Whose Feet Have Slipped in Gore:
On the Remorse of Duelists
Remorse of Duellists
This is a painful theme. In the notices entitled Camelford, William Barrington, O’Connell, and Colclough, the reader will find details to move his feelings. But these are only examples. A gentleman of wide observation, who has always lived in a duelling section of the United States, and who has taken much pains to inquire into the mental condition of every person who had slain an adversary, remarked, that not a single instance had come to his knowledge which did not afford him proof, that peace of mind was forever destroyed. The same sad intelligence has been derived from others; and as the result of my inquiries, I can truly say, that the narratives which I have read and to which I have listened have uniformly reminded me of the words of Psalmist: “Turn thee unto me, and have mercy upon me: for I am desolate and in misery.”
Addison, in the Spectator, refers to Thornhill (who slew Sir Cholmy Dering) under the translated name of Spinamont, and possibly gives us the substance of what fell from the lips of the unhappy survivor in an address to the imaginary King Pharamond: “I come not,” he says, “O excellent prince, to implore your pardon; I come not to relate my sorrow, a sorrow too great for human life to support”; and again, “Know, then, that I have this morning killed in a duel the man whom of all men living I most loved.” Dante, in his Hell, describes the sufferings of the damned in words that cause us to shudder; but unless we doubt the veracity of some of the first characters in the country, the poet’s inexhaustible imagination fails to express the wretchedness of most of the living men whose “feet have slipped in gore.” Some utter unceasingly,
“My own life wearied me!
And but for the imperative voice within,
With mine own hand I had thrown off the burden.”
Others, men of gentle and affectionate nature, who had often grieved at the wanton killing of a bird, and on whose bosom wife and children nestled, —with the blood of a husband and a father upon their hands,—dwell, in their woe, upon the thought that
“Not all the blessings of a host of angels
Can blow away a desolate widow’s curse!—
And though thou spill thy heart’s blood for atonement,
It will not weigh against an orphan’s tear!”
Still others, the nervous system shattered, the whole of the physical or intellectual powers weakened or destroyed, see and hear their victim in every passing object, or whisper of the wind; and, as time wears on, sink into hopeless imbecility or raving madness.
I forbear the mention of particular names and instances of either class, for obvious reasons; but such has been the fate of many pure and highly gifted men who have passed away, of many who yet survive. For, say what we will, facts show that persons of the most eminent worth, and most hopeful talents, are oftenest involved in duels. There are, indeed, fiends who howl for blood like ravening wolves, who, because national peace prevents its flow in streams, seek their life long to lap it in drops from the breast of individuals. But let no one believe that even such men are strangers to remorse. The fire is lighted, and slowly consuming them; nor can the shout which these men send up at the midnight carouse, from brothels and drinking and gambling hells, conceal its progress from keen and searching eyes.
“Remorse is as the heart in which it grows;
If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews
Of true repentance; but if proud and gloomy,
It is a poison tree, that, pierced to the inmost,
Weeps on tears of poison.”
—from Notes On Duels and Duelling by Lorenzo Sabine (1803–1877). Sabine was a U.S. Representative from Massachusetts, as well as a historian noted for writing on the subject of loyalists during the American Revolution. Anti-dueling books and treatises increased in the decades following the death of Alexander Hamilton at the hands of Aaron Burr in 1804.
Thomas Fuller’s Bird
Fabulous Bird—Among the many quaint and beautiful conceits in Fuller, there is one preeminently fine: in which he likens the life-long remorse of a man who has slain another in a duel to the condition of “a bird I have read of, which hath a face like, and yet will prey upon, a man; who, coming to the water to drink, and finding there, by reflection, that he had killed one like himself, pineth away by degrees, and never afterwards enjoyeth itself.”
—from the Feb 19th, 1853 edition of Notes and Queries. The Fuller quoted above is Thomas Fuller, the celebrated 17th century English churchman and historian. This selection is followed by a query from a reader, asking where Fuller might have read such a grim fable. Notes and Queries had no response. Neither did Charles Lamb or Charles Dickens, both of whom cited Fuller’s description of the raptor.
Unhappily Ever After
Captain Gillespie, who, as second of Lieutenant McKenzie in the duel of the latter with William Barrington, In Ireland in 1777, assassinated Barrington during an altercation, and who became afterward an eminent general officer in the British army, suffered a good deal from what the jury seemed to think was “justifiable homicide.” It has been said of Gillespie that he always seemed to court death during his many engagements with England’s enemies, and that he at last received a fatal bullet while leading his command into the thickest of the fight. Theodore Neuhoff, of Wesphalia, the remarkable young Jesuit who, in 1736, gained the throne of Corsica, never overcame the grief he experienced after killing a fellow-student in a duel in 1729, and died in England, in 1756, or remorse and disappointment.
James Paull, who killed Sir Francis Burdette in 1807, became frantic with insomnia afterward, and committed suicide in 1808. Captain Best, who killed Lord Camelford in 1804, although he did everything in his power, almost, to effect a reconciliation, never recovered from the shock he felt as seeing his antagonist fall mortally wounded and left for dead on the field. “No moment of my life has been an entirely happy one,” he once said, “since I killed that man. I often see poor Camelford standing up before me.” Best died from delirium tremens at the age of forty-eight. Mr. Thronhill, who killed Sir Cholmeley Dering in 1711, suffered great distress of mind in consequence. One of the most painful events in the annals of duelling was the meeting (in Ireland in 1808) of Messrs. Alcock and Colclough. They had been the warmest of friends; and soon after Aclock’s trial for murder, and his acquittal, he became demented and died in an asylum for the insane. His sister, who was engaged to be married to Colclough, also became hopelessly insane.
—from The Field Of Honor: Being A Complete and Comprehensive History of Duelling In All Countries by Major Ben C. Truman (1835–1916). Born in Providence, Rhode Island, Truman was a Civil War correspondent and respected authority on duels.
Reading III
Pharamond and Spinamont
by Richard Steele
… Quis talia fando
Myrmidonum Dolopumve aut duri miles Ulyssei
Temperet a Lachrymis?
(Who can such woes relate without a tear,
As stern Ulysses must have wept to hear?)
—Virgil
Looking over the old Manuscript wherein the private Actions of Pharamond7 are set down by way of Table-Book. I found many things which gave me great Delight; and as human Life turns upon the same Principles and Passions in all Ages, I thought it very proper to take Minutes of what passed in that Age, for the Instruction of this. The Antiquary, who lent me these Papers, gave me a Character of Eucrate8, the Favourite of Pharamond, extracted from an Author who lived in that Court. The Account he gives both of the Prince and this his faithful Friend, will not be improper to insert here, because I may have Occasion to mention many of their Conversations, into which these Memorials of them may give Light.
‘Pharamond, when he had a Mind to retire for an Hour or two from the Hurry of Business and Fatigue of Ceremony, made a Signal to Eucrate, by putting his Hand to his Face, placing his Arm negligently on a Window, or some such Action as appeared indifferent to all the rest of the Company. Upon s
uch Notice, unobserved by others, (for their entire Intimacy was always a Secret) Eucrate repaired to his own Apartment to receive the King. There was a secret Access to this Part of the Court, at which Eucrate used to admit many whose mean Appearance in the Eyes of the ordinary Waiters and Door-keepers made them be repulsed from other Parts of the Palace. Such as these were let in here by Order of Eucrate, and had Audiences of Pharamond. This Entrance Pharamond called The Gate of the Unhappy, and the Tears of the Afflicted who came before him, he would say were Bribes received by Eucrate; for Eucrate had the most compassionate Spirit of all Men living, except his generous Master, who was always kindled at the least Affliction which was communicated to him. In the Regard for the Miserable, Eucrate took particular Care, that the common Forms of Distress, and the idle Pretenders to Sorrow, about Courts, who wanted only Supplies to Luxury, should never obtain Favour by his Means: But the Distresses which arise from the many inexplicable Occurrences that happen among Men, the unaccountable Alienation of Parents from their Children, Cruelty of Husbands to Wives, Poverty occasioned from Shipwreck or Fire, the falling out of Friends, or such other terrible Disasters, to which the Life of Man is exposed; In Cases of this Nature, Eucrate was the Patron; and enjoyed this Part of the Royal Favour so much without being envied, that it was never inquired into by whose Means, what no one else cared for doing, was brought about.
‘One Evening when Pharamond came into the Apartment of Eucrate, he found him extremely dejected; upon which he asked (with a Smile which was natural to him) “What, is there any one too miserable to be relieved by Pharamond, that Eucrate is melancholy? I fear there is, answered the Favourite; a Person without, of a good Air, well Dressed, and tho’ a Man in the Strength of his Life, seems to faint under some inconsolable Calamity: All his Features seem suffused with Agony of Mind; but I can observe in him, that it is more inclined to break away in Tears than Rage. I asked him what he would have; he said he would speak to Pharamond. I desired his Business; he could hardly say to me, Eucrate, carry me to the King, my Story is not to be told twice, I fear I shall not be able to speak it at all.” Pharamond commanded Eucrate to let him enter; he did so, and the Gentleman approached the King with an Air which spoke him under the greatest Concern in what Manner to demean himself. The King, who had a quick Discerning, relieved him from the Oppression he was under; and with the most beautiful Complacency said to him, “Sir, do not add to that Load of Sorrow I see in your Countenance, the Awe of my Presence: Think you are speaking to your Friend; if the Circumstances of your Distress will admit of it, you shall find me so.” To whom the Stranger: “Oh excellent Pharamond, name not a Friend to the unfortunate Spinamont. I had one, but he is dead by my own Hand9; but, oh Pharamond, tho’ it was by the Hand of Spinamont, it was by the Guilt of Pharamond. I come not, oh excellent Prince, to implore your Pardon; I come to relate my Sorrow, a Sorrow too great for human Life to support: From henceforth shall all Occurrences appear Dreams or short Intervals of Amusement, from this one Affliction which has seiz’d my very Being: Pardon me, oh Pharamond, if my Griefs give me Leave, that I lay before you, in the Anguish of a wounded Mind, that you, good as you are, are guilty of the generous Blood spilt this Day by this unhappy Hand: Oh that it had perished before that Instant!” Here the Stranger paused, and recollecting his Mind, after some little Meditation, he went on in a calmer Tone and Gesture as follows.
“There is an Authority due to Distress; and as none of human Race is above the Reach of Sorrow, none should be above the Hearing the Voice of it: I am sure Pharamond is not. Know then, that I have this Morning unfortunately killed in a Duel, the Man whom of all Men living I most loved. I command my self too much in your royal Presence, to say, Pharamond, give me my Friend! Pharamond has taken him from me! I will not say, shall the merciful Pharamond destroy his own Subjects? Will the Father of his Country murder his People? But, the merciful Pharamond does destroy his Subjects, the Father of his Country does murder his People. Fortune is so much the Pursuit of Mankind, that all Glory and Honour is in the Power of a Prince, because he has the Distribution of their Fortunes. It is therefore the Inadvertency, Negligence, or Guilt of Princes, to let anything grow into Custom which is against their Laws. A Court can make Fashion and Duty walk together; it can never, without the Guilt of a Court, happen, that it shall not be unfashionable to do what is unlawful. But alas! in the Dominions of Pharamond, by the Force of a Tyrant Custom, which is mis-named a Point of Honour, the Duellist kills his Friend whom he loves; and the Judge condemns the Duellist, while he approves his Behaviour. Shame is the greatest of all Evils; what avail Laws, when Death only attends the Breach of them, and Shame Obedience to them? As for me, oh Pharamond, were it possible to describe the nameless Kinds of Compunctions and Tendernesses I feel, when I reflect upon the little Accidents in our former Familiarity, my Mind swells into Sorrow which cannot be resisted enough to be silent in the Presence of Pharamond.” With that he fell into a Flood of Tears, and wept aloud. “Why should not Pharamond hear the Anguish he only can relieve others from in Time to come? Let him hear from me, what they feel who have given Death by the false Mercy of his Administration, and form to himself the Vengeance call’d for by those who have perished by his Negligence.’
—Issue No. 84, which constituted the Wednesday, June 11th of 1711 issue of The Spectator by Richard Steele (1672–1729). Founded by Steele and Joseph Addison, The Spectator was formed under the ideal “to enliven morality with wit, and to temper wit with morality … to bring philosophy out of the closets and libraries, schools and colleges, to dwell in clubs and assemblies, at tea-tables and coffeehouses.” Each issue contained a single essay and ran around 550 copies, which were then collected in seven-volumes.
The selection above came from Gregory A. Smith’s late 19th century edition. As mentioned in the above footnote, Richard Steele was a staunch critic of dueling and dueling culture. Both he and Addison set about satirizing and disparaging the free lifestyle of well-to-do young men of their day. Ironically, Steele himself was known to have enjoyed carousing, womanizing and even dueling during his youth.
The character named Pharamond is synonymous with the Faramond of early Frankish legend. According to these legends, Pharamond was of Trojan decent, thus tying France to the Homeric legends and the peerage of Hector, who was an important figure for chivalric codes.
7 See No. 76. Steele uses the suggestion of the Romance of Pharamond whose ‘whole Person,’ says the romancer, ‘was of so excellent a composition, and his words so Great and so Noble that it was very difficult to deny him reverence,’ to connect with a remote king his ideas of the duty of a Court. Pharamond’s friend Eucrate, whose name means Power well used, is an invention of the Essayist, as well as the incident and dialogue here given, for an immediate good purpose of his own, which he pleasantly contrives in imitation of the style of the romance. In the original, Pharamond is said to be ‘truly and wholly charming, as well for the vivacity and delicateness of his spirit, accompanied with a perfect knowledge of all Sciences, as for a sweetness which is wholly particular to him, and a complacence which &c.… All his inclinations are in such manner fixed upon virtue, that no consideration nor passion can disturb him; and in those extremities into which his ill fortune hath cast him, he hath never let pass any occasion to do good.’
That is why Steele chose Pharamond for his king in this and a preceding paper.
8 Translates roughly as “Power.”
9 Spinamont is Mr. Thornhill, who, on the 9th of May, 1711, killed in a duel Sir Cholmomleley Dering, Baronet, of Kent. Mr. Thornhill was tried and acquitted; but two months afterwards, assassinated by two men, who, as they stabbed him, bade him remember Sir Cholmondeley Dering. Steele wrote often and well against duelling, condemning it in the Tatler several times, in the Spectator several times, in the Guardian several times, and even in one of his plays, The Conscious Lovers (1723).
Illustration: Sohrab mourns Rustum. Illustration taken from an ancient Persian manuscript of the Shahna
meh, or “Book of Kings.” The tale of Sohrab and Rustum has been celebrated for centuries in the Middle East and is considered a prototype of many western tales concerning knight-errantry. Most famously rendered into English by the poet Matthew Arnold, Sohrab and Rustum tells the tale of a king who slays his estranged son and only heir, in a duel fought to determine a battle’s outcome. The notions of honor (both men are fighting so that their respective armies will not have to) and vainglorious folly, echo throughout the history of the duel. From Alexander Hamilton to Alexander Pushkin, cultures around the world have romanticized and mourned the loss of cultural icons in duels, often expressed in the remorse felt by the victor.
Honor, Vengeance and Murder: History Defines the Act
The Headman’s Axe!
While calmly perusing the annals of duelling, we cannot but be amazed when we behold, in the present day of pretended intellectual perfection, this practice adopted in a society which prides itself upon its boasted high state of civilization.
The details of ancient duels and single combats, which in fact were little better than qualified murders, may be revolting from their barbarous excesses; yet no study will tend more effectually to rub off from the pictorial romance of history its deceptive varnish, than that of duelling, its progress and its occasional comparative disappearance when it ceased to be fashionable, or resorted to by the upper classes of society.
The very origin of duelling should make us blush at its permanency,—springing from the darkest eras of barbarism, when scarcely a vestige was left, in the wreck of empires, of ancient glory, and of those arts, sciences, and polite accomplishments that had distinguished preceding ages, and of which the scattered ruins and tradition alone remained, fearful records of the vanity of earthly grandeur and mortal fame.
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