ved that he seemed eager not to
let his companion speak; that is a little suspicious."

"Shall I call them back?" asked the Squire.

"Why it is scarcely worth while," said Aram; "perhaps I over refine. And
now I look again at them, they seem really what they affect to be. No,
it is useless to molest the poor wretches any more. There is something,
Lester, humbling to human pride in a rustic's life. It grates against
the heart to think of the tone in which we unconsciously permit
ourselves to address him. We see in him humanity in its simple state; it
is a sad thought to feel that we despise it; that all we respect in our
species is what has been created by art; the gaudy dress, the glittering
equipage, or even the cultivated intellect; the mere and naked material
of Nature, we eye with indifference or trample on with disdain. Poor
child of toil, from the grey dawn to the setting sun, one long task!--no
idea elicited--no thought awakened beyond those that suffice to make him
the machine of others--the serf of the hard soil! And then too, mark how
we scowl upon his scanty holidays, how we hedge in his mirth with laws,
and turn his hilarity into crime! We make the whole of the gay world,
wherein we walk and take our pleasure, to him a place of snares and
perils. If he leave his labour for an instant, in that instant how many
temptations spring up to him! And yet we have no mercy for his
errors; the gaol--the transport-ship--the gallows; those are our sole
lecture-books, and our only methods of expostulation--ah, fie on the
disparities of the world! They cripple the heart, they blind the sense,
they concentrate the thousand links between man and man, into the two
basest of earthly ties--servility, and pride. Methinks the devils laugh
out when they hear us tell the boor that his soul is as glorious and
eternal as our own; and yet when in the grinding drudgery of his life,
not a spark of that soul can be called forth; when it sleeps, walled
around in its lumpish clay, from the cradle to the grave, without a
dream to stir the deadness of its torpor."

"And yet, Aram," said Lester, "the Lords of science have their ills.
Exalt the soul as you will, you cannot raise it above pain. Better,
perhaps, to let it sleep, when in waking it looks only upon a world of
trial."

"You say well, you say well," said Aram smiting his heart, "and I
suffered a foolish sentiment to carry me beyond the sober boundaries of
our daily sense."