Part 3

My story now leads me a little from the straight track, I have kept thus far—but ’tis necessary to turn aside a little, for the sake of the dark catastrophe, which brought sorrow and death into this Eden-dwelling I have described.

There was one Nat. Ralle, dwelling about half way between Natchez, and the plantation of my friend. His was one of those dark-browed, malicious countenances, which made one, in spite of himself, think of the devil, whenever he met him. He never spake like other men. If you met him in the woods of a morning, his salutation was in a low, surly tone, which made you doubtful as to its nature; and after he had passed you for forty or fifty yards, you might observe him stopping and looking back, as if he felt himself suspected by every body. This devil—for such he was, and such will he appear before I have done with him—more than once, had been seen prowling about the dwelling of Glenning; and once, being met suddenly, he turned and ran away into the woods, like one of the wild beasts he so much in disposition resembled.

There was a custom, which yet, I believe, exists in the southwestern new settlements, for a man to claim the exclusive privilege of hunting on a certain extent of ground, in the vicinity of his habitation. This right is as much insisted on, in certain parts of those states which I have visited, as are the game laws in England; and every one, every stranger-hunter, observes it, and recognizes the right by quitting the grounds, so soon as informed that an individual holds reasonable claim to them. This Ralle had, in open defiance of this knowledge, and against the reiterated, yet polite admonitions of Glenning, trespassed on his lands; and once shot a tame doe, which Glenning had kept for two or three years, the care of which had devolved on, and was a source of amusement to Isabel—and on that account it seemed a double injury.

Glenning, as cool a man as ever laid claim to the qualities of honor and honesty, at this, rode down to the plantation of Ralle, and mildly, yet earnestly, expostulated with him, on what was esteemed a breach of faith—careful at the same time to express his belief, that the shooting of his tame animal was undesigned, yet requesting, for fear of a similar occurrence, that he would hunt elsewhere in future, which thing he could do without incommoding himself.

To this mildness in Glenning, Ralle opposed the remark—‘That he would do as he pleased—that the woods were free, and that he should hunt towards the north or south, without asking leave of Yankee interlopers.’

This remark struck on the temper of Glenning, at an unlucky moment. The 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.”