“‘Despiciam dites,’” answered Aram, “and, thanks to you, I may add, ‘despiciamque famem.’”
CHAPTER VI.
THE THAMES AT NIGHT.—A THOUGHT.—THE STUDENT RE-SEEKS THE
RUFFIAN.—A HUMAN FEELING EVEN IN THE WORST SOIL.
Clem. ‘Tis our last interview!
Stat. Pray Heav’n it be.
—Clemanthes.
On leaving Lord ———‘s, Aram proceeded, with a lighter and more rapid step, towards a less courtly quarter of the metropolis.
He had found, on arriving in London, that in order to secure the annual sum promised to Houseman, it had been necessary to strip himself even of the small stipend he had hoped to 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 a-thirst 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 vista’d the streets, and a few dim stars that struggled through the reeking haze that curtained the great city. Aram had now gained one of the bridges ‘that arch the royal Thames,’ and, in no time dead to scenic attraction, he there paused for a moment, and looked along the dark river that rushed below.
Oh, God! 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;—Unchanged—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.”