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.

Another old friend of mine, in by-gone days, the elder son of the late Governor Brooks, was second, in one of these duels, to the friend, of whom I am speaking. Major Brooks had, occasionally, indulged himself, in the publication of poetical effusions. When the parties and their seconds came upon the ground, he found, that he had brought no leather, to envelop the ball, as usual, in loading; and, drawing a newspaper from his pocket, tore off the corner, on which some verses were printed: at this moment, his principal drawing near, said, in an under tone, “I hope that isn’t one of your fugitive pieces, Alek.”

Though our lines were, of late years, cast far apart, I always rejoiced in his good fortune. After having occupied a very elevated position, for some time, in the naval department, he fell—poor fellow—not in a duel—but in a moment, doubtless, of temporary, mental derangement, by his own hand. The news of my old friend’s death reached me, just before dinner—I postponed it till the next day—went home—sat alone—and had that old dinner, in the cabin of the Chesapeake, warmed over, upon the coals of the imagination, and seated around me every guest, who was there that day, just as fresh, as if he had never been buried.

James Barron was an unlucky dog, to say the least of it. Striking the stars and stripes, without firing a gun, was enough for one life. For this he was tried, found guilty, and suspended from duty, for five years, from Feb. 8, 1808, and deprived of his pay. He went abroad; and, during his absence, war was declared, which continued about two years, after the termination of his suspension. He returned, at last, and sought employment; Decatur officially opposed his claims; and thereupon he challenged, and killed Decatur, the pride of the American navy; and, after this, he received employment from the government. The services of James Barron are not likely to be undervalued. Decatur’s offence consisted, in his declaration of opinion, that Barron did not return to the service of his country, as in duty bound. The duel took place March 22, 1820. After this, Barron demanded a Court of Inquiry, to settle this point. The Court consisted of Commodores Stewart and Morris and Captain Evans, and convened May 10, 1821, and the conclusion of the sentence is this—“It is therefore the opinion of the court, that his (Barron’s) absence from the United States, without the permission of the government, was contrary to his duty, as an officer, in the navy of the United States.”

Here then was another silly and senseless duel. Mr. Allen, in his Biographical Dictionary remarks—“The correspondence issued in a challenge from Barron, though he considered duelling ‘a barbarous practice, which ought to be exploded from civilized society.’ And the challenge was accepted by Decatur, though he ‘had long since discovered, that fighting duels is not even an unerring criterion of personal courage.’”

They fired at the same instant; Barron fell immediately, wounded in the hip, where Decatur had mercifully declared his intention to wound him; Decatur stood erect, for a moment—put his hand to his right side—and fell, mortally wounded. He was raised, and supported, a few steps, and sunk down, exhausted, near Barron. Captain Mackenzie, in his Life of Decatur, page 322, gives his opinion, that this duel could have been gracefully prevented, on the ground; and such will be the judgment, doubtless, of posterity. Capt. Jesse D. Elliot was the second of Barron—Com. Bainbridge of Decatur. After they had taken their stands, Barron said to Decatur, that he hoped, “on meeting, in another world, they would be better friends, than they had been in this.”

To this Decatur replied, “I have never been your enemy, sir.” “Why,” says Captain Mackenzie, “could not this aspiration for peace, between them, in the next world, on one part, and this comprehensive disclaimer of all enmity, on the other, have been seized by the friends, for the purposes of reconciliation?” A pertinent question truly—but of very ready solution. These seconds, like most others, acted, like military undertakers; their office consists, as they seem to suppose, in seeing the bodies duly cared for; and all consideration for the chief mourners, and such the very principals often are, is out of the question. With all his excellent qualities, Commodore Bainbridge, as every one, who knew him well, will readily admit, was not possessed of that happy mixture of qualities, to avail of this pacific prestige. It was an overture—such Barron afterwards avowed it to have been. On the 10th of October, 1818, Decatur had been the second of Com. Perry, in his duel with Captain Heath, which was terminated, after the first fire, by Decatur’s declaration, that Com. Perry had avowed his purpose, not to fire at Capt Heath. Had Perry lived, and been at hand, it is highly probable, that Decatur would not have fallen, for Perry would, doubtless, have been his second, and readily availed of the expressions of the parties, on the ground.

Had Charles Morris, whose gallantry and discretion have mingled into a proverb—had he been the second of his old commander, by whose side, he stood, on the Philadelphia’s deck, in that night of peril, February, 1804, who can doubt, the pacific issue of this most miserable adventure! Seconds, too frequently, are themselves the instigators and supporters of these combats. True or false, the tale is a fair one, of two friends, who had disputed over their cups; and, by the exciting expressions of some common acquaintances, were urged into a duel. They met early the next morning—the influence of the liquor had departed—the seconds loaded the pistols, and placed their principals—but, before the word was given, one of them, rubbing his eyes, and looking about him, exclaims—“there is some mistake, there can be no enmity between us two, my old friend; these fellows, who have brought us here, upon this foolish errand, are our enemies, let us fire at them.” The proposition was highly relished, by the other party, and the seconds took to their heels.

Well: we left Decatur and Barron, lying side by side, and weltering in their blood. The strife was past, and they came to a sort of friendly understanding. Barron, supposing his wound to be fatal, said all things had been conducted honorably, and that he forgave Decatur, from the bottom of his heart. Mackenzie, in a note, on page 325, refers to a conversation between them, as they lay upon the ground, until the means of transportation arrived. He does not give the details, but says they would be “creditable to the parties, and soothing to the feelings of the humane.” I understood, at the time, from a naval officer of high rank, and have heard it often, repeated, that Decatur said, “Barron, why didn’t you come home and fight your country’s battles?” that Barron replied, “I was too poor to pay my debts, and couldn’t get away,”—and that Decatur rejoined, “If I had known that, we should not be lying here.” Strip this matter of its honorable epidermis, and there is something quite ridiculous in the idea of doing such an unpleasant thing, and all for nothing!These changes, from hostility to amity, are often extremely sudden. I have read, that Rapin, the historian, when young, fought a duel, late in the evening, with small swords. His sword broke near the hilt—he did not perceive it, and continued to fence with the hilt alone. His antagonist paused and gave him notice; and, like the two girls, in the Antijacobin, they flew into each other’s arms, and “swore perpetual amity.”