fficult to point out any peculiarity in him.
It was not only truth, it was _reality_, that marked his
character. He never was, never could be, anything but himself;
and, like all perfectly true characters, could not even
understand those that were not so, and judged them too
severely, or too leniently, from the impossibility of putting
himself in their place. His manner was always calm; even
emotion in him never partook of the semblance of agitation.
Where others were angry, he was stern; a few simple words from
him always carried with them a strength of condemnation, which
crushed under its weight any attempt to resist it. From a
child I had been afraid of Edward, and he had never perfectly
understood my character; now that I had so much reason to fear
him, in some ways I felt more at my ease with him, because as
I had ceased to express all my feelings, and pour forth my
thoughts before him, I dreaded less the severity of his
judgment.

During the next two or three weeks that he was at Elmsley, I
felt in his presence as a criminal before his judge; his
sternness was justice, his kindness was mercy; and, in the
softened tones of his voice, and in the tenderness of his
eyes, I only read the tacit grant of a pardon, which mine
mutely implored. This gave to my whole manner, to my
disposition I might almost say, for the time, a humility, a
submission, which were in no wise affected, but which did not
naturally belong to my character. Edward's was despotic, as
well as uncompromising; perfectly conscientious himself,
strict in the discharge of every duty, he exacted from others
what he performed himself. He allowed of no excuses, of no
subterfuges, and ranked the weakness that shrinks from
suffering in the accomplishment of what is right, in the same
line as that which yields to the allurements of pleasure, or
the temptations of guilt. In many respects he resembled my
uncle, but still the difference between them was perceptibly
great. Edward's feelings were stronger; it was impossible to
observe the depths of thought manifested in his eyes, and in
his pale, high forehead; to hear the sound of his voice, when
he addressed those he loved; to see the colour rise slowly in
his check, as he spoke of some act of virtue, of heroism, or
of self-conquest, without the conviction that powers of heart
and mind, not an atom of which were frittered away in vain
words and empty fancies, were at work within him.

Once he spoke to me o