 | Randolph |  |
I have just left my bed. Last night was the first, in
which I have been permitted to sleep soundly; and I shall
spend the morning, until service, in relating a narrative
that Molton has made to me, concerning certain stories,
have this; I shall continue it, day by day, as I have time,
until the whole be related.
Yesterday, as we sat together;—he, leaning upon the
shoulder of Helen, he renewed the subject of certain stories;
and went deliberately through them, one by one,
with the solemnity of a dying man, who would be at
peace with all the world.
His words have impressed themselves upon my memory,
with a distinctness that is wonderful; and his manner
was so calm and impressive, that I shall not forget it, to
my dying day.
“It is true,” said he,—“I do not deny it; that, as is alleged,
I did manifest uncommonly premature signs of
wickedness. I was a liar. I should have become a
drunkard in time; for I often drank brandy, with sugar,
until my cheeks were inflamed. I was a coward too.—
And I was a thief. I can recal many acts of deliberate
cunning and villany, perpetrated by me, before I was
ten; acts, which have made it little less than miraculous,
that I have escaped the Penitentiary. It is all true.
But did your informer know that I am an altered man.
Mr. Omar, I am but just rising from a sick bed. A man
must have no common degree of hardihood, who can trifle
with the sacredness of truth, at such a moment. I wish
you to believe me. It will be a comfort to you, one day
or other. You have thought well of me; and I pledge
myself that, the more intimately you know me, the better
you will think of me—the more you will love me—and
respect me.
You ought to know what I am, as well as what I was.
At twelve years of age, I undertook, unaided and alone,
the work of reformation. I was a liar—I am so no
longer. I was intemperate, in childhood. As a man, I am
temperate, almost beyond example. The taste of spirituous
liquor, simple or compound, I only know from memory;
and, for nine years I never drank a glass of wine.—
I was exceedingly profane. Now, you will hardly hear
a profane word pass my lips, from one year's end to another.
I was a coward. I am so no longer. I smoked
all, and forever. Not that I have no vices left—no, I
know better. I know that I have a devil within me—
but it is a crowned and sceptred devil. I am proud as
Lucifer. What I have once made up my mind to do,
that have I always done. No difficulties have disheartened
me;—no danger intimidated me. I appeal to my
life. If I had been a bad man, then, with my perseverence
and address, was there any thing that I could not
have accomplished? Yet, what do you hear of me—evil
report; vague, dark, glimmering and contradictory speculations.
My chief characteristick, I believe, is determination,
unconquerable determination. I have learnt to respect
myself. I knew what I can do; and, what is more, in
what time I can do it.
But let me give you some examples. I was a boy—
there were but few things that a boy could do, to
distinguish himself. I thought of them; resolved; and, in
a little time, I had no rival. It is of little consequence
what they were; they were a part of my trade.
I was covetous of other glory. I had a friend that
could reason. I learnt to reason, until few were willing,
or able to enter the list with me.
I had a talent, no matter of what nature, that slept,
and might have slept forever, unheeded, in darkness; but
another friend grew conspicuous for his. I arose then,
and battled with him. In my turn, I became known,
and wondered at.
I had a talent for poetry. The world said that I had
no other talent. I laughed at them. I laboured, toiled,
sweated at the furnace of the mind. Still, I was unknown.
Still I was told, that I should live and die a poet, and
nothing but a poet. I resolved, calmly and deliberately,
that I would not; I dashed the cup from my lips. I
plucked down my idol, Poetry; reduced her to an impalpable
powder; and scattered the glittering dust to
the four winds of heaven. I resolved to worship her no
longer—nay, not even to wait at her temple. I was
laughed at. I was told that I could not abstain; that
my resolution hath been kept, shall be kept, to my dying
day. Not a line have I written since; not a line will I
write.”
What I once resolve to accomplish, I already so know
myself, that I feel as if it were half done. I was invited
to join a society. It was proposed to change the night
of meeting, for my accommodation. I visited it at one of
the sittings. I entered into debate;—was triumphant,
against many competitors; and proposed, in form, for
admission. The next day, the second officer waited on
me; and, after some stammering, informed me that I had
been ballotted for, and—rejected. I told him that I
was sorry, for the sake of the society; that I considered it
a compliment to them, that I had thought of joining them,
even after their importunity; and, that I would not join
them then, though they elected me, in a body, and presented
me a diploma, upon their knees. They reconsidered
the question. They did elect me, unanimously. The
same officer came again. I kept my promise.
I belonged to another society. I was one of its original
founders. It flourished, beyond example. I saw
fit, no matter for what reason, to say that I would quit
it, unless a certain proposition were adopted. It was not
adopted—for nobody believed that I was in earnest—nobody
thought that I would leave the institution. Yet, I
did leave it, and forever. I had supported myself by my
pen, for many years; it was time to embark in a profession,
full of discouragement. I was tempted abroad.
I could have been sent to the American Congress; the offer
was made to me. But no—I resolved to succeed, or
perish, in one particular place, because every body told
me that I should not succeed. I had no friends—yet, I
deliberately abandoned my only resource, my pen, because
it appeared inconsistent with my plan. What
then?—I did succeed.
Thus much, for my peculiarity of temper. Many more
incidents, I might give, but I will not. There are enough
to show you that, if I had resolved to be a bad man—
there was nothing to arrest my course, or turn my hand
aside. It is always easier to be wicked than good—particularly,
poverty, evil, and reproach;—without friends, and almost
without hope; certainly, without encouragement,
except that, which is inwardly furnished, by a proud
heart, confirmed in its experience, and confident of itself,
in the extremest peril. That was my case. Years ago,
I foresaw all that has since happened; all that will happen.
I looked upon it steadily, as upon the ebbing and
flowing of a midnight sea—shattered, it might be, now
and then, in the star-light, by the sudden emerging of
some spirit—the dashing of some great wing that went
over it, or the plunge of some adventurous bark; but
ebbing and flowing, nevertheless, with an everlasting
steadiness—and governed forever, by the same immutable
law, in its tremendous wrath, or in its still more
tremendous repose.
But, to the matter in question. I was hated. I was
unsocial; when I left my native village, no blessing, and
no prayer went with me. I went, as to the gallows, certainly,
in the opinion of the wise. And it was God only
—God, and mine own strength, that turned my destiny
aside.
Yes—I did once, deliberately insult a lady, at a dinner
table. Nay, more than once—for, on another occasion,
I have seen my best friend leave the table in tears,
at some inhuman ribalry of mine;—and once, I remember
telling a lady, very distinctly, that she lied, at table,
while her lover was sitting by her side. Nay, it was not,
perhaps, in so many words; but the amount was the same,
for I said this:—“I do not accuse you of telling a deliberate
falsehood; yet, the story is false; and I have the
charity to believe that you have told it so frequently, that
you now believe it yourself.” It was brutal. I am
ashamed of it. But the other case, and I know not which
is meant, was yet worse. There have been those, Mr.
Omar, who have dared to imagine that they could be insensible
to any thing that I could say. Nay, I was once
told so. I was once told that a person would never think
of being angry with me. It was calmly said, but I felt
it. My heart turned bitter, with my breath. That person
human being, whose blood I could not make boil in his
veins—whose heart I could not turn green, in his bosom,
at my bidding.”
Tuesday Evening.—“Well. The case was this. I
was invited to drink a glass of wine, with a lady. I
loathed wine. My conscience had forbidden it. The
friend that urged me, knew it. The lady, with whom
I was requested to drink, was in a most pitiable situation.
She was just recovering from an illness, that had
unsteadied her brain.—I would have bled for her—died
for her. But I would not drink wine. I refused. Behold
my deliberate insult. Yet it was chiefly ignorance.
I did not know then, that I might be permitted just to
touch my lips to the glass, and leave it. I thought that
the fashion was, to drink it, every drop. Had it been a
mortal poison, I would have drunk it, to make any one that
I loved, happier. But, as it was, my complaisance would
not permit me. I would not take physick for fashion's sake.
I refused; and here, I have a remark to introduce, which
has always been a governing principle with me. Let it
be so with you. I love politeness. I hold it to be the
next best thing to religion, for quieting the rude, and restraining
the profligate; yet, the true gentleman will never
be known by his resemblance to any body.—His
fashion is his own, full of self-possession and dignity;
he carries meaning and authority in every movement.
You see that he is not fashionable—but you see that he
is something better. You see that fashion, as it is, the
coxcombry and invention of fools, to preserve their insignificance
from detection, is something beneath him.—
Yet, you dare not call him unfashionable. Go where
he will; in what dress he will; in what age he will—
among what people he will, it is always the same. But
how would it fare with one of your fine gentlemen of the
common cast—were he caught out of his own company,
among strange people, in the courts of Europe?—
He would be taken for a man-milliner;—a something
to be played with, and laughed at, by the ladies;—a
ridiculous contrivance, made to fetch and
carry gloves and fans;—an automaton to hold on
When I was in any unexpected situation, no matter how
new or how suddenly—my first object, was to do what
I thought proper, without imitating anybody. If I went
wrong, an air of confidence carried me through; and the
well bred doubted whether I were not better bred than
themselves. But, if they had caught me imitating anybody,
they would have detected my ignorance and awakwardness,
at once; and would have had a standard upon which to
graduate my gentility. If you are in doubt, always act
with decision and promptitude. No matter where you
are. That will carry you through. And above all—remember
that---it is better for a man, to be thought regardless
of form, than ignorant of it. For the former, he may
be respected—for the latter, he is always ridiculed. So
it was, in this case. I was hated for my ill temper—but
I was respected, in spite of all, much more, than if I had
made myself sick with the wine.—I could appeal to the
lady herself, at this moment; and she would tell you of
her uncommon regard for me.
But there was another case. I wounded the woman
whom I most respected on earth, at the time; I wounded
her to the heart, at table. She arose and left the room,
in tears. It was no premeditated offence. I was not
even conscious that my words had been capable of the
cruel interpretation, which had struck her. I pursued her
to her room. Her husband was my dearest friend.—
He was away. I was in some sort the delegated
protector of his wife, in his absence. Judge of my
feeling, when, after begging her pardon—she told me
that “had her husband been there, I would not have
dared to say what I had said.” “Not dared,” said I—
“madam, you do not believe me. I told you that it was
not meant. Of course, it would have made no difference,
whether he were there or not. But you know me;—and
I trust, know enough of me, to believe that when I mean
to wound, I leave no room for conjecture in the mind.—
I strike home—to the very core—. Farewell!—”
I left her.—She had forgotten the natural generosity
of her nature, and we had well nigh parted forever; but
now, or not, I cannot tell. All that I know is, this—
that I respect and love her;—and, if we ever meet, shall
treat her, if she will permit me, as I did, when we parted,
though much has happened since, to make me proud,
and her foolish.—Another thing has always been a
maxim with me. It is written in blood. If I suffer—
never to let the world know it. If I run my head against
a post, I am the first to laugh at it; and, at this moment,
were I dying of a broken heart, there is not that creature
breathing, who would be able to say, that he knew
it, or that he ever heard me complain. But I affect no
melancholy. I have no wish to be interesting. I cannot
stoop to play the hero, for women and children. It
is the fashion, to be sure, if one wishes for the reputation of
genius, to be very unhappy, peculiar, dark and magnificent.
All that is childish to me. I prefer, rather, if I
must act, to act cheerfulness.—You will forgive these
occasional digressions. I throw them in, as they occur,
merely that you may have a faithful copy of my thought,
in its natural movement and operation.
But perhaps the writer alludes to a very different circumstance;
and to one that happened more recently.—
Let me relate it, as it was; and then Omar, do thou judge
between her and me.
You have heard of the beautiful Mrs. Warren, whose
husband is known for many things that are especially
pleasant—but chiefly as being the husband of Mrs. Warren.
He plays the flute sweetly; is passionately fond of
musick and money;—and once, it is said, offered his hand,
with the most familiar air in the world, to the First Consul
of France. But all this may have little to do with
his wife, who is really, in the company of women, alone,
a very pleasant, entertaining, unaffected creature—but
in the company of men, men whom she means to astonish—O,
she is quite another matter. It happened that
I was presented to her. She condescended to be very ineffable.
But as I had heard of her, I determined not to
be astonished at anything—but rather to astonish her.—
Yet how should I do it?—There was only one way—to
woman, that would be the greatest rarity; and I
should be the greatest monster in the world.
By some chance, it happened, half a century ago, perhaps,
that this lady was presented to the Queen of England.
Now, it is no light thing, you may know, for a
plain republican, like me, to see majesty at second hand;
and next to seeing the queen, was seeing one, that had
seen her, you know. I knew all this—yet, if you will
believe me, there was no hurry in my blood.
She spoke of her “uncle—the general,” and “his carriage.”—She
managed it very prettily. It almost took
my sight away, I assure you. Yet, as true as you sit
there, my dear Omar, I was able to keep my seat.—
She then condescended to mention Mrs. Siddons. I asked
her, if she had seen her. “O yes!” said she, with the
practised air of one, that was hand and glove with Mrs.
Siddons. But something, I know not what—perhaps it
was her resemblance to an old friend of mine, which was
really so great, at times, that I was on the point of catching
her hand, and applauding her—and something, of
doubtfulness, in her tone; and a little shifting of the eye,
as she said this, made me resolve, spitefully enough, to be
sure, to push the question home, until I knew exactly the
truth, and the extent of her intimacy.
“Ah!” said I, in reply—“well, pray, what were the talents
of Mrs. S. in conversation?
“Ah—I—I have heard (faintly articulated) that
she is remarkable for the beauty of her conversation.—
But such dignity!”
“In private life?—on the stage, to be sure, she is
queenly, I—.”
“O yes—in private life;”—certainly, Mr. a—a—Molton—in
private life.”
“Was she pleasant and natural in her manner?—I am
delighted to find that you knew her so well.”
“No—I cannot say that I—I knew her well. I have
—seen—hem!—her—once—I remember—in the exhibition
rooms—at Somerset house”—
“In the exhibition rooms—at Somer—!” echoed I, with
her reply.
She was a little confused. Her perfectly lady-like—
self-possession fled for a moment; and she added, a little,
a very little petulantly—“yes, sir—but it was no common
privilege to be admitted there.”
The devil it was'nt! thought I.
Another might have foreborne here. But I—I knew
that she was in my power; and I determined to punish
her for such a vain profanation of her good sense. I reiterated
my question, as I would have examined a witness,
without any apparent aim, until I arrived at the
truth, that all her acquaintance with Mrs. Siddons,
amounted to her having passed her once, while she was sitting
in a picture room.
Well—the lady read well; and she knew it. A little
book lay upon the table; and, taking it for granted, as
hundreds of people do, who are taught to be well bred, by
such scoundrels as Chesterfield—as people, are cookery,
out of book,—that, to entertain a man, you must
talk to him of his trade, no matter how hateful it
is to him;—she began to expatiate upon poetry. And then,
she began to read a page out of Rogers' Human Life,
I believe, about a cricket. She read charmingly. Had
the theme been worthy of her voice and manner, I should
have listened to her a long time, I confess, without yawning
in her face; but, as it was, I could not make up my
mind to a lie. She finished. “There!” said she, shutting
the book, “there! Mr. Molton—is'nt that poetry?”
her fine eyes full of enthusiasm.
“No!” I answered.
She was thunderstruck. My friend laughed outright;
and I was sure that I should never be forgotten. Such
a violation of bienseance. She complains of it yet, I am
told. Well, let her—she is full enough of bienseance;
and her fool of a husband too—.
She recovered immediately, however, and, in a much
more sprightly and natural manner, rang a series of
musick upon many a pleasant theme, for a whole hour.—
“Do pray tell me. Is there anything new in the literary
world?” said she, at last, to me.
My friend looked at me, and smiled. “Yes, madam.”
said I;—“Lord Byron has published a new poem.”
“Ah!—what is it called?”
“Don Juan.”
“Can it be had here, do you know?”
`I have it,” said I—“and it is at your service. But—
let me not deceive you. It is cruelly condemned for its
licentiousness. My friend there, says (and he has just
returned it to me) that he would not permit his wife or his
sister to read it. Another, who has read it, returns it to
me, with a similar observation. Dare you read it? Will
you read it, notwithstanding this;—and, on my simple
recommendation? Believe me—it will reward you. It
is full of beauty, deep tenderness and passion,—occasional
sublimity—poetry so brilliant, yet so delicate, that—
“Will brush its brightest hues away.
impurity, profligacy, and irreligion. What say you?
There is much to forgive; much to pity; but not more
than in the School for Scandal—nor so much as in Rowe's
Fair Penitent? I have a better opinion of women than Mr.
D — has—I am not afraid to trust them with such a
book.”
“I will read it,” said she, “without any hesitation.”
“That is what I expected,” said I—“and I have many
reasons for wishing it—I want your example—to protect
a person, to whom I lent it—a young lady.”
She interrupted me—“O, I have read many a page
that I would prohibit to a young lady.”
“I have no doubt of it,” said I, very gravely. This was
too much, for my friend. He roared outright. He
knew and I knew, that the lady had the reputation, whether
justly or not, I do not pretend to say, not being of
the privileged order—of having her rooms furnished
quite à la françoise—with naked Apollos and Venuses; a
pair of whom, it is said, once frightened a little child,
who ran down stairs screaming, that she had peeped into
standing up in the corner,—naked as they were born!—
But I respected her the more for her independence. I
love nature. I love that estimable frankness which speaks
promptly, when promptly questioned. If it be not a virtue,
it deserves to be one; and is ten thousand times more
graceful and bewitching, than all the foolery and nothingness
of fashionable life.
Well—the next day, I waited on the lady, and left the
book with her. That day, she stayed at home;—and, the
next, she returned me the book,—apparently about one
quarter read—and in great displeasure. I know not why,
but I believed that she must have read it; and I could
not suppress a resentful swelling of the heart, to
think how I had been deceived in her. I pursued her
to her carriage;—she was a good deal disturbed; her
haughtiness disappeared—her voice trembled—nay, I
will not swear that there was not a filling of her beautiful
eyes—when she shut herself in. By the Being that made
me, Omar, I would have gone down on my knees in the
dust, before I would have touched that woman's heart,
unkindly—Had I believed that it was modesty, the sweet
bashfulness of a naked feeling—I would sooner have died,
than doubted or tried her. But—I could not believe
this. She had travelled. She had read. She had seen
pictures. The book was no such mighty matter. I had
told the truth—and she ought to have believed me; or,
at least, have manifested a less suspicious resentment.—
One that had an unsullied heart;—one that was inexperienced;—one
whom I truly, and from the bottom of
my heart, respected, had read it. Yet, when she returned
it to me—her simple, sweet admonition, was only this.—
“There is your book. I suppose that I ought to be offended;—but
I do not avail myself of the privilege.”
“Thus much for this matter—.”
Good night, Frank.—Tomorrow, I shall recommence.
| Randolph | |