University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

“Mother,” said Gerald Roscoe, on the following
morning, as he was going out to his office, “I
expect a note from Mrs. Layton, about attending her
to the Theatre; be kind enough to open it, and if it
requires an answer, send it to me.” In the course
of the morning, the note came. Mrs. Roscoe opened
it. Instead of the expected contents, it ran
as follows. “To Gerald Roscoe, Esq.” “Sir; your
“interference in my family affairs, deserves some no
“tice on my part. Your devotion to the mother, is
“not of a nature to require that you should interest
“yourself in the morals of the lover of the daugh
“ter. I requested your intimate friend D. Flint,
“last night, to tell you, from me, that you were an
“impertinent, meddling, lying scoundrel. I now
“repeat it—and am ready to give you the satisfac
“tion of a gentleman, or to publish the above char
“acter to the world, with the addition of coward.
“Choose your alternative.

“Jasper Layton.”

Mrs. Roscoe read, and read again the note, and
felt as a mother must feel who sees the life and reputation

of her son menaced. Her first impulse, as
soon as her agitation had so far subsided as to enable
her to form a purpose, was to go immediately to
Layton; to convince him that he was under some
fatal mistake (for this she never for a moment doubted);
and to intreat him, for her sake, to revoke his note.
But, on second thoughts, her good sense, her pride,
and just confidence in her son, revolted from this
feminine procedure. `Gerald shall not,' she thought,
`be saved by the cowardly shield of his mother!' She
then sat down and wrote him a note, saying, that
`the time had come to test the firmness of his principles;'
that in all their conversations on the dreadful
crime of duelling, he had admitted that it was
contrary to the plainest dictates of reason, and a
violation of the law of God. It was enough to remind
him of this, she would not urge any inferior
considerations. If he were not governed by his duty
to Heaven, she would not ask him to be influenced
by his love to her—by her dependence on him.

She abstained from expressing an emotion of tenderness,
or of fear. `I will not shackle him,' she
said—`but have I not already? Will not the fact
of my being privy to the note embarrass him? My
noble-minded son, I will trust you.' And, without
allowing herself time to shrink from her resolve, she
threw her own note into the fire, resealed Layton's
so carefully that Gerald could not suspect its having
been opened, and sent it to his office. Perhaps this
was rash confidence—it certainly would have been,
if she had any reason to doubt the strength of his
principles, or the firmness of his character; but she
trusted to something stronger than her own influence,

to something more unerring in its guidance
and decision than her opinion—the enlightened conscience
of her son.

She knew that men, all men, are jealous, and
rightly so, of the interference of women in matters
that do not properly come under their cognizance.
She knew that they do not allow, even their just
weight, to feminine scruples and doubts, because
they believe them to have their source in constitutional
timidity. Did she not then act with prudence,
as well as true delicacy, in leaving the whole
affair where it exclusively belonged, in the hands of
her son?

But, though she had wrought her mind up to this
pitch of resolution and forbearance, she was a prey
to the anxieties and tormenting imaginations, so
natural to her sex. `Gerald may be influenced by
some hot-headed adviser—the principle that seems
strong in the hour of reason, calm discussion, and meditation,
is insufficient in the hour of passion—when
pride is stung by provocation—when the voice of
the world is in the ear, and the fear of God quails
before that of man's ridicule. Oh, my son, if
you should disappoint me!—if you should fall!—
or survive, the destroyer of another!'—These
thoughts, and a thousand other disjointed and
thick-coming fancies agitated her, and produced a
state of high nervous excitement. She heard the
street-door open. It was Gerald's step—some person
was with him. She awaited with breathless apprehension
the first glance at him—`his face will tell
me all,' she thought; but, instead of entering her
parlor, he passed hastily up stairs. She rang the

bell. Miss Emma, the daughter of her hostess, appeared.

“Do you know who came in with Mr. Roscoe?”

“Mr. Flint. Mr. Roscoe said he had some particular
business with him, and he wished not to be
disturbed.—But, bless me, ma'am! are you ill?—
you are very pale.”

“I am not well.”

“Shall I sit here for a little while? you look faint,
I am afraid to leave you.”

“I am not faint, but you may sit down here,
Emma, if you will.”

There was something sedative in the quiet girl's
presence, and for a few moments Mrs. Roscoe was
tranquilized; but, like other inadequate sedatives,
it soon increased the irritation it should have allayed,
and Mrs. Roscoe dismissed her kind attendant,
saying, “My nerves are in a sad state to-day, Miss
Emma, even the pricking of your needle disturbs
me.”

Emma did not know that Mrs. Roscoe had nerves,
and she went away to relieve her wonder at seeing
her in this extraordinary condition, in the natural
way—by imparting it.

From that time till dinner, how heavily the hours
—the minutes dragged! One might believe that
duration, as philosophers have deemed of matter,
was ideal, from the length or brevity imparted to it
by the mind. Dinner came at its accustomed hour,
and Roscoe appeared as usual to all eyes but his
mother's. She observed an unusual seriousness and
abstraction, evinced by his not noticing her altered
appearance, though it was repeatedly remarked by

other members of the family; but when she spoke,
though merely to decline a common courtesy of the
table, the thrilling tone of her voice startled him.

“Are you not well?” he asked, and for an instant
he looked earnestly at her; but his thoughts
instantly reverted to a secret anxiety, and not waiting
her reply, or scarcely noticing whether she replied,
he abruptly withdrew from the table, and left
the house. Mrs. Roscoe retired to her own room.
When summoned to tea, she was found reclining on
her sofa, in a high fever. She inquired for her son.
He was writing in his own room—`would she have
him called?' “No,” she said firmly, and `no,' she repeated
to herself,' `he has not offered me his confidence.
Oh Heaven! if I have erred—it may be too
late, even now, to repair my error!

Those alone can enter perfectly into Mrs. Roscoe's
feelings, who have garnered up their hearts in the
virtue of the individual most precious to them. This
was the treasure dearer than reputation, than safety,
than existence. She was no Spartan mother, and she
had the common shrinking from a mortal combat;
but, to do full justice to her noble and elevated spirit,
it was not the personal risk she most dreaded, it was
the crime of murder, in the eye of the immutable law
of God—for such she deemed duelling, stripped of all
the illusion that custom, false reasoning, and brilliant
names, have thrown around it. Her principles,
her feeling, her pride, were shocked; she had believed
Gerald superior to the influences that sway
common minds, and now, in the very first temptation,
had he sinned against the clearest convictions
of his intellect, and the strongest resolutions of his

virtue—had he degraded himself to the level of a
worldly and almost obsolete code of honor? But,
if he had been infirm of purpose, might she not yet
save him? If he had proved her confidence rash
and weak, ought she not now to interpose? It was a
false delicacy to surrender the sacred right of a
mother! Mrs. Roscoe did not longer balance these
thoughts, but obeyed their impulse, and hastened to
Gerald's apartment. He was not there. A note,
directed to her, was lying on the table. It contained
but a line, saying, that as he understood she
was indisposed, he had not seen her, but left the note
to inform her that he was obliged to go out of town
on business of some importance, and might not return
till the next evening.

It was then too late! and Mrs. Roscoe returned to
her own room to pass the agonizing watches of a sleepless
night, in vain regrets and torturing apprehension.
The morning came, but it brought no relief—hour
passed after hour, each sadder than the last. Every
sound rung an alarm-bell to her ear. Every approaching
footstep menaced her with misery. She
wondered, as those do whose minds are concentrated
on one harrowing thought, to see the passersby
bowing and smiling, and coolly pursuing their
customary occupations, and the inmates of the house
setting about their usual employments, and making
preparations for dinner as if it were worth caring
about. But the dinner—that diurnal circumstance
that maintains its dignity through all the seven
stages of man's life—that neither joy nor sorrow,
birth nor death, prevents—the dinner came, and by
all but Mrs. Roscoe was as usual eaten and enjoyed.

She remained in her apartment alone, meditating
on the images her imagination had conjured up,
when a carriage stopped at the door. Gerald was
in it, pale as death, and supported on the arm of a
stranger, he was conducted into the house. Mrs.
Roscoe threw open the door. “Do not be alarmed,
my dear mother,” said he, “I have received a trifling
wound—I assure you it's nothing more;” and
then courteously thanking the stranger for the aid
he had rendered him, he lay down on the sofa, and
the gentleman withdrew.

Gerald threw back his cloak, and discovered his
arm, from which his coat sleeve had been cut. His
linen was drenched in blood. “It is a mere flesh
wound,” he said, “and has been already well-dressed
by a surgeon. There is indeed no occasion
for your fright, my dear mother,” for so he interpreted
her gaze and colorless cheek. “You
have no sickly feeling at the sight of blood—come,
sit by me, and I will tell you all about it. Let me
put my arm around you. I shall not, like the gallant
Nelson, give you my wounded arm. Do
speak to me—kiss me, mother.”

All the mother had rushed to her heart at the
sight of her son, alive, and safe. Joy that he was
so, was the first fervent emotion of her soul. His
tenderness overcame her. She sunk on her knees
beside him, and clasping her hands, exclaimed,
“Oh God, forgive him!” and then dropping her
face on his breast and bursting into tears, she added,
“Gerald, how could you disappoint me so
cruelly?” An explanation followed.

As Roscoe's relation to his mother was brief, and

imperfect, and as the merit of a modest man is never
placed in full relief in an auto-biography, we shall
resume our narrative at our hero's receipt of Layton's
note. Roscoe was at a loss to conjecture
what could have stimulated him to such an expression
of resentment for an offence given some months
before. The intimation against Mrs. Layton, he
would not for a moment admit as a solution of the
mystery. `It is possible,' he thought, `that Flint
may explain it, and as he is alluded to, though he
is not my `intimate friend,' and not precisely the
man I should have selected for my confidence, yet
he is an honest fellow, and may be useful in affording
me some clue.' Flint, by his request, met him
at his lodgings, and as soon as they were closeted
in his room, Roscoe showed him the note. Flint
related what had passed the preceding evening;
but this threw no light on the affair, and Roscoe,
after a little farther consideration, arrived at the
just conclusion that Mrs. Layton, in a moment
of conjugal pique, had betrayed his interview
with her at Trenton, and that Layton had been
stimulated by Pedrillo to this expression of his resentment
and jealousy. When Roscoe had arrived
at, and communicated his conclusions to Flint, that
gentleman had a hard struggle between his good
nature, his real regard for Gerald Roscoe, his desire
to participate in a stirring affair, and his sense
of right. The latter, as it should, triumphed.

“Well,” he said, “I really am sorry for you,
Roscoe. I have no fear to fight myself, or back a
friend, in a good cause; but one must have that, to
go at it with real pluck. One must be willing to

take his principal's place in all respects—that is,
Roscoe—for I will be frank with you—one is supposed
to approve, as well as espouse his friend's
quarrel, and so I really must wash my hands of the
whole affair.”

“Really, my good friend, I am not aware that
I have asked your participation in any affair—but
I should like to know how I have alarmed your
conscience?”

“Why I don't like to hurt your feelings, Roscoe
—but I do think it is a condemned rascally business
to be too attentive to another man's wife.”

“If by `too attentive' you mean, Flint, to express
gallantries which afford a foundation for Layton's
jealousy, I assure you, on my honor, that he has
done foul injustice to his wife and to myself.”

“Thank the Lord,” cried Flint, rubbing his
hands and pluming the wings of his active spirit for
adventure, “then I'm your man, Roscoe—we'll
give 'em as good as they send. `Impertinent lying
scoundrel' indeed! The words have been ringing
in my ears ever since last night. I am right glad
you don't deserve a shadow of them. You must
overlook my misgivings. Mrs. Layton is a very
sensible lady, but then you know she is not a person
that one feels quite sure of—and I have thought
myself sometimes that she was so partial to you it
might turn your head.”

“Thank you for your solicitude. A head of
weightier material than mine might be made giddy
by the preference of such a woman as Mrs. Layton,
and that mine is not, is a proof, not of my virtue,
but that she has not essayed her powers against it.”

“Ah, that is very well—give the d—l his due,
and a woman more than her due, is a good rule.”

“For the cour d'amour it may be—but I speak,
Flint, according to the forms of a court with which
you and I are more familiar—the truth—the whole
truth—and nothing but the truth.”

“Well, I am glad of it. I am entirely satisfied,
I warrant you. Now let us proceed to assure the
gentleman he shall have the satisfaction he demands.”

Roscoe was amused with the half kind-hearted,
half officious, and truly characteristic eagerness
with which Flint had made himself part and parcel
of the whole affair; but accident had admitted him
to his confidence, and he felt that there would be
rather more pride than delicacy in now excluding
him. “I have no intention of ever giving that
satisfaction,” he replied.

“What!” exclaimed Flint, and never was more
surprise and amazement expressed in one word.

Roscoe calmly repeated.

“Why, Roscoe!” and he added in a tone in
which he never spoke before or since—lowered and
faltering, “you ar'n't afraid—are you?”

Roscoe smiled. “Did ever man plead guilty to
such an interrogatory, Flint? I honestly believe
most duellists might, and that they go out because
they fear the laugh of the world, and the suspicion
of cowardice, more than they fear death, or the
judgment after death. The greater fear masters
the less. Moreau said he could make any coward
fight well, by making him more afraid to retreat
than to advance. It is a fear paramount to my fear

of the world's laugh that would compel me, in all
circumstances, to refuse to fight—or rather, to express
myself in terms more soothing to my self-love
—that would inspire me with courage not to fight.”

“Oh, I understand you now—you are afraid of
killing a man.”

“That would be disagreeable, Flint; but I might
avoid that, you know, and I should be quite as
much afraid of being killed. As to both these fears,
I plead not guilty.”

“Well then, for mercy's sake, what is your fear?”

“The fear of God—the fear of violating his
law.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Flint, with the satisfaction of
one who has been scrambling through a tangled
path, and suddenly emerges into the high-way,
“Oh, Roscoe, I did not know you was a professor!”

Professor, with the largest part of Christians in
New England, of which part of our country Mr.
Flint had the honor to be a native, is the technical
term for an individual who is enrolled as a memberof
a particular church, and has partaken its
sacraments. “To be sure,” he added, “you are
pledged if you are a professor, and you have a perfect
excuse for getting off, if you choose.”

“But I shall not allege that ground of excuse,
which has always seemed to me like the pretext
of a boy when caught, `I said no play.' And
indeed I am not a professor, nor pledged any more
than every man is who confesses himself responsible
to the Supreme Being. Does not that single and
almost universally admitted article of belief require

us to cherish the gift of life, and to apply it to the
purposes for which it was bestowed? I honor the
sentiment in which duelling originated. It is a
modification of the same principle that made the
martyr. The principle that truth and honor are
better than life. But their application is widely
different. The martyr offers his life to support
what he believes to be divine truth, and in obedience
to the divine law, which demands fidelity to
that truth. The duellist surrenders his life to the
false and fantastical laws of the court of honor, and
in direct violation of the law of Heaven.”

“Well, I declare, Roscoe, I never thought of all
that.”

“No, my good friend, but `all that' and a great
deal more you, and every man of sense and just
feeling, would think of, if you applied your minds to
the subject before the exigency for action occurs.”

“How comes it then,” asked Flint, who could
not at once elevate himself above the atmosphere of
human authority, “how comes it then that so many
great and good men have fought duels?”

“I deny that many good and great men have
fought duels. Would to Heaven there had not been,
most conspicuous among them, the noble name of
that man, whose fine intellect, and generous affections
were lavished on his country, but who threw a
dreadful weight into the balance against all the
good he had done her, when he gave the authority
of his name to this barbarous practice.”

“But I guess, Roscoe, that last act of his life was
blotted out by the tears of the recording angel, as
they say.”

“I hope so; but I would rather trust to its being
effaced by his reluctance to yield himself to the
slavery of usage, and by his deep subsequent penitence,
than to the tears of the recording angel, who,
since he let fall the drop on the Corporal's oath,
has been made to shed such oceans over human infirmity,
that the fountain must be pretty nearly exhausted.”

“Well,” said Flint, after a little meditation, “I
believe you are right; but let me ask you one candid
question, Roscoe. Don't you expect to lose
reputation by refusing to fight?”

“You set me a noble example of candor in your
home questions, Flint,” replied Roscoe, smiling,
“and I will answer you candidly, that with a certain
class I do. But they happen to be those whose
opinions I do not particularly value; and even if I
lost reputation with the most dignified portion of
society, with all society, it would not alter the merits
of the question. Reputation must be graduated
according to the opinions of the community we live
in—they are a party to it. My character is my
own; no man can give it, and, thank God no man
can take it away—it is a sacred trust confided to
me alone.”

“Then it would not alter your views, if you lived
in Kentucky, or Georgia?”

“Certainly not my views, for the rule that governs
me is of universal authority. But I dare not assume
that I should have the courage there to abide
by my principles. Few men's morals are superior
to the standard that obtains in the community in
which they reside; and even if their theory is better,

it requires more moral heroism than most men possess
to put in practice. Therefore the latitude in
which a man lives should affect our estimation of the
turpitude of the crime. In New York we have no
such extenuation; the opinion of the enlightened is
against duelling, as a most unreasonable as well as
criminal practice. The good sense of the community
is against it, and a man really gets no honor
for an affair, but with a few scores of half-fledged
boys, and men of doubtful principles, whose opinions
or conduct would never be quoted on any
point of morals. In New England it is even
better than here. There the universal sense is
against it, and there a man is disgraced by fighting
a duel; and you, I think, Flint, would be the last
man to pronounce your countrymen wanting in
courage, or a nice sense of honor.”

“That I should; and if any man accused them
of it, I would”—he paused; his mind was in a new
region, and he was not sure how far his friend went
in rejecting all militant demonstrations.

Roscoe supplied the hiatus, “fight them, hey,
Flint?”

“No, Roscoe, I would get you to convince them.”

“Spoken en avocat, my good fellow, and be
assured you may command my pacific efforts at any
tïme, in return for your offer of a hazardous service,
for which I am really obliged to you.”

“Roscoe opened his writing desk, and Flint reluctantly
took his leave to withdraw.”

“I declare,” he said, and with evident sincerity,
“I should like to do something about it—sha'nt
I carry your note, Roscoe?”

“No, I thank you; I believe such servile offices
are dignified only when done in the service of Mars.”

“What do you mean to write?”

“What I should in any other case—the simple
truth.”

“Supposing he posts you?”

“That I can't help.”

“Supposing he offers to cane you?”

“That, please Heaven, I shall help.”

“And return, won't you?”

“To the very best of my ability, Flint.”

“I am glad of that—I am glad of that. I was
afraid you believed in non-resistance. I hope you
will have a chance—good morning;” and quite
satisfied, and in high good humor, he departed.
He had gone quite down the stairs, when he returned,
ran up to Roscoe's room, and stood with the door
in his hand, saying,

“I meant to have told you that I always thought
there was no reason in it; for instance, if you had
wronged Layton as much as he thinks for, what
good could it do him to lose his life or take yours?
I knew they didn't fight duels in New England, but
I wonder I did not think of it. They are always
beforehand with every improvement in New England.”

“Yes,” said Roscoe, bowing in token of his acquiescence
in his friend's complacent nationality;
“yes, Flint, the sun always rises in the east—but
good morning; at this rate it will set with us before
I have finished my note”—and thus definitely dismissed,
Flint took his final departure.

Roscoe despatched his note, and, as has been
seen, joined his mother at dinner. Not suspecting
she was acquainted with the affair, he did not guard
against his apparent absence of mind, but suffered
his thoughts to run in their natural channel.
Though perfectly assured in the course he had adopted
he felt, as may be imagined, a deep interest in the
effect of his note on Layton, and the final issue of
the business; and he did not, it must be confessed,
feel quite so composed and apathetic under the burden
of the stinging epithets bestowed by Layton,
as he assumed to be, or as he honestly thought he
ought to be. Most men would rather die a thousand
deaths, than in the eye of the world deserve
such words; and though idle breath they be, and
from a despised source, yet with a man of high honor
and susceptible feeling, they wound more painfully
than the keenest weapon.

After dinner, Roscoe as usual went to his office.
He heard nothing farther from Layton. In the afternoon,
he was obliged, as he had alleged to his
mother, to leave town on professional business. He
did not return till the following afternoon. He was
then hastily walking up town. There was, as usual
at that hour of the day, a press in Broadway, and
he was turning into Park-place to avoid it; when
he saw Layton and Pedrillo coming toward him.
He could not then proceed up the street, or stop,

without evidently doing it in relation to them; and
he pursued, but very slowly, the way he had intended.
He heard hurried footsteps behind him. He
slackened his pace, and he heard Layton say in a
loud voice, “the cowardly rascal hopes to escape
us.”

Roscoe turned short round. “Do you mean that
for me, sir?” he demanded.

“Yes,” replied Layton, “and I mean this for
you;” and as he spoke, he elevated a heavy cane,
and aimed a blow at Roscoe, but the weapon did
not touch him, he parried it, and grappled with
Layton—a desperate struggle ensued. Roscoe unfortunately
was embarrassed by a cloak, his foot
was entangled, and he staggered backwards; Layton
perceived his advantage and pressed on him
with redoubled vigor; Roscoe had nearly fallen to
the ground, when the fastening of the cloak gave
way; it fell off, and disencumbered, he sprang forward,
and by superior strength, or skill, or coolness,
succeeded in wresting the cane from Layton's
hand. When the resistance of his struggle ceased,
Layton recoiled several feet. Roscoe maintained
his ground. Pedrillo sprang towards Layton, and
gave him his cane. “Do your business quickly,”
he said, and added in a voice, audible only to Layton,
“you are no match for him in strength—touch
the spring.”

Roscoe threw down the weapon which he had
wrested from his adversary, as if he disdained any
other aid than the stout arm, that had already
achieved one victory, and met Layton more than
half way, as he advanced towards him. The

passengers in the street had now taken the alarm,
and were rushing towards the scene of contest.
Some natural lovers of `the fancy,' shouted `fair
play,' `fair play,' `take away the cane!' The possession
of this weapon, however, gave Layton, perhaps
no more than an equality with his superior antagonist.
Roscoe eluded his blow, and they again
grappled. The street now rung with the pacific
cries of `separate them!—part them!'—but before
a hand could be interposed, Layton fell in the fierce
encounter, and stung with the consciousness of being
a second time overcome, and maddened with passion,
he obeyed Pedrillo's injunction, and touched a
spring that gave an impulse to a dirk concealed in
the cane. If he had willed it so, it was not possible
in his hampered position to direct the weapon; fortunately
the random stroke touched no vital point,
but merely penetrated a fleshy part of the arm. Layton
had no nerves for a bloody business; and Roscoe
easily extricated the cane from his relaxing grasp,
withdrew the blade from his arm, and before it was
observed, or even suspected by the spectators, that
he had received a wound, he released Layton,
adroitly returned the blade to its case, and the cane
to his antagonist, saying in a low voice, “guard
against such accidents in future.” His cloak was
lying on the ground; he hastily wrapped it around
him, to conceal the blood that he felt to be penetrating
his garments. One of the spectators, of quicker
and cooler observation than the rest, had from
the motions of the parties, suspected foul play. He
saw that Roscoe, though perfectly cool and undaunted,
had the mortal paleness, that is incident to a sudden
loss of blood; and looking narrowly at him,
he perceived the blood trickling from beneath his
cloak. “The gentleman is wounded!” he cried.
The mob, ever greedy of excitement, caught the
words, and `foul play!' `foul play!' `seize the
fellow!' rung from one to another. Layton had
joined Pedrillo, and arm in arm with him, was
walking away at a hurried pace, when half a dozen
hands arested him at once. “I beseech you,
my friends,” said Roscoe, who was no obliged to
lean against an iron railing for support, “I beseech
you to release that gentleman. I am sure my
wound was accidental.”

“Those that carry edged tools, must answer for
them!” shouted one.

“Yes, yes,” cried another, elevating the cane
he had snatched from Layton, “see here, this dirk
requires a nice hand and strong pressure—off to the
police office with him.”

“My friends,” repeated Roscoe, “I entreat you
to hear me. You are doing injustice. The gentleman
attacked me with a common cane; such as
half a dozen among you have in your hands at this
moment.” He then proceeded so earnestly and
skilfully, to place the suspicious circumstance in
the most favorable light for Layton, that if he did
not remove all doubt, he prevented its expression, and
Layton, who had suffered the severest punishment
in listening to his own unmerited vindication from
Roscoe's lips, was at length permitted to proceed
without further molestation, and with the mortifying
conviction, that he had been involved in a foolish
quarrel, and set on to a cowardly revenge by Pedrillo.

In the wreck of his character, there was still
left enough of manly feeling, to be touched by Roscoe's
magnanimity; but the faint spark that might
have been cherished into life and action, was deadened
by the presence of his evil genius.

Roscoe was put into a carriage, and conveyed to
a surgeon's; and thence, as has been seen, to his
mother's. His conduct was the general theme of
the hour's applause. His physical superiority, (the
want of which a mob never pardons,) gave a value
and grace to his generosity. It was equally manifest
that there is in the bosoms of men, the rudest,
most ignorant, and vulgar, a chord that responds to
every unequivocal manifestation of moral superiority.