DUELS IN THE PARK
I have already referred to the custom of duelling—a phase of Society
which became so prominent in the romance of Hyde Park, where many a
tragic encounter and bitter quarrel were fought out, that it demands a
short chapter to itself.
Duelling really came down to us as a relic of barbarism. It was among
the northern tribes of Europe that it originated, and was introduced
into England by the Normans under the “Trial by Combat.”
From the Trial by Combat, which Shakespeare and Sir Walter Scott have
described so graphically, emanated the duel of later centuries, when
the bloody Wars of the Roses had swept away the last rays of chivalry.
Henry VIII. had not long acquired the wide range of land known as the
Manor of Hyde, when two noblemen sought its solitary glades to decide a
quarrel. A desperate duel was then fought between His Grace the Duke of
B—— and Lord B——.
The circumstances were these:—
A ball was in progress at a Minister’s house, when the Duke imagined
that Lord B—— had offered him a severe insult. He therefore sent him a
challenge worded as follows:
“Convince me, then, that you are more of a gentleman than I have reason
to believe, by meeting me near the first tree behind the lodge in Hyde
Park, precisely at half an hour after five to-morrow morning.” The
Duke added that he sent two swords for Lord B—— to choose from, and
concluded the note— “In the interim I wish your Lordship a good rest.”
Lord B—— accepted the challenge in a friendly strain. It is reported
that, his answer duly sent off, he visited several friends, when it
was remarked that as he was in such good spirits he had probably been
smiled upon by the Countess of Essex, whose favour he was anxious
to gain. He and his second, General de Lee, set out early for the
appointed spot in Hyde Park. There they had to wait for the Duke, who,
however, shortly afterwards arrived, the seconds pairing the swords,
and each one loading his adversaries’ pistols.
Both men had dressed themselves with the greatest care. The Duke wore
a scarlet coat, much betrimmed with gold lace; and his adversary a
crimson one, lavishly beautified with silver trimming; these they
doffed and handed to their seconds.
The two men fired, and Lord B—— wounded the ducal thumb, while on the
second discharge the Duke also crippled his antagonist. They then drew
swords, and charged each other with great determination. In the midst
of the encounter Lord B—— tripped against a tuft of grass, but was
up again before his adversary could take advantage of the opportunity
afforded him. The seconds intervened, but nothing could appease the two
angry men, and they fought at close quarters, and in parrying became
locked. When at last they succeeded in freeing their swords, the wrench
was so great that the weapons sprang out of their hands, and Lord
B——’s is said to have risen six yards into the air. The weapons were
recovered, and the struggle began with renewed vigour. It continued
with even greater ferocity, both men receiving several wounds, until
Lord B—— ran his sword right through the Duke’s breast. Thus deprived
of his weapon, he had to guard himself with his left arm, although
two of his fingers were cut off. Thereupon His Grace, himself pierced
through the body, plunged his own sword into Lord B—— just below the
heart, and in that position they stood, pinned, or rather double
pinned, to one another without either being able to move. Lord B—— was
the first to stagger and fall; but his rival quickly followed suit.
Both expired before medical assistance could arrive.
Could a more horrible scene be imagined. Men caught together by blades
of steel, deadly hate in their souls and fire in their eyes.
It must be remembered that with the commencement of the Tudor period
new elements were to be seen at Court. Spain sent her Princess to wed
in England, while Mary, the daughter of that same unhappy Catherine of
Arragon, married her cousin Philip II. of Spain. Southern courtiers
came in the royal trains. Spanish blood ran hot and quick in those
rough and tumble days, rivalries deep and fierce raged in the hearts
of the new English nobility. The rapier and dagger replaced the sword
and buckler. Friends of one moment called each other out the next, and
during Elizabeth’s reign the custom of duelling was much increased. Ben
Jonson was imprisoned in 1593 for killing a brother-actor in a duel.
He was tried for manslaughter, to which he pleaded guilty; he was then
released, after being branded with what the London people called “the
Tyburn T.”
Under James I. duelling was of constant occurrence. His courtiers, too,
brought fresh trouble, for, though the Scots are generally regarded
as a phlegmatic race, cool, long-headed, and well able to look after
themselves, combats of this kind had long been a usual way of settling
the fierce tribal feuds between the Highland clans.
The following incident shows one of the many little affairs of that
sort with which James I. had to deal, while it also reveals the fact
that, although we find no recorded duels in Hyde Park from the time
of Bluff King Hal until 1693, that place was regarded as one of the
habitual spots for such frays.
“Mary Middlemore, the favourite maid of Queen Anne of Denmark, was
either reading or sewing in the Queen’s apartments at Greenwich
Palace, when one of the King’s Scotch Gentlemen of the Bedchamber
surprised her, and carried off a top-knot from her hair, despite all
her remonstrances, and henceforth wore it twisted in his hat-band.
Lord Herbert, who was panting for an opportunity of showing his
knight-errantry, hearing the bitter complaints of the aggrieved
damsel, demanded the return of the top-knot from the Scotch lover, who
contumaciously refused to surrender it, on which Lord Herbert seized
him by the throat and almost strangled him. These antagonists were
dragged asunder by their friends, lest they should incur the penalty of
losing their hands by striking in the Royal Palace. They exchanged a
_cartel_ to fight unto death in Hyde Park, but the King and the Council
tamed their pugnacity with the wholesome infliction of a month’s
confinement in the Tower.”
During the Great Rebellion duelling became quite a rare occurrence,
still existing sufficiently, however, for Cromwell to pass an Act
forbidding it. But under Charles II. it again became prevalent, and
in spite of legislation against the custom, in 1712 it remained the
fashion all through the Georgian period.
Naturally, when ladies were so often the cause of these encounters,
duels formed one of the topics of interesting gossip in the
correspondence of the day. We find in 1693 a duel which had taken place
in Hyde Park, described in a letter to the Countess of Rutland (Rutland
MSS.) in these words: “... A quarrel happening between two Yorkshire
gentlemen, Sir William Reresby and Mr. Moyser, they have decided it in
Hyde Park, being both wounded, but neither of them dangerously.”
Among the Harley papers at Welbeck Abbey, too, Sir Edward Harley,
writing to Lady Harley in the reign of Charles II., informs her that
“upon a quarrel begun at a masquerade a duel was fought between Sir
Winston Churchill’s son and Mr. Fenwick. Churchill is sore hurt.”
No record exists whether this was fought in Hyde Park, but a space
near the Ring was apparently a favourite spot, and Fielding in his
novel _Amelia_ lays the duel scene there. The seclusion of the place,
the early hour, the non-existence of our well regulated modern police,
the very difficulty of locomotion, and the dangerous character of the
neighbourhood in the dusk and early dawn, all tended to make it easy
for the parties to keep their meeting a secret.
Indeed, if one allows one’s imagination to run riot, there are even
now spots in Hyde Park which lend themselves for the “setting” of
such meetings. Strolling on a November afternoon near the site of the
Ring, my thoughts wandering back through the centuries, I came to a
grassy slope facing a group of silver birch trees. Their beautiful
forms stood in bold relief against a background of dark shrubs. The
setting sun—a red ball of fire—gave the haze, that adds so much to the
picturesqueness of London, a hue that might have been the glow of a
ruddy sunrise. Raindrops of yesterday glittered on the grass like dew.
The sound of a distant carriage, and the little scene became peopled
with creatures of the imagination,—two figures, chatting lightly and
strolling to and fro among the trees; two others, pacing out a length,
talking gravely meanwhile, and then examining some small objects in
their hands. And soon all was ready. Their companions were summoned,
and took their stand, exchanging coats for pistols. I felt like the
heroine in an old novel who has surprised _une affaire d’honneur_,
and—expecting each second to hear the shot—was ready to turn and flee
with a thrill of horror, when the homely voices of the wild fowl on the
Serpentine brought me back to reality and the twentieth century.
The fields behind Montague House (the present British Museum)
especially that known as “The Field of the Forty Footsteps,” Lincoln’s
Inn Fields, Covent Garden, Pall Mall, Bayswater Fields, Wimbledon
Common, Putney Heath, Battersea Fields, have all had the reputation
of duelling grounds, and as late as 1783 the open space behind the
Foundling Hospital was chosen for an affray.
But it was a common thing for disputants merely to turn out into the
street, draw their swords, and settle the matter there and then. In
fact, in the reigns of George I. and George II. a small difference in
a tavern assembly, a sudden flash of jealousy, were not even taken to
the street, but were quickly fought out in the house. Such was the case
later between Lord Byron and Mr. Chaworth, who fought with swords at
the “Star and Garter” in Pall Mall; while Brinsley Sheridan and Captain
Matthews planned to fight in Hyde Park, but found too many people
about, so they retired to the Castle Tavern in Covent Garden.
In such combats people expended their sudden fits of passion, their
long pent-up hatred, or their bitter jealousy, and often a pet malice.
Contempt of death had a capable nurse in the ghastly Tyburn exhibitions.
Nor was it with one class of Society, nor with full-grown, responsible
men alone that this mania (for it can be called nothing less)
existed. It spread to mere boys, who called each other out for the
slightest cause, in imitation of their elders—a danger which the
twentieth-century mother happily has not to fear for her sons. Laurence
Sterne’s father was shot in a duel arising from a dispute over a goose.
The challenge or _cartel_ took different forms; and it was supposed to
be good style to keep all arrangements within the strictest etiquette
and politeness imaginable. This particular challenge in the highest
Society stated:
1. The cause of offence.
2. The reason why the cause should be noticed.
3. The name of a friend.
4. A request for an appointment of time and place.
The choice of seconds was an important matter, and any one who accepted
the office had a position of great responsibility. His first duty was
to try and prevent the meeting, then to choose the ground, to charge
the pistols, to decide the distance the duellists should stand from
each other, and when they called “All’s ready?” the second replied
“All’s ready,” and at once dropped a handkerchief as token to begin.
Two surgeons generally attended; they were supposed to turn their backs
in order not to see the actual duel, but to run forward as soon as they
heard the shots, to render aid to the wounded.
When George III. came to the throne duels could no longer be entered
into lightly, and became much more formal affairs, being arranged in
detail beforehand, with various points of etiquette. In many cases the
combatants tossed for first fire. Dr. Millingen states that there
were one hundred and seventy-two encounters fought during this reign;
sixty-nine individuals killed and ninety-six wounded—forty-eight
desperately so, and forty-eight slightly.
One hundred and seventy-two known encounters,—but of course by far the
greater number remained unrecorded.
The following instances, culled from records of the eighteenth century,
and all connected with Hyde Park, give some idea of the variety of
pleas and the personality of the combatants figuring in duels of the
period.
So many writers of renown—including Defoe, Swift, Thackeray, Martin
Hume, and others—have described the circumstances of the great and
fatal duel between the Duke of Hamilton and Lord Mohun, which was
fought early in the eighteenth century in Hyde Park, that we need
merely allude to it.
A lawsuit had been raging between these two nobles, and it is alleged
that this was used as a shield for a political scheme to get rid of the
Duke of Hamilton, who had just been appointed Ambassador to the Court
of Versailles, where the Old Pretender was a refugee.
The Duke most unwillingly took Mohun’s challenge, as he was well known
to be a man of bad character; but the second, Macartney, arranged a
meeting. Seconds as well as the principals fought at that period, and
Macartney having wounded Colonel Hamilton, the Duke’s second, disarmed.
The struggle between the Duke and Mohun, however, was prolonged,
although both were wounded in several places. At last the Duke ran
Mohun through the body, and while thus fixed the latter shortened his
sword, and pierced Hamilton through the lungs. Mohun expired on the
spot. The Duke was carried to the Cheesecake House, but died on the
way. Macartney fled, and Colonel Hamilton accused him of having stabbed
the Duke when he was trying to raise him. The trial came off the next
year, and “Manslaughter” was the verdict; upon which Macartney then
charged Colonel Hamilton with perjury.
Three years after the accession of George III. the noted Wilkes, who
had already been one of the principals in a duel with Lord Talbot at
Bagshot, was involved in another quarrel, both being on the subject
of his writings in the _Northern Briton_. In this paper he had given
some character sketches which evidently alluded to Mr. Samuel Martin,
M.P. for Camelford, and late Secretary to the Treasury (he figured as
the hero in Churchill’s _Duellist_). The passage which gave offence to
Martin was:
“The Secretary of a certain Board, and a very apt tool of a Ministerial
persecution, who, with a snout worthy of a Portuguese inquisitor, is
hourly looking out for carrion in office, to feed the _maw_ of the
insatiable vulture, _imo, etiam in senatum venit, notat et designat
unumquemque nostrum_,[5] he marks us, and all our innocent families,
for beggary and ruin. Neither the tenderness of age nor the sacredness
of sex is spared by the cruel Scot.”
Martin denounced Wilkes in the House of Commons in an angry oration,
which was as insulting as he could make it.
Wilkes retorted by a violent letter, saying he had written every word
of the articles, to which Martin wrote an indignant reply, concluding
his communication with the following words:
“I desire that you may meet me in Hyde Park immediately, with a brace
of pistols each, to determine our difference. I shall go to the Ring
in Hyde Park, with my pistols so concealed that nobody may see them;
and I will wait in expectation of you for one hour. As I shall call
in my way at your house, to deliver this letter, I propose to go from
thence directly to the Ring in Hyde Park; from whence we may proceed,
if it be necessary, to any more private place. And I mention that I
shall wait an hour in order to give you the full time to meet me. I
am, Sir, etc.,
“SAMUEL MARTIN.”
Arrived at Hyde Park, they were obliged to dally a while, in order to
get rid of people who were loitering there. Martin missed Wilkes in his
first shot, and Wilkes’s pistol only flashed. They thereupon proceeded
to take their second pistols. Wilkes missed, but was shot in the
stomach by Martin’s ball. Martin, seeing him fall, rushed to help his
antagonist, but Wilkes, congratulating him on being a man of honour,
insisted on his going off at once, in order that nobody should know who
had wrought the deed, for he had lost much blood, and thought himself
dying. Wilkes was carried home in a chair, and two doctors attending
him extracted the ball, but he still feared that his life was ebbing,
and therefore sent the letter of challenge that he had received from
Martin back to the writer, so that in case of his death there would be
no trace left of the slayer.
Wilkes wrote to the House of Commons explaining his state of health,
and a month after the duel, Parliament made an order that in addition
to his own physicians two others should attend him; but these Wilkes
refused to see.
Martin fled to Paris, where Wilkes shortly afterwards followed, and
they met on good terms, although, when it became publicly known that
Martin had been his antagonist and had so nearly brought his life to a
close, public opinion was much aroused against him.
In contrast to this political row, attention is attracted to another
_affaire d’honneur_ that was decided in Kensington Gravel Pits. Its
very domesticity leads one to digress a little. Hot-blooded, impetuous,
lovable romance was aroused in an Irish family of renown, by the
marriage of the daughter of the house to an officer without the consent
and knowledge of the family. One of her brothers sided against her,
and another brother challenged him on account of his cruel behaviour
towards their sister. The fight was eager and real, and a dangerous
wound was given, but history does not relate whether it was family
pride or chivalric defence of the sister that received the blow.
Too often the absurd and ridiculous was the culmination of an
exhibition of boastfulness and bombast in these encounters. For
instance, the courage of the lady in the Garrick duel rendered the
positions of the men somewhat comical. It will be remembered that
George Garrick was the brother of the famous actor, David Garrick.
He had for some time been talked of as being very attentive to Mrs.
Baddeley, the wife of a mummer at Drury Lane. Baddeley’s jealousy was
fanned by an intriguing Jewish friend, who made much trouble between
the three, and Baddeley demanded satisfaction in Hyde Park. Garrick put
up his pistol and fired into the air, and Baddeley—whose arm is said to
have shaken like an aspen leaf—fired, but did no damage.
At this point of the proceedings a hackney coach drove towards them
at a furious pace, and on its arrival at the scene of conflict Mrs.
Baddeley rushed out, throwing herself between the combatants, shrieking:
“Spare him!—Spare him!”
So ended a truly dramatic scene worthy of the stage itself.
Indeed, in this matter-of-fact twentieth century it seems childish, if
not idiotic, to fight over an affront, the truth of which the opponents
had never taken the trouble to ascertain. Yet, in 1773, Mr. Whateley,
brother of the previous Secretary of the Treasury, and Mr. John Temple,
Lieut.-Governor of New Hampshire, fought in Hyde Park, the former
being badly wounded. They had quarrelled over the publication of some
confidential State papers, and after they had fought and bled for their
opinions, Benjamin Franklin wrote to say that neither of them could
possibly have known anything about the letters in question.
Imagine such a state of affairs in present-day politics and diplomacy,
when Mr. Speaker’s “Withdraw” commands sufficient satisfaction to the
feelings of injured politicians, and quells any hot-blooded exhibition
of un-English spirit in the House.
The army was ever to the fore in the fray. As with many others of these
bitter feuds, the case given below ended in firing into the air, and
exaggerated compliments, which again gave a touch of absurdity to the
proceedings.
On 22nd March 1780, the Earl of Shelburne (the first Marquis of
Lansdowne), with Lord Frederick Cavendish as his second, and Colonel
Fullarton, Member for Plympton, whose second was Lord Balcarras, fought
at 5.30 one morning in Hyde Park. Lord Shelburne had said that Colonel
Fullarton and his regiment “were as ready to act against the liberties
of England as against her enemies.” The officer repudiated the charge
in the House of Commons, and the duel was the outcome. Lord Shelburne
and Colonel Fullarton walked across the Park together, while Lord
Balcarras and Lord Frederick Cavendish made the necessary arrangements,
and decided that the weapons should be pistols. The combatants were
placed twelve paces apart, and the most formal etiquette was observed.
Lord Shelburne’s pistols had been already loaded, but finding that
Fullarton and Lord Balcarras had come prepared to load on the spot, the
Earl and Lord Frederick Cavendish wished to draw the charges. This,
however, their opponents would not allow, and Lord Balcarras loaded
his principal’s weapons.
Colonel Fullarton, who was thus avenging the insult placed upon him by
Lord Shelburne, asked his antagonist to fire, but the Earl declined.
The seconds gave the word for the officer to fire, which he did, but
with no result. Lord Shelburne then took aim but missed. The second
pistol, however, took effect, and the soldier wounded his antagonist in
the right groin. There was the usual rush towards the fallen man. Lord
Frederick Cavendish put out his hand to take Lord Shelburne’s pistol
from him, but he would not give it up, exclaiming that he had not fired
yet. Colonel Fullarton had run forward with the others to help his foe,
but on hearing this he again took up his position. The Earl, perceiving
what he had done, remarked:
“Sure, sir, you do not think I would fire my pistol at you.” And
thereupon he let it off in the air.
The seconds proceeded to inquire into the feelings of their principals,
and if they thought satisfaction had been given.
“Although I am wounded,” said the Earl, “I am able to go on if you feel
any resentment.”
“I hope I am incapable of harbouring such a sentiment,” returned the
soldier. “As your Lordship is wounded, and has fired into the air, it
is impossible for me to go on.”
And so the little group dispersed, the seconds having declared that
“the parties had ended the affair by behaving as men of the strictest
honour.”
Could anything be nearer mummery and fiasco than this? Approaching the
spot outwardly on friendly terms, while inwardly chafing and showering
maledictions each on his opponent—a shot into space. And then—
Smiles, bows, compliments, and an end to the life and death question of
a few minutes before.
The Church and the Law were not less addicted to this swaggering or
appearance on the duelling grounds of Hyde Park, for that same year a
duel was fought between the Rev. Mr. Bates and a Mr. R——, a student of
the law. Both of these men were on the staff of _The Morning Post_. The
first fire fell to the lot of the clergyman, who wounded Mr. R—— in the
fleshy part of his arm. He was not incapacitated, however, for he was
able to return the fire, but missed, whereupon the seconds declared the
matter settled.
Two years later, Mr. Dulany, a gentleman who owned a great deal of
property in Maryland, and who lived in Park Street, Grosvenor Square,
quarrelled with the Rev. —— Allen, who was also engaged on _The Morning
Post_. In the issue of that paper on 29th June 1779 an article had
appeared, headed “Characters of Principal Men in Rebellion.” Allen
had owned the authorship of this, in a letter written to Dulany in
insulting and threatening terms. Dulany sent a verbal message in reply;
other communications followed, and the men who carried them—Morris for
Allen, and Delancey for Dulany—came forward as their seconds.
[Illustration:
Camp Kitchen in Hyde Park. _From an Old Print._]
On the evening of 26th June, Dulany and Delancey were to be seen
walking across the Park from Grosvenor Square about half-past nine.
There at an appointed place they met Allen and Morris. Pistols were
fired at eight yards distance. Dulany fell, dangerously wounded. He
died at his house in Park Street six days after. Allen and Morris
were advertised for, with a reward of ten guineas to the finder. They
surrendered, and were tried for “Wilful Murder.” But finally Allen
was fined one shilling, and sentenced to six months imprisonment, and
Morris was acquitted.
It would be rather amusing if newspaper quarrels were settled to-day
in this fashion, and whole battalions of writers were seen wending
their way in the early hours of the morning to Hyde Park, to enjoy the
pleasures of dramatic encounters which seldom had a serious ending.
But there were occasions when the Park was the scene of bloody
conflict. Fierce fighting raged there, ghastly sights rivalling Tyburn
were enacted under those old trees, which, could they but record
their experiences, would hand to the world an unequalled series of
“Reminiscences.”
For some unknown cause, on a September morning in the waning eighteenth
century, such a conflict disturbed the fresh quietude of the glade.
Colonel the Hon. Cosmo Gordon and Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas met at
the Ring to fight a duel. It was agreed by their seconds that, after
receiving their pistols, they should advance and fire when they
pleased. When about eight yards from each other the triggers fell
almost simultaneously, but only Colonel Cosmo Gordon’s weapon went
off. His adversary then fired, and Colonel Cosmo Gordon was seriously
wounded in the thigh.
The second pistols had no result, but after they were reloaded, the
duellists again advanced and fired at about the same distance as
before, when Colonel Thomas was badly wounded in the body. He fell,
and though the ball was immediately removed by the surgeon whom he had
brought with him, death followed.
An action like this was no little Society function of the day, no mere
working up to the rôle for the sake of appearances. It meant real
feeling on the part of the actors, and the cause was deep-seated.
Some pages back, mention was made that youths fought in sheer imitation
of their elders and superiors in rank and position. A record survives
as a ghastly illustration of the habit. One Thursday night four law
students were spending the evening together at the Cecil Coffee House,
where one of them, an Irishman named Frizell, lodged. They caroused
till one o’clock in the morning, when Frizell declared he could drink
no more. This annoyed another Irishman among the little party, whose
name was Clark. He taunted Frizell with inhospitality. Frizell replied
that he had meant nothing, but that if he had given offence he was also
ready to give satisfaction. He then went off to bed.
Clark declared to the other two companions that Frizell had challenged
him, and though they repeatedly assured him there was no challenge in
the words addressed to him he still remained unappeased, mounted to his
friend’s bedroom, and would hear of no arrangement but that they should
have a duel in five minutes.
Frizell immediately put on his clothes and joined the others, saying
that if his friends (Evans and Montgomery) considered that he had given
offence he was perfectly willing to apologise. Clark, however, would
take no apology, and insisted that they should fight it out in an
hour’s time, at three o’clock in the morning, in Hyde Park.
There the party of four proceeded, after their seconds had managed to
secure a brace of pistols between them. They stood at ten yards; Clark,
still throbbing with the emotion of imagined wrong, won first fire, and
wounded Frizell, whose pistol went off as he fell. Montgomery ran for
a coach to take him to a surgeon’s, but on his return found the young
man dead. The two others were standing by the corpse, surrounded by
soldiers from Knightsbridge. They were detained some minutes, when the
Sergeant said they might go. They climbed into the coach into which
Frizell’s corpse had been lifted, but when they reached Piccadilly,
Clark and his second alighted, and were never heard of again.
A sad ending, indeed, to a little debauch in a tavern that began
mirthfully enough, but one only too frequent a hundred years ago.
Romance also figured as the cause of many a duel. About this time a
celebrated contest was fought in Hyde Park, ending there tamely enough
indeed, though it culminated in tragedy elsewhere.
Miss King, the sixteen-year-old daughter of Lord Kingsborough, eloped
from Windsor with her second cousin, Colonel Fitzgerald, who was
already married to a very beautiful lady. Her mother advertised,
offering one hundred pounds reward for her recovery. Lord Kingsborough
was in Ireland, but as soon as he heard of the affair he and his son,
Colonel King, came to England, and with some difficulty found Colonel
Fitzgerald and challenged him. So great was Fitzgerald’s disrepute that
he could find no one willing to be his second; but Major Wood, who was
King’s second, insisted on his asking his surgeon to fill the office
for him. The doctor refused, but promised that he would keep in sight,
and a fellow-surgeon having been secured, Major Wood prevailed upon
him to be a witness that all was fair. Six shots were fired without
effect. A parley then took place, but the duel was continued till
Colonel Fitzgerald’s bullets were expended, and the combatants arranged
a further meeting the next day. This, however, never came off, as both
officers were arrested.
The lady in question had been taken to Ireland, and was living at the
house of her father (then the Earl of Kingstown). On his release,
Colonel Fitzgerald, with whom Miss King, through the intermediacy of
a servant, had been carrying on communication, followed her. News of
his presence reached Colonel King, who had succeeded his father in the
courtesy title of Lord Kingsborough. He went to a lodging occupied
by Fitzgerald, and was refused admittance, whereupon he burst the
door open and entered the room, carrying with him a brace of pistols.
He told Fitzgerald to take one of these, and at that moment the men
grappled and a struggle ensued. The Earl of Kingstown meantime had been
informed where his son had gone, and, having followed him, arrived in
the midst of the fray. Thinking Lord Kingsborough was in danger of his
life, he fired, and his son’s adversary fell dead on the spot.
This chapter, though dealing but in cursory fashion with the subject,
must not be closed without reference to two strange incidents which
ended in duels. In the first the encounter itself was fought in Hyde
Park; in the second the circumstance which led to the duel was enacted
there.
On 9th June, 1792, the Earl of Lonsdale and Captain Cuthbert, of
the Guards, found cause of quarrel. The latter was on duty in the
neighbourhood, when confusion in the traffic occurred in Mount Street;
he therefore forbade any carriages to come there. Lord Lonsdale,
driving by in his equipage, was almost the first to be stopped, at
which his Lordship was much incensed.
“You rascal, do you know I am a peer of the realm?” he cried.
“I don’t know that you are a peer,” was the officer’s quick retort,
“but I know you are a scoundrel for applying such a term to an officer
on duty, and I will make you answer for it.”
A meeting was, of necessity, the consequence, but a pair of pistols on
each side wrought no injury to either party. Captain Cuthbert, however,
had a narrow escape, for the ball from Lord Lonsdale’s second pistol
struck the button of his coat, which prevented it from entering his
body.
The second incident occurred in Hyde Park in 1803. Lieut.-Colonel
Montgomery and Captain Macnamara were riding there, each followed by a
Newfoundland. The dogs fought. Colonel Montgomery, who did not see that
his fellow-officer was near, separated the animals, and exclaimed:
“Whose dog is that?—I will knock him down.”
To which Macnamara replied:
“Have you the impudence to say that you will knock my dog down? You
must first knock me down.”
A dispute followed, and cards were exchanged. A meeting was arranged at
Primrose Hill, in which Colonel Montgomery was mortally wounded, and
died almost immediately.
All this seems very trifling to modern ideas, and the grave
consequences out of all proportion to the insult offered, yet it
represents the spirit of the age.
Many well-known persons, besides those mentioned, figured as duellists
in that time—Talbot, Townshend, Byron, Pitt, Fox, Canning, Sir Robert
Peel, Lord Castlereagh, the Duke of York (1789), all had their “affairs
of honour,” which were settled in the customary way. Nor must the Duke
of Wellington be omitted. It was far into the nineteenth century before
duelling ceased to be the fashion, and it is interesting to notice that
as Hyde Park fell more and more into the hand of gardeners, and—with
Tyburn removed—assumed a more respectable and safe reputation, so the
duels fought became fewer.
Wimbledon Common was a popular spot for the purpose in the early
nineteenth century. The last known duel fought between Englishmen in
this country apparently took place in 1845, at Gosport, between Lieut.
Hawkey, of the Royal Marines, and Mr. Seton, of the 11th Hussars, the
latter being killed.
Duelling in Hyde Park is no more, and suicide of rare occurence,
although there are often riding accidents to-day.
FOOTNOTE:
[5] “Yes, he even comes into the Senate, observes and singles out each
of us.” Words of Cicero applied to Catiline.