There has been a good deal of talk lately about the duel that was to take place between two members of the Union Club.
A good many New York journalists, politicians and society and club men have from time to time talked duel talk, and some have fought duels, too, but the greatest man on duels who flourished around New York about the time of which I write was that good-hearted, good-headed but very queer, flighty and eccentric man, Henry William Herbert, or “Frank Forester.”
Herbert was always in trouble with somebody about somethin’, and he was always “spilin’ for a fight.” He was charitable, generous, in the main, a thorough gentleman, but “cranky.” In fact, Herbert might properly be called one of the “cranks” of old New York.
Once he got into a row with a lawyer called Hurst. The row was partly Hurst’s fault and partly Herbert’s. Herbert had been puttin’ on a lot of airs, and had been “high flyin’” for some time pretty extensively, neglectin’ his business, and givin’ the artists and writers who were connected with him no end of trouble. In fact, if it hadn’t been for a Mr. Joseph Brightly, an artist who was engaged with Herbert in gettin’ up a book, and who stuck to the book, the book would have fallen through.
But dependin’ upon Brightly to see him through, Herbert went on his airy way, and got into a broil with Hurst, who didn’t have the tenth part of either Herbert’s brains, or brass, or pluck.
Herbert, in his lordly way, sent Hurst a challenge to mortal combat. Hurst laughed at the challenge and then Herbert called him a coward. Hurst laughed at this calling of names, too, and then Herbert rushed into print about the quarrel.
He wrote a little pamphlet, which he styled a “Statement of Facts in a Recent Affair,” in which he of course “stated” his own “facts,” but didn’t state Hurst’s facts at all.
His friends regretted and blamed this pamphlet, but that only rendered Herbert more “cranky” about it, and a copy of the pamphlet got its way into the papers.
The papers made fun of it, of course, and to make matters worse, they accused Herbert of intentionally burlesquein’ the whole affair. One of the papers said that Herbert had deliberately intended the whole affair for a joke, whereas he was in dead earnest.
The very people to please whom, as well as himself, he had sent the challenge to Hurst–some Southern “fire-eaters” with whom Herbert was keepin’ company, took the view of the case at Herbert was slyly pokin’ fun at duelin’, and “cut” him in consequence.
So this particular attempt at a duel only got him into unpleasant notoriety, got him misconstrued, offended all his old Northern friends and offended all his new Southern ones.
After this fizzle Herbert rushed back to his little country place, “The Cedars,” and buried himself there awhile. Then he rose again, came to New York and got into another row.
In Herbert’s day what was called the “Washington Hall set” was, like the Union Club is now, a group of fast young and middle-aged men about town, who met every day to see and be seen, and to talk and be talked about, havin’ not much else to do, and not doin’ it if they had.
The Costars, the Hones, the Anthons and those families belonged to the Washington Hall set. Wash McLean was a leader in it; so was Lewis DePau; so was Alderman Bradhurst. Anson Livingston was one of the original and shinin’ lights of it, so was Colonel Pride, who was as proud as his name, and Sullivan Meredith and Dandy Marx, already mentioned elsewhere in these reminiscences.
The old Mott family, the Haggerty family, the Carters, the Austins, the Beekmans and the Hosacks were all interested in this Washington Hall set, which had more “American aristocracy” to the square inch about it than the Union or Union League clubs have to-day.
Talkin’ about aristocratic sets, the old City Hotel set, as it was called, had a pretty important belongin’ of prominent men in its day.
There was Col. Nick Saltus, for example. He was the head of the City Hotel set. He was a rich old bachelor, short, pompous, rough, and a hard drinker of old wines, port and Madeira.
He was very particular in his dress, which would look rather peculiar on an old abchelor now. He wore a brown frock coat with velvet collar, close-buttoned round the throat, a stiff choker collar, and a black necktie, a high beaver hat and big gold spectacles, and walked like a peacock showin’ its tail. He was a great chum of old Weckmeister, who was a tall, quiet, modest German, who kind of furnished Col. Saltus with a background, which was just the kind of man that the Colonel wanted.
Weckmeister used to keep a wholesale toy store at the corner of Liberty street and Broadway, and for ten years never was known to be once ten minutes late to dinner. What a husband he would have been!
Then there was old Hollingsworth, who was a queer character in his way, a rich old crank, who, having nothing else to do, devoted his whole time, when not eatin’ and drinkin’, to fixin’ the papers in the reading room of the old City Hotel. From mornin’ till night he read and fixed the papers and told and retold the news in ‘em to whoever would listen. He was worse than any old woman in the way of gossip.
Then there was old Captain Barker, big and burly, dapper and dignified. He was always mistaken for a clergyman or an archbishop, a mistake which tickled the old chap wonderfully.
He was very fond of “creature comforts,” though, and ate and drank his fill daily. Barker was a little jealous of Nick Saltus, and laughed him on the sly; but altogether these four old chaps and their cronies got along together pretty well and enjoyed ‘emselves in the dinin’ room or the front stoop of the old City Hotel quite as much as did the younger and noisier members of the Washington Hall set.
This Washington Hall set opened its arms to Herbert, who was of good family, his father being a clergyman of the Church of England and the younger son of an Earl. And Herbert dressed a good deal more stylish than he could afford, and spent more money than he ought, just to please the Washington Hall set.
One day Herbert, who had been cranky for some time, said somethin’ very insulting about a gentleman, who bein’ told of these words of Herbert, sent him a challenge to a duel. This gentleman whom Herbert had insulted was a friend of several members of the Washington Hall set, who took up his quarrel.
Now Herbert had been in the wrong in this case, and he could have easily got right again by simply apologizin’, which would have been the really proper and gentlemanly thing to do.
But it so happened that just a little while before Herbert had written somethin’ about no brave man ever apologizin’, which wasn’t true, by the by, and so rather than eat his own words he refused to apologize, accepted the challenge, and appointed Canada as the place of meetin’.
He really meant to fight–there can be no doubt about that. Though a fool often, Herbert had pluck always, but somehow this time he got lost in a snow storm reachin’ this place in Canada, and when he got there found that the other party had been there, waited for him, and gone off.
When he got back to New York Herbert found that, naturally enough, the other party had posted him as a coward, which made Herbert almost wild with anger. One afternoon, goin’ into the barroom of Washington Hall, he met the man who had been the second of the other party in this duel that hadn’t come off. The second was going out of the barroom just as Herbert was goin’ in, and tried to avoid Herbert. But the latter rushed up to him and called him names.
The second answered Herbert in kind, and then Herbert, losin’ all control of himself, came near committin’ murder. He pulled out a double-barreled pistol and fired twice at the other party’s second.
Hadn’t Herbert been very nervous and very near-sighted there would have been a death. But bein’ both, both shots missed fire and took effect only in the barroom wall.
Then the man fired at rushed up to Herbert, took his pistol away from him, knocked him down with it, and then threw him out into the street.
The man fired at was goin’ to complain against Herbert and have him arrested, but was prevailed upon not to do so. The Washington Hall set tried to keep the matter quiet, but they couldn’t. It was too good a thing to keep quiet about. The papers got hold of it, and once again Herbert had to leave New York and Washington Hall and bury himself in “The Cedars.”
So far there had been two attempts at a duel, but no meetin’ on Herbert’s part; but he got in his pistol fight at last, and a very curious affair that wa–one of the oddest duels ever heard of.
There lived near “The Cedars,” Herbert’s country place, a lawyer named Valentine, who was, in his way, about as eccentric and cranky as Herbert was in his. The two “cranks” didn’t get along very well together and each was ready to take offense at the other. One day Valentine came across Herbert and a party of friends takin’ a walk, and, altho’ Herbert spoke to Valentine himself, he didn’t introduce him to his friends. This was enough for Valentine, who at once declared that he felt insulted, and said that Herbert should hear from him.
The next day Herbert did hear from him in the shape of an invitation to a deadly meetin’ on the field of honor.
Herbert, of course, accepted the challenge and referred the matter to a friend of his named Howe, whom he requested to act as his second.
But Howe himself had just fought a duel with a man called Pomeroy, and had been put under bonds to keep the peace; so, of course, he couldn’t act for Herbert, and, in fact, advised him not to fight to this duel at all.
But Herbert insisted on fightin’–so did Valentine. Valentine said, provided there was a duel, he didn’t care where or when it was fought; he would let Herbert fix his own time and place to suit himself.
So Herbert referred the matter in its new shape to another friend of his, an English army officer named Nichols, who arranged that the duel should be fought the next mornin’ early, right in the heart of New Jersey, right on the top of a hill, near a cross road, only a little distance from “The Cedars.”
This bein’ fixed, Nichols and Herbert and his friend Clay, the artist, and a surgeon, Dr. Harrington, passed the night at “The Cedars,” havin’ a high old time, none of ‘em goin’ to bed at all, and bright and early the next mornin’ the party, pretendin’ to be goin’ out a gunnin’–which they really were, by the by–started off to the scene of slaughter.
Here they found Valentine awaitin’ ‘em, but Valentine alone. He had no second with him, no surgeon, no friend; he didn’t even have any pistols with him.
So, naturally, the Herbert party thought the matter was goin’ to be settled without a duel, but it wasn’t.
Valentine coolly said that he expected his antagonist to furnish him with a second. This was contrary to all the laws laid down for duelin’, but Valentine took the matter so much as a mere matter of course, that at last, to oblige Herbert, Clay, the artist, consented to act as the second for his friend’s antagonist and took his place at Valentine’s side.
Then a new difficulty arose–Valentine had a second now, but no pistol. But Valentine coolly, and as a mere matter of course, asked his antagonist to lend him one of his pistols.
This was cheek indeed, askin’ a man to furnish the weapon, powder and ball, with which to be himself shot at.
Herbert hadn’t kicked at lendin’ his enemy his friend, but he did object to lendin’ him his pistol. Herbert was very particular about his pistols. They had been all brought from England, and were specially suited for his particular tastes and use. So at first he refused positively to lend Valentine a pistol.
But when Valentine accused him of tryin’ to back out of the duel, Herbert got mad and told Clay to give him a pistol, which Clay did.
The principals took their position, pistol against pistol, but as soon as “one” was given Valentine fired away, the ball whizzin’ within half an inch of Herbert’s head, while Herbert fired in the air.
Then the principals were placed in position again, and this time Valentine didn’t mind the “one, two, three” a bit, but kept on pointin’ Herbert’s pistol at Herbert’s head and tryin’ to get a sure aim this time as would kill his man sure.
This was murder, not duelin’, and all parties protested against it, but before he could be prevented Valentine fired, and hit Herbert in the leg, inflictin’ a painful wound in the ankle.
Mad at havin’ twice missed his man, Valentine, with a curse, dashed his pistol at Herbert’s head, and then gushed away, leavin’ Herbert both glad and astonished that he was left alive.
Both Herbert and Valentine afterwards ended their lives by committin’ suicide.
[Editor’s notes: Henry William Herbert (1807-1858), writing as “Frank Forester,” is generally acknowledged as the founder of sporting literature in the United States. His books on hunting and game animals, both fiction and non-fiction, were immensely popular in 19c America. His most famous work, The Warwick Woodlands, was written about hunting in the 1830s in my (your Editor) hometown, Warwick, New York. I transcribed and digitized this title for Project Gutenberg in 2006, a few years before PDF files of book page images were made available (though the Gutenberg text files are still great for ebook readers).
Herbert was a very brilliant, talented man–but a difficult personality, who committed some offense (that may never be known) against his family’s social standing, forcing his exile to America–where he became a major author. I’ll be doing a talk about him at the Albert Wisner Public Library in Warwick, New York on Sunday, Oct. 15, 2023 at 2:00PM.]
