Wanted: More and Deadlier Duels

A Pica for a Return to the l ime When Men Took the Law in Their Own Hands

HENDRIK WILLEM VAN LOON

MR. A. loves Miss B. and Miss B. lovcs Mr. A. Mr. A. is a perfectly respectable citizen and a genius at his own trade.

Miss B. is a charming young woman and by no means devoid of intellect.

But whereas Mr. A.'s papa reached these pleasant shores in the steerage, via Warsaw, Poland, the grandfather of Miss B. landed from an Irish immigrant-ship, fully sixty years ago.

Hence Miss B. is in society and Mr. A. is not.

But love, as is well known, laughs at Social Registers and Mr. A. and Miss B., who cannot imagine existence without each other's company, hasten to the bureau which the city, in its kind solicitation for all its children, has established for just such cases, and get duly married.

So far so good, and could anything be simpler?

But no!

Miss B. is rich and Mr. A. is a man of remarkable ability.

They are both of them therefore "news" in their own right.

Together, they are worth at least eight Extras.

Mr. A. and his bride proceed upon their honeymoon. Their parlour car is filled with callow young men with cameras and flashlights.

Those callow young men have been told by their city editor to "get the dope."

They do get the dope.

They take snapshots of the happy pair eating oysters and they shoot them when the porter brushes their coats. They obtain exclusive close-ups of the dollar which the groom presses upon the fortunate George who is allowed to hand them their valise. They follow them to their hotel and bribe the elcvator-man, the floor-waiter and the bell-hops to give them details and still more details and still more details about the new menage.

Finally when the unfortunate couple trv to escape their tormentors, they hire a cabin next to Mr. and Mrs. A. and spend a couple of thousand dollars covering the case by wireless.

When London is reached, the bride is in hysterics. The groom sallies forth, to look at the revolvers displayed in the better class sporting stores of Old Bond Street. But he does not buy one. For if he shot the callow young man who has made his life miserable for the last ten days, he would be taken to jail and next he would be taken to the gallows and that would be the end of his career.

Besides, the callow young man is not really to blame. He only does what his city editor bids him do. And the city editor is not to blame. For he only obeys the instructions of his owner. And that brings me to the point I wish to make. Came the time (as the time will come in the history of all institutions) when duelling had become a privilege of a single class, the aristocracy, when smart young dukes would insult innocent little baronets for the sake of saying, "Oh, by the way! I fought another one this morning. It was the twenty-sixth. (Or the twenty-seventh, as the case might be.)"

In the olden days, when my grandpapa was young and handsome, the following monologue would probably have taken place.

Mr. A.:—"Your ignoble sheet has printed a series of lies about my wife. You are the man who in the last instance is responsible for those lies. I have now twice called you a liar and I call you a liar for the third time. I shall expect your witnesses this afternoon. The choice of arms I will leave to you."

Thereupon the owner, if he set any store at all on his position in the community, would have been obliged to accept the challenge. And Mr. A. would have been given a chance to get half a pound of lead into the worthless carcass of the fellow who for the sake of a few nickels and dimes had smeared his wife's name and her life story across the front page of his nasty little newssheet.

But as a matter of fact, the affair would never have reached such a climax. For the owner of that sort of paper would have greatly preferred to be a "yellow dog" rather than a "dead dog" and he would have called his city editor and he would have said, "Bill, go easy on that A. case. 1 know the fellow. He might want to fight me if we put it on too thick."

And Bill would have called in his reporter and he would have given him a cigar and he would have cautioned, "Listen, Mike, go easy on that A. case. The old man docs not want to get into trouble about it and you know lie ain't no hero with the foils."

It may seem slightly absurd to be writing about duelling in the year of grace 1926. We have left the Middle Ages behind us. We are civilized. We have policemen and courts. We no longer take the law into our own hands. And yet . . .

Exactly. "And yet . . ."

Almost any one can guess at the origin of the duel.

Two people had a quarrel and their quarrel had made bad blood. The result was that sooner or later the more cantankerous of the two would try to murder his less bloodthirsty opponent.

Such a violent encounter would of course make for further conflicts. The friends and relatives of the survivors would take sides and the affair would drag out into all eternity. It was much better that the angry citizens should meet each other in some secluded spot and should belabour each other with swords or bludgeons or pistols according to the rules of the game and keep at it until they had killed each other or their rage had been cooled.

Then they could shake hands and adjourn to the nearest ale-house to forget their troubles and tell the world what fine fellows they were.

CAME the time when Europe revived from the barbarian deluge once more. Judges and juries dared to ply their trade without running the risk of being hanged by those whom they had found guilty.

And once more honest burghers hastened with their difficulties to the law courts that they might obtain a decision without running the risk of a permanent injury to their arms and legs.

But courts were courts, even in the thirteenth century, and lawyers were lawyers. As a result the more finicky members of society shunned a tribunal as they would shun a visit to the town dump. They did not care to see the entire family laundry exposed to the delighted gaze of the visitors' gallery every time they had a disagreement with a neighbour. They hated to hear their grandmother's reputation assailed because their grandson had happened to get into a row with his landlord. And whenever they had a chance they settled their difficulties nicely and amicably by way of a duel.

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No wonder that the authorities turned sharply against this dreadful habit of settling every trifle with an appeal to arms. No wonder that Richelieu hanged persistent duellists head downward from the highest gallows in Paris and that the English courts condemned the seconds to death.

But—and the printer will do well to make this a capital B U T—the statesmenwho stamped out this dangerous institution were wise enough to prescribe a remedy that should make all further duelling superfluous. They bestowed upon their countries such strict libel laws that the average penny-a-liner would think twice before he scribbled his scurrilous little piece about the unwilling victim of his intended blackmail. And they made it possible for a decent citizen to go to court without exposing himself and all his relatives and friends to a douche of irrelevant and unessential innuendo and scandal.

I know very little about the history of lawf. And I have never been able to find a professor of jurisprudence who could explain to me why our libel laws are so mild and why it is almost impossible in these United States to get redress for what some people call "merely a personal insult." As a result, newspapers of a certain sort will print and perfectly nice people will repeat juicy little bits of slander with the most absolute feeling of personal security. Of course, they know that theoretically they can be called to account. "But po decent man would drag such a case into court," they argue and with a happy smile upon their innocent faces they repeat that X has stolen a million of his country's money, that Y has seduced the wife of his best friend, and that Z has appropriated the funds of an asylum of which he was trustee.

Perhaps it was not true.

But, who cares?

As a matter of fact, an increasing number of people are beginning to care. Ochre journalism, following rapidly upon the heels of the more respectable yellow variety, stops short at nothing. It invades the cemetery, robs the dead and despoils the living. It has no mercy before the operating table and, once it has driven a woman into a tight place, it exhibits the chivalry of a hyena.

These are bold words.

Is there any one in any of our big cities who docs not know that they are true?

What do I suggest?

Nothing.

It is not my business to suggest. I am merely a diagnostician, a diagnostician of historical facts. But I am willing to be a sport and lay a wager.

Civilization invariably finds a remedy for its own ills. I am willing to bet that within the next twenty years we shall either be honoured with better (that is to say, speedier and less spectacular) libel laws, or that Central Park, between six and seven in the morning, shall be reserved for small groups of enraged citizens doing battle upon members of my erstwhile honourable profession.