LITERARY criticism has its dangers, even now. An unkind reviewer may risk a cool reception when he meets his victim or, worse, a revenge review when the roles are reversed, writes FRANK MCNALLY.
But all things considered, the situation has improved dramatically since 1806, when a Scottish critic called Francis Jeffrey panned a book of poetry by Ireland's Thomas Moore.
It was, admittedly, a hatchet job - although the thrust of the criticism, that Moore's amorous verses were liable to corrupt women so badly as to threaten "the very fabric of society", would now guarantee a book's success. At the time, Moore considered it potentially career-ending. So he reacted, as gentlemen often did then, by challenging Jeffrey to pistols at dawn.
Seventy years later, in The Great French Duel, Mark Twain would lampoon the degeneration of the European tradition of settling matters of honour in this way, viz: "Much as the modern French duel is ridiculed by certain smart people, it is in reality one of the most dangerous institutions of our day. Since it is always fought in the open air, the combatants are nearly sure to catch cold. M. Paul de Cassagnac, the most inveterate of the French duelists [sic], had suffered so often in this way that he is at last a confirmed invalid; and the best physician in Paris has expressed the opinion that if he goes on dueling [sic again] for 15 or 20 years more. . .he will eventually endanger his life."
But duelling was still a high-risk activity in 1806, partly due to Irish influence. The effect of the famous Code Duello drawn up at Clonmel in 1777 - with its insistence that combatants make a genuine attempt to shoot each other - was still widespread. And it was no fault of either Moore or Jeffrey that their potentially mortal combat descended into farce.
As portrayed in Bard of Erin, Ronan Kenny's excellent new biography of Moore, both men were prepared for the worst. The poet dined alone the evening before, composing sentimental letters to acquaintances ("tomorrow may be my last view of the bright sun") and then spending the night at a friend's house, to avoid attracting suspicion at his lodgings.
In the circumstances, one can only admire the fastidiousness with which he brought his own bed-sheets, reasoning that his host could not be relied on to have clean linen. But if anything, his opponent was even more composed. Having suffered the deaths of a wife, child, and favourite sister in recent years, Jeffrey confessed later that he had been "little in love with life" when he met Moore at Chalk Farm, a London duelling ground, on the appointed morning in August.
Ground was stood, pistols were raised, and the scene was set for at least one man to die or be seriously injured. Then, just before the signal to shoot, police - acting on a tip-off - came charging from the bushes, knocking Jeffrey's gun away. Both men, along with their seconds, were arrested and brought to Bow Street, from which the protagonists were later bailed, bound to keep the peace.
It might have ended there, honour intact. Unfortunately news leaked that, when a magistrate had examined the guns, Jeffrey's was empty. Presumably the bullet had been knocked out during the police raid. But the implication of a dastardly deed lingered. And Moore was still trying to clear his reputation when the Times of London added to the scandal by reporting that, not only had Jeffrey's pistol been bullet-free, the other gun had been found to contain only a "pellet of paper".
Even as he battled to set the record straight, Moore - a satirist himself - conceded there could be no better subject for parody "than an author and a critic fighting with paper bullets". In the event, it would finally be accepted that both guns were loaded. But sometimes the clarification is more embarrassing than the error. From the high moral ground, the Timesapologised to Moore's seconds for any implication that they had not given the two men "a fair opportunity of blowing each other's brains out".
The comedy was to have a second act a few years later, when a rising poet called Byron wrote a satirical verse about the duel. This was a revenge review, in effect: his real target was Jeffrey. But Moore suffered collateral damage. And since, as Kelly writes, his reputation was "still fluctuating stock" in London, he promptly dispatched another letter, all but throwing down the gauntlet to the young lord.
This time it did not come to pistols, partly because Byron never got around to reading the letter. A much-travelled man, he and it had still not crossed paths two years later. By which time the Moore, now happily married and even fonder of living than he was when he wrote the letter, moved to defuse the time bomb.
Instead of exchanging bullets, therefore, the two poets exchanged further letters, tortuously navigating each other's sensibilities while seeking mutual clarification.
It is to the glory of literature that they succeeded; although it can damage the health of a modern reader to have to follow the correspondence of 19th-century romantics debating a point of honour relating to a letter one of them hasn't seen. The main thing is they agreed a compromise, eventually, that allowed them to meet for dinner instead of a duel. Thus was one of the great literary friendships born.