It is quite unpleasant, after having diligently read a volume of memoirs, or voyages, or travels, and carefully transferred a goodly number of interesting items to one’s common-place book—to discover, that the work, ab ovo usque ad mala, is an ingenious tissue of deliberate lies. It is no slight aggravation of this species of affliction, to reflect, that one has highly commended the work, to some of his acquaintances, who are no way remarkable, for their bowels of compassion, and whose intelligible smile he is certain to encounter, when they first meet again, after the Éclaircissement.

There is very little of the hÆc olim meminisse juvabit, in store, for those, who have been thus misled. If there had been, absolutely, no foundation for the story, in the credulity of certain members of the Royal Society, Butler would not, probably, have produced his pleasant account of “the elephant in the moon.” There were some very grave gentlemen, of lawful age, who were inclined to receive, for sober truth, that incomparable hoax, of which Sir John Herschell was represented, as the hero.

Damberger’s travels, in Africa, and his personal adventures there gave me great pleasure, when I was a boy; and I remember to have felt excessively indignant, when I discovered, that the work was written, in a garret, in the city of Amsterdam, by a fellow who had never quitted Europe.

I never derived much pleasure or instruction, from Wraxall’s memoirs of the Kings of France of the race of Valois, nor from his tour through the Southern Provinces, published in 1777. But his Historical memoirs of his own time, prepared, somewhat after the manner of De Thou, and Bishop Burnet, and extending from 1772 to 1784, I well remember to have read, with very considerable pleasure, in 1816; and was pained to find them cut up, however unmercifully, with so much irresistible justice, in the Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews, and the British Critic. Mr. Wraxall made matters immeasurably worse, by his defence. There could be no adequate defence, for a man, who had asserted, that Lord Dorset told him an anecdote, touching an event, which event did not happen, till Lord Dorset was dead. A single instance of this kind, in a writer of common accuracy, might be carried, in charity, to the debit of chance, or forgetfulness; but the catalogue, presented by the reviewers, is truly overpowering. To close the account, Sir N. W. Wraxall was, in May, 1816, convicted of a libel, in these very memoirs, upon Count Woronzow, the Russian minister; and Mr. Wraxall was imprisoned in Newgate, for that offence.

After this disqualification of my witness, I am, nevertheless, about to vouch in Mr. Wraxall, by reciting one of his stories, in illustration of a principle. I quote from memory—I have not the work—the reviewers prevented me from buying it. June 16, 1743, the battle of Dettingen was fought, and won, by George II. in person, and the Earl of Stair, against the Marechal de Noailles and the Duke de Grammont. Mr. Wraxall relates—me memoria mea non fallente—the following incident. After the battle, the Earl gave a dinner, at his quarters; and, among the guests, were several of the French prisoners of war. Of course, the Earl of Stair presided, at one end of the table—at the other sat a gentleman, of very common-place appearance, of small stature, thin and pale, evidently an invalid, and who, unless addressed, scarcely opened his lips, during the entertainment. This unobtrusive, and rather unprepossessing, young man was the Lord Mark Kerr, the nephew, and the aid-de-camp of the Earl. After the removal of the cloth, the gentlemen discussed the subject of the battle, and the manoeuvres, by which the victory had been achieved. A difference of opinion arose, between the Earl and one of the French Colonels, as to the time of a particular movement. The latter became highly excited, and very confident he was right. The Earl referred to Lord Mark Kerr, whose position, at the time of that movement, rendered his decision conclusive. Lord Mark politely assured the French Colonel, that he was mistaken; upon which the Frenchman instantly insulted him, without saying a word, but in that felicitous manner, which enables a Frenchman to convey an insult, even by his mode of taking snuff. Soon after, the party broke up, and the Earl of Stair was left alone. In about half an hour, Lord Mark Kerr returned, and found his uncle very much disturbed.

“Nephew,” said he, “you know my strong dislike of duelling. In our situation we are sometimes, perhaps, unable to avoid it. The French Colonel insulted you, at table; others noticed it, besides myself. I fear, my dear nephew, you will have to ask him to apologize.”

“I noticed it myself, my Lord,” replied the Lord Mark; “you need have no trouble, on that account—we have already met—I ran him through the body; and they are now burying him, in the outer court.”

Duels are often produced, by a foolish, and fatal misestimate, which one man makes of another’s temperament. The diminutive frame, the pale cheek, and small voice, modest carriage, youth, and inexperience, afford no certain indicia: nimium ne crede colori. Men of small stature, are sometimes the more brusque, and more on the qui vive, from this very circumstance.

Ingentes animos angusto in pectore volvunt.

That a man will not fight, like a dragon, simply because he has neither the stature of Falstaff, nor the lungs of Bottom, is a well authenticated non sequitur.

A well told, and well substantiated illustration of all this, may be found, in Mackenzie’s Life of Decatur, page 55. I refer to the case of Joseph Bainbridge, who, in 1803, when a midshipman, and an inexperienced boy, was purposely and wantonly insulted, at Malta, by a professed duellist, the Secretary of Sir Alexander Ball, the Governor. No one can read Mackenzie’s Narrative, without a conviction, that Bainbridge owed the preservation of his life, to the address of Decatur. They met—fired twice, at four paces; and, at the second fire, the English duellist fell, mortally wounded in the head: Bainbridge was untouched.

When I was a school boy, more than fifty years ago, I remember to have read, in an English journal, whose name I have now forgotten, a story, which may have been a fiction; but which was very naturally told, and made a deep impression upon me then. I will endeavor to draw it forth from the locker of my memory; and engage, beforehand, to be very much indebted to any one, who will indicate its original source.

Three young gentlemen, who had finished the most substantial part of their repast, were lingering over their fruit and wine, at an eating-house, in London; when a man, of middle age, and middle stature, entered the public room, where they were sitting; seated himself, at one end of a small, unoccupied table; and, calling the waiter, ordered a simple mutton chop, and a glass of ale. His appearance, at first view, was not likely to arrest the attention of any one. His hair was getting to be thin and gray; the expression of his countenance was sedate, with a slight touch, perhaps, of melancholy; and he wore a gray surtout, with a standing collar, which, manifestly, had seen service, if the wearer had not—just such a thing, as an officer would bestow upon his serving man. He might be taken for a country magistrate, or an attorney, of limited practice, or a schoolmaster.He continued to masticate his chop, and sip his ale, in silence, without lifting his eyes from the table, until a melon seed, sportively snapped, from between the thumb and finger of one of the gentlemen, at the opposite table, struck him upon the right ear. His eye was instantly upon the aggressor; and his ready intelligence gathered, from the illy suppressed merriment of the party, that this petty impertinence was intentional.

The stranger stooped, and picked up the melon seed, and a scarcely perceptible smile passed over his features, as he carefully wrapped up the seed, in a piece of paper, and placed it in his pocket. This singular procedure, with their preconceived impressions of their customer, somewhat elevated, as they were, by the wine they had partaken, capsized their gravity entirely, and a burst of irresistible laughter proceeded from the group.

Unmoved by this rudeness, the stranger continued to finish his frugal repast, in quiet, until another melon seed, from the same hand, struck him, upon the right elbow. This also, to the infinite amusement of the other party, he picked from the floor, and carefully deposited with the first.

Amidst shouts of laughter, a third melon seed was, soon after, discharged, which hit him, upon the left breast. This also he, very deliberately took from the floor, and deposited with the other two.

As he rose, and was engaged in paying for his repast, the gayety of these sporting gentlemen became slightly subdued. It was not easy to account for this. Lavater would not have been able to detect the slightest evidence of irritation or resentment, upon the features of the stranger. He seemed a little taller, to be sure, and the carriage of his head might have appeared to them rather more erect. He walked to the table, at which they were sitting, and with that air of dignified calmness, which is a thousand times more terrible than wrath, drew a card from his pocket, and presented it, with perfect civility, to the offender, who could do no less than offer his own, in return. While the stranger unclosed his surtout, to take the card from his pocket, they had a glance at the undress coat of a military man. The card disclosed his rank, and a brief inquiry at the bar was sufficient for the rest. He was a captain, whom ill health and long service had entitled to half pay. In earlier life he had been engaged in several affairs of honor, and, in the dialect of the fancy, was a dead shot.The next morning a note arrived at the aggressor’s residence, containing a challenge, in form, and one only of the melon seeds. The truth then flashed before the challenged party—it was the challenger’s intention to make three bites at this cherry, three separate affairs out of this unwarrantable frolic! The challenge was accepted, and the challenged party, in deference to the challenger’s reputed skill with the pistol, had half decided upon the small sword; but his friends, who were on the alert, soon discovered, that the captain, who had risen by his merit, had, in the earlier days of his necessity, gained his bread, as an accomplished instructor, in the use of that very weapon. They met and fired, alternately, by lot; the young man had elected this mode, thinking he might win the first fire—he did—fired, and missed his opponent. The captain levelled his pistol and fired—the ball passed through the flap of the right ear, and grazed the bone; and, as the wounded man involuntarily put his hand to the place, he remembered that it was on the right ear of his antagonist, that the first melon seed had fallen. Here ended the first lesson. A month had passed. His friends cherished the hope, that he would hear nothing more from the captain, when another note—a challenge of course—and another of those accursed melon seeds arrived, with the captain’s apology, on the score of ill-health, for not sending it before.

Again they met—fired simultaneously, and the captain, who was unhurt, shattered the right elbow of his antagonist—the very point upon which he had been struck by the second melon seed: and here ended the second lesson. There was something awfully impressive, in the modus operandi, and exquisite skill of this antagonist. The third melon seed was still in his possession, and the aggressor had not forgotten, that it had struck the unoffending gentleman, upon the left breast! A month had past—another—and another, of terrible suspense; but nothing was heard from the captain. Intelligence had been received, that he was confined to his lodgings, by illness. At length, the gentleman who had been his second, in the former duels, once more presented himself, and tendered another note, which, as the recipient perceived, on taking it, contained the last of the melon seeds. The note was superscribed in the captain’s well known hand, but it was the writing evidently of one, who wrote deficiente manu. There was an unusual solemnity also, in the manner of him, who delivered it. The seal was broken, and there was the melon seed, in a blank envelope—“And what, sir, am I to understand by this?”—“You will understand, sir, that my friend forgives you—he is dead.”