it, and, sinking on the dead body of his
antagonist sighed deeply, turned once, and
died: the cold, drizzling rain falling chill
on the stiffening bodies, and the dank grass.

The spirit of violence and lawlessness that
belonged to duelling, even in its least
dishonourable days, more surely than any love
of honour or necessity of self-defence, was
allied sometimes in a manifest way to
treachery and murder. This is a story told
in Aubrey's Miscellanies:—

"Anno 1647, the Lord Mohan's son and
heir (a gallant gentleman, valiant, and a
great master of fencing and horsemanship),
had a quarrel with Prince Griffin; there
was a challenge, and they were to fight on
horseback in Chelsea fields in the morning:
Mr. Mohun went accordingly to meet him,
but about Ebury Farm, he was met by some
who quarrelled with him and pistolled him,
it was believed, by order of Prince Griffin;
for he was sure, that Mr. Mohun, being so
much the better horseman, &c., would have
killed him had they fought.

"In James Street, in Covent Garden, did
then lodge a gentlewoman, a handsome
woman, who was Mr. Mohun's sweetheart.
Mr. Mohun was murdered about ten o'clock
in the morning; and at that very time, his
mistress being in bed, saw Mr. Mohun come
to her bedside, draw the curtain, look upon
her and go away; she called after him, but
no answer: she knocked for her maid, asked
her for Mr. Mohun; she said she did not see
him, and had the key of her chamber door
in her pocket. This account my friend aforesaid
had from the gentlewoman's own mouth,
and her maid's."

One of the most foolish, yet melancholy, duels
on record, is that between two dear friends;
—Sir H. Bellases and Tom Porter, as told by
gossip Pepys. They had no quarrel together,
and were only talking somewhat loudly, when
a bystander asked if they were quarrelling?

"No!" said Bellases. " I would have you
know that I never quarrel, but I strike;
take that as a rule of mine!"

"How! " said Tom Porter, " strike? I
would I could see the man in England that
durst give me a blow." Whereupon his
friend boxed his ears, and the two would
have fought on the spot, had they not been
hindered. However, Tom Porter waited
for his friend as he went by in his coach,
and bade him come out and draw. Sir
H. Bellases obeyed; and, after a few
passes called out to his friend to fly, for
that he was mortally wounded. " Finding
himself severely wounded," says Pepys, " he
called to Tom Porter, and kissed him, and
bade him shift for himself, 'for,' says he,
' Tom thou hast hurt me; but I will make
shift to stand on my legs till thou may'st
withdraw, and the world not take notice of
thee; for I would not have thee troubled for
what thou hast done.' " But Tom was
wounded too, though not mortally. In a
few days Sir H. Bellases died; "a couple of
fools that killed one another out of love,"
concludes Mr. Pepys. The fight took place
in Covent Garden.

Not long after, the Duke of Buckingham
fought at Barnes Elms with the Earl of
Shrewsbury; for having been " nearer than kind" to
my lady the countess. The only one killed on.
the occasion was the duke's unhappy second,
Sir J. Jenkins; and he was slain on the spot.
Sir John Talbot, one of Lord Shrewsbury's
seconds—they had two each, and all four
fought—was severely wounded: and the Earl
himself was run through the body, but not
killed. Buckingham escaped with only a
few skin scratches. Lady Shrewsbury,
disguised as a page, waited in a neighbouring
thicket, holding Buckingham's horse, and
retired with him, he still wearing the shirt dyed
red with her husband's blood. The merry
monarch pardoned all concerned in the death
of Sir J. Jenkins: "but only for this once;"
no future offender was to be forgiven, and
duelling was to be put down.

In the reign of Queen Anne, a duel was
fought between Sir Chomley Dering and a
Mr. Thornhill. Swift describes it in his
Journal to Stella, under date of the ninth of
May, seventeen hundred and eleven. " They
fought at sword and pistol this morning in
Tuttle Fields: their pistols so near that the
muzzles touched. Thornhill discharged first,
and Dering having received the shot,
discharged his pistol as he was falling, so it
went into the air. The story of this quarrel
is long. Thornhill had lost seven teeth by a
kick in the mouth from Dering, who had
first knocked him down; this was above a
fortnight ago. Dering was next week to be
married to a fine young lady."

This duel was avenged; for, three months
after, Swift journalises thus: "Thornhill,
who killed Sir Chomley Dering, was murdered
by two men on Turnham Green last Monday
night: as they stabbed him, they bid him
remember Sir Chomley Dering. They had
quarrelled at Hampton Court, and followed
and stabbed him on horseback. I went
myself through Turnham Green the same
night, which was yesterday."

The most famous duel of this reign was
fought a year after in Hyde Park, by the
Duke of Hamilton and Lord Mohun. The
Duke wounded Lord Mohun mortally; but,
while he hung over him, Mohun, shortening
his sword, stabbed him through the shoulder
to his heart. He was carried to the lake-
house, and there laid on the grass, where he
died. Mohun, one of the vilest characters
of the period, had given the affront; yet,
contrary to usage, had also sent the challenge,
which the Duke, a most worthy and amiable
man, was obliged to accept. The duel was
long and desperate: the duke received four
severe wounds, Lord Mohun three, before the
final death-blow was given. It was said
afterwards, that Mohun's second, Major-General