He was too good for war, and ought to be
As far from danger, as from fear he's free.--_Cowley_.
"You are an accomplished Lovelace, Lionel!" said one of a merry
throng, collected around a wine table. "Poor Miss Ellen Pilton is now
fondly trusting to your mellow song of flattery and promise. Here's to
her health! and to that of every pretty woman with a silly heart, and
a credulous ear."
"'Tis pledged," cried I, forgetting every feeling of honor in the
incense offered to my vanity, "and may each of you be equally
successful."
The words were scarcely uttered by me, nor had the glass touched my
lips, ere I received a violent blow in the face, which sent me reeling
to the extremity of the room. Rising with shame from my debasing
posture, I encountered the eye of Pilton, fixed on me with a firm,
cool, and deliberate gaze, and in an instant, my dirk was pointed to
his heart. I looked in his face with a stern, malignant, and merciless
triumph, yet his color neither blanched--nor did his countenance
quail. "Let him alone!" cried twenty voices, "he is unarmed, give him
fair play;" and I thank God, that in the tempest of my rage I was
sufficiently alive to this appeal to my manhood, suddenly to throw the
vulgar weapon away.
"Base coward!" cried I, "I will not assassinate you--but remember that
your blood alone, can cleanse this foul and dastardly assault."
"You have insulted my sister," he replied, "and I have punished your
falsehood. I fear neither your attempt at assassination--nor the
resentment of that baseness which can trample on unprotected
innocence. Remember, Mr. Granby, that the blow which you received was
from a brother's hand! and if you be a gentleman, your infamy will be
deepened by the seething recollections of your own conscience."
"You have done wrong Lionel!" said many voices, "tell him, that you
did not see him enter the room when the toast was offered, or you
would not have wounded his feelings."
"Who dictates to me?" said I,--"who measures my honor? who controls my
revenge? for whoever dare treat me with such impertinent freedom, I
will hold as an enemy, whom I will pursue to the grave. As for you,
Mr. Pilton--you will _understand_----_to-morrow_."
My couch that night was one of utter wretchedness, and my revenge was
lashed into bitterness, by the whip of sleepless conscience. That I
should in a moment of folly have committed an act disgraceful to a
gentleman--that I should, under the excitement of puerile vanity, have
offered myself to the just resentment of my enemy--that I should thus
foolishly lose the "vantage ground," which I had long and anxiously
sought--that I should be stung and tortured by a consciousness of
impropriety--and that I should bear on my proud cheek, the scorching
blush of a public insult, were feelings which conspired to humble and
cheapen me to the lowest point of mental and personal degradation.
Where duelling is a passion--and where public opinion calls it
chivalry, it is easy to procure a second, and I was saved the trouble
of seeking one by the voluntary offer of the young man who had given
the offensive toast to my vanity. Early on the next morning, the
warlike missive, graced with the usual courtesies, was sent to Pilton,
and in a short time I received the following answer--a brief, though
comprehensive commentary on the truisms and philosophy of cowardice.
_Sir_--I cannot--I will not fight a duel. I owe duties to my country,
my God, and my family, dependent on a life which none but a fool would
idly risk. I am not sufficiently base to murder you--nor am I silly
enough to offer my life to your malignant revenge. I have no right to
kill you--therefore, I shall not attempt it. I {95} chastised you, as
I shall do every man, who acts in a similar manner, for an insult to
the reputation of a sister. Sustained by an approving conscience--and
a mind honestly alive to a sense of its own dignity, I am prepared to
defend myself from every attack of brutality and malice.
Your ob't servant,
EDMUND PILTON.
_Lionel Granby, Esq._
"Why did you suffer Pilton to refuse the challenge? Was it not
delivered in proper form? and did you not assure him that there was no
alternative?"
"It was with difficulty," replied my second, "that I could induce him
to receive your note, and when he informed me of his refusal to fight,
I called him a coward, and threw a glass of water into his face.
Provoked to some spirit by the grossness of my insult, he struck me
with a cane; I aimed a pistol at his bosom which unfortunately
flashed; and he terminated my visit, by caning and kicking me down
stairs. I am more deeply insulted than you are. What shall I do? How
shall I act to obtain satisfaction?"
My second's reception added more gall to my wounded pride, and I
resolved to coerce Pilton into a fight, by attacking him, whenever we
should meet. I crushed his letter with my heel, and, throwing it into
the fire, I watched it twisting and crackling amid the blaze. Ere it
had wasted itself into ashes, Arthur Ludwell, almost breathless,
entered my room.
"I feel deeply, dear Lionel," said he taking my hand, "for your
situation, and regret that you have not sent for me, and demanded my
assistance. I have waited on Pilton, who declares that he will make an
apology for his blow, if you will say that you were ignorant of his
presence in the room, when the toast was pledged. All who have heard
of the affray know very well, that this was the fact; for you would
not wantonly wound that exquisite sensibility which a brother alone
can feel. It would be honorable on your part to express the truth, and
it is magnanimous in Pilton to offer his reconciliation."
"And am I then so degraded, so contemptible, and so humble, that you
can thus cruelly taunt me, and, with the harlotry of insidious
friendship, counsel me to vilify my name, and commit a debasing
suicide on my own character? Must I make an apology to a brute--one
who is a disgrace to manhood's spirit--and who has rotted into life,
on the dunghill of selfishness? Must I succumb to him, whom I have
hated with long, unbroken, and relentless abhorrence? Must I be deaf
to that fearful curse with which his malice blighted the freshness of
my boyhood--which burnt on the tablet of memory, and graven in letters
of blood, now agonizes my brain, and swells through my heart? Must I
be recreant to my name, and family--forget that blow which will ever
tingle on my cheek, and basely creep through life a reptile coward?
Take back your treacherous friendship, if this be its infamy, and
remember, Mr. Ludwell, that in one moment you have crushed every
feeling of affection, and on its ruins, have arisen an eternal
contempt for your duplicity, and a damning scorn for your character."
"Hear me, dear Lionel!" said he, bursting into tears, "and forgive
that advice which sprung from a heart tenderly alive to every thing
connected with your interest. Control your rage, and listen to the
voice of that friend who will sacrifice life, and surrender every
thing he has on earth, for your reputation. Pardon the intrusion of my
counsel, and I will forgive your suspicions. Come, give me your hand,
and let me not believe that you have a bad heart."
"What right sir! have you to allude to my heart, whatever it may
be?--no imputation shall be cast on it, by a weeping coward. I shall
hold you answerable," said I quitting the room--"for the baseness of
your insinuation, and I can assure you that an ocean of hypocritical
tears will not protect you."
So soon as I could procure a pen, I addressed a cruel and fiend-like
letter to Arthur, demanding an humble apology--and an explicit
disavowal of his insult, and in the event of his refusal, my second
was authorised to make a _speedy arrangement_. "Let him not (concluded
my letter) see your womanly accomplishments, for he is prepared to
scorn the weakness, and loathe the duplicity of your tears."
The same second whom Pilton's attack had maddened into a demoniac rage
for blood, bore my challenge to Arthur; and when he returned, I saw
his eye kindled into animation at the hope of a certain fight. "Here
is a letter for you! Ludwell is true game. You cannot retract your
challenge, and he will be forced to meet you! I will clean the
pistols, while you write family letters and starve; for the odds are
against you, if you dine or eat any thing." While he busied himself in
searching for the pistols, I opened and read with feelings of stern
contempt, the letter of Arthur.
_My dear Lionel_,--Take back your challenge, and do not force me to
meet _you_ in combat. I cannot refuse it, for I have not firmness of
mind to do an act which my reason suggests, and my heart approves. I
am afraid of that public opinion which would execrate me as a coward,
and trample me into infamy, ere I had stept into manhood. In spite of
your unkind letter, I still love you with the candor and truth of a
boy's heart, and I think now more deeply of the innocent hours of our
early days, when friendship united us, and sincerity hallowed the
union. You know that I cannot make an apology under a threat. Retract
it, and I will humble myself, if by such means I can regain your
wonted affection.
Your friend,
ARTHUR LUDWELL.
"Return!" said I to my second, "and inform Mr. Ludwell that if he do
not consent to fight, I will proclaim him as a coward, and publish his
whining letter to the world. He, with every other man who dare sustain
Pilton, is my enemy."
We met! 'Twas a mild and peaceful evening when we approached the
field, and the setting sun was rejoicing like a bridegroom in the
blushing embrace of the trembling horizon. Its quivering rays were
reflected in shadowy lines, through the foliage of the forest, while
the scarlet fruit of two old holly trees--the mute records of many a
duel--lent the only cheering aspect to the frightful solitude of the
scene. Our seconds having retired a short distance, for the purpose of
arranging the usual ceremonies, we were left standing near each other.
I was proud and inflexible, yet I felt my heart throbbing with
anguish, and long-prized friendship, and when I looked on his serene
and {96} dignified countenance, the jeweled days of our childhood
flashed before me--when I was untainted by revenge--and uncursed by
hatred,--when I was lifted above the darkness of human passion--when
hope illuminated the airy future, and pleasure grasped the unalloyed
fruition of reality. I thought not of my own death--of that dreamless
and sodden sleep, from whose ghastly phantasm wisdom sinks into
horror--of that dark insensibility to warm and mantling life--to
light, hope, and love--a shadowless, impenetrable and boundless
desart. Could I destroy the life of him, who with tireless truth had
ever joyed in my joys--and sorrowed in my sorrows? Could I crush and
scatter into nothingness, the full harvest which his ambition had
garnered--the gems of mind--the sparkling thoughts of genius--the rich
treasures of learning--and bankrupt the accumulated spoils of wisdom?
Could I seize from the fœtid riot of the grave the animated
countenance, the brave, generous and affectionate heart, or call back
from the eternal prison of death, the gifted mind, and the eloquent
brow? I reasoned with a memory which could not be recreant, and of the
result of that duel my heart is guiltless?
Our seconds, having finished their conversation, now approached, and
placed the pistols in our hands, Arthur holding his in a perpendicular
position, and mine according to the latest improvement, and the
repeated suggestions of my second, being directed to the earth.
"I cannot consent to fire?" said I, "while Mr. Ludwell stands directly
in the line of that tree, it gives me a great advantage!"
"It makes no difference, Lionel!--Mr. Granby," said Arthur, suddenly
correcting himself, "I care not in what posture, or situation I
stand." His second now advanced and placed him in a position, the
advantage of which did not escape the keen eye of my friend, who
turned me around twice, before he confessed himself satisfied with my
attitude. The word "_fire_" was now given, and almost at the same
moment our pistols were discharged, Arthur having fired his into the
air, while I in raising mine, had involuntarily aimed it directly at
my antagonist. The ball struck him I know not where, but I saw him
reel backwards, stagger, and laying hold of a bush near him, stumble,
and fall to the earth.
"I demand another fire," said his friend, "he is able to stand, and I
claim the privilege." "Mr. Ludwell cannot fire again," replied my
second, "for he has thrown away his shot."
"I resign my right," interrupted Arthur! "and Lionel, I forgive you.
If I recover, I will forget all--and dying, you have my unalloyed
friendship. Leave this frightful place as soon as possible, for you
may be arrested; and do not fear, for I shall yet recover, and we will
be friends again." These words were uttered by him in a faint, though
distinct voice; his features were nerved with his usual lofty dignity
of countenance, yet his eye quivered with a flitting light, and a dark
and unearthly color fell, like a wintry cloud, over the radiance of
his brow. I could not so far divest myself of pride, as to confess in
presence of our seconds that my fire had been accidental, nor could I,
even at that trying moment, reconcile it to myself to be an exception
to that general rule, which requires that a challenger shall never
throw away his fire. Motioning to our friends to retire, I approached
Arthur, and leaning over him, I whispered the simple truth. A
momentary smile flashed over his pallid countenance, and grasping my
hand in an ecstacy of delight, he said, "I knew it! I believe you! I
was confident that you did not fire intentionally!" He was here
interrupted by my second who exclaimed "the civil authorities!" I
looked round, and through the dim twilight, I saw a crowd of
ill-dressed people rapidly approaching us. I knelt down, and asking
forgiveness once more from my injured friend, fled with the burning
brand of Cain on my forehead--an humbled and heart-broken man!