DUELS,

And a Method of preventing them.

It seems surprising to many people that no means have been found for puting an end to duels.

The absurdity of the custom has been illustrated a thousand ways without effect.

"You have injured me, Sir, and therefore I insist upon your taking an equal chance of putting me to death.”—Or,

"You have given me the lie, Sir. I could easily prove, indeed, that I spoke truth; but as that is nothing to the purpose, I will not take the trouble: but what I do insist upon is, that you shall, by way of reparation, do your utmost to shoot me through the head."-What can be more absurd than all this? Nothing.But it is not quite a fair statement of the case. The following seems nearer the truth.

"Sir, you have insulted me in such a manner, as will make the world think meanly of me, if I do not resent it. If I have recourse to the laws of my country, the world will think in the same manner of me. Though I may despise both you and the insult, I cannot regulate the opinions of the world; but I will shew that I do not value life so much as I dread disgrace; and I will give this proof, at your risk, who have put me under the necessity."

No severity of law can prevent those from challenging their insulter, to whom the shame of bearing an insult appears more dreadful than the utmost vengeance of law. Accordingly the severest laws have not suppressed the practice of duelling.

But if a court were instituted for the express purpose of inves tigating the circumstances which gave rise to every duel, with power to punish him who, from wantonness, pride, or malignity, had, to the conviction of the court, behaved in such a manner as would justify a gentleman for having recourse to the only means in his power to efface the affront, perhaps such an institution would have a more powerful effect in preventing duels, than attaching the punishment to the challenger, or survivor, who possibly may be the feast guilty.

If such an institution did not entirely abolish the practice of duelling, it would assuredly render it less frequent.

It would also render men more cautious of giving offence, and would bring to public notoriety and shame, all those pests of society who are continually involved in quarrels, whether from an overbearing spirit to insult others, or from a childish disposition to take offence without cause.

IN

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF

THE LATE DR. ARNOLD,

[Concluded from p. 151.J

1793, on the death of Dr. Cooke, Dr. Arnold was called to the organ of Westminster Abbey. Dr. Horsley, then bishop of Rochester, and dean of Westminster, offered him that situation in se handsome a manner, that, although he declared himself unable to fulfil the duties of the station, on account of his various professional avocations, yet was he requested to accept it on his own terms, and to perform the duty by deputy, whenever his convenience would not allow a personal attendance.

In 1796 he was solicited to become conductor of the annual musical performances at St. Paul's, for the benefit of the sons of the clergy; this office brought with it no emoluments, but he needed no second call when his exertions could tend to the good of mankind, and to the assistance of his fellow creatures. An exemplification of this truth may be found in the innumerable list of charities, for which he gratuitously composed anthems, &c. and when Charity shall plead for her votaries at the gates of Mercy, the subject of these pages will find, that a generous heart and able head have not laboured and bestowed in vain !

Charity, and the love of doing good, was indeed a shining virtue in him, and many rising characters in his own profession, at this day, pay the tribute of gratitude to his name, while they drop the tear of recollection on his grave.

A few years ago he had a fall, when reaching a book in his library, which snapped a muscle near its insertion in the knee, and which, by occasioning a tedious confinement, brought on a long train of disorders, that preyed on his constitution, and undermined a stamina, naturally strong, and doubtless shortened a life which was so valuable and useful.

Among many good qualities, he possessed, in an eminent degree, the manly virtue of independence. Though ever respectful to his superiors in rank, as he was kind to dependants and inferiors in station, yet did he spurn, with a resolution from which arrogance shrunk dismayed, at insolence and pride. Though he began life without the advantages of high birth or fortune, and though he acquired, by the laborious exertion of his talents, a handsome compe

F FVOL. XV.

tency, yet was he never forgetful of the claims of rank or of poverty. To society he endeared himself by strong recommendations. He was, till illness attacked him, the spirit of every table, and exhilaration and conviviality were the natural consequences of his company. Few men have lived more generally beloved, or died more universally regretted.

His last scene was preceded by a long and painful illness; a complication of disorders, which baffled medical skill, subjected him to acute suffering, but he had that within which sustained him at the approach of death, and he experienced those unremitting attentions from an affectionate wife and daughter, which disarmed disease of half its pains, and rendered his awful change easy and tranquil.

He died with resigned composure, his last words breathing the purest sentiments of confidence and devotion, on the 22d October,

1802.

His funeral, was elegant but not ostentatious; it was such as his high character claimed, and the most gratifying honours were paid to his memory. The greatest crowd assembled to see him consigned to his silent retreat, that has been seen for many years at the Abbey: It was doubly numerous to that which collected to witness the pompous interment of Lord Mendip, who was the last buried there. Dr. Smith, the residentiary of Westminster, desired to perform the service. The three choirs of Westminster, St. Paul's, and the King's Chapel, requested permission to attend, and they sung the service and the funeral Anthem, and a new Anthem composed for him by Dr. Callcott; the words, "I heard a voice from Heaven say, Write-Blessed are they that die in the Lord, for they shall rest from their labours." Nothing could exceed the awful grandeur and solemnity of the scene, every body was in tears, upwards of an hundred unbidden friends attending in deep mourning. The crowd was so immense, that the procession was stopped several times in its progress round the Abbey, and during the interment, a mournful stilness prevailed, which indicated the universal regret that followed him.

Those who are interested in his memory, may be interested also for his family. He has left, besides his widow, two daughters and a son. His eldest daughter, had he lived longer, would, ere this, have been united, and we believe will shortly be so, to a gentleman, a member of the musical profession. His second daughter has been some years married to a gentleman in the mercantile line.

Mr. Arnold, his son, is a portrait painter; and his name has also been often before the public, as the author of several successful dramatic pieces, novels, &c. the produce of his leisure hours.

We close this interesting memoir, with observing, that we could with pleasure have enlarged much more fully on the life and character of Dr. Arnold, had we not been informed, that Mr. Arnold, whose portrait of his father is prefixed, is now employed in writing a copious life of the popular character to whom we now bid farewell with respect and admiration.

A pretty accurate list of his works, which are very voluminous, is subjoined.

* Performed at the Haymarket theatre during the Lent season in 1802, with

such a degree of applause as added much to his reputation.

It has been a matter of the greatest surprise to many well-informed men, that government should not have devised some other means of manning our fleets, than by the cruel method of pressing. It is a practice, notwithstanding all that can be said in its favour, so inconsistent with justice, and so diametrically opposite to the general tenor of our noble constitution, that I am astonished it has not long, ere now, arrested the attention of the guardians of our liberties. What notion must a foreigner form of our much-vaunted freedom, when he sees our women assembled round our mansionhouse, with outstretched arms, bewailing the loss of a husband, a son, or a father? or when he hears that our labourers are forced to keep in parties, in order to resist the press-gangs? It should be recollected, that the expences of houses of rendezvous, and the numerous attendant officers, charges, bounties, &c. were estimated, during the American war, at thirty pounds to every man in the navy and, during the late war, the disbursement was estimated at