SNATCHES FROM EUGENE ARAM.
Love.—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.
The Pathetic and Sublime.—What a world of reasonings, not immediately obvious, did the sage of old open to our inquiry, when he said that the pathetic was the truest source of the sublime.
Fortune-telling by Gipsies.—Very few men under thirty ever sincerely refuse an offer of this sort. Nobody believes in these predictions, yet every one likes hearing them.
Gardening.—'Tis a winning thing, 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.
Knaresbro' Castle.—You would be at some loss to recognise now the truth of old Leland's description of that once stout and gallant bulwark of the north, when "he numbrid 11 or 12 toures 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 Wolsey of his age) remained for a whole year, defying the weak justice of the times. There, too, the unfortunate Richard the Second,—the Stuart of the Plantagenets—passed some portion of his bitter imprisonment. And there, after the battle of Marston Moor, waved the banner of the loyalists against the soldiers of Lilburn. It was made yet more touchingly memorable at that time, as you may have heard, by an instance of filial piety. The town was straitened for want of provisions; a youth, whose father was in the garrison, was accustomed nightly to get into the deep, dry moat, climb up the glacis, and put provisions through a hole, where the father stood ready to receive them. He was perceived at length; the soldiers fired on him. He was taken prisoner, and sentenced to be hanged in sight of the besieged, in order to strike terror into those who might be similarly disposed to render assistance to the garrison. Fortunately, however, this disgrace was spared the memory of Lilburne and the republican arms. With great difficulty, a certain lady obtained his respite; and after the conquest of the place, and the departure of the troops, the adventurous son was released.... The castle then, once the residence of Pierce Gaveston,—of Hubert III,—and of John of Gaunt, was dismantled and destroyed. It is singular, by the way, that it was twice captured by men of the name of Lilburn, or Lilleburne, 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 great names have been fatal to certain spots; and this reminds me that we boast (at Knaresbro',) the origin of the English Sibyl, the venerable Mother Shipton. The wild rock, at whose foot she is said to have been born, is worthy of the tradition.
Consolation for the Loss of Children.—Better that the light cloud should fade away into Heaven with the morning breath, than travail through the weary day to gather in darkness, and end in storm!
Bells before a Wedding.—The bells were already ringing loud 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.
The Murderer's Unction.—Ay, all is safe! He will not again return; the dead sleeps without a witness.—I may lay this working brain upon the bosom that loves me, and not start at night and think that the soft hand around my neck is the hangman's gripe.
Hogarth.—Nothing makes a picture of distress 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.
Change of Circumstance.—In our estimate of the ills of life, we never sufficiently take into 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; and he was but a type of his brethren; all in similar circumstances would have found similar occupation.
Eternal Punishment.—So wonderful in equalizing all states and all times in the varying tide of life, are the 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.
Prison Solitude.—I have been now so condemned to feed upon myself, that I have become surfeited with the diet.—Aram.
Sensibility.—We may triumph over all weaknesses but that of the affections.
Silence of Cities.—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.
Suspense.—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,[7] is sufficient to plough fixed lines and furrows in a convict of five-and-twenty—sufficient to dash the brown hair with grey, and to bleach the grey to white.
Consolation.—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.
It is a fearful thing to see men weep.
We are seldom sadder without being also wiser men.
What is more appalling than to find the signs of gaiety accompanying the reality of anguish.
Consolation.—If we go at noon day to the bottom of a deep pit,[8] we shall 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.
Progress of Crime.—Mankind are not instantly corrupted. Villany is always progressive. We decline from right—not suddenly, but step after step.—Aram's Defence.