Let us write an essay upon noses. Each organ of the human body, but
more especially an organ of sensation, has a sort of existence
apart--a separate sphere of being from the great commonwealth of which
it is a member, just as every individual has his own peculiar ties and
relationships distinct from the body of society, though affecting it
sympathetically and remotely. Each organ has its affections and its
pleasures; its misfortunes and its pains; its peculiarities, generic
and individual; its own appropriate history, and its unchangeable
destiny and fate. As the eye is supposed (wrongly) to be the most
expressive of organs, so is the nose of man the most impressible.
Tender in its affections, enlarged in its sympathies, soft in its
character, it is in this foul and corrupt world more frequently
subject to unpleasant than to pleasant influences. During one season
of the year alone does nature provide it with enjoyments; and during
the long cold winter it is pinched and maltreated by meteoric
vicissitudes. It is a summer-bird; a butterfly; a flower, blossoming
on the waste of man's countenance, but inhaling (not exhaling) odours
during the bright period when other flowers are in bloom. During the
whole of the rest of the year its joys are factitious, and whether
they proceed from Eau de Portugal, bouquet à la Reine, or Jean Marie
Farina, it is but a sort of hot-house life the nose obtains, produced
by stoves and pipes, till summer comes round again.
Like all the sensitive, the nose is perhaps the most unfortunate of
human organs. Placed in an elevated situation, it is subject to all
the rude buffets of the world; its tender organization is always
subject to disgusts. Boreas assails it; Sol burns it; Bacchus inflames
it. Put forward as a leader in the front of the battle, men follow it
blindly on a course which it is very often unwilling to pursue, and
then blame it for every mischance. Whatever hard blows are given, it
comes in for more than its share; and, after weeping tears of blood,
has to atone for the faults of other members over which it has no
control. The fists are continually getting it into scrapes; its bad
neighbour, the tongue, brings down indignation upon it undeserved; the
eyes play it false on a thousand occasions; and the whole body
corporate is continually poking it into situations most repugnant to
its better feelings. The poor, unfortunate nose! verily, it is a sadly
misused organ. It matters not whether it be hooked or straight, long
or short, turned-up or depressed, a bottle, a bandbox, a sausage, or
the ace of clubs; Roman, Grecian, English, French, German, or Calmuc,
the nose is ever to be pitied for its fate below.
I can hardly forgive Chandos Winslow for fingering so rudely the nasal
organ of Viscount Overton. It was of considerable extent, and very
tangible qualities: an inviting nose, it must be said, which offered
almost as many temptations to an insulted man as that of a certain
gentleman in Strasburg to the trumpeter's wife. So much must be said
in Chandos's favour; but yet it was cruel, harsh, almost cowardly. The
poor nose could not defend itself; and yet he had the barbarity to
pinch the helpless innocent between his iron finger and thumb for full
three seconds and a half. Pain and amazement kept the owner of the
nose from putting forth his own powers to avenge it for the same
space; and indeed it would have been to little purpose had he
attempted such a thing, for he was no more capable of defending his
nose against Chandos Winslow, than the nose was of defending itself.
At length the grasp of his antagonist relaxed, and the peer exclaimed
aloud, "Police! police! You scoundrel, I will give you in charge."
"That you can do if you please," answered Chandos, with a sneer; "but
methinks your honour will somewhat suffer. There, Sir, is my card, if
you wish to know who it is has punished your impertinence."
The police were very busy at a little distance; and the noble lord,
left to his own resources, exclaimed, "Your card, fellow! Do
you suppose I do not know you--a low vagabond dressed up as a
gentleman!--Police! I say."
A crowd had gathered round, and two gentlemen in anticipation of the
arrival of the police, were investigating the contents of the peer's
pockets, when a tall, thin, gentlemanly man, one Sir Henry d'Estragon,
a Lieutenant-Colonel in the service, well known about Wimbledon and
Molesey, and who had even reminiscences of Primrose Hill when there
was such a place unpolluted, pushed his way through, crying, "Why,
Winslow, what is the matter? How do you do, my dear fellow? Here seems
a row. What is going on?"
"Perhaps, d'Estragon, you can persuade this person, whose nose I have
just had the pleasure of pulling," replied Chandos Winslow, "that I am
not a low vagabond dressed up like a gentleman. He is not inclined to
take my card, but calls for the police."
"Rather strange," said Sir Henry d'Estragon. "I thought it was Lord
Overton: but I must be mistaken."
"No Sir, you are not," replied the peer; "but I have every reason to
believe this person to be an impostor."
"Pooh!" said the officer, turning away with a scoff. "Come, Winslow;
if he chooses policemen for his friends on such occasions, we had
better get away. Here they come."
"Stay a moment, Sir," said Lord Overton; "if you will be answerable
that this person is--"
"Mr. Chandos Winslow, my lord," replied Sir Henry, "second son of my
old friend Sir Harry Winslow, whom I had the honour of accompanying in
'twenty-seven, when he shot Michael Burnsley. I have nothing more to
say, except that there is the gentleman's card. Any friend of yours
will find me with him till twelve to-morrow. But if you prefer the
police, you must send them after us. Goodnight, my lord."
Lord Overton took the tendered card; and Sir Henry, putting his arm
through that of Chandos, walked away up Charles-street, while the
policemen came up and inquired what was the matter; but got no
satisfactory answer.
The next morning Sir Henry d'Estragon sat at breakfast with Chandos
Winslow in his hotel, making himself very comfortable with all the
etcæteras of an English breakfast, when Lord George Lumley was
announced; and, as Chandos knew no such person, the object of his
visit was not difficult to divine. All formal courtesies were gone
through in a very formal manner; and then, after a single instant's
pause, and a look at a patent-leather boot, Lord George addressed
himself to the business in hand.
"I have the honour, Mr. Winslow," he said, "of bearing you a message
from my friend, Lord Overton. It would seem a very strange
misconception took place last night, according to Lord Overton's
account, from whom I required a full explanation of the whole
circumstances, as I never undertake anything of this kind, without
having made myself master of the facts."
Sir Henry d'Estragon showed some signs of an impatience, which was not
decreased when Lord George went on to say: "Lord Overton mistook you,
it would appear, for a person in an inferior station, very like you; I
myself see no reason why mutual apologies should not set the whole
matter to rights; but--"
"We have no apologies to make, my dear lord," replied Sir Henry; "your
friend called Mr. Winslow an impertinent blackguard, in the presence
of three ladies; adding, afterwards, some very insulting language.
Under those circumstances, my friend pulled his nose--he always does;
it is a habit he has--and there we rest satisfied: if Lord Overton is
not satisfied, it is another thing."
"I will only add one word," said Chandos, "on my own part, and then
leave you two gentlemen to settle the matter; as, when I have put
myself in the hands of another, I have no farther right to interfere.
What I have simply to say, is this: that the language and manner of
Lord Overton towards me is not to be justified or excused by the plea
that he mistook me for any one else, for it was ungentlemanly and
unjustifiable towards any man, who gave him no offence, let that man's
situation be what it would. And now, gentlemen, I will leave you." And
he walked into the neighbouring room.
In about five minutes after, Sir Henry d'Estragon came in to him and
said, "Lord George requires, on the part of his friend, that you
should say you are sorry for having pulled his nose. I have already
given a general refusal; but Lord George is peacefully as well as
valiantly disposed; and, therefore, wishes the proposal to be
submitted to you, with a hint at the same time, that he does not know
whether his principal will be contented with the terms; but that he
shall withdraw from the business, if Lord Overton is not. What say
you? Do not let me bias you."
"I shall certainly not say that I am sorry," replied Chandos; "for if
I did, I should tell a lie. I think it was the only fitting punishment
for Lord Overton's conduct, though perhaps, less than he merited."
"Bravo!" said Sir Henry; and returning again into the sitting room, he
remained for about ten minutes in consultation with Lord George
Lumley, and then notified to Chandos, that all was arranged for a
meeting on the day after the next.
At seven o'clock in the morning--it was just gray daylight--a
post-chaise and a travelling-chariot were seen drawn up, near the
mill, on Wimbledon Common. At the distance of about five hundred yards
stood five persons, of whom Chandos Winslow and Viscount Overton were
the principals. Chandos was cool and calm, though there was some
little degree of hesitation in his own mind regarding his conduct.
Lord Overton was considerably excited, and eyed his adversary with a
steady look and a frowning brow. Lord George Lumley made one more
effort to bring about a reconciliation; but the peer repelled even his
own friend haughtily, saying aloud, so that no one could avoid hearing
him: "I tell you, Lumley, the time is past. I would accept no apology
now, if it were offered; and pray take care that there be no foolery:
for it is my determination not to quit this spot, till one or the
other of us cannot fire a shot."
Such a declaration was well calculated to remove any doubt from
Chandos's mind. D'Estragon placed him very scientifically, spoke a
word or two of caution and direction, and then retired with Lord
George to give the signal. The distance was eight paces; the ground
flat and unencumbered; both men very cool and steady; for Lord Overton
had grown calm, as soon as he was in position; and the "one, two,
three," were pronounced in a clear, loud voice. Both pistols were
fired in an instant. Chandos Winslow's hat was knocked off his head,
and fell a step or two behind; but he stood firm. On the contrary Lord
Overton wavered on his feet, though no one saw where the ball had
taken effect; and then dropped slowly down, with a motion as unlike a
stage death as possible. The surgeon and the seconds all ran up; and
Chandos Winslow, after pausing for a moment, followed more slowly.
D'Estragon, however, met him, as he came near, saying: "Come along,
come along! he has got sufficient." And, taking him by the arm, he
hurried him towards the chaise, into which they both got.
"Cork-street," he said to Winslow's boy; and, putting his head out of
the window, he called to the man with the other horses, "You had
better get up there as near as you can to those gentlemen."
Chandos leaned back in his carriage with very painful sensations at
his heart: he felt what it is for two men to meet full of life and
energy, and but one to go away again. At that moment he would have
given almost all he possessed on earth, that he had not fired.
"Is he dead?" he inquired at length.
"No, he was not when we came away," said d'Estragon, gravely, "but
hurt quite badly enough for you to be off, my dear fellow, and me too.
Just drop me at my house as we go by; and then get this fellow to take
you another stage out of town. It will be better for us to go
separately; for I have known awkward consequences from two men
travelling together under such circumstances."
The arrangement he proposed was followed, as far at least as dropping
him at his own house was concerned; but Chandos then returned to the
hotel, and remained for nearly half-an-hour in sad thought. He had
scarcely the heart to fly; but after a while, recalling the unpleasant
image of long imprisonment before trial, he made up his mind to his
course, and quitted London by one of the few stage coaches remaining.
About ten days were spent in retirement at one of the small villages
which are found scattered over the country within about twenty miles
of London, and then he made his way back towards Winslow Abbey. He had
heard no news of his antagonist's fate after he had left him with his
friend and the surgeon on Wimbledon Common. In a country paper,
indeed, he had seen, copied from a London paper, an account of the
duel, in which the facts were of course misstated, without being
altogether false. If newspapers would content themselves with telling
the plain truth or the plain lie about anything, they would be
beneficial or harmless; but it is the mixture of both which often
renders them dangerous and detrimental, ay, sometimes even after
nineteen years. From the journal which fell into his hands, all he
gathered was that Lord Overton had been carried to his own house,
supposed to be in a dying state, while the peer's conduct towards
himself was grossly exaggerated by a democratic paper, for the purpose
of crying down the aristocracy. He was grieved, anxious, remorseful;
for he could not exculpate himself from all blame. He knew that Lord
Overton had just cause to think that he was assuming a character which
did not belong to him; and all the motives which had actuated before
and during the duel seemed to vanish into thin air when he came calmly
and without passion to examine his own conduct. In vain he asked
himself if he could stand and be insulted without resentment in the
presence of persons nearly strangers to him. In vain he thought that
no law required him to remain passive and be shot at by a man who
declared his determination of not quitting the ground till one fell.
In vain he argued, that having put his honour into the hands of a
friend, he was bound to abide by whatever determination that friend
came to. He felt that he might have done better, and that by not doing
so he had endangered, if not taken, the life of a fellow-creature.
It was with a heavy heart then that, after having quitted the railroad
and the cross coach, and left his baggage to be sent to the little
public-house at Northferry, he walked on in the garments of an
inferior station, which he had resumed, towards the ancient seat of
his family, wishing to see his half-brother, Lockwood, and obtain
further information upon many points before he proceeded to Mr.
Tracy's.
The sun had set before he reached the park; and walking slowly along
under a row of broad chestnuts which bordered the paling on the east,
he approached Lockwood's house, thoughtful, and perhaps more sad than
when he had first visited it. But the house was all dark, and he
rapped and tried the door in vain. Then thinking that perhaps the
person he sought had gone up to the Abbey, he crossed the wide
savannahs and groves of tall trees, and came upon the house towards
the eastern angle. There were lights in several of the rooms, and a
suspicion that his brother might be at the house crossed his mind. How
to ascertain the fact without discovering himself, became the next
question; but the night was very dark, the tall windows came down to
within three feet of the ground of the terrace; the wind was high and
noisy, so as to cover the sound of his footfalls, and in most of the
rooms the curtains seemed not to have been drawn. He would look in, he
thought, and see who were the tenants.
The rooms nearest to him he knew were those inhabited by the keeper,
Garbett, and his wife; and passing on along the principal front,
he paused at what had been called in his boyish days the little
drawing-room. There were candles on the table, and two men within, one
holding a light in his hand, the other mounted on a ladder, pasting
printed numbers upon the old family pictures, previous to a sale. The
next room, the great drawing-room, was dark; but the music-room beyond
displayed to his eyes a tall, dry-looking person, in a frock coat and
a yellow waistcoat, probably an auctioneer, striking the keys of an
old piano which had stood there since his mother's days. Then came the
boudoir, without lights, and a little ante-room, also in darkness.
Beyond was the small study, the furniture of which had been bequeathed
to himself, and in it was a faint light, which, when he looked through
the windows, he perceived was afforded by the open door of the library
adjoining. Going on a few steps, he paused and gazed, not doubting
that if Lockwood was at the Abbey he would be there; but no such
figure presented itself.
At the large table sat Mr. Faber, the late Sir Harry Winslow's
secretary, and probably his son, with writing materials before him;
and--opposite one of the large gothic bookcases, with a candle on a
small table at his side--was Roberts, the steward. He was busily
engaged with a set of strange-looking iron instruments on a ring, in
what seemed to be picking the lock of one of the drawers, a range of
which ran between the book-shelves above, and a row of cupboards
below. The next instant, while Chandos was still gazing, the drawer
was pulled out, and Roberts took forth a whole handful of papers. He
threw one after the other down into a basket at his side with very
little consideration, till suddenly he paused, looked earnestly at one
of the few which remained in his hand, and then seemed moved by
stronger emotions than Chandos had ever before observed in his calm
and little perturbable countenance. The moment after he said something
to Mr. Faber, and then Chandos heard him distinctly say, "Call him,
call him."
The young secretary rose from the table, paused to look earnestly at
the paper in the steward's hands, and then left the room. Roberts sat
down and wrote, looking from time to time at the paper as if he were
copying something inscribed upon it; and at the end of perhaps two
minutes, Mr. Faber returned. As he entered the room his eyes turned
towards the window where Chandos stood, and he suddenly lifted his
hand and pointed. It was evident that he saw somebody looking in; but
Chandos was sure that in the darkness, and at the distance at which he
stood, his features could not be distinguished. He was agitated, and
his thoughts troubled with all he had seen. He felt convinced that his
brother was in the house, and had been sent for by Roberts. He feared
an encounter with Sir William at that moment and in that garb. He
feared himself and his own vehemence--it was a lesson he had lately
learned; and hurrying away, he plunged into the woods, crossed the
park again, and sought a village about two miles distant, where a
little inn was to be found.
Entering with as composed an air as possible, Chandos Winslow asked
for a room and some tea; and having been accommodated at once, for
persons dressed like himself were frequent and honoured guest, he sat
down to think.
What was the meaning, he asked himself, of the scene he had just
beheld at the Abbey? It was evident that the drawers of the bookcases
which had been left to him with all their contents of every kind, had
been opened without his consent or knowledge. All that those two rooms
contained, of every kind and description whatsoever, had been left to
him by his father's will. The papers which he had seen taken out might
be of infinite importance to him. Who could tell what might be done
with them? Roberts he believed to be perfectly honest. Faber, though
very weak, was kind and gentle; but his brother he felt he could not
depend upon. His notions of right and wrong were anything but strict;
and his ideas of his own privileges and rights distorted by that
species of haughty selfishness, which makes despots of crowned
monarchs and tyrants and unjust men in every walk of life, might
induce him to read the legacy to his brother in a very different sense
from the plain one, and lead him to take possession of the papers
which had been found by his steward and his secretary.
Chandos thought long--sadly--seriously. There are despairing moments,
when all earthly things seem nothing. When the objects of hope and
desire appear valueless--when we feel tired out with the struggle
against fate, and are inclined to give it up and let all things take
their chance. Those are dangerous moments. Let every man beware of
them. They are the first symptoms of the worst kind of mental
malady--apathy; and without prompt and speedy remedies, the disease
will get such a hold that it will be with difficulty cast off. Chandos
felt it creeping upon him, as he had once felt it before. It seemed as
if his destiny was to misfortune; as if nothing could go right with
him; as if every effort, every hope failed. What was the use of
prolonging the strife? What mattered it how the papers, the furniture,
the books, the busts, the pictures, were disposed of? Why should he
play out a losing game? Were it not better to spread out his cards
upon the board, and let his adversary make the most of them?
But, happily, like a ray of light breaking through the storm
clouds--like the first smile of summer after winter--like an angel
sent to comfort, the image of Rose Tracy rose up before his memory.
For her was the struggle. She was the spirit of hope to him; and the
strife against fortune was renewed. Every possession--every chance
became an object worth preserving, as Rose Tracy presented herself to
thought, and for her he resolved to neglect no effort which he had
power to make. The first thing he decided upon was to let Roberts, at
least, know that he was aware of what had taken place; and, calling
for pen and ink and paper, he wrote him a short formal note, to the
following effect:--
Sir,
I am much surprised to find that the drawers of the bookcases left to
me by my father's will, together with everything that the library and
adjoining study contain, of every kind whatsoever, have been opened
with pick-locks, without my consent. I write this merely to remind you
that you are accountable to me, and only to me, for everything that
you may have found in those drawers, and to insist that the papers of
which you have taken possession, be given into the hands of no one but
Your obedient servant,
Chandos Winslow.