In this respect, the murderer in the appropriate sense, nay, the professed assassin, can, in many instances at least, more speciously justify himself, than the duellist. The murderer attacks his victim under the domination of furious passion; at the moment, when he has lost the possession of reason, and conscience, and the consequent government of himself; under the consciousness of a real and intense injury; or with the hope of delivering himself from a persecutor. Brutus expected to free his country from a Tyrant Charlotte Corde, to deliver hers from another. These, I acknowledge, are far from being solid or justifying reasons; yet they are specious. They are such, as, in the moment of provoca tion and bitterness, would have great weight, and go far, in the frenetic mind of a man violently in a passion, towards vindicating him to himself. But the duellist is roused to battle by a contemptuous look, a slight word, or some other wound, given to mere pride. All these and the like things are perfectly harmless, if passed by with serenity and self-possession. At the worst, they are mere expressions of the opinion, which the provoking person entertains of our character; an opinion, which, if we are faithful to ourselves, can do us no harm; and which usually merits nothing but disregard, contempt, or pity. This the duellist has ample time to investigate, and to know: for the very manner of executing his resentment postpones the execution beyond the ordinary period of violent passion. Every duellist must confess, unless he will acknowledge his whole life to be a paroxysm of rage, that the seasons, in which he acquires the skill of directing surely the weapons of death; in which he determines to become a professed duellist; in which he settles the principles, and learns the rules of his profession; in which he fixes in his mind the proper causes of a challenge, the proper motives for fighting, and the proper modes of conducting it; are not seasons of violence and provocation. He will confess that the time of his future life, independently of the little periods of actual combat, which he spends in avowedly professing his deliberate intention of acting as a duellist on every occasion, which he thinks a proper one, is not a time of agitation, wrath, and partial insanity.

Nor is the duellist more happy with respect to the Final Cause of his conduct, or the End, which he expects to accomplish by this species of controversy.

Reparation for an injury received is commonly alleged as this end. But the death of his Antagonist furnishes no such reparation. His neighbour's loss of life lessens in no manner, nor degree, any inju ry, which he has received from him; and cannot possibly restore to him lost property, or lost reputation. The fact, that he has challenged, and killed, a man, will make him neither richer, nor more honourable, nor more happy. He may, indeed, acquire honour in the opinion of a few men, as foolish, unprincipled, and abandoned, as himsell. But the good opinion of these men VOL. III.

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is disgrace. In the view of every wise and good man he renders himself deeply shameful, and supremely guilty. He may, perhaps, enjoy what men of furious passions sometimes call happiness; viz. the fell pleasure, found by such men in revenge. That revenge is sweet to the taste of a bad man, I am not disposed to question. But it is bitter and dreadful in the end. Let the duellist remember, that God hath said, To me belongeth vengeance and recompense; that He has forbidden us to avenge ourselves; or to bear any grudge against our neighbour; subjoining this solemn and authoritative reason, Vengeance is mine, I will repay it. Let him read, and ponder, the parable of the Servant, who owed ten thousand talents; and when he finds that servant thrust into prison and delivered over to the tormentors, as his final and irrevocable doom; let him ask himself, What will become of him, who, instead of imprisoning his fellow-servant, puts him to a violent death, and sends him into eternity, with all his sins upon his head? Then let him further ask, whether the pleasure of revenge is sufficiently great to balance the immense hazard, which he incurs for the sake of this gratification?

In the mean time, a duel, allowing that it should terminate in the death of him who gave the provocation, alters not, in the least, the state of the supposed injury, nor of him who received it. If he has been charged with cowardice, and is really a coward; he will still remain so. If he is not; the charge will not make him a coward. If he has been charged with lying, and has really lied; he will still remain a liar; unless he becomes an honest man by repentance and reformation. If he has not lied; the charge can never seriously affect his reputation, nor persuade a single sober man to believe him a liar. Men, in this country at least, have usually little to fear from such charges as these. If they will be faithful to themselves; if they will exhibit the virtues, which are denied to them, on all such occasions, as call them into exercise, and renounce, or avoid, the opposite vices; the world, bad as it is, will almost always discern their true character; and will most generally do justice to it. Sometimes, I acknowledge, they may, even while they exercise a good degree of patience, smart under the lash of unmerited censure. These seasons, however, can rarely be of long continuance: and, while they last, will, to a wise man, in most cases, be eminently profitable, by teaching him to moderate the inordinate attachment, so commonly, so foolishly, and so dangerously indulged, to the applause of mankind. This is one, and in my view the chief, exercise of that love to the world, which the Scriptures declare to be incompatible with love to God. The effectual mortification of this attachment, strange as it may seem to the duellist, would yield him more serene, unmingled, and enduring pleasure, than all that, which has been found in all the grat ifications, furnished by duelling since the beginning of time. Let the duellist also remember, that in this very act of attempting

to destroy his neighbour's life, he more grossly injures his own character, than ten thousand charges, such as those, which he thus furiously resents, could possibly do. In the view of every man of sober reflection, he brands upon his character the stamp of murder, the blackest mark of infamy which can be worn by

man.

But it will be replied to these observations by the duellist, that the anguish, which he suffers, is such, as he cannot possibly bear; and that there is no way, in which he can render life even supportable under such an imputation on his character, without taking the life of the slanderer. This plea has been often seriously made. I will therefore examine it.

In the First Place, The allegation, contained in it, is untrue. The anguish, complained of, might be easily supported, without the death of its Author. There are no words, which more frequently delude those, who use them, than can and cannot, possible and impossible. We often say, and believe, that we cannot do that, which we merely will not; and frequently pronounce that conduct to be impossible, which is only very disagreeable. The Apostles, and the Christian Martyrs of every age, were, in many instances, possessed of as much understanding and sensibility, and therefore understood the nature of the injuries, which they received, as well, at least, as the duellist in question; and felt them as deeply. Yet they bore slanders more gross, more frequently repeated, more extensively believed, and continued through a much longer duration. They bore them, also, without repining, often without complaining, and always without sinking. Women, also, of extreme delicacy, and exquisite sensibility, have sustained, not with patience only, but with fortitude also, the most brutal accusations. Certainly a man, who boasts so much of his firmness of character, as a duellist always does, must be ashamed of possessing less hardihood, than women and Christians.

Secondly. This anguish, chiefly, is voluntarily created by himself. It is nothing but the pain of wounded pride: a passion more injurious to his peace, and more hostile to his moral character, than the slander, which he feels so deeply: a passion, which, if he were a wise and good man, he would use every hopeful exertion to mortify and subdue. Independently of the feelings, occasioned by this passion, the slander, of which he complains, would do him very little harm.

But he has been called a coward. So have thousands and millions of others, who regarded the imputation only with sport. But he has been called a liar. So have vast numbers of the best men who have ever lived; who, though not insensible of the slander, have nevertheless passed quietly on through life in much the same manner as if it had never been uttered. Were the duellist possessed of the same spirit; he would feel as little anguish

from this source as they felt. The whole difference between him and them, is created, both foolishly and sinfully, by his own pride.

Thirdly. The murderer, in the appropriate sense, can usually make the same plea in his own behalf; and with more force. It cannot be doubted, that in the hour of extreme provocation and abuse; such abuse, as awakens, for the first time, the dreadful purpose of murder; an agitation must be felt, and an anguish suffered, far more intense, than that, which is ordinarily experienced by the duellist. He has made it a part of his general system, and a deliberate purpose, to destroy human life. To a mind, thus prepared, no event of this nature can come wholly unlooked for; or be, as in the other case, a matter of mere and absolute surprise. A mind, thus circumstanced, can hardly suffer, in the same degree, from the very same provocation. But the provocations, usually given to the duellist, are injuries far inferior, in their degree, to those, which ordinarily excite in the human breast a purpose, so new to it, and so horrible, as murder. The Duellist has been disciplined to this object; and comes to it with the cool feelings of a veteran. The murderer is a raw adventurer, who has never seen this terrible object in a near view before. He is, therefore, urged to the conflict by extreme provocatives only; with intense agitation; and with an impelling anguish, sufficiently great to overcome his dread and horror.

Fourthly. The laws of the land provide, in the mean time, a reasonable reparation for all those injuries, which the wisdom of Legislators has thought it proper, or been able, to redress; and at least as ample reparation for him, as for his fellow-citizens. With this reparation he is bound to be contented, until the Legislature shall provide further redress. If he has a right to adjudicate his own cause, and redress his own injuries; every other citizen has the same right. But if this pretended right were to be universally exercised, government would be at an end. Anarchy, the real box of Pandora, would empty all its miseries upon mankind; and the nation be converted into a band of murderers. He, who, in this plainest of all cases, will not submit to the ordinances of man for the Lord's sake, will certainly receive the condemnation, which he has threatened.

Fifthly. There are innumerable other cases, in which greater m juries are done to mankind, than those which are done to the duellist, and in their nature far more distressing. Those who have suffered them, have therefore, according to this argument, a right to relieve themselves of their distress, by taking away the lives of those who have occasioned it. My neighbour, for example, has ejected me from my farm by an injurious lawsuit; and left me and my family beggars. He has accused me, as a merchant, of negligence, fraud, or bankruptcy; and by bringing my creditors suddenly upon me, has not only stripped me of my property, but precluded me from acquiring any more. He has negligently brought the

small-pox into my family; and has thus produced the death of my child. He has impeached my Christian character; and has thus procured my excommunication from the Church of Christ. All these injuries are incomparably greater than those, which usually ccasion duels. But who, that has any conscience, or any common sense, will say, that I am warranted, for any, or all, of them, to put my neighbour to death? Who does not see, that were these and other injuries, of a similar nature, to be retributed in this manner, a nation would be converted into banditti, and their country into a field of blood?

8. The Duellist acts against the most powerful and persuasive reasons; unanswerably obliging him to abstain from this guilty

conduct.

In the first place, He most wickedly exposes his own life to destruction. On this subject I shall not dwell at present, because I expect to consider the subject of suicide in the succeeding dis

course.

Secondly. He wickedly deserts the duties, which he owes to his family and friends. If he has parents; he owes them reverence; gratitude; strong affection; filial care in sickness, and old age, support if they need it; and the innumerable consolations, which that evil day so affectingly demands, and which none but a child is either able or willing to give. Particularly, he owes them that exquisite enjoyment, which is found in the affectionate, virtuous, and amiable, conduct of our beloved offspring. If he has a Wife; he owes her all that provision for her wants, and for her comfort; the consolations in sickness, and in sorrow; the kindness and tenlerness; the faithful and affectionate attention to her happiness; hich he has engaged in the marriage covenant: a covenant, inlving, substantially, the same obligations with those of an oath. If he has Children; he owes them sustenance, education in knowledge, business, and religion; his instructions, and his government; his example, and his prayers. But all these duties, required by the Infinite Authority of God, and in the two last cases voluntarily assumed also by himself, he basely deserts; and, by entering the field of slaughter, cuts them off from the possibility of receiving, and himself from the power of performing, them. At the same time, he leaves them all buried, through life, in the hopeless agonies of remembering, and feeling, that he voluntarily went as an ox to the slaughter; died as a fool dieth; and in the combined perpetration of Suicide and Murder, entered, without a prayer, and without a hope of forgiveness, into the presence of his Judge.

But should he, (a thing which he has no right to expect) survive the conflict; he survives only to present to his Parents a son, to his wife a husband, and to his children a father, blackened with the guilt of cold, deliberate, murder. In the mean time, he has tempted his neighbour to the same enormous sin; and