Duels were so frequent, in the reign of his successor, Louis XIII., that Lord Herbert, who was then ambassador, at the court of France, used to say, there was not a Frenchman, worth looking at, who had not killed his man. “Who fought yesterday?” was the mode of inquiring after the news of the morning. The most famous duellist of the age was Montmorenci, Count de Bouttville. He and the Marquis de Beuoron, setting their faces against all authority, and, persisting in this amusement, it was found necessary to take their stubborn heads off. They were tried, convicted, and beheaded. A check was, at length, put to these excesses, by Louis XIV. A particular account of all this will be found in Larrey, Histoire de France, sons le Régne de Louis XIV., tom. ii. p. 208. Matters, during the minority of Louis XIV., had come to a terrible pass. The Dukes de Beaufort and Nemours had fought a duel, with four seconds each, and converted it into a Welch main, as the cock-fighters term a meleé. They fought, five to five, with swords and pistols. Beaufort killed Nemours—the Marquis de Villars killed D’Henricourt, and D’Uzerches killed De Ris. In 1663, another affair took place, four to four. The king finally published his famous edict of 1679. The marshals of France and the nobility entered into a solemn league and covenant, never to fight a duel, on any pretence whatever; and Louis le Grand adhered to his oath, and resolutely refused pardon to every offender. This greatly checked the evil, for a time.
Kings will die, and their worthy purposes are not always inherited by their successors; soon after the death of the great monarch, the practice of duelling revived in France.
The only radical and permanent preventive, of this equally barbarous, and foolish custom, lies, in the moral and religious education of the people. The infrequency of the practice, in New England, arises entirely from the fact, that the moral and religious training of the community has taught them to look upon a duellist, as an exceedingly unfashionable personage.
New Englanders are a calculating race. They calculate, that it is infinitely better to mind their business, and die quietly in their beds, than to go out and be shot, by the very fellow, who has not the decency to say he is sorry, for treading on their toes, when he was drunk—and they are a fearful race, for they fear the reprehension of the wise and good, and the commands of God, more than they fear the decisions of a lawless tribunal, where fools sit in judgment, and whose absurd decrees are written on the sand.
No. CXLVI.
Some nine and thirty years ago, I was in the habit, occasionally, when I had no call, in my line, of strolling over to the Navy Yard, at Charlestown, and spending an evening, in the cabin of a long, dismantled, old hulk, that was lying there. Once in a while, we had a very pleasant dinner party, on board that old craft. That cabin was the head-quarters of my host. It was the cabin of that ill-fated frigate, the Chesapeake. My friend had been one of her deeply mortified officers, when she was surrendered, by James Barron, to the British frigate Leopard, without firing a gun, June 23, 1807.
A sore subject this, for my brave, old friend. I well remember to have dined, in that cabin, one fourth of July, with some very pleasant associates—there were ten of us—we were very noisy then—all, but myself, are still enough now—they are all in their graves. I recollect, that, towards the close of the entertainment, some allusion to the old frigate, in which we were assembled, revived the recollection of the day, when those stars and stripes came down. We sat in silence, listening to the narrative of our host, whose feelings were feverishly and painfully excited—“It would have been a thousand times better,” said he, “if the old hulk had gone to bottom and every man on board. The country might then, possibly, have been spared the war; for our honor would have been saved, and there would have been less to fight for. Unprepared as we were, for such an attack, at a time of profound peace, we ought to have gone down, like little Mudge, who, while his frigate was sinking, thanked God the Blanche was not destined to wear French colors!”
When he paused, and, with the back of his hand, brushed away the tears from his eyes, we were all of his mind, and wished he had been in command, that day, instead of James Barron; for this old friend of mine was a very, very clever fellow—a warmer heart never beat in a braver bosom. There was one thing, however, that I could never break him of, and yet I had some little influence with him, in those days—I mean the habit of fighting duels. He would not harm a fly, but he would shoot a man, in an honorable way, at the shortest notice, and the shortest distance. He fought a duel, on one occasion, when, being challenged, and having the choice of distance, he insisted on three paces, saying he was so near-sighted, he could not hit a barn door, at ten. He was apt to be, not affectedly, but naturally, jocular, on such occasions.