s hovering about them and roguishly
impeding their play. The purpose accomplished here is the exhibition of
domestic comfort and content, and this is further emphasised by Ruth's
recital of a written tribute that Aram's pupils have sent to him, on the
eve of his marriage. Wounded by this praise the conscience-stricken
wretch breaks off abruptly from his pastime and rushes from the room--an
act of desperate grief which is attributed to his modesty. The parson
soon follows, and Ruth is left alone. Houseman, their casual guest,
having accepted the vicar's hospitable offer of a shelter for the night,
has now a talk with Ruth, and he is startled to hear the name of Eugene
Aram, and thus to know that he has found the man whose fatal secret he
possesses, and upon whose assumed dread of exposure his cupidity now
purposes to feed. In a coarsely jocular way this brutish creature
provokes the indignant resentment of Ruth, by insinuations as to her
betrothed lover's past life; and when, a little later, Ruth and Aram
again meet, she wooingly begs him to tell her of any secret trouble that
may be weighing upon his mind. At this moment Houseman comes upon them,
and utters Aram's name. From that point to the end of the act there is a
sustained and sinewy exposition, strong in spirit and thrilling in
suspense,--of keen intellect and resolute will standing at bay and
making their last battle for life, against the overwhelming odds of
heaven's appointed doom. Aram defies Houseman and is denounced by him;
but the ready adroitness and iron composure of the suffering wretch
still give him supremacy over his foe--till, suddenly, the discovery is
announced of the bones of Daniel Clarke in St. Robert's Cave, and the
vicar commands Aram and Houseman to join him in their inspection. Here
the murderer suffers a collapse. There has been a greater strain than
even he can bear; and, left alone upon the scene, he stands petrified
with horror, seeming, in an ecstasy of nameless fear, to look upon the
spectre of his victim. Henry Irving's management of the apparition
effect was such as is possible only to a man of genius, and such as
words may record but never can describe.

The third act passes in the churchyard. Aram has fled from the sight of
the skeleton, and has fallen among the graves. It is almost morning. The
ghastly place is silent and dark. The spirit of the murderer is broken,
and his enfeebled body, long since undermined by the grief of remor