Macartney, had stabbed the duke. A large
reward was offered for his apprehension, and
the public were so eager to have him caught
that, one night, a gentleman being attacked
by highwaymen had the presence of mind to
tell them that he was General Macartney,
and that if they would take him before a
justice of the peace they would get the
reward. They did so; found they were
deceived, and were themselves safely lodged in
jail. Meanwhile, Macartney escaped to Holland;
but, returning, was tried, and found
guilty of manslaughter.

The duelling disease infected even the
learned professions; the very church was
militant and fought with swords and pistols.
Fulwood, a lawyer, being pushed against by
the renowned Beau Fielding in the pit of
Drury Lane Theatre, in seventeen hundred
and twenty, challenged the beau on the spot,
disarmed and wounded him. Flushed with
his victory, he left for Lincoln's Inn Fields'
theatre, and there purposely sought a quarrel
with Captain Cusack. They went out into
the fields to fight; and Captain Cusack left
the lawyer dead, beneath the moonlight.

Doctors Woodward and Mead fought under
the very gate of Gresham College. Dr.
Woodward's foot slipped and he fell.

"Take your life!" cried Æsculapian Mead
loftily, putting up his sword.

"Anything but your physic!" retorted
Woodward.

Doctors Williams and Bennet had continually
quarrelled over the bedsides of the
dying, and had abused one another in print.
Matters had gone so far and words had
run so high, that Dr. Bennet proposed a
hostile meeting. Dr. Williams refused.
Bennet went next morning to his house, and
knocked at his door; which Williams himself
opened, at the same instant discharging
a pistol loaded with swan shot, full in Dr.
Bennet's breast. Bennet retreated across the
street to a friend's house, Williams pursuing
him—firing again; and, before the other
could draw, Williams had stabbed him.
Bennet with all his remaining strength made
a home thrust at his murderer. His sword
came out at his shoulder-blade, snapping
with the blow, part remaining in the
wound. Williams turned back to go to his
own house, but fell dead by the doorstep;
and Bennet died four hours afterwards. This
matches some modern American stories.

The clubs of those times were the great
nurseries of duels. Large parties used
to assemble, and a regular battle would
take place, wherein many lives would be lost.
Ladies were insulted, watchmen beaten and
killed, and often it required a considerable
force of mounted soldiery, before the
"Mohawks," " Bold bucks," or " Hell fires" would
disperse. "Our Mohawks," says Swift "go
on still, and cut people's faces every night;
but they shan't cut mine. I like it better
as it is." These clubs were dissolved by
royal proclamation, after the murder, in
seventeen hundred and twenty-six, of Mr.
Gower by Major Oneby; and the town
had a little peace. Oneby was sentenced
to death for murder, the duel having
taken place without witnesses and under
apparently unfair conditions; he being
covered with a cloak, and having given the
provocation throughout;—but he committed
suicide and so escaped the hangman. The
duel between the ancestor of Lord Byron
and Mr. Chaworth, in seventeen hundred
and sixty-five, was also one without
seconds or witnesses. That Lord Byron
and Mr. Chaworth had had a very slight
dispute about Sir Charles Sedley's manors,
and the amount of game he preserved. It
was a mere nothing; what would pass now
without more than a momentary feeling of
irritation; but then, it was matter worthy of
death. They fought in a room, alone; and
Mr. Chaworth deposed, that, when he turned
round from shutting the door, he saw Lord
Byron coming close upon him, his sword
drawn. "I knew him," said the dying man,
significantly; and he drew at once. Byron
shortening his sword gave him his mortal
wound, the poor gentleman living just long
enough to give his evidence. Lord Byron
was tried by the House of Lords, and found
guilty of manslaughter. He claimed his
privilege as a peer, under the statute of
Edward the Sixth, paid his fees, and was
discharged. But private vengeance did not always
wait for legal retribution.

In the reign of George the Third in which
this latter duel happened, one hundred and
seventy-two duels were fought, three hundred
and forty-four people having been engaged
in them. Yet the painful details of that
terrible national lunacy were enlivened by
such duels as that between George Garrick—
brother to David—and Mr. Baddeley the
actor; but these were not many. It
was reported that George Garrick had
induced Mrs. Baddeley to forget one of
her essential duties to her husband, to
which Mr. Baddeley naturally objected.
They fought; Baddeley so nervous that
he could hardly hold his pistol, George
cool and débonnaire; and when his turn
came for firing, fired in the air, like a
prince. In the midst of the comedy a hackney
coach drew up, and out rushed Mrs. Baddeley,
all beauty and dishevelled hair. She flung
herself between the pair, crying, " Save him!
save him!" to each in turn; taking care
at the same time to fall in a bewitching
attitude. The combatants were melted;
they rushed into each other's arms,
embraced, and the tableau was complete.
They then all went home together in Mrs.
Baddeley's coach. How the husband and
the reputed lover arranged matters for the
future there is no record left to tell.

Sometimes even serious duels had a
better ending than by wounds or