CHAPTER IV.

THE SOLILOQUY, AND THE CHARACTER, OF A RECLUSE.--THE

INTERRUPTION.

"Or let my lamp at midnight hour

Be seen in some high lonely tower,

Where I may oft outwatch the Bear,

Or thrice-great Hermes, and unsphere

The spirit of Plato."

--Milton.--Il Penseroso.

As Aram assisted the beautiful Madeline into the carriage--as he listened

to her sweet voice--as he marked the grateful expression of her soft eyes

--as he felt the slight yet warm pressure of her fairy hand, that vague

sensation of delight which preludes love, for the first time, in his

sterile and 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

that I press for companionship out of my own circle; but in your company

I should find pleasure as well as instruction. Let us break the ice

boldly, and at once. Come and dine with me to-morrow, and Ellinor shall

sing to us in the evening."

The excuse died upon Aram's lips. Another glance at Madeline 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 with 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 soliloquizing: "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 course, 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 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 the all-seeing Ruler of the universe, Destiny, or God, had here fixed

the moment of our birth and the limits of our career. What then is

crime?--Fate! What life?--Submission!"

Such were the strange and dark thoughts which, constituting a part indeed

of his established creed, broke over Aram's mind. He sought for a fairer

subject for meditation, and Madeline Lester rose before him.

Eugene Aram was a man whose whole life seemed to have been one sacrifice

to knowledge. What is termed pleasure had no attraction for him. From the

mature manhood at which he had arrived, he looked back along his youth,

and recognized no youthful folly. Love he had hitherto regarded with a

cold though not an incurious eye: intemperance had never lured him to a

momentary self-abandonment. Even the innocent relaxations with which the

austerest minds relieve their accustomed toils, had had no power to draw

him from his beloved researches. The delight monstrari 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 highwrought enthusiasts who now are almost extinct upon

earth, and whom Romance has not hitherto attempted to pourtray; 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 accumulated 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 least 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 this very barrenness, there

seems something high; it was a rare and great spectacle--Men, living

aloof from the roar and strife of the passions that raged below, devoting

themselves to the knowledge which is our purification and our immortality

on earth, and yet deaf and blind to the allurements of the 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 stars, luminous

with their own light, but too remote from the earth on which they looked,

to shed over its inmates the lustre with which they glowed.

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 would, had

early circumstances given it a different bias, 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

of human perfectibility, he saw in the gloomy past but a dark prophecy of

the future. As Napoleon wept over one wounded soldier in the field of

battle, yet ordered without emotion, thousands to a certain death; so

Aram would have sacrificed himself for an individual, but would not have

sacrificed a momentary gratification for his race. And this sentiment

towards men, at once of high disdain and profound despondency, was

perhaps the cause why he rioted in indolence upon his extraordinary

mental wealth, and could not be persuaded either to dazzle the world or

to serve it. But by little and little his fame had broke forth from the

limits with which he would have walled it: a man who had taught himself,

under singular difficulties, nearly all the languages of the civilized

earth; the profound mathematician, the elaborate antiquarian, the

abstruse philologist, uniting with his graver lore the more florid

accomplishments of science, from the scholastic trifling of heraldry to

the gentle learning of herbs and flowers, could scarcely hope for utter

obscurity in that day when all intellectual acquirement was held in high

honour, and its possessors were drawn together into a sort of brotherhood

by the fellowship of their pursuits. And though Aram gave little or

nothing to the world himself, he was ever willing to communicate to

others any benefit or honour derivable from his researches. On the altar

of science he kindled no light, but the fragrant oil in the lamps of his

more pious brethren was largely borrowed from his stores. From almost

every college in Europe came to his obscure abode letters of

acknowledgement 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 characterized 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 offers of friendship; the interview lasted its hour,

and was seldom renewed. Patronage was not less distasteful to him than

sociality. Some occasional visits and condescensions of the great, he had

received with a stern haughtiness, rather than his wonted and subdued

urbanity. The precise amount of his fortune was not known; his wants were

so few, that what would have been poverty to others might easily have

been competence to him; and the only evidence he manifested of the

command of money, was in his extended and various library.

He had now been 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 drew aside with a kindness mingled with his

respect, as in his homeward walk he encountered the pale and thoughtful

Student, with the folded arms and downeast eyes, which characterised the

abstraction of his mood; and the village maiden, as she curtsied by him,

stole a glance at his handsome but melancholy countenance; 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 dullness

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 she seems only to rest on those billows from

which the ray is reflected back upon 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 could at that

late hour, when the whole village was buried in sleep, demand admittance?

He recollected that Madeline had said the Stranger who had so alarmed

them had inquired for him, at that recollection his cheek suddenly

blanched, but again, that stranger was surely only some poor traveller

who had heard of his wonted charity, and had called to solicit relief,

for he had not met the Stranger on the road to Lester's house; and he had

naturally set down the apprehensions of his fair visitants to a 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.

Eugene Aram — Volume 01 · 第 4 / 12 章