Puslapio vaizdai
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vior I challenged him—not to a discussion, for there could not be discussion, but to meet me in single, deadly combat. After some hesitation he accepted the challenge-we fought, and I killed him. The world, as it always does, took up the dead man's weapons and grossly falsified and abused me; and finally settled down in hatred to my name.

"I wrote again-but not as before. It was impossible,-the spirit of rivalry had passed away. I could charm no longer -for men insisted, that I but told the same tale-sung the same song, I had so often sung before. But the truth was, men bore a prejudice to me from my late act. I observed it, and grew quiet, and retired.

You know the rest

"Just at this unfortunate period, the horrid act of my life was consummated-for amid my literary misfortunes, this dear woman remained the sole life of my life. she died-I renounced letters; and became a scornful, dissolute, reckless man.

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'Now my career is soon to close, and I assure you, I look into the grave with perfect indifference. The sun of my life, rose clear and unclouded; but it was not long before mists were seen gathering in the heavens, and there appeared a heavy halo around the bright orb of day-accumulating more and more, cloud after cloud passed darkly over its bright disc, until it was obscured. And look at it-just as it is this evening."

He rose and led me to the barred window, that I might look upon the sun setting in deep haze, and enveloped in clouds. "It is about to set in darkness and gloom. You remember, sir, De Staël says that there is a pleasure in the consciousness -the feeling, that we exist, and that this feeling extends even to the meanest and most miserable of the human race. Now I

am without even that simple and low order of pleasure, and if I do not wholly doubt its existence-then I believe it exists among different individuals, as does the various grades of vitality in animated nature—and I possess it least of all.

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I live now, but that I may scorn and despise the world— that I may tantalize my heart-that hated thought may make its horrid invasions on my mind.

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I will soon be gone-where to God only knows. haps I will be annihilated. But there is a something in the mind, which tells me no; matter the tangible cannot be destroyed-mind the intangible-soul the motive power-it is impossible to destroy.

"I will not trouble your ear longer-for I have now said my all to you. I only wish, in dying, that I could give you my experience in the world-but it is impossible-impossible-impossible. I will not detain you. Farewell! Be warned,-we meet no more unless"--and he cast his eyes to the ground in thought. "Never mind, we will not seek to peer the future, but hope for it—and part here on earth, as though we were to meet no more."

The heavy bolt fell back-the iron gate creaked-and the husky voice of the jailor sounded for me to retire.

We parted-and he who had just related the last sad event of his life, looked on my features but a moment. I looked on his that short moment; and beheld there what no tongue can tell. It is said that at the moment of drowning a man's whole memory is before him, and every image is pictured full on his mind then at this moment, I could read in his expression the hated past, the present dashed to the ground-and the future with its heap of uncertainty.

He turned away his face, and leaning his shoulder against the window, gazed with a wild expression through the bars. A bomb might have burst at his feet, and he would not have heard or seen it. The lightnings might have torn down the very window at which he stood, and still the statue would have stood and gazed on.

[Written afterwards on the same sheet.]

It is as I suspected the strange being is dead-dead by his own hands. Ah! how much trouble has left that tabernacle of clay !

Go then, newsmonger! and tell the carping world, come and gratify its taste for inhuman sights-come and visit its imprecations, as it loves to do, on the remnant of a man.

Give way! do you not observe the man of the day-The harpy coroner approaches; and as becomes the humanity and dignity of his office, yields his curses on the frail tenement.

But they are cursing and scorning only dust. The spirit is hovering around the spot, and smiles in derision at the little men who are pricking the dead lion-at the mocking old brute— the boy being made a brute from cultivated fondness for such

scenes.

But on his table, if the crowd will allow me the possession of it, he has left me a note. Yes, it is a terrible one too, these are the words of it.

"Behold part of my presentiment verified. The rest remember-concerns you. I die with your kind image impressed on my heart.

*

"I am denied ink, and write with my finger dipped in the best blood of my heart. A cup of the same is my only offering

to you the last flowing from the fiery spring, which, had it dashed less flamingly through my heart, I had been better— less rapidly through my brain, 1 had been wiser—and had there not been a secret connection between it, and my soul, which I never could discover, I might have been a happier man.”

I read these lines in sadness, and with a melancholy spirit. Yet I am calm, for I regard no presentiments, and if I did, it would be unbecoming a man to fear death, when he fears not to live.

JULY 26th. In the retirement of the country I thought to reach a solitude from this commotion of feeling, but I find myself merely removed from the busy world, and only no longer fearing the infraction of the sacred rules of society. In fact, the country, if it were not that the trees take the place of the houses would be the same as the city, for I discover that there are feelings attached to our nature which will exist with us everywhere and it were idle in me to believe I could fly from myself. In order to do so we have to remove memory, if not entirely, at least to a distance from us. We have always to look straight ahead, and never for an instant behind; or the unsafe ship we are fated to be in may run on the lee shore, or pitch among dangerous rocks.

We

O heavens! I know there is no solitude for the feelings. leave the dissipations of the world, we can indeed mock the world, nor fear the influence of its follies, but to break up all the associations of youth and manhood-to forget that once we sat happily surrounded by our favorite authors and conversed with our friends. And to forget, too, that comfort and ease were ours-that we loved, and were loved. That neither our mind

was dizzied or our heart vitiated—and that our feelings were not needing a solitude.

But all this is past, and I am changed, and no more have I even that light, glad step I once had, but in lieu of it, is the thoughtful, heavy-hearted gait of a sorrowing old man. Well what of that? Fortune! I am your instrument, play on me to what tune you please.

AUGUST 5th. I have had to calm myself ere I could take up my pen again to write. For of all my calamities the last which has befallen me is the greatest.

But now I am unagitated-so deeply calm, and all energy, all animal power of motion so stilled in me that a thunderbolt, hurled at my feet, could not arouse me from my perfect languor of feeling, and lassitude and non-entity of thought.

And she is drowned-can I realize such a thing? Oh! I have realized so may wretched things of late that without being credulous, I can esteem that, as the rest of my sad experience, to be too true.

I begin to think now that we were but created for the wanton frolic of fortune; that we were early given light hearts for wringing disappointments, and cruel chagrin; and that susceptible minds became our portion that they might invite a wilful disregard―aye! destruction of our efforts, be they noble as nobility itself.

I should cease to write my thoughts now were it possible to get rid of them otherwise. But writing thus is like telling one's thoughts and sorrows to an intimate friend, when the heart becomes relieved of a share of its burthens, in imparting its pains to another bosom of a sympathizing nature.

So simple has been my means of removing my sorrow, that

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