TWO young men, one with a leather cap on his head and military
buttons on his coat, sat in close conversation, long years ago, in
the bar-room of the--Hotel. The subject that occupied their
attention seemed to be a very exciting one, at least to him of the
military buttons and black cap, for he emphasized strongly, knit his
brow awfully, and at last went so far as to swear a terrible oath.
"Don't permit yourself to get so excited, Tom," interposed a friend.
"It won't help the matter at all."
"But I've got no patience."
"Then it is time you had some," coolly returned the friend. "If you
intend pushing your way into the good graces of my lady Mary
Clinton, you must do something more than fume about the little
matter of rivalry that has sprung up."
"Yes; but to think of a poor milk-sop of an
author--author?--pah!--scribbler!--to think, I say, of a spiritless
creature like Blake thrusting himself between me and such a girl as
Mary Clinton; and worse, gaining her notice, is too bad! He has
sonneteered her eyebrows, no doubt--flattered her in verse until she
don't know who or where she is, and in this way become a formidable
rival. But I won't bear it--I'll--ll"--
"What will you do?"
"Do? I'll--I'll wing him! that's what I'll do. I'll challenge the
puppy and shoot him."
And the young lieutenant, for such he was, flourished his right arm
and looked pistol-balls and death.
"But he won't fight, Tom."
"Won't he?" and the lieutenant's face brightened. "Then I'll post
him for a coward; that'll finish him. All women hate cowards. I'll
post him--yes, and cowhide him in the bargain, if necessary."
"Posting will do," half sarcastically replied his friend. "But upon
what pretext will you challenge him?"
"I'll make one. I'll insult him the first time I meet him and then,
if he says any thing, challenge and shoot him."
"That would be quite gentlemanly, quite according to the code of
honour," returned the friend, quietly.
The young military gentleman we have introduced was named Redmond.
The reader has already penetrated his character. In person he was
quite good-looking, though not the Adonis he deemed himself. He had
fallen deeply in love with the "acres of charms" possessed by a
certain Miss Clinton, and was making rapid inroad upon her heart--at
least he thought so--when a young man well known in the literary
circles made his appearance, and was received with a degree of
favour that confounded the officer, who had already begun to think
himself sure of the prize. Blake had a much readier tongue and a
great deal more in his head than the other, and could therefore, in
the matter of mind at least, appear to much better advantage than
his rival. He had also written and published one or two popular
works; this gave him a standing as an author. Take him all in all,
he was a rival to be feared, and Redmond was not long in making the
discovery. What was to be done? A military man must not be put down
or beaten off by a mere civilian. The rival must be gotten rid of in
some manner; the professional means was, as has been seen thought of
first. Blake must be challenged and killed off, and then the course
would be clear.
A few days after this brave and honourable determination, the
officer met the author in a public place, and purposely jostled him
rudely. Blake said nothing, thinking it possible that it was an
accident; but he remained near Redmond, to give him a chance to
repeat the insult, if such had been his intention. It was not long
before the author was again jostled in a still ruder manner than
before at the same time some offensive word was muttered by the
officer. This was in the presence of a number of respectable
persons, who could not help hearing, seeing, and understanding all.
Satisfied that an insult was intended, Blake looked him in the face
for a moment, and then asked, loud enough to be heard all
around--"Did you intend to jostle me?"
"I did," was the angry retort.
"_Gentlemen_ never do such things."
As Blake said this with marked emphasis, he looked steadily into the
officer's face.
"You'll hear from me, sir." And as the officer said this,
menacingly, he turned and walked away with a military air.
"There's trouble for you now, Blake; he'll challenge you," said two
or three friends who instantly gathered around him.
"Do you think so?"
"Certainly; he is an officer--fighting is his trade."
"Well, let him."
"What'll you do?"
"Accept the challenge, of course."
"And fight?"
"Certainly."
"He'll shoot you."
"I'm not afraid."
Blake returned with his friend to his lodgings, where he found a
billet already from Redmond, who was all eagerness to wing his
rival.
On the next morning, two friends of the bellige-rents were closeted
for the purpose of arranging the preliminaries for the fight.
"The weapon?" asked the friend of the military man. "Your principal,
by the laws of honour, has the choice; as, also, to name time and
place, &c."
"Yes, I understand. All is settled."
"He will fight, then?"
"Fight? Oh, certainly; Blake is no coward."
"Well, then, name the weapons."
"A pair of goose-quills."
"Sir!" in profound astonishment.
"The weapons are to be a pair of good Russia quills, opaque,
manufactured into pens of approved quality. The place of meeting,
the--mdash; Gazette; the time, to-morrow morning, bright and early."
"Do you mean to insult me?"
"By no means."
"You cannot be serious."
"Never was more serious in my life. By the code of honour, the
challenged party has the right to choose weapons, place of meeting,
and time. Is it not so?"
"Certainly."
"Very well. Your principal has challenged mine. All these rights are
of course his; and he is justified in choosing those weapons with
which he is most familiar. The weapon he can use best is the pen,
and he chooses that. If Lieut. Redmond had been the challenged
party, he would, of course, have named pistols, with which he is
familiar, and Mr. Blake would have been called a coward, poltroon,
or something as bad, if, after sending a challenge, he had objected
to the weapons. Will your principal find himself in a different
position if he decline this meeting on like grounds? I think not.
Pens are as good as pistols at any time, and will do as much."
"Fighting with pens! Preposterous!"
"Not quite so preposterous as you may think. Mr. B. has more than
insinuated that Mr. Redmond is no gentleman. For this he is
challenged to a single combat that is to prove him to be a gentleman
or not one. Surely the most sensible weapon with which to do this is
the pen. Pistols won't demonstrate the matter; only the pen can do
it, so the pen is chosen. In the--Gazette of to-morrow morning my
friend stands ready to prove that he is a gentleman; and your friend
that he is one, and that a gentleman has a right to insult publicly
and without provocation whomsoever he pleases. Depend upon it, you
will find this quite as serious an affair as if pistols were used."
"I did not come here, sir, to be trifled with."
"No trifling in the matter at all; I am in sober earnest. Pens are
the weapons; the--Gazette, the battle-ground; time, early as you
please to-morrow morning. Are you prepared for the meeting?"
"No."
"Do you understand the consequences?"
"What consequences?"
"Your principal will be posted as a coward before night."
"Are you mad?"
"No, cool and earnest. We fully understand what we are about."
The officer's second was nonplussed; he did not know what to say or
think. He was unprepared for such a position of affairs.
"I'll see you in the course of an hour," he at length said, rising.
"Very well; you will find me here."
"Is all settled?" asked the valiant lieutenant, as his second came
into his room at the hotel, where he was pacing the floor.
"Settled? No; nor likely to be. I objected to the weapons, and,
indeed, the whole proposed arrangement."
"Objected to the weapons! And, pray, what did he name? A
blunderbuss?"
"No; nor a duck gun, with trumpet muzzle; but an infernal pen!"
"A what?"
"Why, curse the fellow, a pen! You are to use pens--the place of
meeting, the--Gazette--time, to-morrow morning. He is to prove you
are no gentleman, and you are to prove you are one, and that a
gentleman is at all times privileged to insult whomsoever he pleases
without provocation."
"He's a cowardly fool!"
"If his terms are not accepted, he threatens to post you for a
coward before night."
"What?"
"You must accept or be posted. Think of that!"
The precise terms in which the principal swore, and the manner in
which he fumed for the next five minutes, need not be told. He was
called back to more sober feelings by the question--"Do you accept
the terms of the meeting?"
"No, of course not; the fellow's a fool."
"Then you consent to be posted. How will that sound?"
"I'll cut off the rascal's ears if he dare do such a thing."
"That won't secure Mary Clinton, the cause of this contest."
"Hang it, no!"
"With pens for weapons he will wing you a little too quick."
"No doubt. But the public won't bear him out such an outrage--such a
violation of all the rules of honour."
"By the code of honour, the challenged party has the right to choose
the weapons, &c."
"I know."
"And you are afraid to meet the man you have challenged upon the
terms he proposes. That is all plain and simple enough. The world
will understand it all."
"But what is to be done?"
"You must fight, apologize, or be posted; there is no alternative.
To be posted won't do; the laugh would be too strongly against you."
"It will be as bad, and even worse, to fight as he proposes."
"True. What then?"
"It must be made up somehow or other."
"So I think. Will you write an apology?"
"I don't know; that's too humiliating."
"It's the least of the three evils."
So, at last, thought the valiant Lieut. Redmond. When the seconds
again met, it was to arrange a settlement of differences. This could
only be done by a very humbly written apology, which was made. On
the next day the young officer left the city, a little wiser than he
came. Blake and his second said but little about the matter. A few
choice friends were let into the secret, which afforded many a
hearty laugh. Among these friends was Mary Clinton, who not long
after gave her heart and hand to the redoubtable author.
As for the lieutenant, he declares that he had as lief come in
contact with a Paixhan gun as an author with his "infernal pen." He
understands pistols, small swords, rifles, and even cannons, but he
can't stand up when pen-work is the order of the day. The odds would
be too much against him.