Twenty-five years ago, at the table of a gentleman whose father had fallen
in a duel, the conversation fell upon duelling, and after it had proceeded
for some time the host remarked, emphatically, that there were occasions
when it was a man's solemn duty to fight. The personal reference was too
significant to permit further insistence at that table that duelling was
criminal folly, and the subject of conversation was changed.
The host, however, had only reiterated the familiar view of General
Hamilton. His plea was, that in the state of public opinion at the time
when Burr challenged him, to refuse to fight under circumstances which
by the "code of honor" authorized a challenge, was to accept a brand of
cowardice and of a want of gentlemanly feeling, which would banish him to a
moral and social Coventry, and throw a cloud of discredit upon his family.
So Hamilton, one of the bravest men and one of the acutest intellects of
his time, permitted a worthless fellow to murder him. Yet there is no doubt
that he stated accurately the general feeling of the social circle in which
he lived. There was probably not a conspicuous member of that society who
was of military antecedents who would not have challenged any man who had
said of him what Hamilton had said of Burr. Hamilton disdained explanation
or recantation, and the result was accepted as tragical, but in a certain
sense inevitable.
Yet that result aroused public sentiment to the atrocity of this barbarous
survival of the ordeal of private battle. That one of the most justly
renowned of public men, of unsurpassed ability, should be shot to death
like a mad dog, because he had expressed the general feeling about an
unprincipled schemer, was an exasperating public misfortune. But that he
should have been murdered in deference to a practice which was approved in
the best society, yet which placed every other valuable life at the mercy
of any wily vagabond, was a public peril. From that day to this there has
been no duel which could be said to have commanded public sympathy or
approval. From the bright June morning, eighty years ago, when Hamilton
fell at Weehawken, to the June of this year, when two foolish men shot at
each other in Virginia, there has been a steady and complete change of
public opinion, and the performance of this year was received with almost
universal contempt, and with indignant censure of a dilatory police.
The most celebrated duel in this country since that of Hamilton and Burr
was the encounter between Commodores Decatur and Barron, in 1820, near
Washington, in which Decatur, like Hamilton, was mortally wounded, and
likewise lived but a few hours. The quarrel was one of professional, as
Burr's of political, jealousy. But as the only conceivable advantage of
the Hamilton duel lay in its arousing the public mind to the barbarity of
duelling, the only gain from the Decatur duel was that it confirmed this
conviction. In both instances there was an unspeakable shock to the country
and infinite domestic anguish. Nothing else was achieved. Neither general
manners nor morals were improved, nor was the fame of either combatant
heightened, nor public confidence in the men or admiration of their public
services increased. In both cases it was a calamity alleviated solely by
the resolution which it awakened that such calamities should not occur
again.
Such a resolution, indeed, could not at once prevail, and eighteen years
after Decatur was killed, Jonathan Cilley, of Maine, was killed in a duel
at Washington by William J. Graves, of Kentucky. This event occurred
forty-five years ago, but the outcry with which it was received even at
that time--one of the newspaper moralists lapsing into rhyme as he deplored
the cruel custom which led excellent men to the fatal field,
"where Cilleys meet their Graves"--
and the practical disappearance of Mr. Graves from public life, showed how
deep and strong was the public condemnation, and how radically the general
view of the duel was changed.
Even in the burning height of the political and sectional animosity of
1856, when Brooks had assaulted Charles Sumner, the challenge of Brooks
by some of Sumner's friends met with little public sympathy. During the
excitement the Easy Chair met the late Count Gurowski, who was a constant
and devoted friend of Mr. Sumner, but an old-world man, with all the
hereditary social prejudices of the old world. The count was furious
that such a dastardly blow had not been avenged. "Has he no friends?" he
exclaimed. "Is there no honor left in your country?" And, as if he would
burst with indignant impatience, he shook both his fists in the air, and
thundered out, "Good God! will not somebody challenge anybody?"
No, that time is passed. The elderly club dude may lament the decay
of the good old code of honor--a word of which he has a very ludicrous
conception--as Major Pendennis, when he pulled off his wig, and took out
his false teeth, and removed the padded calves of his legs, used to hope
that the world was not sinking into shams in its old age. Quarrelling
editors may win a morning's notoriety by stealing to the field, furnishing
a paragraph for the reporters, and running away from the police. But they
gain only the unsavory notoriety of the man in a curled wig and flowered
waistcoat and huge flapped coat of the last century who used to parade
Broadway. The costume was merely an advertisement, and of very contemptible
wares. The man who fights a duel to-day excites but one comment. Should he
escape, he is ridiculous. Should he fall, the common opinion of enlightened
mankind writes upon his head-stone, "He died as the fool dieth."
(_September_, 1883)