“He was a man who might, perhaps, have numbered some five and thirty years; but at a hasty glance, he would have seemed considerably younger.  He was above the ordinary stature; though a gentle, and not ungraceful bend in the neck rather than the shoulders, somewhat curtailed his proper advantages of height.  His frame was thin and slender, but well knit and fair proportioned.  Nature had originally cast his form in an athletic mould, but sedentary habits and the wear of mind seemed somewhat to have impaired her gifts.  His cheek was pale and delicate; yet it was rather the delicacy of thought than of weak health.  His hair, which was long, and of a rich and deep brown, was worn back from his face and temples, and left a broad high majestic forehead utterly unrelieved and bare; and on the brow there was not a single wrinkle—­it was as smooth as it might have been some fifteen years ago.  There was a singular calmness, and, so to speak, profundity of thought, eloquent upon its clear expanse, which suggested the idea of one who had passed his life rather in contemplation than emotion.  It was a face that a physiognomist would have loved to look upon, so much did it speak both of the refinement and the dignity of intellect.”

“Such was the person—­if pictures convey a faithful resemblance—­of a man, certainly the most eminent in his day for various and profound learning, and a genius wholly self-taught, yet never contented to repose upon the wonderful stores it had laboriously accumulated.”

(Aram thus describes his own character:—­)

“Ah!” said Aram, gently shaking his head, “it is a hard life we bookmen lead.  Not for us is the bright face of noon-day or the smile of woman, the gay unbending of the heart, the neighing steed and the shrill trump; the pride, pomp, and circumstance of life.  Our enjoyments are few and calm; our labour constant; but that is it not, Sir?—­that is it not? the body avenges its own neglect.  We grow old before our time; we wither up; the sap of our youth shrinks from our veins; there is no bound in our step.  We look about us with dimmed eyes, and our breath grows short and thick, and pains, and coughs, and shooting aches come upon us at night; it is a bitter life—­a bitter life—­joyless life.  I would I had never commenced it.  And yet the harsh world scowls upon us:  our nerves are broken, and they wonder we are querulous; our blood curdles, and they ask why we are not gay; our brain grows dizzy and indistinct (as with me just now), and, shrugging their shoulders, they whisper their neighbours that we are mad.  I wish I had worked at the plough, and known sleep, and loved mirth—­and—­and not been what I am.”

“As the Student tittered the last sentence, he bowed down his head, and a few tears stole silently down his cheek.  Walter was greatly affected—­it took him by surprise:  nothing in Aram’s ordinary demeanour betrayed any facility to emotion; and he conveyed to all the idea of a man, if not proud, at least cold.”