University of Virginia Library

EDITORIAL NOTICE.

I make no apology for publishing, in a way, that I hope,
will have a proper effect, the following remarkable letter;
from a man, who has been challenged, as the author of
Randolph; and publickly posted as a “CRAVEN,” “unpossessed
of courage!” for not fighting in that character.

I had heard the story a thousand times repeated, with
every circumstance of aggravation, ridicule and infamy;
before I arrived at the simple truth; and obtained a sight of
the whole correspondence, between the parties; which, for
the encouragement of all men, who have the great moral
bravery, to deride the “world's dread laugh,” and set publick
opinion, whenever it contradicts the judgment of their
hearts, at open defiance, I have thought proper to publish.

Mr. Neal seems to think, that it requires no great courage
to refuse a challenge. But I think differently—nor,
do I greatly approve of his pleasantry, in a matter of such
solemn and universal concern, as this;—for, one is puzzled
to know, whether he be in earnest, or not; whether he have
refused to fight, from principle, fear; or, from singularity of
temper. Much, therefore, of the good effect that might
have been produced, by his refusal to fight, will, undoubtedly,
be lost, while we are left to doubt of his motive.

To one, who is, at this moment, the only man living, who
knows the true author of Randolph, Logan and Seventy
six, there would be something, in all this uproar and
speculation, exceedingly amusing, were it not for the frightful
interest that he, in common with all other men, who
have the courage to think for themselves, begins to feel for
the consequences of this duelling mania;—consequences,
which must be fatal, to some one or more human beings,
before this affair is at an end—unless every other man, to
whom these works may be attributed, shall dare to do, as
Mr. Neal has done—refuse to give the satisfaction of blood,
—to anybody and everybody, who may choose to call him
out—until he shall be shown to have done wrong—or, at
least, to have done right, with a bad motive:—to have told
what is false;—or, to have gone, without provocation, among
the mighty of the land, living or dead; and arraigned

them, like a sorcerer—in spite of themselves, for the amusement,
hatred or derision of the world.

No man; or rather, no writer—(for the author meddles
with no men; but only with writers, and politicians, and
painters; and criticks; and actors—and orators, and statesmen)—no
writer is treated with more unsparing severity,
than Mr. Neal, himself, by this formidable Randolph.—
There is a cold, desperate carelessness;—a want of feeling,
and common humanity; to say nothing of the wicked, heedless
indifference and levity, and a bitter injustice, in the
criticism upon Mr. Neal, which are not to be found in that
upon any other writer mentioned in the work. Yet Mr.
Neal is the first man, called upon to do battle for the book;
although I took particular care to give the address of the author
himself, at the endof Randolph; that all, who might complain
of having been assailed by an assassin, might have an
opportunity at least, of being heard;—and, although, no one
has ever thought proper to avail himself, in the only way
pointed out, of an opportunity for personal explanation, with
the author, or with his friend.

I did not say; and I do not say, that either the author of
Randolph, “if living, and in this country,” or his friend,
“if he should be absent, or dead,” will undertake to fight
every man—right or wrong—with or without reason, who
may choose to desire it, even through the channel pointed
out.

Nor, when he spoke of Mr. Pinkney's habit of, wiping
his mouth on his cuff—or picking his nose, with his finger,
in solemn argument; and said that he had seen it; and held
himself answerable for what he said—did I understand him
to mean that, whether true or false, he would fight any
man that might happen not to have seen it. No—he meant
what he said, that he would hold himself answerable for the
truth of what he had written: and, if it were disputed, and
he failed to prove it all—every tittle of it—then, and not till
then, would be the time to fight. My opinion of the character
is, that it is perfectly true—but then, the question is,
whether the advantage is equal to the mischief of such truth
—whether, what has been said, might not have been more
gently said—particularly by such a man as Randolph, of
such a man as William Pinkney—whom he speaks of,
throughout, as a marvel, and a prodigy.

However, not to take up the time of the reader, in the
discussion of a law, which I despise and contemn, for its

absurdity—a code of honour, as it is called, made for the
government of boys; and of them, that have not confidence
in themselves;—and no other opportunity for distinction,
or notoriety, rather, than that, which grows out of their own
rash interpretation of it,—I will proceed to the correspondence
itself; remarking, by the way, that, little disposed as
I ever am to smile, in a question of bloodshed, I can hardly
forbear, in this case, when I reflect upon the oddity and
strange boldness of Mr. Neal's behaviour. Most men of his
age, and standing, would consider themselves; and be considered
by their fellow men, irretrievably, and perpetually
disgraced, on having been posted for cowardice. Yet this
man, sits down, deliberately, to aid the design of his mortal
enemy; to perpetuate his own disgrace; and to make a
circumstantial record of the whole transaction, which, if
common men are to be believed, were enough to “consign a
person to eternal infamy.” Really—if any thing, in this
world, would tend to make the code of honour; and all its
penalties, etiquette and sanction, supremely ridiculous, it
is a course of conduct like this;—for, does it not show, that
the man, who has been posted, does'nt care a fig for it?—
Does it not show, that he is willing to abide all the consequences
of it? Does he not multiply the copies, in a way,
that the author of the hand-bill could never do—and give to
them, a circulation, and durability, that may last; and, probably
will last, as long as his own name; or the name of Pinkney,
or Randolph, shall have a place in the memory of man.

The following letter from Mr. Neal himself, will explain
all the circumstances of the affair.—Editor.

New-York, —.

“Yes, my dear W—, it is all very true, I have been
challenged and posted—challenged, as the author of that
“execrable Randolph;” and posted as a “CRAVEN,” “unpossessed
of courage,” &c. &c. &c: pretty much in the manner,
that you have heard. It is not true, however, that I
have been “whipped”—“cropped”—“horsewhipped”—
“pulled”—“kicked”—“insulted”—“or shot.” Still, however,
all that has happened to me, in the matter, I am willing
to relate; first, however, calling your attention to the
hand-bill below; that you may, if you can, puzzle out the
meaning of it, as the people did here, after several days of
unspeakable perplexity.

I pray you to have it copied by the printers, in the very
same type; word for word; and letter for letter—taking
care to mark the size of the paper, by little dotted lines;
and, having done that, I pray you to have it published, with
my letter, at the fag end of the next work, that your friend
— shall publish. By the way, that Errata,
of his, so far as I have seen the proofs—I can make neither
head nor tale of. It won't do—take my, word for it. Why
does he not come out, with the last of the series—(I dare
say, that the publick would be glad to see it)—and I, for
my part, do not scruple to say, that it is worth all the rest
of them, together; and that, if it be, as you tell me, the last,
that the author did write—or that will ever be published of
his—I do not doubt that he will find it so, not only in
fame but profit. But, now for the “hand-bill.” (Here
followed a little dirty bit of paper, in the following
words—Ed.)

The undersigned, (1) having entered into
some correspondence with the reputed author of
“Randolph;” who is, or is not. (2) sufficiently
described as John Neal, a gentleman by indulgent
courtesy;—informs honourable men, that
he has found him unpossessed (3) of courage
to make satisfaction for the insolence of his
folly. (4)

Stating thus much, the undersigned commits
this Craven (5) to his infamy. (6)

EDWARD C. PINKNEY.

Baltimore, Oct. 11, 1823.

(1) The undersigned—quite diplomatick.

(2) That is—I have challenged John Neal, who is, or is
not, the author of Randolph—because he is.

(3) Beautifully expressed. How much more beautiful, and
cautious, than to say—I found him without courage, or destitute of courage.

(4) To be read either
way—“insolence of his folly”—or “folly of his insolence.”

(5) Craven—Blackstone—The young
gentleman has read law, to great advantage.

(6) Awful, to be sure—what will become of poor Mr.
Neal, after that dooming, or consignment, rather.—Ed.

Well—you have now read the mysterious paper, which
you will perceive, by and by, was to be framed “in the
worst terms, that contempt could devise!” What do you
think of it?

And now, for my account of the transaction. I shall be
very particular—very—for, it were a thousand pities, that
so complete a ceremony should not be circumstantially recorded,
for the benefit of all who are so prone to valorous
achievement—in time of peace—as are the junior population
of our navy.

Soon after the terrible book, “styled Randolph,” had appeared
in this place;---while it was yet generally understood,
and believed, to be made up of profanity, blasphemy,
and obscenity;---and generally reported, on the best authority,
that the author had denounced Jesus Christ, for a
juggler---William Pinkney, for a blackguard---and George
Washington, as no better than he should be:---while the
whole town was ringing with a report, that the book had
been suppressed, over, and over again; and that none of
that class of men, so proverbial for their independence, and
moral purity---and disinterstedness—and publick spirit---
and courage—called booksellers, would venture to touch
it with a pair of tongs---a gentleman called upon me, late
one afternoon, with the following very modest, and polite
note.

NO. I.

You are reputedly the author of a work, lately published,
and styled Randolph; for this reason you will readily
understand why the son of William Pinkney requires you
to disavow unequivocally in writing, any agency in the
publication of the work, in question. I await your answer.

To this note, I replied, immediately, as follows---not a
little amused, however, at the peremptory style; and unlucky
phraseology of it; for, even if I had been the author
of Randolph---it were a hundred to one, that I could have
“disavowed”—“unequivocally”—“in writing”—(what)
“all agency in the publication of it. But suppose that I
could not disavow all agency in the publication of it---is
that any reason, why I should stand up, and be shot at?

Nay, even if I had been the author---I should entertain very
different notions of my accountability, to this young gentleman,
than he, himself, would seem to entertain. I should
say---“sir---what I have said, is true. It may have been
harshly said---it may be misunderstood—but it was not
said lightly; nor with a malicious intention; but from a
sense of duty. Show me that it is not true; and then, I
hold myself bound, as a man, to give you satisfaction,
either by a publick retraction, of what I have said; or by
giving you an opportunity to cut my throat.” But here,
the utmost that could be said of us, had I fought Mr. P.—
in justification of both—would have been, that I was accused
—of having had some agency—in the publication of a book,
the author of which entertained a different opinion—from
Mr. Pinkney, the son of Mr. Pinkney—of the father.

REPLY—NO. II.

“I do not admit the right of any man, whether he be
the son of Mr. Pinkney, or not, to call upon me for an answer,
either one way or the other, in the matter in question.
I shall neither own, nor deny the authorship of Randolph,
for the present, at least, whatever I may be disposed to do,
hereafter.

“However, I do not hesitate to say, that I have read the
work in question; and that the portrait, of Mr. Pinkney, is
altogether true, in its general features, according to my own
observation; and that, if it be not so, there are enough to
contradict the author, and confound him, whoever he may
be.

I had folded the preceding note; taken a copy; and was
about to direct it; when the gentleman who brought it,
desired permission to read it. I consented—and he, after
declaring it not satisfactory, gave me another—without
leaving my room—as follows:—

NO. III.

“As you refuse to comply with my former demand, be
pleased to make arrangements with my friend, for the alternative

usual in such cases. It were well that they should be
speedy.

For a moment, I was a little angry, I confess. Mr. P.
not having seen my reply, could not be considered as challenging
me, for my own opinion of his father, as expressed
in the note—and of course, if I fought, it must be (under
that state of the affair) because I would not disavow all
agency, in the publication of Randolph! That was devilish
hard, I thought—it gave me no chance of backing out—by
any sort of apology, or explanation—provided that I
would'nt lie—and had been unlucky enough to correct a
proof, or too, of Randolph; as I have, of twenty other
works, that I never wrote.

I desired a little time to reflect, before I replied to the
challenge; mentioning that, if I did not fight, I should trouble
a gentleman whom we both knew, to bear my answer:
The friend of Mr. P. then left me, taking with him my reply,
marked No. II.

However, I soon made up my mind, without consulting
anybody—and without much difficulty too, I confess—not
to fight—and handed my answer, that evening, within half
an hour, while the paroxysm of forbearance was at the
height—to my friend, above alluded to; one of the best men
that ever lived; wholly ignorant of duelling-etiquette—
but full of true courage. These were my reasons, pro and
con. It may amuse you, to know how I came to the conclusion.
I must fight, because I am challenged. Being the
challenged party, I can choose my weapons. I choose the
small sword; with which, I have little to fear from any man
living—in this country, certainly. The affair will make a
noise—prevent others from challenging me; and I shall
have the credit of introducing a far less bloody, and fatal
mode of deciding personal controversies, than that of the
pistol. On the other side, I asked, what I was going to
fight for?—By fighting, I should countenance duelling—to
which I was particularly averse, just at that time---acknowledge
myself to be answerable for whatever there might
be offensive, or foolish—or even misunderstood, in Randolph;
and fifty people at least, would be obliged to challenge

me, then—or be suspected of cowardice;—and I
should be obliged to fight them all, one after the other; or
be posted at last! Again.—However reluctantly, I might
be compelled to run Mr. P. through the body, in self-defence—then,
of course, I must run every one of his brothers
through the body, as fast as they were old enough.
Their brother's blood would cry to them, continually, from
the ground. They would have to avenge his murder;---
and murder, it would be, in their eyes; and, probably, in
those of the publick; who, in their sympathy with the family,
would magnify my skill in the weapon, which I had chosen,
a thousand fold; and his ignorance, in the same proportion.
They would talk, too, of my age, and of his---of my
temper, and of his;—and say, that he was a young man full of
genius, and sensibility---a poet---an officer in the navy,
which is, and ought to be our national boast---the only one
of all the sons, unmarried, and at home, old enough to
quarrel, in defence of their great father; and, that he was obliged,
therefore, to call upon me for my disavowal; and that
my answer was only intended to provoke him; and that, after
he received it, he could do no otherwise, than challenge
me---and that I ought never to have fought him. Now, all
this would be exceedingly hard to bear---and not the less
hard for being true;—nor the more easily born, because
there might be blood upon my hands: or because I was not
upheld by my own conviction of right; which alone would
enable me to support all the rest. With it, I could bear
any thing. Without it, nothing; whatever the world might
say.

Well, my friend delivered, for me, the following note—
not, however, till the next day; having been unable to meet
the party, to whom it was to be given, that evening; although
he called for the purpose.

NO. IV.

“Your last note would not seem to require much consideration;
but I have given it a good deal; and my reply
is, that I cannot accept a challenge, under the circumstances
of this case, whatever I might do, where I held myself
amenable to the laws of honour, or society, for any outrage
upon either.

Now, I should not have scrupled, for a single moment,
had I been called upon, in a less peremptory way, out of
respect to the family; and to the afflicted sensibility of the
son, whom, I really believe to be fashioned of excellent
materials, to give him unquestionable proof of my veneration
for the great industry, mind, and talent, of his dead father;
nay, I would have taken some pains to convince him,
that no man would sooner uplift an arm, in defence of all
that ought to be defended, in his memory, than I, myself;
I should have said—“Sir, it matters not, whether I am, or
am not the author of Randolph. Publick men are publick
property. I only say, that, if I were the son of Mr. Pinkney,
I would thank the man that drew his character, in
that book; for, no man ever spoke so highly; or so much to
the purpose, of his august intellect; and I would have
forgiven him, at least, if I did not thank him, for any harsh
or careless phraseology, when I found, what is the truth,
that it had no application, to any thing but the outward
manner and appearance of Mr. Pinkney—none to his moral
or private character; (for which, by the way, he ought
to thank me;) but, was altogether confined to his publick
and manifest one.”

But, be that as it may; I neither said, nor meant to say
anything at that time, after being so called upon, to appease
the exasperated young man; and, the next day, I received
the following note; which, but for the threat in it, would
have produced from me, all that Mr. P. could have desired.

No. V.

“I have received your singular answer to my note. Reconsider
its subject—and write more to my satisfaction before
the evening, or I will post you, in the worst terms that
contempt can devise.

To this note, I made no reply—except, by desiring my
friend, verbally, to say that I had no answer to make to it.
He did so, after suggesting a more conciliatory course,
which I could not accede to, on the same morning, (Saturday,
11th Oct.) That day, and the next, the publick excitement
was at the height. Nobody had read the book. Yet,

all pretended to talk about it. At last, a few copies got
abroad; and men began to look about them, and ask each
other, what I had been challenged for. On the Monday
following, the threat was accomplished. A multitude of
little hand bills, of which this, which I send to you, is a true
copy, were scattered in every direction. Yet, was it
with the greatest difficulty that I could get a sight of one;
this, which I have here, we ought to preserve, as a literary
curiosity. One week, only, has passed; and there is not a
copy to be had, for love or money—nay, before the sun had
gone down, on that very day, it was almost impossible to
find one—so that, Mr. Edward C. Pinkney may thank me,
for giving effect, to his own mode of punishment.

It would be not a little amusing, if people should, hereafter,
have to turn to Randolph, to know, who Mr. Pinkney
was—to that very Randolph, as the only record; or the best
record of Mr. Pinkney the father; or of Mr Pinkney the
son.[1] And yet, I have no doubt that it will be so. The
father, great as he was, has left nothing behind him, worthy
of his power; for, all his cotemporaries have gone; or
are going, one after the other, into their graves; so that, by
the end of another year, he will only be known, through
the magnifying mist, and obscurity of tradition. And the
son, unless he be a wiser man than his father; and a more
provident one, whatever may be his future reputation, will
leave nothing behind him, so permanent as these very
works, which are so scouted and denounced.

The truth is, if it must be told, that it is on my own account—not
on his—that I preserve this account of my own
infamy. I expected better things of the young man, than
such a “nasty lame and impotent conclusion;” such a childish
catastrophe. I had seen some very pretty poetry of his; I
had heard that he was ambitious, melancholy, proud, singular,
and full of sensibility; on which account, I could forgive
a fellow, for any thing; that he had fought two or three
duels—and written two or three songs—all which, in our
present state of society, would be likely to make a man
very terrible, and very interesting—to the ladies; and, therefore,
I looked for a hand-bill, that would make my blood
thrill and tingle; and my teeth chatter, to the twentieth
generation, at least. But why tell of such an affair. Mr.

P. is a man of genius; and, for that very reason, I should
have looked for something, exceedingly like rigmarole, in a
case, where the best writer, in our language, must have been
puzzled, to justify himself for posting me.

One word, however, of the book. I do not blame Mr.
Pinkney much; but I do blame the man[2] who sent the book
to him, at a time, when the whole city was in an uproar,
with the offensive passages marked. What might have been
the consequences, had I not been a coward; not only to Mr.
P. and myself, but to our families, I leave to him to—imagine,
and reflect upon. God forgive him, for hazarding what
he did! There was hardly any choice left to Mr. P.---a son
---a poet---an officer in the navy—at his age---after having
the book thrust upon him, in that way; and nobody had a
right to expect that I would not fight. Let him reflect that,
what Mr. P. might have passed over, had he been older and
wiser; or, had he read the whole character alone, deliberately,
he could not but madden over, when called upon, almost by
acclamation, to fight the reputed author; and when obtruded
upon, by the impertinent sympathy of a man, whose commiseration,
in any case, ought to be regarded as a mortal
affront. Left to himself, I have such an opinion of his good
sense; and of his veneration for his father, as to believe that
he would have deliberated a good while, before he risked
the shedding of a man's blood, who had only been suspected,
of having called his father, a giant.

People pretend—ministers of the gospel, and religious
people—that it requires a great deal of courage to refuse a
challenge. They are mistaken. I did'nt find it so. They
say, too, that few men have the nerve, to bear being posted.
Poh!—I found it a very easy matter. It never gave
me any trouble. And, to encourage other men to depend
upon their own hearts, and heads, in all like cases, rather
than upon what, they may believe to be the publick sentiment,
I would merely mention to them, that, before a week
had passed, it would have been exceedingly difficult to find
a respectable man in the whole city of Baltimore, who did

not justify me, for refusing to fight; whatever he might have
thought of Randolph. It is a remarkable case, I admit. I
never knew one like it. Let a man have refused to accept
a challenge—in any case, that I have ever known; or heard
of; and there were always people enough to blame him; or to
call him a coward; whether they understood the reason of
his refusal, or not; but, in this case, there really seems to
be but one opinion—and that is altogether in my favour, so
far as it regards the duel; unpopular as I am, and hope to
remain.

It was the object of Mr. P. of course, to bring the matter
to issue before a military tribunal, where the lex non scripta
of chivalry, would be expounded, according to the sensibility,
and passion, of each and every one of the judges.

For the very same reason, it was to my interest, to bring
it before a literary tribunal, where I should not tremble to
encounter any man, I care not whom, with the consecrated
weapon of the court—a pen; but I waved that right, and
have even put aside all my privilege, as a lawyer, to bring
the question into another court,[3] which would be emphatically
mine, for the same reason that a court of honour would
be his; and, finally, have brought it, in this formal shape,
before the common superiour of both him, and myself—PUBLICK
OPINION; protesting, by the way, that I shall have no
sort of respect for its decision, if it do not sanction my conduct;
and not much more, if it do; for what can the publick
know of my true motive, for not spilling this man's blood;
and it is the motive alone—which cannot be known, but to
my Maker—that I ought to be judged by; and that I shall
be judged by, after all.

For nearly ten years, I have been trying to establish a
tribunal, for my own comfort, superiour to that of publick
opinion. I have hazarded every thing in the experiment;
and, at last, so far as it concerns my own conduct—in my
own view—I have succeeded. I never trouble myself, now,
about what other men would do; or what they would not do;
or what they would expect me to do, in any given case. I
merely do, what I, myself, hold to be right. I may be mistaken
in my judgment; and I am, undoubtedly, in many
cases; but that is not my fault. Among other matters, up

on which I have determined to do—as I please—is that of
fighting duels. I will not fight, because I am challenged;
I will not fight, because another may choose it; but, if I
fight, at all, it shall be, because I choose it. Luckily for
me, I have the choice of alternatives, to a greater degree,
than most men. I can talk as loud as another. I can
write as boldly; and as effectually. I have no fear of personal
chastisement, in any way, from any man; and I am
not of a temper to put up with any insult. Should I abandon
all these means of defence, at once—and go out to combat,
with arms, to which I am less accustomed, merely because
the opinion of a foolish mob may require it; or the
passions of a foolish boy—goaded on by meddling coxcombs
—ambitious of distinction, in any way; and a slave to his
education, may lead him in my way. Really, it were about
as ridiculous a piece of magnanimity, for a good shot with
a pistol, to go blindfolded in the field; or, for a fine swordsman
to fight with ramrods, in obedience to fashion. No—
I shall do no such thing. I shall defend myself with the
weapons to which I am most accustomed—my tongue, pen,
fist, or sword, as may best please me; trusting to Him, that
hath armed and endowed me; and careless of the consequences,
whatever they may be, so long as I am supported
by my own approbation.

I have heard a great deal of blustering, in one way and
another, about this novel; and not a few second hand threats
of personal chastisement, have occasionally come to my
ears, accompanied with many a hint to keep close; or, at
least, to arm myself: but no man has yet been fool hardy
enough to attempt any thing of the sort, although I have put
myself, repeatedly, in the way of several, who, I had been
told, were determined to “make an example of me;” although
I have gone about, and shall continue to go, much
more than I ever have before—unarmed and alone[4] -where-ever
it is most likely, that such an attempt may be made.

I do not invite it—but, I cannot say that I wish to avoid it,
even though it may be made by giants, or armed ruffians;—
and, if it should happen, I promise them that know me—
with the blessing of God—to leave an example, whatever
may be the consequences---though my adversaries may be
twice my size, and cased in armour---that shall go far to
discourage all men from any repetition of the outrage.

I would recommend, however, to all those, whose friends
are kind enough to see allusions to, and likeness of them,
in Randolph—to look them in the face, and ask them, how
they dare to see any thing of the sort, unless it be quite
too plain for dispute. For myself, I am perfectly sure,
that the author of Randolph never heard a syllable of many
stories, and adventures, which, it is now said, that, he has
a particular reference to. Nay—I go further. I say, at
once, that whoever he may be, he is too formidable, and too
generous, to hunt such small game, as are continually affecting,
of late, to be run out of breath, by him. I say, moreover,
that he is precisely the man, that is wanted for this age;
and this people—with all his faults, and all his follies:—
having both the moral courage, and the talent, to tell the
truth, so that men will remember it, in spite of their teeth;
and that, therefore, he has no more right, than have our
Judges or Senators; or any other minister of justice, necessary
to this people and time, to go out into the field of battle, and
be shot at, like an ordinary man. His country has a claim
upon him; and if he be yet alive, it is a solemn duty on his
part, to keep himself beyond the reach of any thing, that
may prevent him from obeying her call, whenever it may
be; or, whatever it may be.

But no matter for him. There will be, of course, different
opinions of me; and of my motive, for refusing to fight.
Most men will attribute it to cowardice—a very few, to
principle—some to obstinacy—and some to affectation, or
singularity. And there is one man, who knows me well,
and has known me for many years: who will say that I have
done this thing, merely because nobody else would, or could
have done it; because I knew that, if I did'nt fight, more
noise would be made about it, than if I did—and, merely
to baffle all calculation concerning me; for, he is one of
those, who take it for granted that, whatever no other man
would do, right or wrong, that would I do, in any given
case: and one of those, who say that “I will do, what I think
right—and will not do, what I think wrong---but then, the

devil of it is, that I have false notions of right and wrong!”
—alas! if that be true, whose fault is it---mine or my Maker?
Let every man do the like; and we shall have much
less trouble in this world.

There---good by'e. A friend of mine predicts, that I
shall be elected honorary member of every Peace Society
in the country;---and really, if the truth must be told---I
cannot help saying that, in my own opinion, I deserve to be
canonized, at least, in this age of duelling.