SIR,
I WAS calmly enjoying my toast and coffee some mornings ago, with my sister Dorothy and Jack Stylish, when we were surprised by the abrupt entrance of my friend, Mr. Andrew Quoz. By the particular expression of his knowing phiz, as cousin Jack calls it, I immediately perceived he was labouring with some important intelligence.
In one hand he held the Morning Chronicle, and with the forefinger of the other, pointed to a particular paragraph. I hastily put on my spectacles, and seized the paper with eager curiosity. Judge my surprise, Mr. Editor, on reading an act of our legislature, pronouncing any citizen of this State who shall send, bear, or accept a challenge, either verbal or written, disqualified from holding any office of honour or confidence, or of voting at any election within this State, &c. &c.
The paper fell from my hands — I turned my eyes to friend Andrew in mute astonishment. Quoz put his finger on his nose, and winking significantly, cried, “what do you think of this, my friend Jonathan?”
“Here is a catastrophe,” exclaimed I, in a melancholy tone. “Here is a damper for the mettlesome youths of the age. Spirit of chivalry, whither hast thou flown! Shade of Don Quixote, dost thou not look down with contempt on the degeneracy of the times!”
My sister Dorothy caught a sympathetic spark of enthusiasm; — deep read in all the volumes of ancient romance, and delighted with the glowing description of the heroic age, she had learned to admire the gallantry of former days, and mourned to see the last spark of chivalric fire thus rudely extinguished.
Alas! my brother, said she, to what a deplorable state are our young men reduced! how piteous must be their situation — with sensibilities so easily injured, and bosoms so tremblingly alive to the calls of honour and etiquette!
Indeed, my dear Dorothy, said I, I feel most deeply for their melancholy situation.
Deprived, in these dull, monotonous, peaceable times, of all opportunities of evincing, in the hardy contest of the tented field, that heroic flame that burns within their breasts; they were happy to vent the lofty fumings of their souls, in the more domestic and less dangerous encounters of the duel: — like the warrior in the fable, who, deprived of the pleasure of slaughtering armies, contented himself with cutting down cabbages. —
Here a solemn pause ensued. I called to mind all the tales I had heard or read of ancient knights; their amours, their quarrels, and their combats; how, on a fair summer’s morning, the knight of the Golden Goose met the knight of the Fiery Fiddle; how the knight of the Fiery Fiddle exclaimed in lofty tones, “whoever denies that Donna Fiddleosa is the most peerless beauty in the universe, must brave the strength of this arm!” how they both engaged with dreadful fury, and, after fighting till sunset, the knight of the Fiery Fiddle fell a martyr to his constancy; murmuring, in melodious accents, with his latest breath, the beloved name of Fiddleosa.
From these ancient engagements, I descended to others more modern in their dates, but equally important in their origins. I recalled the genuine politeness and polished ceremony with which duels were conducted in my youthful days; when that gentlemanly weapon, the smallsword, was in highest vogue. A challenge was worded with the most particular complaisance; and one that I have still in my possession, ends with the words, “your friend and affectionate servant, Nicholas Stubbs.” When the parties met on the field, the same decorum was observed; they pulled off their hats, wished one another a good day, and helped to draw off each other’s coats and boots, with the most respectful civility. Their fighting, too, was so handsomely conducted; no awkward movements; no eager and angry pushes; all cool, elegant, and graceful. Every thrust had its sa-sa; and a ha-hah lunged you gently through the body. Then nothing could equal the tenderness and attention with which à wounded antagonist was treated; his adversary, after wiping his sword deliberately, kindly supported him in his arms, examined his pulse, and inquired, with the most affectionate solicitude, “how he felt himself now?” Thus every thing was conducted in a well-bred, gentlemanly manner.
Our present customs, I cannot say I much admire; — a twelve inch barrel pistol, and ounce ball, are blunt, unceremonious affairs, and prevent that display of grace and elegance allowed by the small sword; besides, there is something so awkward, in having the muzzle of a pistol staring one full in the face, that I should think it might be apt to make some of our youthful heroes (feel rather disagreeable; unless, as I am told has been sometimes the case, the duel was fought by twilight.
The: ceremony of loading, priming, cocking, &c has not the most soothing effects on a person s feelings; and I am told that some of our warriors have been known to tremble, and make wry faces, during these preparations; though this has been attributed, and doubtless with much justice, to the violence of their wrath, and fierceness of their courage.
I had thus been musing for some time, when I broke silence at last, by hinting to friend Quoz, some of my objections to the mode of fighting with pistols.
Truly, my friend Oldstyle, said Quoz, I am surprised at your ignorance of modern customs; trust me, I know of no amusement that is, generally speaking, more harmless. To be sure, there may now and then a couple of determined fellows take the field, who resolve to do the thing in good earnest; but, in general, our fashionable duellists are content with only one discharge; and then, either they are poor shots, or their triggers pull hard, or they shut the wrong eye, or some other cause intervenes, so that it is ten, ay, twenty chances to one in their favour.
Here I begged leave to differ from friend Andrew. I am well convinced, said I, of the valour of our young men, and that they determine, when they march forth to the field, either to conquer or die; but it generally happens, that their seconds are of a more peaceable mind, and interpose after the first shot; but I am informed, that they come often very near being killed, having bullet holes through their hats and coats; which, like Falstaff’s hacked sword, are strong proofs of the serious nature of their encounters.
My sister Dorothy, who is of a humane and benevolent disposition, would, no doubt, detest the idea of duels, did she not regard them as the last gleams of those days of chivalry, to which she looks back with a degree of romantic enthusiasm. She now considered them as having received their deathblow; for how can even the challenges be conveyed, said she, when the very messengers are considered as principals in the offence?
Nothing more easy, said friend Quoz; — a man gives me the lie — very well; I tread on his toes in token of challenge; — he pulls my nose by way of acceptance; thus, you see, the challenge is safely conveyed without a third party. We then settle the mode in which satisfaction is to be given; as, for instance, we draw lots which of us must be slain to satisfy the demands of honour. Mr. A. or Mr. B., my antagonist, is to fall: well, madam, he stands below in the street; I run up to the garret window, and drop a brick upon his head; if he survives, well and good — if he falls, why nobody is to blame, it was purely accidental. Thus, the affair is settled, according to the common saying, to our mutual satisfaction.
Jack Stylish observed, that, as to Mr. Quoz’s project of dropping bricks on people’s heads, he considered it a vulgar substitute.
For his part, he thought it would be well for the legislature to amend their law respecting duels, and license them under proper restrictions; — That no persons should be allowed to fight, without taking out a regular license from what might be called the Blood and Thunder Office;the show.spectacles