There is no sorrow like self-reproach. Chandos Winslow was by no means
a perfect character: he inherited much of his father's vehemence of
nature, though far less than his brother: but at the same time,
whether it be a natural or an acquired quality, (I think, the former,)
he had great conscientiousness. Now, great conscientiousness cannot
exist in the same breast with much vanity. They are incompatible
ingredients: the vain man thinks all he does is right; the
conscientious man is always trying if it be so, and censuring himself
more than he would others when he finds he has acted wrong. Chandos
felt that he had done so in the case of Lord Overton. How much soever
worldly usages might justify him, he would not exculpate himself. And
the burden was heavy: he groaned under it.
When he had written the note to Mr. Roberts, and obtained some tea, he
sat meditating sadly on his fate, till at length he thought, "It would
be better to give myself up! It is a duty--it may be some atonement. I
will see Mr. Tracy first; and Rose. Dear girl, I fear she has suffered
on my account."
His thoughts still remained sad; but they were calmer after he had
taken this resolution. And ringing the bell, he asked if there was a
newspaper in the house to amuse the time. The landlady, who appeared
herself, said there was no "fresh ones," as she termed them; for Mr.
Tims, the sexton, always had them first, and he kept them full three
days; which was a shame. She had all last week's Times, however, she
added, if the gentleman would like to see them.
"Better that than none," Chandos thought; and accepted, the offer. In
a few minutes, the huge pile which a week's accumulation of the Times
newspaper is sure to form in the month of January, when parliament
meets early, was placed before him, and he opened the one at the top.
It was six days old; but the young gentleman's eye rested first upon
one of those eloquent and masterly leading articles, where all the
powers of language and the acuteness of human reason, sharpened by art
and use, are employed to give a peculiar view of some passing subject,
in what may well be called an essay, which, if mental labour and
literary merit ever obtained reward in England, would raise the writer
far above the great body of those who are honoured by the crown and
paid by the nation. The vigour, the subtlety, the eloquence, ay, and
the wisdom of many passages captivated the mind of Chandos Winslow;
but they brought a sad moral with them. He had dreamed of employing
his own talents in the world of letters, of seeking fame and
recompense by mental exertion. But he now asked himself--"Who is it
wrote this splendid essay? What has been his reward in life? Who will
ever hear of him? What will be his future fate? A man who can shake
public opinion to its foundation, who can rule and command the minds
of millions by the sceptre of genius, will live unhonoured but by a
few, unrewarded except by the comparatively small remuneration, which
even such a journal as this can afford, and die forgotten. Print
calico, Chandos Winslow, twist cotton, paint portraits, feel pulses,
plead causes bad and good, cut throats, do any thing but follow a
course which in England is luxurious to the rich and great, thorny and
stony to all else. We are a great commercial people! we are a nation
of shopkeepers; and even in the distribution of honours and rewards,
those who have them to dispose of expect their material pennyworth in
return. Mind is nothing in Great Britain, except as it is employed
upon matter."
While indulging in such reveries Chandos had laid the paper down; but
when they were over, he took it up again; and his eyes fell upon
several other paragraphs, one after the other, till they rested upon a
brief passage, copied from another journal, and headed "THE LATE
DUEL."
"We are happy to be able to state," it went on to say, "that Lord
Overton, the sufferer in the late duel with Mr. Chandos Winslow, is
proceeding rapidly towards convalescence.--Very little fever followed
the extraction of the ball, and that which did supervene has quite
subsided. The answer to inquiries yesterday at his lordship's house
was, that he had been permitted to sit up for several hours. Under
these favourable circumstances, Sir Henry d'Estragon and Mr. Winslow
have returned to town, but have not yet shown themselves in public."
Chandos would have felt more satisfaction if there had not been one
lie at least in the paragraph; but still he judged that the writer was
more likely to learn Lord Overton's real state than his own movements;
and he sought eagerly through the later papers for further
information. He found at length a paragraph which stated that
"Viscount Overton, who was wounded in the late duel at Wimbledon, is
now quite convalescent, and drove out yesterday for two hours in the
park."
Chandos felt as if some angel's hand had effaced the brand of Cain
from his brow: his resolution of giving himself up was of course at an
end, it being, like all resolutions in regard to definite acts, the
mere plaything of circumstances; but he set to work to form other
resolutions, which men may frame with better hopes of their
durability, if their own minds be strong. They affected the regulation
of his own passions, the course of his own conduct, the control of his
own spirit. They were good; and they were lasting.
It is excellent for man to stand as on a mountain in the outset of
life, and gaze over the many ways before him; to choose deliberately
and with cool judgment, that upon which he will bend his steps, and to
pursue it to the end. Verily, he shall not want success.
Chandos Winslow did so; and he rose tranquillized. Warm and eager by
nature, he had learned from his mother to control himself to a certain
point; but that control was merely according to or within the limits
of worldly conventionalities. He had now found that there were wider
obligations; that to rule his own passions, to check his own
vehemence, to submit all his first impulses to a rigid law, totally
independent of the factitious regulations of society, was a duty
which, performed, must lead to peace of mind; and he resolved to
strive so to do against original disposition, and against what is even
more strong--habit.
On the subsequent morning he set out early for Northferry, not
choosing to revisit Winslow park again, lest he should encounter one
"a little more than kin and less than kind."