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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 fore-finger 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

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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

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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 small sword, 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,

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“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 a 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

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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

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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 death-blow; 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

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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;—That they should
be obliged to give two or three weeks notice of
the intended combat in the newspapers;—That
the contending parties should fight, till one of
them fell;—and that the public should be admitted
to the show. This, he observed, would, in
some degree, be reviving the spectacles of antiquity,
when the populace were regaled with the
combats of gladiators. We have, at present, no
games resembling those of the ancients, except,
now and then, a bull or bear bait; and this

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would be a valuable addition to the list of our refined
amusements.

I listened to their discourse in silence: yet I
cannot but think, Mr. Editor, that this plan is entitled
to some attention. Our young men fight,
ninety-nine times out of a hundred, through fear
of being branded with the epithet of coward;
and since they fight to please the world, the world,
being thus interested in their encounters, should
be permitted to attend and judge in person of their
conduct.

As I think the subject of importance, I take
the liberty of requesting a corner in the Morning
Chronicle, to submit it to the consideration
of the public.