University of Virginia Library

33. XXXIII.

A few weeks since a young Irishman
named Culkins wandered into Cleveland
from New York. He had been in America
only a short time. He overflowed with
book learning, but was mournfully ignorant
of American customs, and as innocent
and confiding withal as the Babes in the
Wood. He talked much of his family,
their commanding position in Connaught,
Ireland, their immense respectability, their
chivalry, and all that sort of thing. He
was the only representative of that mighty
race in this country. “I'm the last of the
Culkinses!” he would frequently say, with
a tinge of romantic sadness, meaning, we

suppose, that he would be the last when
the elder Culkins (in the admired language
of the classics) “slipped his wind.” Young
Culkins proposed to teach Latin, Greek,
Spanish, Fardown Irish, and perhaps Choctaw,
to such youths as desired to become
thorough linguists. He was not very successful
in this line, and concluded to enter
the office of a prominent law firm on Superior
street, as a student. He dove among
the musty and ponderous volumes with all
the enthusiasm of a wild young Irishman,
and commenced cramming his head with
law at a startling rate. He lodged in the
back-room of the office, and previous to retiring,
he used to sing the favorite ballads
of his own Emerald Isle. The boy who
was employed in the office directly across
the hall used to go to the Irishman's door
and stick his ear to the key-hole with a
view to drinking in the gushing melody
by the quart or perhaps pailful. This vexed
Mr. Culkins, and considerably marred the
pleasure of the thing, as witness the following:

[What yez doing at that door yer d—d
spalpane?]

[I'll twist the nose off of yez presently,
me honey!]

[Bedad, I'll do murther to yez, young
gintlemin!]

Of course this couldn't continue. This,
in short, was rather more than the blood of
the Culkinses could stand, so the young
man, through whose veins such a powerful
lot of that blood courses, sprang to the
door, seized the eaves dropping boy, drew
him within and commenced to severely
chastise him. The boy's master, the gentleman
who occupied the office across the
hall, here interfered, pulled Mr. Culkins off,
thrust him gently against the wall and
slightly choked him. Mr. Culkins bottled
his furious wrath for that night, but in the
morning he uncorked it and threatened the

gentleman (whom for convenience sake we
will call Smith) with all sorts of vengeance.
He obtained a small horsewhip and tore
furiously through the town, on the look-out
for Smith.

He sent Smith a challenge, couched in
language so scathingly hot that it burnt
holes through the paper, and when it
reached Smith it was riddled like an old-fashioned
milk strainer. No notice was
taken of the challenge, and Culkins' wrath
became absolutely terrific. He wrote handbills
which he endeavored to have printed,
posting Smith as a coward. He wrote a
communication for the New Herald, explaining
the whole matter. (This wasn't
very rich, we expect). He urged us to
publish his challenge to Smith. Somebody
told him that Smith was intending to flee
the city in fear on an afternoon train, and
Culkins proceeded to the depot, horsewhip
in hand, to lie in wait for him. This was
Saturday last. During the afternoon Smith
concluded to accept the challenge. Seconds
and a surgeon were selected, and we are
mortified to state that at 10 o'clock in the

evening Scranton's Bottom was desecrated
with a regular duel. The frantic glee of
Culkins when he learned his challenge had
been accepted can't be described. Our pen
can't do it—a pig-pen couldn't. He wrote
a long letter to his uncle in New York, and
to his father in Connaught. At about ten
o'clock the party proceeded to the field.
The moon was not up, the darkness was
dense, the ground was unpleasantly moist,
and the lights of the town, which gleamed
in the distance, only made the scene more
desolate and dreary. The ground was paced
off and the men arranged. While this was
being done the surgeon, by the light of a
dark lantern, arranged his instruments,
which consisted of 1 common handsaw, 1
hatchet, 1 butcher knife, a large variety of
smaller knives, and a small mountain of old
rag. Neither of the principals exhibited
any fear. Culkins insisted that, as the challenging
party, he had the right to the word
fire. This, after a bitter discussion, was
granted. He urged his seconds to place
him facing towards the town, so that the
lights would be in his favor. This was
done without any trouble, the immense benefits
of that position not being discovered
by Smith's second.

“If I fall,” said Culkins to his second,
“see me respectably buried and forward bill
to Connaught. Believe me, it will be
cashed.” The arms (horse-pistols) were
given to the men, and one of Culkins' seconds
said:

“Gentlemen, are you ready?”

Smith—Ready.

Culkins—Ready. The blood of the Culkinses
is aroused!

Second—One, Two, Three—fire!

Culkins' pistol didn't go off. Smith
didn't fire. “That was generous in Smith,
not to fire,” said a second. “It was inDADE,”
said Culkins, “I did not think it of the low-lived
scoundrel!”

The word was again given. Crack went
both pistols simultaneously. The smoke
slowly cleared away, and the principals
were discovered standing stock-still. The
silence and stillness for a moment were
awful. No one moved. Soon Smith was
seen to reel and then to slowly fall. His

second and the surgeon rushed to him.
Culkins made a tremendous effort to fly
from the field but was restrained by his
seconds. The honor of the Culkinses,” he
roared, “is untarnished—why the divil
won't yez let me go? H—ll's blazes, men,
will yez be after giving me over to the
bailiffs? Docther, Docther,” he shouted,
“is he mortally wounded?” The doctor said
they could not tell—that he was wounded
in the shoulder—that a carriage would be
sent for and the wounded man taken to
his house. Here a heart-rending groan
came from Smith, and Culkins, with a
Donnybrook shriek, burst from his seconds,
knocked over the doctor's lantern, and fled
towards the town like greased lightning
amidst a chorus of excited voices.

“Hold him!”

“Stop him!”

“Grab him by the coat-tails!”

“Shoot him!”

“Head him off!”

And half of the party started after him at
an express-train rate. There was some
very fine running indeed. Culkins was

brought to a sudden stop against a tall
board fence, but he sprang back and cleared
it like an English hunter, and tore like a
lunatic for the city. Half an hour later the
party might have been seen, if it hadn't
been so pesky dark, groping blindly around
the office in which Culkins had been a
student at law.

“Are you here, Culkins?” said one.

“Before Culkins answers that,” said a
smothered voice in the little room, “tell me
who yez are.”

“Friends—your seconds!”

“Gintlemin, Culkins is here. The last
of the Culkinses is under the bed.”

He was dragged out. “I hope,” he said,
“the ignoble wretch is not dead, but I call
you to witness, gintlemin, that he grossly
insulted me.” [We don't care what folks
say, but choking a man is a gross insult.
Eds. P. D.] He was persuaded to retire.
There was no danger of his being disturbed
that night, as the watch were sleeping sweetly
as usual in the big arm-chairs of the various
hotels, and he would be able to fly the
city in the morning. He had a haggard

and wornout look yesterday morning. Two
large bailiffs, he said, had surrounded the
building in the night, and he had not slept
a wink. And to add to his discomfiture
his coat was covered with a variegated and
moist mixture, which he thought must be
some of the brains of his opponent, they
having spattered against him as he passed
the dying man in his flight from the field.
As Smith was not dead (though the surgeon
said he would be confined to his house for
several weeks, and there was some danger
of mortification setting in), Culkins wisely
concluded that the mixture might be something
else. A liberal purse was made up
for him, and at an early hour yesterday
morning the last of the Culkinses went
down St. Clair street on a smart trot. He
took this morning's Lakeshore express train
at some way-station, and is now on his way
to New York. The most astonishing thing
about the whole affair is the appearance on
the street to-day, apparently well and unhurt,
of the gentleman who was so badly
“wounded in the shoulder.” But a duel
was actually “fit.”