tion brilliant in every line, and that he, or she (cart-ropes would not draw the sex from me) could ensure that by writing more for me. Another, after some offered manuscript of which I had the hardihood to disapprove had been rejected, was pleased to say that I had a supreme contempt for youth and originality. Another has complained of the refusal of a contribution on the ground that it was quite up to his usual standard. No doubt it was, but he forgot that there was a standard of excellence also. In nine cases out of ten the volunteer will criticise, crudely, but with virulence, an article that has appeared recently. In such cases it is my invariable practice to reply that I wrote the article in question with my own hand. This answer is not always true; though it has been true on occasion; but it is always effective, is, indeed, the only deadly repartee to what, in my firm opinion, is an act of gratuitous insolence. Sometimes I wonder whether these visitors of mine go away thinking that their cause has been advanced.

In effect, after want of consideration, illegible hand-writing, writing four times as much as they are asked to, using technical or foreign phrases which they do not understand and somebody else has to verify, and incorrigible unpunctuality, the worst fault of bad contributors-good contributors have no faults—is an almost incredible vanity. That vanity is, I understand, a mark of the artistic temperament, and I know I once made an enemy for life of a flautist (quite deliberately, for I loathed his instrument) by telling him that another man could play the flute. Certainly that particular characteristic of the artistic temperament seems to be acquired with considerable ease, and, once acquired, to be ineradicable. You nay detect it, for example, in the first two pages of "A Contributor's" article. I extract his words:

There is only one editor whom I should like to kick. He directs the destinies of a famous periodical, and his name is known

a subject of current interest. He took it, and kept it until it was too late for me to place the thing elsewhere at the time. Then he sent it back, but meantime he had appropriated my idea and had got some one else, supposed to be an authority, to write another article on the same subject. He may be an honorable man, and this manœuvre may have been within his rights, but according to my notions it was a dirty trick, entirely opposed to the unwritten law of honorable journalism, which scrupulously respects property in ideas. He was quite at liberty to reject my contribution, and even to commission some one else to do the same thing, but then he should have told me so at once, and not have kept me out of the market until it was too late to compete with him in the pages of a rival. Subsequently I did publish my article elsewhere, and had the satisfaction of knowing that it attracted a good deal more attention than his substitute, which was, indeed, very poor stuff, written to order and in a hurry by a man who had really nothing to say.

As to the kicking, as I once told a blustering peer who asked me whether kicking an editor was as expensive as running a theatre (he had tried both with signal ill-success), a good deal depends on the size of the editor. But the point for consideration is the vanity of "A Contributor." He offered an article "on a subject of current interest." The editor did not publish it, returned it after a time, and published another article on the same subject. The other article was "very poor stuff, written to order and in a hurry by a man who had really nothing to say." "Poor stuff" is "A Contributor's" opinion, "written to order and in a hurry" is a mere guess in the dark, and "A Contributor" secured publication elsewhere, so he had nothing to com

plain of. Yet he complained that his "idea" was appropriated. What idea? Surely not the subject, for no man can presume to claim the monopoly of a subject of current interest; surely, also, not the idea contained in "A Contributor's" article, for the second article was "very poor stuff," written "by a man who had really nothing to say,"

was nothing amusing about the duel. It was fought with swords, and SainteMarie was badly wounded; the Sparrow had avenged himself on the blackbird.

The funniest meeting in the entire chronicles of duelling was, perhaps, Moore's encounter with Jeffrey, the editor of the Edinburgh Review, upon which occasion the pistols were found to be loaded with paper pellets! Hood's epigram upon this "affair of honor" is worth quoting. It is as follows:

character created a disturbance, and being publicly rebuked by Bowman, sent him a challenge to fight. Bowman, as the challenged party, had the choice of weapons. He selected a half-bushel of Irish potatoes, as big as his fist, for each man, and stipulated that his opponent must stand fifteen paces distant, and that only one potato at a time should be taken from the measure. The desperado was furious at being thus freshly insulted, and made an indignant protest; but Bowman insisted

have said,

Very nearly as funny as this was the duel recently fought in front of the Antwerp railway station. It was certainly of an original character. Two gentlemen from Liège, after a hard day's sightseeing, refreshed themselves so effectively at a café, that from beer to brandy, and from arguments to insults, they came to blows. Blood alone could wash away the stain of their mutual affronts; but as deadly weapons were not kept on the premises for the use of customers, the proprietor of the café suggested that, as the street was deserted, they should annihilate each other with "douches," and he handed to each a portable water-pipe! Cold water being anything but an exciting medium, the combatants, after thorough drenching, shook hands, and hurried to change their garments.

a

One way of combating an evil practice is to make it look ridiculous. It was by this means that duelling was stopped in a certain district of Kentucky some fifty years ago. At this time a travel ling preacher named Bowman -a strong, muscular fellow-was conducting some services in Kentucky. At one of his meetings a well-known desperate

and threatened to denounce the desperado as a coward if he failed to come to time. As there was no way out of the fix but to fight, the desperado consented. The encounter took place on Almost the outskirts of the town. everybody in the place was present to see the fun. The seconds arranged the two men in position, by the side of each being a half-bushel measure filled with large hard Irish potatoes. Bowman threw the first tuber; it struck his opponent, and flew into pieces. A yell of delight went up from the crowd, which flurried the desperado, and his potato flew wide of the mark. Bowman watched his chance, and every time his opponent stooped for a potato, another hit him in the side. The desperado was struck about five times, and then the sixth potato took him in the short ribs, knocking the wind completely out of him, and doubling him up on the grass. The people were almost crazy with laughter, but Bowman looked as sober as if he had just been preaching a funeral sermon. The desperado was taken home and put to bed, and there he stayed for more than a week before he recovered from the effects of his Irish potato duel. That was the end of duelling in the Kentucky region.

Duelling is, indeed, not without its comic incidents. Only a few years ago a sensible young Irishman, who was visiting Spain, was, for some imaginary insult, challenged by a noble hidalgo. The matter was referred to seconds. that of the Irishman being a fun-loving attaché of the British Embassy at Madrid. As the challenged party, the son of

Erin had the choice of weapons, and turned up on the ground with a pair of shillelaghs, which he swore were the national weapons of his country, the only ones he was used to. Needless to say, that duel never came off.

Not so long ago a fatal duel with umbrellas was recorded. A certain M. Titard, a Parisian journalist, had found a lady friend of his at a tavern in company with one of his rivals. Warm words ensued, and the trio adjourned to the lady's apartments, where the two men fought with umbrellas. From the nature of his injuries it appeared that, after one of his eyes was forced out of the socket, Titard's rival stamped upon his face and forehead with heavy boots, breaking the frontal bone, and destroying the sight of the other eye. The unfortunate journalist ultimately died from inflammation of the brain.

Several curious duels have been fought in the dark. One such took place at Cassala, the combatants being an actor named Rossi and a gentleman whom Rossi had offended during the course of a performance at the theatre. It was arranged that the duel should take place at Rossi's hotel, without the usual formality of seconds; but the landlord raised objections, and demanded that the stranger should leave the house. At last it was agreed that the lights should be extinguished, so as to cheat "mine host" into the belief that Rossi was left alone. "It will be easy for us to aim by the sparks of our cigarettes," said the actor. So the lights were put out, and a few minutes later two loud reports rang through the hotel. The landlord rushed into the room to find his worst fears confirmed. Rossi had escaped injury, but his antagonist lay with a shattered shoulderblade.

In the first year of the century a duel in the dark arose out of a debate in Parliament. The leading speakers were Isaac Corry and Henry Grattan, and the debate culminated in Corry remarking that Grattan, instead of addressing him, should, if he had his deserts be arraigned at a felon's bar. The two men had no sooner left the House than a

meeting was arranged, and although it was pitch dark, the duel was fought, with the result that Corry received a severe wound in the left arm.

On January 26, 1765, Lord Byron, a grand-uncle of the poet, killed his friend and neighbor, Mr. Chaworth, in a duel at the Star and Garter tavern, which stood on the site of the present Carlton Club. The two men fought, without witnesses, in a room lit only by one rushlight, and there was a suspicion of foul play which drove Lord Byron out of society. He retired to Newstead, and having served, in his youth, as lieutenant under Admiral Balchen, he spent the remainder of his days in conducting sham fights on the lake, between two "baby-forts" that he had built on the shore and a little vessel he had brought on wheels from the coast.

There is a case on record of a due! having been fought from balloons. It was in 1808, and the combatants, two Frenchmen, had been so unfortunate as to fall deeply in love with the same lady. The latter was unable to decide which of the two she preferred, and could only promise to marry whichever of them came off victorious in a personal encounter. After some consideration, the young men agreed to fight in the air, and on the appointed day two balloons went up, each carrying a duellist with his second. The shots were to be fired at the balloons, not at the occupants, and the result was that one was hit and immediately collapsed, the occupants being, of course, killed by the fall.

Another extraordinary duel, which at the time created immense sensation, was one in which the decision was arrived at, not by swords or pistols, but by means of a deadly poison. The men -who, it is hardly necessary to say, had fallen out over a lady-had left the arrangement of details to their seconds, and until they faced each other they did not know by what method they were to settle their differences. One of the seconds was a doctor, and he had made up for the occasion four black pellets, all identical in size and shape. 'In one of these," he said, "I have placed a