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." No. CXLVII.