Part 38 (1/2)

”Nay,” said Lester, ”the most probable supposition after all is, that he will not write until his expectations are realized or destroyed. Natural enough, too; it is what I should have done, if I had been in his place.”

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

”Ay, child, you women are so fond of writing,--'tis not so with us, especially when we are moving about: it is always--'Well, I must write to-morrow--well, I must write when this is settled--well, I must write when I arrive at such a place;'--and, meanwhile, time slips on, till perhaps we get ashamed of writing at all. I heard a great man say once, that 'Men must have something effeminate about them to be good correspondents;' and 'faith, I think it's true enough on the whole.”

”I wonder if Madeline thinks so?” said Ellinor, enviously glancing at her sister's absorption, as, lingering a little behind, she devoured the contents of her letter.

”He is coming home immediately, dear father; perhaps he may be here to-morrow,” cried Madeline abruptly; ”think of that, Ellinor! Ah! and he writes in spirits!”--and the poor girl clapped her hands delightedly, as the colour danced joyously over her cheek and neck.

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

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

CHAPTER V.

A REFLECTION NEW AND STRANGE.--THE STREETS OF LONDON.--A GREAT MAN'S LIBRARY.--A CONVERSATION BETWEEN THE STUDENT AND AN ACQUAINTANCE OF THE READER'S.--ITS RESULT.

Rollo. Ask for thyself.

Lat. What more can concern me than this?

--The Tragedy of Rollo.

It was an evening in the declining autumn of 1758; some public ceremony had occurred during the day, and the crowd, which it had a.s.sembled 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 troublous 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 pa.s.senger 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 lamplit 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.

There was that in Aram's person which irresistibly commanded attention.

The earnest composure of his countenance, its thoughtful 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 ponderer and a soothsayer to his own dreams;--all these arrested from time to time the second gaze of the pa.s.senger, 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 s.p.a.cious court-yard, and over the porch, the arms of the owner, with the coronet and supporters, were raised in stone.

”Is Lord--within?” asked Aram of the bluff porter who appeared at the gate.

”My Lord is at dinner,” replied the porter, thinking the answer quite sufficient, and about to reclose the gate upon the unseasonable visitor.

”I am glad to find he is at home,” rejoined Aram, gliding past the servant, with an air of quiet and unconscious command, and pa.s.sing 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 n.o.bleman--the only n.o.bleman 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 universal 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 precaution. The valet, therefore, replied to Aram's inquiry with great politeness; he recollected the name and repute of Aram, 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 Lords.h.i.+p had not yet left the dining-room, where he was entertaining a large party, a.s.sured him that he should be informed 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 reality the most enjoy.

One of these books, a volume of Shaftesbury, Aram carefully took up; it opened of its own accord in that most beautiful and profound pa.s.sage 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 Themistius, '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 doubt whether, though more men would be virtuous, there would be so many instances of an extraordinary virtue.