. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  TRIAJU 
Eqnal  to  either  fortune  — Speech  of  Eugene  Arant% 

A  THOUGHT  comes  over  us,  sometimes,  in  our  career  of 
pleasure,  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  sounds  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  maddening  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  ! 

The  third  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  gaiety  accompanying  the  reality  of  anguish  I 

"Yes,"   continued    Madeline,   with    a   smile   of   inexpressible 

'  Young. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  389 


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  believe 
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  *«. 
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,^  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  I  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  gathered  the  poor  flower, 
how  fresh  it  was ;  and  I  kissed  off  the  dew :  7iow  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." 

And  when  Madeline  was  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.  Presently  they  heard 
an  irresolute  and  trembling  step  at  the  door,  and  Lester  knock- 
ing, 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  itiourning  :  the  glance  said  volumes, 

'  The  remark  is  in  Aristotle.  Buffon  quotes  it,  with  his  usual  adroit  felicity,  in,  I 
think,  the  first  volume  of  his  £reat  work. 


390  EUGENE   ARANL 


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,  EUinor,  come  ! "  and  leaning  on  her  arm,  Made- 
line walked  towards  the  door.  When  she  got  to  the  threshold, 
she  paused,  and  looked  round  the  room. 

"  What  is  it  you  want  ? "  asked  EUinor. 

"  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.  EUinor,  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  tliougiit  would  be  mine.  God  grant  that  /  may  have 
suffered  for  us  both,  and  that  when  we  meet  hereafter  you  may 
tell  \x\Q  you  have  been  happy  here  I 

"  But  you,  father,"  added  Madeline,  tearing  herself  from  the 
neck  of  her  weeping  sister,  and  sinking  on  her  knees  before 
Lester,  who  leaned  against  the  wall  convulsed  with  his  emotions, 
and  covering  his  face  with  his  hands — "  but  you, — what  can  I 
say  to  yoii  ?  You,  who  have  never, — no,  not  in  my  first  child- 
hood, 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  suffocate  me  now  ? — The 
time  will  come  when  EUinor  and  EUinor's  children  must  be  all 


EUGENE    ARAM.  391 


in  all  to  you — when  of  your  poor  Madeline  nothing  will  be  left 
but  a  memory  ;  but  they,  they  will  watch  on  you  and  tend  you, 
and  protect  your  grey  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  endeavoured 
to  speak. 

"  Give  me  your  blessing,  dear  father,"  said  Madeline,  herself 
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 
escaped  that  worst  of  tortures,  the  curious  gaze  of  strangers 
on  distress.  Places  had  been  kept  for  them  in  court,  and  as 
they  left  the  carraige  and  entered  the  fatal  spot,  the  venerable 
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  court  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  there- 
upon 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 


39a  EUGENE  ARAM. 


her  self-possession,  and  sat  quiet  and  silent,  fixing  her  eyes 
upon  Aram's  countenance  ;  and  the  aspect  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  anxiety  generally  the  most  deeply 
writes  its  traces,  were  grown  marked  and  furrowed ;  grey  hairs 
were  here  and  there  scattered  amongst  the  rich  and  long 
luxuriance  of  his  dark  brown  locks,  and  as,  before  his  imprison- 
ment, he  had  seemed  considerably  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 
.indimmed  as  ever,  and  still  the  broad  expanse  of  his  forehead 
retained  its  unwrinkled  surface  and  striking  expression  of  calm- 
ness 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  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  thick  lips — the  receding  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  especially  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  pirvenl 


EUGENE  ARAM.  393 


remorse  at  his  treachery  in  accusing  his  comrade — a  confused 
principle  of  honour  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 
January,  1744-5,  some  time  before  eleven  o'clock,  he  went  to 
Aiam's  house ;  that  they  conversed  on  different  matters  ;  that 
he  stayed  there  about  an  hour ;  that  some  three  hours  afterwards 
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  town  ;  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  the  next  morning  he  went  to  Aram's  house,  and 
asked  what  business  he  had  with  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  Mr.  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 


394  EUGENE   ARAM. 


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  Richard  Houseman.  He  contented 
himself  with  wishing  him  good  night. 

The  officers  who  executed  the  warrant  then  gave  their  evidence 
as  to  the  arrest,  and  dwelt  on  some  e.^pressions  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  exposition 
of  the  relics  of  the  dead  ran  through  the  court ;  for  the  next 
witness  was  mute — it  was  the  skull  of  the  deceased  I  On  the 
left  side  there  was  a  fracture,  that  from  the  nature  of  it  seemed 
as  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  sui^eon,  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 
Aram's  hostess,  would  merely  have  repeated  what  the  reader 
knew  before. 

And  now  closed  the  criminatory  evidence — and  now  the 
prisoner  was  asked  the  thrilling  and  awful  question — "  What 
he  had  to  say  in  his  own  behalf.^"  Till  now,  Aram  ha  J  not 
changed  his  posture  or  his  countenance — his  dark  and  piercing 
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  grey  locks  of  Rowland 
Lester,  who,  looking  down,  had  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 
But  beside  that  venerable  form  was  the  still  and  marble  face 
of  Madeline;  and  even  at  that  distance  from  him,  Aram  perceived 
how  intent   was   the  hushed  suspense   of  her   emotions.      But 


EUGENE    ARAM.  395 


when  she  caught  his  eye — that  eye  which,  even  at  such  a 
moment,  beamed  unutterable  love,  pity,  regret  for  her — a  wild, 
a  convulsive  smile  of  encouragement,  of  anticipated  triumph, 
broke  the  repose  of  her  colourless  features,  and  suddenly  dying 
away,  left  her  lips  apart,  in  that  expression  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  labour,  not  with  guilt,  my  lord,  but  with  perplexity. 
For,  having  never  seen  a  court  but  this,  being  wholly  unac- 
quainted with  law,  the  customs  of  the  bar,  and  all  judiciar>' 
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. 

"  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,  destitute 
of  friends,  and  unassisted  by  counsel,  attempt  something,  per- 
haps, like  argument,  in  my  defence.  What  1  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 }  Man- 
kind are    not   instantaneously   corrupted.      Villany    is    always 


396  EUGENE  ARAM. 


progressive.     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  sufiered  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  motives,  with- 
out 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  seen 
or  heard  of  since.  If  this  man  escaped  unseen,  through  all  these 
difficulties,  how  easy  for  Clarke,  whom  no  difficulties  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  churchyard, 
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  con- 
tained these  relics  of  humanity;  some  mutilated — some  entire  I 
Give  me  leave  to  remind  your  lordship,  that  here  sat  SOLITARY 
SANCTITY,  and  here  the  hermit  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 


EUGENE   ARAM.  397 


bones  have  been  found."  Here  the  prisoner  instanced,  with 
remarkable  felicity,  several  places  in  which  bones  had  been 
found,  under  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  Knaresbro',  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  com- 
mon 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  discovered,  then  alone  might 
the  fact  have  seemed  suspicious  and  uncommon.  What !  Have 
we  forgotten  how  difficult,  as  in  the  case  of  Perkin  Warbec  and 
Lambert  Symnell,  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  labourer }  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  answer- 
able 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  Ae  died  by  no  violence ! — by  no  blow  that 
could  have  caused  that  fracture.  Let  it  be  considered  how 
easily  the  fracture  on  the  skull  is  accounted  for.  At  the 
dissolution  of  religious  houses,  the  ravages  of  the  times  affected 

^  See  his  published  defence. 


398  EUGENE  ARAM. 


both  the  living  and  the  dead.  In  search  after  imaginary  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  depredativ>ns,  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  bones  must  still  remain  in  the  vicinity 
of  that  siege,  for  futurity  to  discover !  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  destroyed,  alone  deposited  } 

"And  now  glance  over  the  circumstantial  evidence — how  weak 
— how  frail  !  I  almost  scorn  to  allude  to  it.  I  will  not  con- 
descend to  dwell  upon  it.  The  witness  of  one  man, — arraigned 
himself!  Is  there  no  chance,  that,  to  save  his  own  Ufe,  he  might 
conspire  against  mine  "i — no  chance,  that  he  might  have  com- 
mitted this  murder,  if  murder  hath  indeed  been  done?  that 
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  House- 
man and  I  returned  to  my  house  in  company  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 


EUGENE   ARAM.  399 


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  degree 
of  probability;  it  is  but  probability  still  Recollect  the  case  of 
the  two  Harrisons,  recorded  by  Dr.  Howell ;  both  sufifered  on 
circumstantial  evidence  on  account  of  the  disappearance  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  unhappy  Coleman, 
convicted,  though  afterwards  found  innocent,  and  whose  children 
perished  for  want,  because  the  world  believed  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  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  endeavoured  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  artithenticated ;  that  the  revolution  in  religion, 
or  the  fortunes  of  war,  have  mangled  or  buried  the  dead  ;  that 
the  strongest  circumstantial  evidence  is  often  lamentably  falla- 
cious ;  that  in  my  case,  that  evidence,  so  far  from  being  strong, 
is  weak,  disconnected,  contradictory  ; — what  remains  ?  A  con- 
clusion, 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  candciur,  the  justice,  the  humanity 
of  your  lordship,  and  to  yours,  my  countrymen,  gentlemen  of 
the  jury." 

The  prisoner  ceased  ;  and  the  painful  and  choking  sensations 
of  sympathy,  compassion,   regret,   admiration,   all  uniting,  all 


EUGENE   ARAM. 


mellowing  into  one  fearful  hope  for  his  acquittal,  made  them- 
selves felt  through  the  crowded  court 

In  two  persons  only  an  uneasy  sentiment  remained — a  senti- 
ment 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  unac- 
counted 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  breath- 
lessly, 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  the  witnesses 
against  him,  that  his  silence  here  might  have  been  but  the 
natural  result  of  a  disdain  that  belonged  essentially  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  I — 
a  radiant  flush  broke  over  a  face  so  colourless  before  ;  and  with  a 
joyous  look,  a  kindled  eye,  a  lofty  brow,  she  turned  to  EUinor, 
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 


EUGENE  ARAM.  401 


understand  how  natural,  how  inevitable,  was  some  such  contra- 
diction in  a  witness  who  had  not  only  to  give  evidence  against 
another,  but  to  refrain  from  criminating  himself.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  but  that  Houseman  was  an  accomplice  in  the  crime ; 
and  all  therefore  that  seemed  improbable  in  his  giving  no  alarm 
when  the  deed  was  done,  &c.  &c.,  was  easily  rendered  natural 
and  reconcilable  with  the  other  parts  of  his  evidence.  Com- 
menting 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  eulo- 
gising 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  nothing  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  the 
mind  of  a  jury  which  the  summing  up  of  the  judge  can  pro- 
duce ;  and  in  the  present  instance  it  was  like  magic.  That  fatal" 
lock  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  drev/  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  collected  in  itself :  no 
forced  and  convulsive  effort  vainly  m.asking  the  terror  or  the 
pang ;    no  mockery  of  self  that  would    mimic    contempt    for 

C  C 


4oa  EUGENE  ARAM. 

Others,  but  more  in  majesty  than  bitterness  ;  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  I 


CHAPTER  VI. 

DBATH. — ^THB  PRISON. — AN  INTERVTSW. — ITS  RBStTLT. 

•  •     •    Lay  her  i'  the  earth  ; 

And  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh 
May  violets  spring, 

•  •  •  •  • 
See  in  my  heart  there  was  a  kind  of  fighting 
That  woald  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. 
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  Grass- 
dale,  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 


EUGENE  ARAM,  403 


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  I  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  but  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. 

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 
for  a  moment,  but  without  speaking,  till  Walter  said  in  a  hollow 
voice, — 

**  Eugene  Aram  ! " 

"Ay!" 

"  Madeline  Lester  is  no  more.** 

"I  have  heard  it !  Lam  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 
aenial  or  your  confession  could  alter  your  doom  ;  your  days  are 
numbered  ;  there  is  no  hope  of  reprieve ;  I  implore  you,  then,  if 
you  were  led — I  will  not  ask  how,  or  wherefore — to  the  execution 

CCS 


404  EUGENE  ARAM. 


of  the  crime  for  the  charge  of  which  you  die,  to  say, — to  whisper 
to  nie  but  one  word  of  confession,  and  I,  the  sole  child  of  the 
murdered  man,  will  forgive  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  soul." 

Walter  paused,  unable  to  proceed. 

Aram's  brow  worked  ;  he  turned  aside  ;  he  made  no  answer; 
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 
aw^ful  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  remembrance  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.  What  now 
is  earth,  is  man,  is  opinion,  to  you  ?  God  only  now  can  judge 
you.  The  eye  of  God  reads  your  heart  while  I  speak ;  and,  in 
the  awful  hour  when  eternity  opens  to  you,  if  the  guilt  has  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  burthen  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  criminal  deed  :  but 
your  soul  is  not  wholly  hardened :  nay,  I  think  I  can  so  far 
tiust  you,  that  if  at  this  dread  moment — the  clay  of  Madeline 
Lester  scarce  yet  cold,  woe  busy  and  softening  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  unconscious  agents  in 
condemning  to  a  fearful  death  an  innocent  man  I     If  innocent 


EUGENE  ARA\L  405 


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  restless  doubt !  Speak  !  oh, 
speak ! " 

Well,  well  may  we  judge  how  crushing  must  have  been  that 
doubt  in  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.  Ids  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  mourning  for  his  child,  and  not 
to  be  comforted — and  Ellinor  ? — No  !  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,  though  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 
renounce  the  last  haughty  dream  in  which  I  wrapt  myself  from 
the  ills  around  me.  You  shall  learn  all,  and  judge  accordingly. 
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 


4o6  EUGENE   ARAM. 

till  I  am  no  more  ;  and  when  read,  confide  the  tale  to  none  till 
Lester's  grey  hairs  have  gone  to  the  grave.  This  sweair !  'tis  an 
oath  difficult  perhaps  to  keep,  but " 

"As  my  Redeemer  lives,  I  will  swear  to  both  conditions!" 
cried  Walter,  with  a  solemn  fervour.  "  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  lingermgly  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  requires 
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  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  another 
—the  mixed  emotions  of  Walter,  in  which  an  unsleeping  eager- 
ness 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  I  at  first  purposed.  I  have 
extended  my  narration,  but  superficially  in  some  parts,  over  my 
life  :  that  prolixity,  perhaps,  I  owed  to  myself.  Kemcmher  jyo/zr 
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 


EUGENE  ARAM.  407 


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 !  But  these  are 
not  words  to  pass  between  you  and  me.  Farewell !  Yet,  before 
we  part,  say  this  much :  whatever  I  have  revealed  in  thiy  con- 
fession,— 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  bring.'?  the  death  that  to-morrow 
awaits  me,"  said  Aram,  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 
souls,  though  in  far  distant  ages,  may  meet  again  ! — one  dim 
and  shadowy  memory  of  this  hour  the  link  between  us  :  farewell 
—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  feelings  how 
strange  and  dark — of  a  starred  soul  that  had  wandered  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  prepared  him  for  that 
guilt,  with  which  other  narrators  of  this  story  might  have  only 
sought  to  surprist. 


406  EUGKNE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THX  CONFESSION  ;  AND  THE  FATK 

In  winter's  tedious  nights,  sit  by  the  fire 

With  good  old  folks,  and  let  them  tell  thee  talet 

Of  woeful  ages  long  ago  betid  : 

And  ere  thou  bid  good  night,  to  quit  their  grief, 

Tell  them  the  lamentable  fall  of  me. — Richard  If, 

"  1  WAS  born  at  Ramsgill,  a  little  village  in  Netherdale.  My 
family  had  originally  been  of  some  rank ;  they  were  formerly 
lords  of  the  town  of  Aram,  on  the  southern  banks  of  the  Tees. 
But  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  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  reverie  and  musing  ;  these 
traits  of  character  heralded  the  love  that  now  seized  me — the 
love  of  knowledge.  Opportunity  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  channels.  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 ;  know- 
ledge assumed  a  yet  more  lovely  and  bewitching  character,  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  labour  sweet  in  proportion 
to  its  intensity.^     The  world,  the  creation,  all  things  that  lived, 

'  We  Icnm  from  a  letter  of  Etipene  Aram's  now  extant,  that  his  method  of  acquiring 
the  leamc<l  lan^iage*  was  to  linger  over  five  lines  at  a  time,  an^l  nerer  to  quit  a 
pAiftage  liU  he  thought  he  had  comprehended  its  meaning. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  409 


moved,  and  were,  became  to  me  objects  contributing  to  one  pas- 
sionate, 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  unfelL  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  contem- 
plation of  the  things  above  its  reach,  had  no  sight  of  what  passed 
around.  My  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  delight, 
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 
Knaresbro' ;  the  beauty  of  the  country,  a  facility  in  acquiring 
books  from  a  neighbouring  library  that  was  open  to  me,  made 
me  resolve  to  settle  there.  And  now,  new  desires  opened  upon 
me  with  new  .stores  :  I  became  haunted  with  the  ambition  to 
enlighten  and  instruct  my  race.  At  first,  I  had  loved  knowledge 
solely  for  itself;  I  now  saw  afar  an  object  grander  than  know- 
ledge. To  what  end,  said  I,  are  these  labours  ?  Why  do  I  feed 
a  lamp  which  consumes  itself  in  a  desert  place  ?  Why  do  I  heap 
up  riches,  without  asking  who  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  learn- 
ing 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,  but  kept  me  from 
famine  : — was  this  to  be  my  lot  for  ever  ?  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  open- 
ings into  new  heavens  of  science,  what  chance  of  illuminating 
mankind  were  for  ever  lost  to  me  !  Sometimes,  when  the  young, 
to  whom  I  taught  some  homely  elements  of  knowledge,  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 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  gad — Heaven  smiled  and  earth 
blossomed  around,  but  how  scale  the  stern  barriers  ? — how  steal 
through  the  inexorable  gate  ?  True,  that  by  bodily  labour  I 
could  give  food  to  tlie  body — to  starve  by  such  labour  the  craving 
wants  of  the  mind.  Beg  I  could  not.  When  ever  lived  the  real 
student,  the  true  minister  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  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  1 

"  In  Knarsbro',  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  mystery  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  inquire. 
Nothing  so  tasks  the  man  of  books  as  his  first  blunderin^;  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  Zi  villain  ;  —  but  a  villain  bold, 
adroit,  and  not  then  thoroughly  unredeemed.  Trouble  seized 
me   as    I  heard  him,  and    the   shadow    of    his    life    s';rctched 


EUGENE  ARAM.  411 


farther  and  darker  over  the  wilderness  of  mine.  When  House- 
man asked  me,  '  What  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  my  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  em  pire  which  no  fate  can  overthrow, 
and  no  time  wear  away.  And  in  this  discovery  I  was  stopped 
by  the  total  inadequacy  of  my  means.  The  books  and  imple- 
ments I  required  were  not  within  my  reach — a  handful  of  gold 
would  buy  them — I  had  not  v/herewithal  to  buy  bread  for  the 
morrow's  meal !  In  my  solitude  and  misery  this  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,  accom- 
panied by  a  stranger  who  had  just  visited  our  town,  for  what 
purpose  you  know  already.  His  name — supposed  name — was 
Clarke.  Man,  I  am  about  to  speak  plainly  of  that  stranger — 
his  character  and  his  fate.  And  yet — yet  you  are  his  son  !  I 
would  fain  soften  the  colouring ;  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.  House- 
man joined,  and  presented  to  me  this  person.  From  the  first  I 
felt  a  dislike  of  the  stranger,  which  indeed  it  was  easy  to  account 


4ia  EUGENE  ARAM. 

for.  He  was  of  a  careless  and  somewhat  insolent  manner.  His 
countenance  was  impressed  with  the  lines  and  characters  of  a 
thousand  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  sagacity ;  he 
avowed  himself  a  knave  upon  system,  and  upon  the  lowest  scale. 
To  overreach,  to  deceive,  to  elude,  to  shuffle,  to  fawn,  and  to  He, 
were  the  arts  to  which  he  confessed  with  so  naked  and  cold  a 
grossness,  that  one  perceived  that  in  the  long  habits  of  debase- 
ment he  was  unconscious  of  what  was  not  debased.  Houseman 
seemed  to  draw  him  out :  Clarke  told  us  anecdotes  of  his  ras- 
cality, 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  Pro- 
vidence 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  basest  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  glorious  visions,  the  most  august  de.»<ires — I,  denied 
myself  their  fruition,  trembling  and  spellbound  in  the  cere- 
ments 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  demeanour  which  had  grown  with  my  growth  of 
mind.     Strange  that  while  I   upbraided   Fate,  I  did  not  cease 


lib  GENE   ARAM.  413 


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  I  must  not  forestall  the 
dread  catastrophe  of  my  life.  In  returning,  at  night,  to  my  own 
home,  from  my  long  and  solitary  walks,  I  often  passed  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  out- 
rages 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  possessed  few 
advantages  of  education  ;  he  descended  to  no  minutize  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 
iowness  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  lowest  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  grey 
hairs  and  dim  eyes ;  was  old  in  constitution,  if  not  years ;  and 
everything  in  him  was  hopeless  and  confirmed :  the  leprosy  was 
in  the  system.  Time,  in  this,  has  made  Houseman  what  Clarke 
was  then. 

*  All  the  authentic  anecdotes  of  Aram  corroborate  the  fact  of  his  natural  gentleness 
to  all  things.  A  clergyman  (the  Kev.  Mr.  Hinton)  sa-d  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  i's  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  tliere  are  several  anecdotes  to  show  that  he  was  equally  humane 
bejore  the  crime  was  committed.  Such  are  the  strange  contradictions  of  the  human 
heart. 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


"  One  day,  in  passincj  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  taunted 
my  poverty — poverty  was  a  favourite  jest  with  him  ;  it  galled 
me  :  anger  ?  revenge  ?  no  !  tJiose  passions  I  had  never  felt  for 
any  man.  I  could  not  rouse  them  for  the  first  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,  and  paused 
by  the  winding  and  shagged  banks  of  the  river.  It  was  a  gloomy 
winter's  day,  the  waters  rolled  on  black  and  sullen,  and  the  dry 
leaves  rustled  desolately  beneath  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  confirmation  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 !  moralising  V  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 


EUGENE    ARAM.  415 


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  wisdom,  and 
<1g  as  I  do.* 

"'How.?' 

"  *  Take  from  the  superfluities  of  others  what  your  necessities 
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  law- 
fully 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  purpose, 
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. 
How  do  you  guess  my  meaning  ?  Let  us  ease  him  of  his  burden  1 
I  offer  to  you  the  half;  share  the  enterprise  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,  inde- 
pendence,— knowledge.  The  sub'ime  Discovery — the  possession 
of  the  glorious  Fiend.  All,  all  within  my  grasp — and  by  a  single 
deed — no  frauds  oft  repeated — no  sins  long  continued — 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. 

"  '  No,  no,'  I  said,  breaking  away  from  him.     '  I  must  pause — 


410  EUGENE  ARAM. 


I  nmst  consider — I  do  not  yet  refuse,  but  1  will  not  novir 
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  the  one  on 
which  the  robbery  was  to  be  committed.  We  parted — I  returned 
an  altered  man  to  my  home.  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 
parents  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  malignant 
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  abscond 
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 
contetited.  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 


EUGENE   ARAM.  417 


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  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  tha 
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  admit  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  accompany  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  I 
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 

D  D 


4lt  EUGENE  ARAM. 

— he  grasped  my  hand,  raised  not  to  strike  but  to  shield  him  I 
Never  more  has  the  right  hand  cursed  by  that  dying  clasp  been 
given  in  pledge  of  human  faith  and  friendship.  But  the  deed 
was  done,  and  the  robber's  comrade,  in  the  eyes  of  man  and  law, 
was  the  murderer's  accomplice. 

"  Houseman  divided  the  booty :  my  share  he  buried  in  the 
earth,  leaving  me  to  withdraw  it  when  I  chose.  1  here,  perhaps, 
it  lies  still.  I  never  touched  what  I  had  murdered  my  own  life 
to  gain.  His  share,  by  the  aid  of  a  gipsy  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  I 
Just  Heaven !  when  they  told  me  I  thought  I  heard  the  devils 
laugh  out  at  the  fool  who  had  boastdtl  wisdom  !  Had  I  waited 
but  three  days,  three  little  days  1 — 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  ex- 
citement ;  those  whom  he  had  overreached  had  naturally  an 
interest  in  discovering  him.  Some  vague  surmises  that  he  might 
have  been  made  away  with  were  rumoured  abroad.  Houseman 
and  I,  owing  to  some  concurrence  of  circumstance,  were 
examined, — not  that  suspicion  attached  to  me  before  or  after  the 

'  Aram  has  hitherto  been  suffered  to  tell  his  own  tale  without  comment  or  inter- 
niption.  The  chain  of  reasonings,  the  metaphysical  labyrinth  of  defence  and  motive, 
which  he  wrought  around  his  guilt,  it  was,  in  justice  to  him  necessary  to  give  at  length, 
in  order  to  throw  a  clearer  light  on  his  character — and  lighten,  perhaps,  in  some 
measure,  the  colours  of  his  crime.  No  moral  can  be  more  impressive  than  that  which 
teaches  huw  man  can  ent.ingie  himself  in  his  own  sophisms — that  moral  is  better, 
viewed  ariqht,  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 
doctrines  of  his  pernicious  fatali<^m,  ought  rather  to  inculcate  the  divine  virtue — the 
founHation  of  all  virtues.  Heathen  or  Christian — that  which  Epictetas  made  clear  and 
Christ  sacred— Fortitude.  The  reader  will  note,  that  the  answer  to  the  reasoning* 
that  prohahly  coni-inced  the  mind  of  Aram,  and  blinded  him  to  his  crime,  may  be 
found  in  the  change  o/" feelings  by  which  the  crime  was  followed.  I  mast  apologise  for 
thu  interruption — it  teemed  to  me  advisable  in  this  place. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  419 


examination.  Tha^  ceremony  ended  in  nothing.  Houseman 
did  not  betray  himself;  and  I,  who  from  a  boy  had  mastered  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  naturally  abandoned  on  quitting 
the  town.  This  he  did  soon  afterwards.  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  travelled  for  some  considerable  time, — I  saw  men 
and  cities,  and  I  opened  a  new  volume  in  my  kind.  It  was 
strange ;  but  before  the  deed,  I  was  as  a  child  in  the  ways  of 
the  world,  and  a  child,  despite  my  knowledge,  might  have 
duped  mc.  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  honours,  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  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 

D  D  2 


4X0  EUGENE  ARAM. 


tlie  reach  of  fortune,  but  thou  art  her  veriest  minion  !'     Yes ;  I 
paused  at  last  from  my  wanderings,  and  surrounded  myself  with 
books,  and  knowledge  became  once  more  to  me  what  it  had 
been,  a  thirst ;  but  not  what  it  had  been,  a  reward.     I  occupied 
my  thoughts,  I  laid  up  new  hoards  within  my  mind,  I  looked 
around,  and  I  saw  few  whose  stores  were  like  my  own  ;  —but 
gone  for  ever  the  sublime  desire  of  applying  wisdom  to  the 
service  of  mankind !      Mankind  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 
benefits  to  them  and  their  posterity!     Was   not  this  thought 
enough  to  quell  my  ardour — to  chill  activity  into  rest }     The 
brighter  the  honours  I  might  win — the  greater  the  services  I 
might  bestow  on  the  world,  the  more  dread  and  fearful  might 
be  my  fall  at  last !     I  might  be  but  piling  up  the  scaflfoid  from 
which  1  was  to  be  hurled !     Possessed  by  these  thoughts,  a  new 
view   of  human   affairs   succeeded   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 
yearning  enthusiasm  it  had  formerly  nourished.     Mere  worldly 
ambition   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  kalon,  the  sole  charm  of 
existence.  I  grew  enamoured  of  the  doctrine  of  those  old 
mystics  who  have  placed  happiness  only  in  an  even  and  balanced 
quietude.  And  where  but  in  utter  loneliness  was  that  quietude 
to  be  enjoyed  ?  1  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  arc 


EUGENE   ARAM.  421 


the  only  soothers  of  a  memory  deeply  troubled — light  griefs  fly 
to  the  crowd,  fierce  thoughts  must  battle  themselves  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  Knaresbro'  chance  had  often 
thrown  it  in  my  power  to  serve  my  brethren — not  by  wisdom, 
but  by  charity  or  courage — by  individual  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  how  many  black  designs,  struggling 
into  life  within,  you  may  crush  for  ever !  He  who  deems  the 
world  his  foe, — convince  him  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 
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  ardour — not  of  the  frame  only,  but  of  the  souL 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


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  nie  to 
yield  to  a  passion  that  united  me  to  my  kind ;  and  as  I  loved 
her  more,  how  far  more  torturing  grew  my  fear  of  the  future  1 
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  for  ever  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  emotions ! 
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  Lester,  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  suninioiis,  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  the  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 
revulsion  was  too  sudden,  too  full  of  turbulent,  fierce  torturing 
emotions  ;  I  fled  for  a  short  relief  to  the  house  to  which  Madeline's 
father  had  invited  mc.  But  in  vain  I  sought,  by  wine,  by  converse, 
by  human  voices,  human  kindness,  to  fly  the  ghost  that  had  been 


EUGENE  ARAM.  433 


/aised  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  narrative.  I  resolved — I  struggled 
in  vain  :  Fate  had  ordained  that  the  sweet  life  of  Madeline 
Lester  should  wither  beneath  the  poison  tree  of  mine.  House- 
man sought  me  again ;  and  now  came  on  the  humbling  part  of 
crime,  its  low  calculations,  its  poor  defence,  its  paltry  trickery, 
its  mean  hypocrisy  !  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  for  ever :  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,  for  ever  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  now,  not  with  the 
spirit  of  the  beggar,  but  of  the  just  claimant,  and  in  that  spirit 
it  was  granted.  And  now  I  was  really  happy  ;  Houseman  I 
believed  removed  for  ever  from  my  path  ;  Madeline  was  about 
to  be  mine  ;  I  surrendered  myself  to  love,  ind,  blind  aijd  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  murder  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 !      M}  sterious   avenger--> 


424  EUGENE   ARAM. 

relentless  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  1 

"  But  in  this  state  of  mind  I  was  yet  forced  to  play  the 
hypocrite.  Had  I  been  alone  in  the  world — had  Madeline  and 
Lester  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  ;  tfieir 
lives  were  set  on  my  complete  acquittal,  less  even  of  life  than 
honour ; — 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  belief  In  truth,  since  the  arts  of 
hypocrisy  have  been  commenced,  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  I  Whether  beneath 
be  dcjpair,  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  yicldiag  to  his 


EUGENE   ARAM.  4^ 

vices.  The  guide  I  received  from  heaven  betrayed  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,  I  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  forgiveness  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 
resignation  of  a  soul  firm  to  the  last,  and  taking  not  from  man's 
vengeance  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  I 

"Eugene  Aram. 
"  August,  1759.- 

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  prisoner 
lying  on  the  bed  ;'and  when  they  approached  to  take  off  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.  Resolved  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  re- 
turn. He  looked  hastily  round  the  throng  that  swayed  and 
mu»mured  below,  and  a  faint  flush  rose  to  his  cheek  :  he  cast 
his  eyes  impatiently  above,  and  breathed  hard  and  convulsively. 


426  EUGENE   ARAM. 


The  dire  preparations  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  triumphant 
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  porpse  t 


CHAPTER  VIII.  AND  LAST. 

THE  TIAVELLER's  RETURN. — THE  COUNTRY  VILLAGE  ONCE  MORE  VISITED. — IIS 
INHABITANTS. — THE  REMEMBERED  BROOK. — THE  DESERTED  MANOR-HOUSE. 
—  THE  CHURCHYARD. —  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  i 
Times  goes  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  earlier 
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  thrc  ugh  the  long,  straggling 
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  sunburnt  though  hand- 
some features,  which  thought,  or  care,  had  despoiled  of  ilie 
roundness  of  their  early  contour,  leaving  the  cheek  somewliat 


EUGENE  ARAM.  427 


sunken,  and  the  lines  somewhat  marked,  were  characterised  by 
a  grave,  and  at  that  moment  by  a  melancholy  and  soft  expres- 
sion ;  and  now,  as  his  horse  proceeded  slowly  through  the  green 
lane,  which  at  every  vista  gave  glimpses  of  rich  verdant  valleys, 
the  sparkling  river,  or  the  orchard  ripe  with  the  fragrant  blos- 
soms 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  military  to  show  the  profession  he  had  belonged  to. 
And  well  did  the  garb  become  the  short  dark  moustache,  the 
sinewy  chest,  and  length  of  limb,  of  the  young  horseman  ; 
recommendations,  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  terminating 
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  seeing,  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  there, 
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 
return  the  gaze,  he  turned  aside  his  head,  and,  putting  his  horse 


♦28  EUGENE  ARAM. 

into  a  canter,  soon  passed  out  of  cognisance  of  The  Spotted 
Dog. 

He  now  came  in  sight  of  the  neat  white  cottage  cf  the  old 
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  railiVig  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  grand- 
child (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  barrenness  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  horse- 
man, 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.  'Tis  fortunate, 
however,  that  I  am  not  recognised  :  fain,  indeed,  at  this  time, 
would  I  come  and  go  unnoticed  and  alone." 

The  horseman  fell  into  a  reverie,  which  tvas  broken  by  the 
murmur  of  the  sunny  rivulet,  fretting  over  each  little  obstacle 
it  met, — the  happy  and  spoiled  child  of  Nature !  That  murmur 
rang  on  the  horseman's  ear  like  a  voice  from  his  boyhood  ;  how 
familiar  was  it,  how  dear !  No  haunting  tone  of  music  eter 
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 


EUGENE   ARAM.  42y 


be  as  glad,  and  the  murmur  as  full  of  mirth !  They  are 
blessed  things,  those  remote  and  unchanging  streams !- they 
fill  us  with  the  same  love  as  if  they  were  living  creatures ! 
— and  in  a  green  comer  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 
grovv^n  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  neighbouring  town. 
The  horseman  sighed  heavily,  and  muttered  to  himself;  then, 
turning  up  the  road  that  led  to  the  back  entrance,  he  came  into 
the  court-yard,  and,  leading  his  horse  into  an  empty  stable,  he 
proceeded  on  foot  through  the  dismantled  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  conducted  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, 
which  he  would  not  enter  till  the  last  (it  was  the  little  parlour  in 
which  the  once  happy  family  had  been  wont  to  sit),  he  sank 
down  in  the  chair  that  had  been  Lester's  honoured  seat,  and, 
covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  did  not  move  or  look  up  for 
several  moments.  The  old  woman  gazed  at  him  with  surprise. 
— "  Perhaps,  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  agian — it  must  be  so — the  house  of  my 


430  EUGENE  ARAM. 


forefathers  must  pass  into  a  stranger's  hands."  With  this  reflec- 
tion he  hurried  from  the  house,  and,  re-entering  the  garden, 
turned  through  a  Httle  gate  that  swung  half  open  on  its  shat- 
tered hinges,  and  led  into  the  green  and  quiet  sanctuaries  of  the 
dead.  The  same  touching  character  of  deep  and  undisturbed 
repose  that  hallows  the  country  churchyard, — 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  discoloured  by  the  dews  and 
seasons,  and  the  short  inscription  traced  upon  it  was  strikingly 
legible  in  comparison  with  those  around  : — 


Rowland  Lestkr. 

Obiit  1760,  set.  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 
colour  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  grey  house,  from  whose 
chimney  there  rose  no  smoke — sad,  inhospitable,  dismantled  as 
that  beside  which  he  now  stood  ; — a»  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 
examinin^T  his  horse  from  head  to  foot  with  great  care  and 
attention. 

"  Good  hoofs  too,  humph  !  "  quoth  the  corporal,  as  he  released 
the  front  leg ;  and,  turning  round,  saw,  with  some  little  confusion. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  431 


the  owner  of  the  steed  he  had  been  honouring  with  so  minute  a 
survey.  "  Oh, — augh !  looking  at  the  beastie,  sir,  lest  it  might 
have  cast  a  shoe.  Thought  your  honour  might  want  some  intel- 
ligent person  to  show  you  the  premises,  if  so  be  you  have  come 
to  buy ;  nothing  but  an  old  'oman  there ;  dare  say  your  honour 
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  .ny  young  master!"  So  saying,  the  corporal, 
roused  into  affection,  hobbled  up  to  the  wanderer,  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  EUinor,  how  happy  she'll  be  to  see  your 
honour.     Ah  !  how  she  be  changed,  surely  !  " 

"  Changed  ;  ay,  I  make  no  doubt !  What  ?  does  she  look  in 
weak  health  ?  " 

"  No ;  as  to  that,  your  honour,  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  worg,,e,  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  honour'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  ?  " 

"  Merely  rheum.atics — will  attack  the  youngest  of  us  ;  never 
been  quite  myself  since  I  went  a  travelling  with  your  honour 


43a  EUGENE   ARAM. 


— 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  T^uesday  fortnight :  an  excellent  young  lady, 
so  sensible  like ! " 

"  Thank  you  ;  I  can  tighten  the  girths  ! — so  ! — there.  Bunting 
— ^there's  something  for  old  companionship's  sake." 

"Thank  your  honour ;  you  be  too  good,  always  was — baugh  1 
But  I  hopes  your  honour  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  honour  agin,  at  which  I  am 
extramely  consarned,  will  your  honour  recollect  your  promise, 
touching  the  'tato  ground  }  The  steward,  Master  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  honour's  good  heart ;  thank  ye  ;  and — and  " 
laying  his  hand  on  the  bridle — "your  honour  did  say  the  bit  cot 
should  be  rent-free  "i  You  see,  your  honour,"  quoth  the  corporal, 
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  honour — 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  'tis,  still !  Never  be  a  man  of  the 
world — augh  ! " 

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 


EUGENE   ARAM.  433 


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,  inquired,  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),  summon- 
ing a  little  boy  of  about  ten  years  old — "  run  on  and  show  this 
gentleman  the  good  lady's  house;  and — stay — his  honour  will 
excuse  you  a  moment — just  take  up  the  nosegay  you  cut  for  her 
this  morning :  she  loves  flowers.  Ah  !  sir,  an  excellent  young 
lady  is  Miss  Lester,"  continued  the  hostess  as  the  boy  ran  back 
for  the  nosegay ;  "  so  charitable,  so  kind,  so  meek  to  all.  Adver- 
sity, 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'3 
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  detached  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  bdl,  and  inquired  if  Miss  Lester  was- 
within, 

Walter  was  left  for  some  moments  alone  in  a  little  parlour : 
he  required  these  moments  to  recover  himself  from  the  past  that 
rushed  sweepingly  over  him.  And  was  it — yes,  it  was  Ellinor 
that  now  stood  before  him !— Changed  she  was,  indeed  ;  the 
slight  girl  had  budded  into  woman ;  changed  she  was  indeed ;  the 
bound  had  for  ever  left  that  step,  once  so  elastic  with  hope ;  the 
vivacity  of  the  quick  dark  eye  was  soft  and  quiet :  the  rich  colour 

E  E 


434 


EUGENE  ARAM. 


]iad  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  past,  and  thus  they  met  again  ; 
The  wind  had  swept  along  the  flowers  since  then  t 
O'er  her  fair  cheek  a  paler  lustre  spread, 
As  if  the  white  rose  triumph'd  o'er  the  red. 
No  more  she  walk'd  exulting  on  the  air  ; 
Light  though  her  step,  there  was  a  languor  there. 
No  more—  her  spirit  bursting  from  its  bound, — 
She  stood,  like  Hebe,  scattering  smiles  around." 

"Ellinor!**  said  Walter,  mournfully,  "thank  God  I  we  meet 
at  last!" 

"  That  voice — that  face — my  cousin — my  dear,  dear  Walter  !** 

All  reserve,  all  consciousness  fled  in  the  delight  of  that 
moment;  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  divided  us 
for  ever  ?    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  con- 
jured 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  night- 
watch  of  camps — in  the  blaze  of  courts — by  the  sunny  groves  of 
Italy — in  the  deep  forests  of  the  Hartz — never  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  I  A  consoler,  a  guide,  a  soother,  father,  brother,  husband 
— all  this  my  heart  whispers  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 


EUGENE  ARAM.  435 


who  now  knelt  at  her  feet ; — her  sole  friend — her  sole  relative — 
ner  first — her  last  love  i  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  b)''  that  blush — that  sigh — that  tear,  that  he  was  remem- 
bered— that  he  was  beloved — that  his  cousin  was  his  own  at  last! 

"  But  before  you  end,"  said  my  friend,  to  whom  I  showed  the 
above  pages,  originally  concluding  my  tale  with  the  last  sen- 
tence, "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  punish- 
ment 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  neighbourhood  :  the  said  Jacob 
knowing  nothing  thereof,  but  furnishing  great  oblectation  unto 
his  neighbours  by  boasting  that  he  turned  an  excellent  penny  by 
selling  poultry  to  his  honour  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  churchyard  a  small  tombstone  inscribed  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  death  has  mowed  me  into  hay.*  "* 

*  Verbatinu 


436  EUGENE   ARAM. 


"And  his  namesake,  Sir  Peter  Grindlescrew  Hales  ?" 

*•  Went  through  a  long  life,  honoured  and  respected,  but  met 
with  domestic  misfortunes  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  tor 
not  being  the  eighth,  viz.,  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." 

"  Well ! — hem, — and  so  Walter  and  his  cousin  were  really 
married  I     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  EUinor  he  returned  abroad  for  some 
time,  but  finally  settling  in  England,  engaged  in  active  life,  and 
left  to  his  posterity  a  name  they  still  honour;  and  to  his 
country,  the  memory  of  some  services  that  will  not  lightly  pass 
away. 

"  But  one  dread  and  gloomy  remembrance  never  forsook  his 
inind.  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 


EUGENE   ARAM.  437 


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  twofold  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  lavishly  to 
treasure  up  her  heart.  Adversity  and  trial  had  ennobled  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  fervour,  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  affections),  it  was  fortunately  preserved  either 
from  the  undue  enthusiasm  or  the  undue  austerity  into  which  it 
would  otherwise,  in  all  likelihood,  have  merged.  What  remained, 
however,  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  some- 
times 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  sometimes 
think  that,  barring  physical  pain  and  extreme  poverty,  the  ills 


438  EUGENE  ARAM. 


of  life  fall  wkh  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 
companion  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  candour  which  should  judge,  shall  he  not  find 
in  thy  sympathies  the  defence,  or  in  thy  charity  the  indulgence^ 
—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  I 
submit  to  his  indulgence  the  rough  outline  of  the  earlier  scenes 
in  the  fragment  of  a  drama,  which,  in  all  probability,  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  uncompleted  design. 

November^  183^ 


EUGENE    ARAM, 

A     TRAGEDY. 


ACT  I.    Scene  I. 

Aram's  Apartment. — Books,  Maps,   and  Scientific  Instruments  scattered  around.     In 
everything  else  the  appcaratue  of  ttie  greatest  poverty. 

\st  Creditor  {behind  the  scenes). — I  must  be  paid.   Three  moons 
have  flitted  since 
You  pledged  your  word  to  me. 

2d  Cred.  And  me  I 

3^  Cred.  And  me  I 

Aram  {entering).  Away,  I  tell  ye !     Will  ye  rend  my  garb  ? 
Away  !  to-morrow. Gentle  sirs,  to-morrow. 

\st  Cred.  This  is  your  constant  word. 

id  Cred.  We'll  wait  no  more. 

Aram.  Ye'll  wait  no  more  }     Enough  !  be  seated,  sirs. 
Pray  ye,  be  seated.     Well  I  with  searching  eyes 
Ye  do  survey  these  walls !     Contain  they  aught — 
Nay,  take  your  leisure — to  annul  your  claims } 
{Turning  to  1st  Cred.)  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. 


441  EUGENE  ARAM, 


15/  Crcd.  You  mock  me.     Well 

Aram.  Mockl  mock!  Alas  1  my 

friend, 
Do  rags  indulge  in  jesting  ?     Fie,  sir,  fie  1 
{Tttming  to  2d  Cred)    You  will  not  wrong  me  so?    On  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  I     (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  I 

2d  Cred.  {muttering  to  t/ie  ot/iers).  Come,  we  must  leave  him  to 
the  law,  or  famine. 
You  see  his  goods  were  costly  at  a  groat  I 

1st  Cred.  Well,  henceforth  I  will  grow  more  wise  I    *Tis  said 
Learning  is  better  than  a  house  or  lands. 
Let  me  be  modest !     Learning  shall  go  free; 
Give  me  security  in  house  and  lands. 

3^  Cred.  \lingcring  after  t/te  other  two  depart,  offers  a  piece  of 
money  to  A  ram).  There,  man ;  I  came  to  menace  you 
with  law 

And  gaols.     You're  poorer  than  I  thought  you  I — there 

Aram  {looking  at  t/ie  money).  What !  and  a  beggar,  too  I     'Tis 
mighty  well. 
Good  sir,  I'm  grateful — I  will  not  refuse  you  ; 
'Twill  win  back  Plato  from  the  crabbed  hands 
Of  him  who  lends  on  all  things.     Thank  you,  sir  ; 
Plato  and  I  will  thank  you. 

3^/  Cred.  Crazed,  poor  scholar  t 

I'll  take  my  little  one  from  school  this  day  1 

Scene  II. 

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.  44^ 


0  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 — the  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  kis  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 ! 


Scene  HI. 

Enter  BoTELER,  slowly  watching  him  ;  as  he  remains  silent  and  in  thought,  BOTELER 
touches  him  on  the  slwuldtr. 

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  grey  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. 


EUGENE  ARAM, 


Farewell,  good  neighbour  ;  I  must  work  this  day  ;— 
Behold  my  tools — and  scholars  toil  alone ! 

Rotclcr.  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  neighbour.     Why,  you  seem  not  glad ; 
Does  it  not  please  you  "i 

A  ram.  Yes. 

Boteler.  And  so  it  should ; 

Tis  a  poor  fool,  but  honest.     Had  dame  Fate 
Done  this  for  you — for  me ; — 'tis  true  our  brains 
Had  taught  us  better  how  to  spend  the  dross  ; 
But  earth  hath  worse  men  than  our  neighbour. 

Aram.  Ay, 

*'  Worse  men  I  **  it  may  be  so ! 

Boteler.  Would  I  were  rich  I 

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  I 

Would  /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 
01  all  the  tongues  of  earth — I'd  have  them  all^ 


A  TRAGEDY.  443 


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  ; 

Invoke  and  conquer  Nature — share  her  throne 

On  earth,  and  ocean,  and  the  chainless  air ; 

And  on  the  Titan  fabrics  of  old  truths 

Raise  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  wishi 

Aram  {rapt,  aiid  abstractedly).      Who  spoke?      Methought   I 
heard  my  genius  say — 
My  roil  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  rfiight  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. 


446  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  Nature  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  gull'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  I 

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.^ 
'Tis  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 
I  am  a  soldier,  and  inured  to  blood  ; 
But  /te  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.  447 


Boteler.  Ay,  in  truth* 

Aram.     But  /have  not  since  yestermorn,  and  ask'd 
In  the  belief  that  certain  thoughts  unvvont 
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; 
*Tis  poor,  but  not  so  bare  as  to  deny 
A  soldier's  viands  to  a  scholar's  wants. 
Come,  and  we'll  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  "i 

Boteler.  Alone. 

Aram.      Come,   then; — the    private   way.      We'll   shun   the 
crowd. 
I  do  not  love  the  insolent  eyes  of  men. 


Scene. 

{Night — a  wild  and  gloomy  Forest — the  River  at  a  distanee.) 
Enter  ARAM  slowly. 

Aram.     Were  it  but  done,  methinks  'twould  scarce  bequeath 
Much  food  for  that  dull  hypocrite,  Remorse. 
'Tis  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, 


448  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  flesh 
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  wanf,  and  woe,  and  early  death — 
And  walk'd  with  thee,  sweet  air,  upon  thy  course 
Away  from  earth  through  the  rejoicing  heaven  I 
Who  moves  there  ? Speak  I — who  art  thou  ? 


Scene  V. 

EuUr  BOTELBR. 

Boteler.  Murdoch  Boteler  I 

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 
PVom  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  "i 

Boteler.     Ay  :  I  have  heard  .the  tale. 

Aram.  And  Ju  is  honour'd. 

Men  vaunt  his  glory,  but  forget  his  guilt 


A  TRAGEDY.  449 


They  see  the  triumph  ;  nor,  with  wolfish  tongues, 
Feed  on  the  deed  from  which  the  triumph  grew. 
Is  it  not  so  ? 

Boteler.                    Thou  triflest :  this  no  hour 
For  the  light  legends  of  a  gossip's  lore 

Aram.     Peace,  man  1     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 

A  ram.  Alas !  poor  fool  1 

So  sport  we  all,  while  over  us  the  pall 
Hangs,  and  Fate's  viewless  hands  prepare  our  shroud. 


Scene  VL 

Enter  MoNSON. 

Monson.    Ye  have  not  waited,  sirs } 

Boteler.  Nay,  name  'X  not 

Monson.     The  nights  are  long  and  bright :  an  hour  the  less 
Makes  little  discount  from  the  time. 

Aram.  An  hour  I 

What  deeds  an  hour  may  witness  ! 

Monson.  It  is  true. 

{To  Boteler^ — Doth  he  upbraid  "i — he  has  a  gloomy  brow  : 
I  like  him  not. 

Boteler.  The  husk  hides  goodly  fruit. 

'Tis  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,  [Laughing: 

Boteler.  Come,  that's  well. 

I'm  an  old  soldier,  Monson,  and  I  love 
This  baffling  of  the  Church's  cankering  ties. 

F  r 


4SO  EUGENE  ARAM, 


We'll  find  thcc  other  wives,  my  friend  ! — Who  holds 
The  golden  lure  shall  have  no  lack  of  loves. 

Motison.     Ha!    ha! — both   wise  and    merry. — [To  Aram,) — 
Come,  sir,  on. 

Aram.     I  follow. 

{Aside.) —  Can  men  sin  thus  in  a  dream  ? 

•  •  •  •  • 

•  •  •  •  • 


Scene  IV. 

Seem  changes  if  a  different  fart  of  the  Forest — a  Cave,  ffperkunj^  with  firs  and 
otktr  trees — tht  Moon  is  at  her  full,  but  clouds  art  rolling  swiftly  mcr  her  disc — 
Aram  rushes  from  the  Cavern. 

Aram.    Tis  done ! — 'tis  done  I — 'tis  done ! — 

A  life  is  gone 
Out  of  a  crowded  world  !     /  struck  no  more  I 
Oh,  God  ! — I  did  not  slay  him  ! — 'twas  not  // 

(Enter  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  cr>',  "  Help,  help  ?  " /  did  not  strike  the  blow  ! 

Boteler.     Dead  I — and  no  witness,  save  the  blinded  bat  I 
But  the  gold,  Aram  !  thou  didst  leave  the  gold  ? 

A  ram.     The  gold  !     I  had  forgot     Thou  hast  the  gold. 
Come,  let  us  share,  and  part 

Bolder.  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  blowl 
How  red  the  moon  looks!  let  us  hide  from  licri 


A  TRAGEDY.  45» 


ACT   II. 

{Timg,  Tin  Years  ajter  the  da'-t  of  the  first  Act.) 

Scene  I. 

{Peasants  dancing — a  beautiful  IVood Scene — a  Cottage  in  the  fiouL^ 

Madeline — Lambourn— Michaei. 

(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  tnom 
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 ! 

Lambourn.     Thou  hast  repaid  me  ;  and  mine  eyes  o'erflo\r 
With  tears  that  tell  thy  virtues,  my  sweet  child  ; 
For  ever  from  thy  cradle  thou  wert  fiU'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  youtli, 

F  F  2 


453  EUGENE  ARAM, 


Yet  wcrt  thou  ever  woman  in  thy  mood, 

And  soft,  though  serious  ;  nor  in  abstract  thought 

Lost  household  zeal,  or  the  meek  cares  of  love. 

Bless  thee,  my  child.     Thou  look'st  around  for  one 

To  chase  the  pa/er  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  I  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. 
Neighbours,  has  one  amongst  you  seen  this  day 
The  scholar,  Aram  } 

Michael.  By  the  hoary  oak 

That  overhangs  the  brook,  I  mark'd  this  mom 
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  I 
Nor  boots  it  whether  ye  drop  off  by  time, 
Or  the  rude  anger  of  some  violent  wind 


A  TRAGEDY.  453 


Scatter  ye  ere  your  hour.     Amidst  the  mass 
Of  your  green  life,  who  misses  one  lost  leaf?** 
He  said  no  more  ;  then  I  did  come  beside 
The  speaker :  it  was  Aram. 

Madeline  {aside).  Moody  ever  I 

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. 

1st  Neighbojir.     Ay,  he  is  good  as  wise.     All  men  love  Aram. 

2nd  Neighbour.    And   with   what  justice  1      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. 

■^rd  Neighbour.  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  1 

'Twas  from  some  distant  nook  of  our  fair  isle. 
But  he  so  sadly  flies  from  what  hath  chanced 


454  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  ? 

Lamboum.  Methinks 

He  hath  been  tried — not  lightly — by  the  sharp 
And  everlasting  curse  to  learning  doom'd, 
That  which  poor  labour  bears,  without  a  sigh, 
But  whose  mere  breath  can  wither  genius — Want  t 
Want — the  harsh,  hoary  beldame — the  obscene 
Witch  that  hath  power  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. 

Lamboitm.     I'll  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. 

Lamboum.  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.  455 


Michael.     And  hath  he  ne'er  enlarged  upon  these  words. 
Nor  lit  them  into  clearer  knowledge  by 
A  more  pronounced  detail  ? 

Lanibourn.  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,  their  lives 
None  whom  I  hold  more  dearly,  or  to  whom 
My  hopes  so  well  could  trust  my  Madeline's  lot 


Scene  II. 

(Tkecrmvd  at  the  hack  of  the  Stage  gives  way — Aram  slowly  enters — The  Neighbouri 
greet  him  with  respect,  several  appear  to  thank  him  for  various  betufits  or  charitie*. 
— He  returns  the  greeting  in  dumb  show,  with  greai  appearance  ofmodcsly.) 

A  ram.     Nay,  nay,  good  neighbours,  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, 
Feel  sad  for  Earth,  whose  very  soul  thou  art ; — 


456  EUGENE  ARAM, 


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. 

Lamboum.     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. 

Weil,  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  Laubourn,  tkt  Neighhourt,  (S^ 

Scene  III. 

Madeline  and  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  lifel 
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  upoa 
A  thing  like  me, — not  fashion'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. 

Madeline.  'Tis  for  that  I  loved. 

The  \Norld  I  love  not — therefore  I  love  thee  I 
Come,  shall  I  tell  thee, — 'tis  an  oft-told  tale. 


A  TRAGEDY.  457 


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  colours,  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  clue. 
Mystery  grew  interest,  and  the  interest  love ! 

Aram  {aside).     O  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; 
Tell  of  each  orb  the  courses  and  the  name ; 
And  of  the  winds,  the  clouds,  th'  invisible  air, 
Make  eloquent  discourse  ; — until  methought 


458  EUGENE  ARAM, 


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  eartlv 

And  Thought  did  father  Passion  ? — Gentlest  love  I 
If  thou  couldst  know  how  hard  it  is  for  one 
Who  takes  such  feeble  pleasure  in  this  earth 
To  worship  aught  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  I 
And  mine  for  ever !     Oh,  delicious  thought  I 
How  glorious  were  the  future,  could  I  shut 

The  past — the  past — from Ha  !  what  stirr'd  ?  didst  near, 

Madeline, — didst  hear  ? 

Madeline.  Hear  what  ?— the  very  air 

Lies  quiet  as  an  infant  in  its  sleep. 

Aram  {looking 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  I 

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, 
I'll  see  this  fault  amended. 

Aram.  Ay,  thou  shalt— 

In  sooth  thou  shalt 


A  TRAGEDY.  459 


Scene  IV. 

Enter  Michael. 

Michael.     Friend  Lambourn  sends  his  greeting. 
And  prays  you  to  his  simple  banquet. 

Madeline.  Come  1 

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'lt  know  I  do  but  linger  o'er  the  wish 
For  thee,  which  sheds  its  blessing  on  the  bowl. 


Scene. 

Sunset — a  JVood- scene — a  Collage  at  a  dislance — 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.     'Tis  the  great  scholar  ! — Worthy  sir,  good  eve. 

Aram.     Thou  seem'st  o'erworn  :   through  this  long  summer 
day. 
Hast  thou  been  labouring  in  the  lonely  glen  ? 


46o  EUGENE  ARAM,  A  TRAGEDY. 

Woodman.     Ay,  save  one  hour  at  noon.     'Tis  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. 


\*  Ib  this  scene  Boteler  (the  Houseman  of  the  novel)  is  again  introdnoai^ 


THE  EXIX 


DEC  1  1  1979 


DATE  DUE 

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CAYLORO 

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