University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

Duelling has not wanted many grave and able
defenders. I do not allude to victims of passion
on the field. I speak of cool observers in the
closet; advocates who, without denying its partial
absurdity and its inadequate local effects, without
contending that it is either a redress for private
grievances, or a test of individual courage—in
short, fully granting it to be an evil, yet assert that
it is a necessary one, and that as an institution of
society it produces a public benefit more than sufficient
to counterbalance its particular disadvantages.
But, say its opposers, are we to admit an
evil for the sake of a consequent good? This, it
is replied, is the pervading principle of human
communities, and of nature herself. Evil, in working
out good through the realms of both, is perhaps
more efficacious than good itself. What is it that
has left the heavens a vault of stainless azure?
The same tempest which shattered the oak and
swept away the harvest. What, at the present
most remarkable period of human history, has sent
abroad among mankind light, knowledge, and power
—has lowered the audacious pride and weakened
the monstrous sway of the few—has broken the

fetters of the many—and raised the people to that
broad and rightful possession of the globe plainly
indicated as the intention of their Creator; what
has effected this? an appeal to arms—the shock
of bloody battles. War is an evil; but without
war all mankind would now be slaves. What are
the good effects of duelling? Its champions declare
that it raises the tone of society, and polishes
the manners. The consciousness of this standard
of appeal is a check upon insolence and passion.
Law punishes; duelling prevents. There are many
species of assault upon a man's reputation or his
person which either cannot be brought within the
reach of law, or which, being brought within its
reach, are but inadequately noticed. The law
makes distinctions which gentlemen would not and
ought not to make. The law looks to dollars and
cents—not to feelings and sentiments: yet which,
the former or the latter, exert the greater influence
over human happiness? The law is a selfish creature.
Infringe its own rights, however slightly,
nay, however accidentally, and it crushes you with
an unexamining, inexorable cruelty. The law is
also an uncouth and gigantic animal. He stalks
onward over the broad highways of life. He has
to watch the whole country. He cannot always
penetrate into the quiet by-paths and recesses of
love and peace. Call a man a bad lawyer, or an
unskilful physician, and the law awards damages,
because the terms are injurious to the means by
which he gains his livelihood. But post him as a
paltry scoundrel, or a mean, shuffling fellow, and
the law holds forth no redress. If one, however
unjustly, stigmatize you as a liar in the face of the
world—if he slander you to your mistress, or insult
the lady who depends upon you for protection—
the door of the legal tribunal is closed against you:
but should you, with a manly indignation, or a
chivalric impulse to defend woman, level the assailant
to the earth—you are yourself the victim, and
the law, which refused to defend you, punishes you
for having defended yourself. The law was made
to regulate the traffic of merchants, not the intercourse
of gentlemen. Again, say the advocates of
duelling, all men have not equal personal strength:
something is requisite to place the weak upon a
level with the strong. It is true that this ordeal is
as likely to eventuate in the ruin of the innocent as
the guilty; or even that the quarrelsome and brutal,
by making pistol-firing a study, may acquire precision
and skill not likely to be possessed by the
peaceful, unaccustomed to unlace their reputations
in brawls. But it is answered to this, that the
more perilous the conflict of men is made, the less
frequent will be those conflicts; and that what is
lost by the individual parties engaged in a duel, is
gained by society at large in the general caution
against quarrels, inasmuch as men will more care
what they say and do when they know that an indiscretion
may forfeit their lives.

These were the thoughts that revolved through
the mind of Leslie as he walked forth with the
purpose of seeking a friend. He was not one to
sink before approaching danger; but notwithstanding
the hackneyed sophistries with which he endeavoured
to hush the voice of reason, upon
the folly and guilt of staking his life upon the impulses
of a brawl and the passion of a moment, yet
his constitutional sensitiveness, his imaginative and
warm disposition, and his plain common sense,
combined to make him quail ever and anon at the
stunning prospect of death or murder, which now
seemed to block up and conclude his earthly
career. I am not drawing the character of a coward,

though I am aware that there are many gentlemen
whom such a dilemma would agitate with
fewer scruples of conscience,—those who follow
war as a profession, and whose moral sense is
blunted by habit; or the mere elégant, whose intellect
and feelings are long ago usurped by the
heartless dogmas of fashionable life. Much less
courageous and elevated men may find themselves
in the situation of Leslie without shuddering.
What they dignify as courage does not merit the
name. In some it is want of reflection; in some,
a savage habit; in some, brute obtusity, and an inability
to reason on high and broad grounds. Many
narrow and mediocre minds find in it a hope of importance
which they can never obtain by other
means, and are willing to risk an existence of which
they have never learned to appreciate the value—
or to commit a crime of which they have not the
sensibility or reflection to perceive the horror—
that they may enjoy the temporary triumph of
newspaper notoriety, or strut the hero of a bar-room,
insolent with impunity, among braggarts and bullies
less bloody and renowned. Bodily courage is one
of the lowest qualities which pass among the virtues.
It is least connected with the nobler and
more useful attributes of humanity, is shared by a
greater number, and is more linked with the bestial
portion of our nature. I am speaking only of that
mere bodily courage which makes soldiers brave
in war; or which induces a man to station himself
deliberately, on some delicious summer morning,
upon a piece of greensward, and let another leisurely
aim and fire a pistol at his heart. This brute
courage, in which, after all, bulls and bears (amiable
rivalship!) equal or excel us, gained its high
reputation among the ancient nations who lived to
grasp the possessions of their weaker neighbours;
who had no other name for virtue; who were ignorant
of that mighty sense of right which now,
century by century, is entering more deeply into
the human mind; and who fancied that the Superior
Powers attended each contest, and took care
that the honest party should have fair play. These
opinions have been exploded, but the custom remains—a
dark, unchristian wreck, like some time-worn
pagan altar, where, strange to think, even today
the high-priest officiates and the human victim
bleeds.

As Leslie ran over in his mind the common arguments
in support of the step he was about to
take, his clear reason detected their fallacy. He
acknowledged, as a rational being, their absurdity,
their cold cruelty, and their monstrous guilt. He
recoiled instinctively from pouring forth the blood
of a fellow-creature or his own. He doubted,
with great propriety, too, whether the public could
be a gainer by such a practice. He knew that,
eventuate as it might, his own peace must be shattered
for ever. He was about to rush on a crisis
which reason and religion alike condemned. It
was an act which neither Heaven nor earth would
deem noble. None would even approve it but
those whose approbation he despised. The world's
applause and future fame were denied him. He
had not even a high and honourable motive in his
own bosom to support him in this deep and secret
despondency. Life was doubly dear to him now,
for it began to be interwoven with the thought of
Flora Temple; and in his heart he felt no stronger
sentiment against Clairmont than simple contempt.
He had not a friend on earth whom this measure
would not distress and shock; and he was driven
to it neither by his interests nor his inclinations.
Had he been the deadly marksman instead of his

antagonist, he would have refused a meeting. He
could not apologize; nor would apology have been
accepted. If not, there would be a new degradation,
a new insult—and both useless. Besides,
even had he been wrong, would he be excusable in
tendering an apology? It had been expressly declared
that “no apology” would be received. But
he was not prepared to confess himself wrong.

“No,” he said at length to himself, with the deep
determination natural in a high-tempered young
man as society is organized; “this meeting must
take place. It must—it shall. I am the blind victim
of a dire, a fatal necessity. If there be guilt,
let it rest on the community who countenance this
atrocious custom. Let it rest on the women who
smile upon the duellist, and among whom Clairmont
ranks higher because he has killed a human
being, and to whose laurel my death may add another
leaf. I am myself without skill. He is a
cool, a practised, a professed duellist. As such he
is received and honoured in my own circle. Mrs.
Temple avowedly admires him for his courage.
Even Flora hangs on his arm, and smiles, and jests;
even Flora touches that hand in the dance scarcely
yet washed from the stain of a brave man's blood.
They all know he glories in taking human life; and
that he particularly piques himself upon an aim
never known to miss its mark. That very peril
which renders my destruction inevitable, renders
my retreat impossible; for that would now seem
cowardice which in less dangerous circumstances
might be acknowledged as principle. Yet it is not
courage which impels me. No—I will not deceive
myself. What will pass for courage in me is only
hypocrisy. My heart sickens—my soul recoils—
I shudder. It is fear which whips me on, and
which startles me back. Not the fear of death.

Were that death to be encountered for Flora—were
I to meet a lion on the arena for her—were I to
brave pestilence—chains—torture—how calm—
how high—how brave I should be! But here I
tremble at the sin—the ignominy—the deep wound
I must inflict upon the heart of a father and a sister.
I tremble to have all my glittering dreams
and broad proud plans crushed by a cool, vile,
heartless villain. But”—and he stepped with a
higher and more solemn emotion—“my struggles
are over. This `terrible feat' must be done. My
agonies and my doubts are alike useless and idle.”

And with the power of mind which perhaps
more accomplished duellists could have commanded,
he dismissed, at least for a period, the reflections
which unnerved him. Indeed, after the
first recoil, his strong nerves and manly heart grew
stronger and manlier. Enthusiastic men—those at
first most startled—are apt to meet sudden and extraordinary
dangers, when once shown to be inevitable,
with a mounting spirit, and a concentrated
faculty of thinking and acting, which breaks thrillingly
in upon the common monotony of existence,
and stirs up their souls like the blast of a trumpet.
As he proceeded on his way, however, he could not
banish the thought of Flora Temple. This charming
and lovely girl had already gained strangely
upon his affections, and her image was now received
into his mind with new and inexpressible
tenderness. It seemed that the very seriousness of
his danger quickened and brought to the surface of
his heart all those latent and powerful fires which
had hitherto lurked in its most secret recesses. It
was the dawning of a new and powerful passion in
a young and ardent character. It was a second
love—which (the poets to the contrary notwithstanding)
may be infinitely stronger than the first.

The sentiment rests more upon the results of observation
and comparison; and, by being better defined,
is deepened and concentrated. It was but a
few hours since he had left her—the fairest in the
brilliant circle. How exquisitely her loveliness recurred
to him as he had last beheld her: that perfect
form, full of feminine grace and poetic character—that
bright, sweet head—the tender, blue,
speaking eyes—the smile, the parting smile which
he had exchanged with her—perhaps a parting for
ever! Then rose the other shifting images of the
night. The glittering and remarkable beauty of
Rosalie Romain—now cold to him—the ludicrous
fury and perplexity of poor Morton—the cutting
insult and sarcastic insolence of the count, which
struck on his veins like lightning—the retort—the
flash—the blow—the fray—Clairmont's demoniac
look—and the hushed and starry heavens in his
lonely walk home—all recurred to him, not with the
sense of reality, but as the incidents of some melodrame,
or idle romance, or yet more idle dream.
As he hastened on amid all the noontide splendour
of the gay Broadway, he found it almost impossible
to believe that he was in reality standing at last
upon the edge of that fearful brink which appals
alike the king, the philosopher, and the beggar—
where they all must meet in the equal nakedness
and weakness of mortal impotence and apprehension;
that while around him glittered so much elegance,
gayety, and commonplace bustle—while
many a sweet, familiar face smiled on him as he
proceeded, and many a friend of his own sex gave
him, in careless haste, the passing nod of salutation
—that he was stealing onward like a thing of death,
lent for a few hours to roam the earth, and destined,
ere to-morrow's sunset, to be the tenant of a hasty
and dishonoured grave.

A few moments (for we think much faster than
we write) brought him to the house of Howard.
He was not at home. Near the residence of Howard
was that of Kreutzner, a brave and gallant
young German student from one of those celebrated
universities famed for romantic occurrences.
He was a bold and attractive character, and one of
Leslie's intimates. To Kreutzner, therefore, he
went, and, beyond his hopes, found him in. They
walked forth together, and Leslie had no sooner
related the whole incident than Kreutzner remarked,—

“It is as I suspected. I meet Clairmont often at
B—'s. I heard him this morning, with a most
singular expression of countenance, say to Forbes
—`That Leslie is a man I have always hated. I
would wing him, and so let him off; but I think I
will make an end of him!' Not to Philip's right
eye, but to Philip's heart, he is to send his arrow.”

“And shall I then,” cried Norman, flushing with
indignation, and speaking, as he generally both
spoke and acted, from impulse, while in one instant
all his fine moral principles melted to air—“shall I
throw away my life tamely? shall he live hereafter
the gay Adonis of the ball, and extend to the touch
of favouring girls the hand which has consigned me
to a bloody grave?”

“What can you do?” asked Kreutzner; “are
you an adept at the pistol?”

“No—and that Clairmont well knows.”

“He will kill you as sure as he fires,” rejoined
Kreutzner.

“And I cannot, for ten thousand lives,” added
Leslie, “make the slightest move to retreat or explain.”

“He has sworn to have your heart's blood. He
will keep his oath.”

“Kreutzner,” said Leslie, after a long pause, and
without any other alteration of countenance and
manner than a slight paleness, a scarce perceptible
tremour of the voice, which, however, vanished as
he continued, and a calm and almost fearful determination
in his eye—“Kreutzner, I have examined
this subject, you will readily believe, with the
greatest attention. Since this Clairmont last night
fell prostrate beneath my arm, I have viewed my
situation in all its bearings. Cruelty forms no part
of my character. I cannot plant my foot upon a
spider without a thrill and a shudder of painful
compassion. I think life of all things the most
mysterious and sacred; and to quench it, or lose it,
of all calamities the most undefinably and tremendously
awful. I know all this—all you will say—
all the world will say; yet I see that I must die—
and I will not die alone.”

“Leslie, for Heaven's sake—”

“Hear me: do not attempt to reason with me—
do not attempt to change my resolution. You cannot
do it. I never felt so perfectly, so strangely,
so unutterably calm and fixed as I do now. I hate
duelling. I know it is immoral. I know the penalty;
but I now find in my soul what I never found
there before—that concentrated principle of fierce
and desperate self-defence which excludes every
consideration except itself. I die, Kreutzner, my
friend—I die, young, unhonoured; but he who has
pushed me to this extremity does not know me.
My mind is completely settled. Clairmont and
myself to-morrow night sleep in the same red grave
—make your arrangements—foot to foot—breast
to breast. God, Kreutzner, it is awful! but it is
soul-stirring and sublime.”

Kreutzner looked at his friend—his lofty step,
his flashing eye, his noble countenance, and stately

form; and he thought, with almost a feeling of
woman's tenderness, of the approaching moment
which would lay them low in the dust.

“I have written letters to my father and to Julia,”
continued Leslie. “You will find them on my table
in a large volume of Josephus. I will leave
there also a note for Howard. He is a good fellow.
Tell him I called on him first to support me in this
somewhat serious affair, and that I love him. God
bless him! with all my heart. And also, Kreutzner,
I will—but no—why should I? No—I will
not! Yet—should you ever see in the conduct of
our friend Miss Temple—Miss Temple—any thing
to make you believe she really regrets my death—”

“You are getting devilish sentimental,” interrupted
Kreutzner, hastily passing his hand over his
eyes.

“Yes, Kreutzner, my dear friend,” said Norman,
“you deserve my confidence. Indeed, at this moment,
I could not, if I would, withhold it from you.
I do not wish to do so. I love Miss Temple,
Kreutzner—I love her—dearly—deeply—tenderly;
her image will be the last, the very last in my
memory. Tell her so, Kreutzner—not at once—
but hereafter—on some mild and mellow afternoon
in summer, when you shall be alone—with her—
and when I—”

“Norman Leslie!” cried Kreutzner; “confound
it, man, who'd have thought this of me?” and, taking
out his handkerchief—hemming and clearing
his throat—he blew his nose sonorously, and availed
himself of the opportunity to dry his eyes once
more. “Can I alter your determination to meet
Clairmont as you propose?”

“No!” replied Norman.

“Then, d—n me, if I don't think you'll frighten
him out of it. For if Count Clairmont of the

French army be not at heart a complete coward,
then John Kreutzner is no judge of cowards.
Walk up Broadway with me: I'll tell you a story
—a devilish good one, by-the-way; and,” he added,
par parenthese, blowing his nose again, “I can
finish it long before I get to Forbes's!”