very consciousness of rectitude on his own part, made the insult fasten
and rankle; and gave to it a barb, which, perhaps, in any other
circumstances, would not have pained him. Glenning, I have said, was a
gentleman. He was such, if there ever was one—a man of good morals,
charitable in his disposition, and could not bear to inflict pain, even
on a dumb beast. But there is, within the human heart—and philosophy may
reason it over till doomsday, without explaining it—a something to quiet
conscience, even in the best men, at times, and force them to acts,
which in other circumstances they would shudder at. Dueling is one of
them. Dueling, Glenning despised from his soul. I have heard him say so
a thousand times, and sternly express his abhorrence of the man who
could stain his hands with a fellow’s blood. He even rose once, and left
an agreeable company, because he was told that such a gentleman present
was a duelist. With such notions—and they were not mere talk with him—it
is a thing I cannot explain, that he so far forgot himself as to hurl
back the insult he had received, and in a manner calculated to lead to
so sad a termination. He did so, however, and retort calling forth
retort, they both lost their tempers—when, Ralle springing forward with
a knife, Glenning knocked him down with the butt of his whip. He then
turned and rode home.
Isabel met him at the door, and it needed but a glance to see that
something was the matter. His brow was knit—his teeth set like a
vise—and his lip curled with a stern haughtiness, which I had never
supposed was in him before.
He tried to pass her. Isabel threw her arms about him, and burst into
tears.
It awoke him—his happiness came back to his heart—the fiend fled from
him—and he stood in the presence of that lovely, simple-hearted weeper,
as helpless as a child. The effect of his passions unnerved him, like a
fever; and he was forced to keep his chamber till evening. He then
entered the parlor again.
To the fond inquisitiveness of Isabel, he now opposed, the heat of the
weather, the weariness of his long ride, and some other little nothings;
and by his wit, and pleasantry, succeeded in lulling her into a
forgetfulness of the events of the day. O! that was a calm—a deep and
awful calm. It was that which precedes the thunder—the moment between
the flash and the bolt,—_And the bolt came_.
I had seen a messenger approach, and leave the gate at sun-set; and had
suspicions, more than I dared acknowledge to myself. And yet, my friend
was never more agreeable, than on that evening. It seemed as if some
unheard of powers had been given him. Skilled in metaphysics—for they
had amused him much at College—and, well acquainted with the principles,
and history of the Fine Arts, he rambled from one to the other, with the
most amusing madness—sometimes serious, sometimes turning a happy
illustration into the most exquisite ridicule by some keen stroke of
humor, and now running off again, in a manner at once new and
electrifying. He was, on the whole, the most amusing man, for the time,
I ever spent an evening with. Poor, poor Glenning!—but I will not
anticipate.
When the evening closed, he followed me into my room; and, locking the
door, sat down, and wept like a child.
‘Poor, poor Isabel!’ was all he could articulate. ‘She suspects nothing,
poor thing—and it will break her heart. Death,’ cried he, starting up,
‘I fear it not. I have lived to die when my time comes. But she—she who
loves me—whose life is wrapped up in mine—how can she’—and sinking down,
he wept longer than before.
I ventured to lay my hand on his shoulder. He rose calm, awfully calm.
Grasping my hand, ‘my friend,’ said he—‘you must help me in this. You
must stand by, and see me fall, if fall I must; and then—bear the news
to—to—’ his sobbing choak’d his utterance.
I asked him if there were no means of avoiding it.
‘None—none in the world.’ He said this in a tone, which forbade
argument: and I said no more.
I draw a veil over the remainder of that evening.
Before the sun, he met me at the bottom of the hill in front of his
dwelling, with his pistols in his hand. He requested me to load them. I
did so, and without a muscle’s shaking; for from my childhood, I had
been incapable of every kind of fear; nevertheless, I thought of the
form which might be stiff before evening—of eyes that might be
glazed—and of the fond heart which I knew _would_ be broken.
He told me he had left his wife sleeping: and as he hung over her, and
kissed those lips, the music of which he might hear no longer, she
breathed his name in her slumbers. ‘That—that parting’—and he grasped my
hand, with an energy sufficient to crush it—‘that parting,’ said he,
‘has killed me. I cannot feel worse. No! not if I felt my adversary’s
bullet in my heart, could I feel worse. And she—O! who will take care of
her? who will dry her tears? who bind up that heart, which will
certainly break with mine?’
He gave way but a moment to feelings of this nature; for, commending her
to me in case of his death, he walked forward to the place agreed on,
with the most perfect calmness. All the difference to be observed in him
was, perchance, a degree of paleness; nothing else betrayed the fact,
that he was walking to his grave.
The place selected for the rencontre, was a wild and beaten spot on the
river-shore, where the rocks, rising abruptly to the altitude of some
hundred feet, swept round like a horse shoe in two projections, and then
thrust themselves into the stream, leaving a hollow curve of smooth wet
sand within them, of about three rods in length. The beach was white as
snow, the blue waters of the Mississippi went by with a low groaning
sound, the hoarse screaming of the flamingo swept out from the rocks
overhead, and the sun was just blazing out from the lazy mists of the
morning, as the party entered.
I shall never forget how the combatants looked, at that moment. Glenning
was calm, stern, and sorrowful—Ralle looked like a devil. He scowled
horridly, as he marked the tall, handsome figure of his adversary; and
seemed joyed that he had it in his power, to spoil such a fine piece of
God’s workmanship.
I approached Glenning, and asked his wishes.
‘_I am ready_’—were his words.
The pistols were placed in their hands. They fired—my friend into the
air—Ralle with a steady aim; yet his ball whistled harmlessly by, and
lodged in the opposite rocks.
‘What’s to be done?’ said Ralle’s second.
‘If Mr. Glenning will acknowledge himself a coward,’ said Ralle in a
low, taunting tone, ‘and ask my forgiveness, he may go about his
business.’
‘Never, wretch!—reload the pistols.’
The pistols were again placed in their hands, and they fired; as before,
Glenning into the air—Ralle’s ball passing harmlessly by.
The man again interfered.
Ralle made the same remark.
‘Silence!’ thundered Glenning, ‘thou bloody villain, nor dare insult the
ears of manhood, by your damning proposition. I should prove myself a
liar did I do it; you, you gave the offence, and ’tis from you should
come the acknowledgment. But this is wasting time. That I am no coward,
sir, I have fully shown by twice withstanding your fire. Now ’tis my
turn—give us the pistols. Wretch,’—cried he, looking on Ralle with eyes
flashing intolerably bright, and voice so hoarse that it could scarcely
be heard—‘wretch! you have lived too long. I would not stain my hands,
but I shall bless the world, by ridding it of you. Look your last on the
sun—for, by the Eternal God! you certainly die.’
The pistols were handed them—the word given; this time, my friend aimed
and fired. Ralle staggered back, and fell upon his knees; yet, he soon
recovered himself, and rising to his feet, he certainly presented the
most horrible countenance I ever saw. The ball had struck him on the jaw
near the ear, and crushed it to atoms; and the blood spirted over him
from head to foot. He uttered one dreadful shriek of agony; then—before
I could interfere, rushed up, presented his pistol at the breast of
Glenning, and shot him through the heart.
Such a dastard act!—But let me close the scene. I have dwelt on it too
long. We carried my friend to his dwelling—we tore open his
garments—there was the ragged wound in his breast, and his heart’s blood
gushing through it.
* * * * *
Poor, poor Isabel! she sleeps beneath the flowers she so much
resembled—her name is left in our hearts.
PEN AND INK.
I do not know, I do not know, but yet I cannot think,
That earth has pleasures sweeter than are found with pen and ink,
This whiling off an idle hour with torturing into rhyme,
The pretty thoughts, and pretty words, that do so softly chime.
I know it must be sad for such, as cannot make the verse
Dash gaily off, and gallop on, delightfully and terse,
But when the thought is beautiful, and language ain’t amiss,
O! tell me what on earth can bring a joy so pure as this.
They sadly err and slander too, this lovely world of ours,
Who say we gather thorns enough but never gather flowers,—
Why, look abroad on field and sky, there is a welcome there,
And who amid such happiness can weep or think of care?
The natural world is full of forms of beauty and delight,
The forest leaves are beautiful, there’s beauty in the light;
And all that meets us makes us feel that grieving is unkind,
And says be happy in this world, and fling your cares behind.
The mental world is beautiful, and deck’d in beauty rare,
Whate’er we see, whate’er we dream, we find it imaged there,—
A halo circles all that is, the sprightly and the tame,
‘And gives to airy nothings too a dwelling and a name.’
And beauty, such as only breathes upon a seraph’s lyre,
Is in this world, and comes to us, and gives us souls of fire;
We love, and we forget the ills that to the earth belong,
And Life becomes one holy dream of rapture and of song.
And he who scribbles verses knows (and no one knows but him)
That this is but a picture here—a picture dull and dim,—
Of that delight which thrills the heart of him, who can ‘in time,’
Arrest the thought, and give it word, and twist it into rhyme.
And when I sigh and weep—which things will happen, now and then—
And I have nought to do but stop, and then begin again;
Why then I hie me to my desk, and sit me down and think,
And few companions pleasure me, as these—my pen and ink.
CONFESSIONS OF A SENSITIVE MAN.[3]
No. II.
Reader! if thou art one from whose mind all that is native in modesty or
sentiment, has not been supplanted by that refined impudence so much in
vogue—that fashionable insensibility, that
——“mortal coldness of the soul like death itself,”
I demand your sympathy with the thoughts, the emotions, the sorrows of a
Sensitive Man. My earliest recollections are connected with acute
suffering from an extreme modesty and diffidence, which ever has been,
and ever will be, the bane of my spirits. A page from my life will
reveal its nature. Those who have cast an eye over a previous article
with the above title, will have learnt something of the bigotry and
vulgarity of Droneville. It was blessed, however, with one family, of a
higher and nobler order than the barbarians around them—beings, who,
having walked forth into the world, had lost that narrowness of
intellect, which distinguished the Dronevillites from the rest of
mankind. The E—— family were the aristocracy of Droneville. C—— E—— was
the companion of my earliest pleasures—the sharer of my earliest
affections. We were inseparable friends—we walked together—we played
together, and breast to breast severely drubbed the insolent urchin who
dared assail our mutual honor.
Hope E——! What a scourge wert thou to every bashful youngster! There was
a laughing deviltry in thy eye, which threw mine into a sudden gaze upon
vacuity, or inspired an irresistible desire to examine my feet—while a
deepening flush of the cheeks proclaimed the intensity of my curiosity!
Never were there eyes more keen in detecting the occasional spots which
diversify the face of boyhood—in discovering whose hands water would not
sully—whose locks the fingers of the friseur might improve. Her laugh
was the terror of every bashful youth—it was the signal of his
discomfiture—it rang in his ears when alone—it haunted his fancy—it
mingled with his dreams. Hope E——, thou torment of my early years! No
artifice could hide from thy searching gaze any blemish of person or
dress, which my pride or modesty was desirous of concealing. If my face
was soiled—if there was a puncture in the elbow of my coat, thy laugh
would first announce it. Any unfortunate rent in my nether integuments,
was sure of detection, although every possible means was used to conceal
it, and that laugh—that wild, gleeful laugh, would summon the eager gaze
of all to thine embarrassed victim! My highest audacity could never
encounter her eyes; they alone were enough to drive mad a modest youth.
And yet I could not avoid them, for in spite of myself, mine were
constantly straying in that direction, drawn thitherward by an impulse
beyond the control of my will—the nature of which my philosophy has
never yet unravelled. Believe me, that in all my visits to her brother,
I avoided her with a dexterity, worthy the skill of the most finished
adept in the fashionable art of “cutting acquaintance.” But it was vain
to struggle against destiny. Poor C——! my bosom’s earliest friend—his
mother’s hope—died—suddenly died in the first bloom of youth! How
thrilled my young heart, as I knelt by his bedside, and caught from his
dying lips a whispered farewell! He died—but, can death destroy a
mother’s love? To me was transferred a portion of that deep, gushing
affection, which had been thus suddenly driven back upon its source. A
week elapsed—and I was summoned to an interview with Mrs. E——. What an
invitation for a bashful youth! My heart forboded approaching
calamity—it blenched like a wounded man—it already felt the glance of
Hope—it trembled at the anticipation of her laugh. But there could be no
demur—there was no escape—I _must_ go. View me there, “creeping like
snail unwillingly,” over the small grass plot which separated our
dwellings—kicking every stone and mushroom upon my path—“screwing up” my
courage to an effort the most desperate, it had ever yet been called
upon to sustain. I finally succeeded—gained the door—hesitated—my
resolution failed—it rallied, and I entered the parlor with all the
grace of attitude and mien, which may be observed in a detected
sheep-stealer. Hope and her mother were there. I had scarcely made this
observation, when I was enfolded in an embrace, nerved by all the
fearful energies of a mother’s love! In a paroxysm of mingled grief and
affection, she covered my face with the kisses and tears of an
overflowing heart. But forget not me. What a predicament! Reader, art
thou a bashful man? I ask your sympathy, I claim your advice. What would
_you_ have done? What could _I_ do, but stand, perspiring with the
intensity of my embarrassment—desperately clenching, with both hands, my
hat—bracing my nerves to endurance—my eyes downcast with shame—my face
burning with blushes—modesty personified! When this first outbreaking of
maternal love had subsided, I stood in trembling expectation of its
renewal. I durst not look up, for the eyes of Hope, swimming with
suppressed mirth, at my ludicrous appearance, tortured even my fancy. A
long struggle gave me the requisite courage to cast, from the corner of
my eye, a timid glance towards her. I ventured to hope that the worst
was over. Alas! how delusive! woes come not single. My eye no sooner met
hers, than she—moved by sympathy, or one of the thousand impulses of
passion or caprice which govern the actions of the fair, or something
else, (I am no philosopher,)—rushed towards me, threw her arms
convulsively around my neck, and with kisses and tears did admirable
honor to the maternal example! Could a bashful youth endure this—be
clasped in the arms of her he feared, yet loved—could he experience
this, and survive the shock? I rushed in agony from the room, nor
slackened my career, until I had buried my head in the recesses of my
own solitary chamber.
Poor Hope! poor Hope! she died within a year.
“O! sic semper! sic semper vidi, amatas _spes_ abire.”
* * * * *
Years have rolled away, and the marks of manhood now darken his cheek,
which once kindled under the glance of Hope E——. But the lapse of time
has not—can not—change the peculiarities of his mind; he lived
constantly in Droneville—he never mingled with society, and that
youthful diffidence which maturer years wears off from the minds of
others, was in his deepened into an exquisite sensitiveness, which draws
from the slightest ridicule or neglect materials for self-torture. The
sarcasm which glides from the ears of the giddy—the glance of
indifference or scorn, unfelt by the votary of fashion, gains a lodgment
in his breast, and for weeks, yes, months, preys upon its peace. He
hears the laugh of the incredulous, the sneer of the cynic, the aphorism
of the moralist, but neither, nor all, can drive from its lair this
demon within him,—it is inwrought with the very texture of his soul—it
is a part of its undying essence.
Ye who can feel for others’ woes, imagine the sufferings of a mind thus
strung, yet branded with all the rusticity of Droneville manners,
exposed to the taunts and ridicule of College life. View him, the butt
of sarcasm—the mark of scorn—the bound, the unarmed victim, against
whose breast all aspirant wits may with impunity test the point of every
weapon, and their own dexterity in its use. My Droneville education! It
has been a “heritage of woe”—a source of the deepest, acutest suffering.
In manners, in appearance, in every thing which the cant of society
calls “elegance,” I was not only entirely deficient, but so absolutely
clownish as to elicit wit from stupidity itself. Follow such an one,
forced by circumstances beyond his control into the cold world of
fashion, and your fancy can picture those scenes of embarrassment and
humiliation, which my memory shrinks from recalling. And yet, my
mind—_my mind_ was of no such ungainly mould. If this clay was thrown
amidst the stock of Droneville, it had been fired by an intellect whose
boundless aspirations scorned all limit or control. What if it _did_
know nought of the refinements of artificial life? From the mountain
solitude—from the heavens above—from the earth, in its sublimity—from
the whisperings of its own spirit, it had drawn in all that is deep in
emotion or thrilling in thought. If it _was_ a stranger to society, it
was no stranger to the greatest minds of the present and past ages. It
requires not the formalities of fashion—none of the coxcomb’s art—to
hold communion with this ethereal principle within us—to dwell with the
genius of the mighty Past—to soar amidst the high hopes of the Future—to
love and worship those beings with whom imagination peoples her own
brilliant creations. Must I be a scorned outcast, neglected by my race,
because this perishable clay was not moulded in that form, which might
please the evanescent fancy? because my limbs would not play the buffoon
at the beck of fashion, or my tongue utter, or my spirit endure, her
language of emptiness and deceit? A misanthrope? _no!_ I scorn that
name, but scorn more him who covets the reputation or affects the spirit
of misanthropy. A misanthrope! never. The source of my suffering was a
consciousness of a deep fountain of feeling—of love, (if you please,)
without one being upon whom I could lavish it; for who would deign to
accept the devotion of a clown?—it was too much to ask of any one’s
benevolence. Can there be one more unfortunate? Is there suffering more
intense, than that of a being conscious of mental power, infinitely
superior to the butterflies of fashion—glowing with all that is rich in
thought, or deathless in love—a love, which, squandering on its object
entire devotion, stoops to no barter of affection but soul for soul—yet,
having all its energies paralyzed by a sense of awkwardness—a serpent
whose folds are drawn tauter by his very struggles to resist them. Place
such a mind, keenly sensitive to ridicule or neglect, in the gay saloon;
with all his intellect he feels himself a mark for the sarcasm of the
most insignificant. He can neither move, nor speak, and while his heart
is overflowing with emotion, he is scorned as an unfeeling brute! No one
cares for him—no one knows his sorrows—no eye
“will mark
_His_ coming, and look brighter when _he_ comes.”
The joyful faces around him—the gay laugh ringing in his ears—the warm
kiss of affection—the soft whisper of love—all, _all_ reveal the
solitude, the hopelessness of his lot. How often have I been thus
placed! How often, as I have stood, hour after hour, silent _and alone_,
amidst a crowd of my species, have I thought, that a whole life’s love
would not recompense one glance of remembrance—one word of welcome! All
this too, while I have seen the selfish caressed—the ignorant flattered,
and quailed beneath the eye of those, whom, if met upon the arena of
mind, I could have crushed. But I have suffered most deeply, most
keenly, from those in whose gratitude, at least, I had reposed some
confidence. If there be one crime—_one_ of guilt so unmitigated as to
wake the thunderbolt, as to call down retributive justice—it is that
viper, ingratitude. No exertion of _human_ power can suppress it, laws
cannot define it, penalties cannot reach it;—the law of love, that last
hope of virtue, is powerless here. And yet, it is a crime which would
drive all joy from earth—it would crush all that is holy in the heart—it
would dissever man from his species.
As the eye of one after another has lighted upon me, and turned
scornfully from the uncouth clown before them, I have prayed—yes,
prayed—it could not be impious—that their vision might for one instant
be quickened, so as to penetrate the mind. It is too much to hope for
_here_,—but
“If there be, indeed,
A shore where mind survives, ’twill be a mind
All unincorporate.”
We can bear the scorn of man, cold, selfish man, for there is something
in the insolent boldness of his sneer, which nerves the heart to
endurance, or wakes the slumber of revenge; but the contumely of those,
from whose nature’s tenderness, we might have expected pity at least,
disarms all resistance. It is as if the elements conspired against you;
it sends through the heart a sort of “et tu Brute” feeling, which
imparts to it a desperate resignation to fate; this, this burns the
brand which shuts out the victim from the sympathy of his race! I once
thought that the contempt of all—the ridicule of inferiors—the
ingratitude of friends, had steeled my heart to the most cutting scorn;
but I lived to learn that there was a chord, deep in the recesses, which
could only be reached by the dextrous hand of her who was worshipped
there with a whole soul’s devotion. Even _her_ lip curled with disgust,
as she turned contemptuously from me to listen to the voice of flattery.
Censure her not—she is admired by all—she was never friendless—will she
ever know how deep, how exhaustless is a rustic’s love? How often, as he
has returned from gazing hours upon _her_ who deigned him not one glance
in return, has the heart of the clown flowed forth, if not in the spirit
of poetry, at least with that of sincerity.
I gazed on thee, dear one, in the crowd of the gay,
And my long cherished hopes have floated away;
I gazed on thee, dear one,—a glance might have given
My bosom a hope like the martyr’s of heaven;
But the eye which could gladden, was chilling with scorn,
And a heart-nurtured rose is changed to a thorn.
I gazed on thee, dear one—’twas a moment that thought
Had eagerly, hopefully, doubtingly sought;
I did meet thee, I left thee, and _thou_ didst not know,
That on thy lip quivered my joy or my woe;
When I looked but for pity, thy scorn could I bear?—
My hopes have all withered, my doubts are despair.
If sorrow—shall I wish it?—should ever reveal,
That lips can profess, what the heart does not feel;
If in a lone moment a wish should come o’er thee,
For one who can love—yes, dear one, adore thee;—
My heart never changes—tell me, dearest, can thine
E’er love with an ardor so deathless as mine?