Whatever a man's individual character may happen
to be, he has always a strong inclination in him to reply to an attack
in the spirit in which it is made. He does not call the person who
playfully ridicules his foibles a whitened sepulchre or an unspeakable
scoundrel, and the same principle holds good when it comes to actual
physical fighting. If a French gentleman were to call me out, I daresay
I should go to the encounter twirling my moustache, bowing down to the
ground, all smiles and compliments; and that I should select my rapier
with a pleasant kind of feeling, like that experienced by the satirist
about to write a brilliant article while picking out a pen with a
suitable nib. On the other hand, if a murderous brute with truculent
eyes and gnashing teeth attempts to disembowel me with a butcher's
knife, the instinct of self-preservation comes out in all its old
original ferocity, inspiring the heart with such implacable fury that
after spilling his blood I could spurn his loathsome carcass with my
foot. I do not wonder at myself for speaking those savage words. That
he was past recall seemed certain, yet not a shade of regret did I
feel at his death. Joy at the terrible retribution I had been able to
inflict on the murderous wretch was the only emotion I experienced
when galloping away into the darkness--such joy that I could have sung
and shouted aloud had it not seemed imprudent to indulge in such
expression of feeling.
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