At this period the pit of the theatre became the constant arena of quarrels that led to duels. The young bloods of the day made it a point to go to the playhouse, for the mere purpose of insulting females, and getting themselves involved in disputes that might increase their fashionable popularity. In 1720, Mrs. Oldfield, a celebrated actress, was performing in “The Scornful Lady,” when Beau Fielding (the Orlando the Fair of the Tatler) insulted a barrister of the name of Fulwood, by pushing rudely against him. Fulwood expostulated with some degree of violence, upon which Fielding laid his hand upon his sword. The pugnacious lawyer drew, and gave his antagonist a severe wound in the body. Beau Fielding, who was then a man of above fifty years of age, came forward, and uncovering his breast, showed his bleeding wound to the public, to excite the compassion of the fair sex; but, to his no small disappointment, a burst of laughter broke forth from the audience. Fulwood, emboldened by his success with Fielding, repaired to Lincoln’s-inn-fields Theatre, where he picked up another quarrel with a Captain Cusack, and then demanded satisfaction. They went into the fields, and the lawyer was professionally despatched by the soldier, and left dead on the ground.
Ball-rooms, masquerades, theatres, the open streets, the public walks, bagnios, and coffee-houses, now became constant scenes of strife and bloodshed; Covent-garden and Lincoln’s-inn-fields became the rendezvous for deciding points of honour; and at all hours of the night the clashing of swords might be heard by the peaceable citizens returning home, at the risk of being insulted and ill treated by the pretty fellows, and the beaux of the day. The system of duelling pervaded all classes, and even physicians were wont to decide their professional altercations at the point of the sword. Doctors Mead and Woodward fought under the gate of Gresham College; the latter slipped his foot and fell. “Take your life,” exclaimed Dr. Mead. “Any thing but your physic,” replied the prostrate Woodward.
Dr. Williams and Dr. Bennet, who had grossly abused each other in print on matters relating to their profession, had recourse to blows, when Dr. Bennet proposed a meeting to decide the business like gentlemen. This proposal being rejected by Dr. Williams, Dr. Bennet went the next morning to his house, and rapped at his door; Williams, on opening it, discharged a pistol, loaded with swan-shot, in the other’s breast. The wounded doctor retired across the way towards a friend’s house, being pursued by Williams, who, very near the door, fired a second pistol at him, and, whilst Bennet was endeavouring to draw his sword, which had been pacifically adhering fast to the scabbard, Williams ran him through the body. Bennet, although in this dismal condition, was able to draw his rapier; and praying to God to invigorate him to avenge his wrongs, he gave Williams a home thrust, which entered the upper part of his breast and came out at the shoulder blade, the sword snapping and part of it remaining in the wound. Williams in retreating to his house fell down dead, and Bennet lived but four hours after.
In the same year a duel was fought at Kinsale, in Ireland, which originated from Ensign Sawyer, of O’Farrell’s regiment, having beaten the servant of an officer of the same corps, for giving a slighting answer to his wife. His master, Captain Wrey, had permitted his servant to obtain a warrant for the assault, which the Ensign hearing of, before he could be served with it, challenged the Captain to fight him on the spot. The Captain, after having in vain remonstrated with him upon the impropriety of his conduct, accompanied him to some distance out of town, to gain some time for persuasion; when the Ensign on a sudden drew his sword, and at the first onset wounded the Captain in the left breast; at the second pass, in the left arm, but on the third lounge the Captain ran him through the body, by which he expired in two hours, first owning himself the aggressor, and giving the Captain a kiss as a last farewell.
A fatal duel took place the same year between a Mr. Paul and a Mr. Dalton. They had passed the evening together in the company of some ladies, to one of whom Mr. Dalton was on the point of being married. A quarrel arose, and they parted in anger, especially Mr. Paul, who immediately after went to Mr. Dalton’s lodgings, and not finding him at home, sent a message to him at a tavern, where he understood he was spending the evening. Mr. Dalton, upon reading it, hastened home, and in a few minutes after entered the room where Mr. Paul was waiting for him. The servant, soon after hearing a noise like fencing, ran up stairs; but before he could enter the room, heard the street-door shut; the candles were out, and Mr. Paul had fled. He found his master expiring, having a wound in the upper part of his left breast. Upon this occasion the coroner’s jury returned a verdict of wilful murder. Mr. Paul never submitted to his trial, and was outlawed.
While personal meetings were then frequent, and often carried on in the most dishonourable manner, general frays were not uncommon. In 1717, after a levee, a large party of gentlemen were assembled at the Royal Chocolate-house, in St. James’s-street. Disputes at hazard produced a quarrel, which became general throughout the room; a mêlée ensued, and as they all fought with swords, three of the party were mortally wounded. The affray was only terminated by the interference of a party of the Guards; who, as entreaties and commands were of no avail, knocked the most pugnacious of the combatants down with the but-end of their muskets. A footman of one of the party (a Colonel Cunningham), who was greatly attached to his master, rushed through the drawn swords; and seizing him round the waist, actually carried him away.
In 1720, at twelve at night, about one hundred gentlemen were engaged in a riot in Windmill-street with swords and canes, when several of the party were desperately wounded. The watchmen sought to interfere, but were knocked down and barbarously ill-treated. At last a patrole of Horse Guards came up; and finding the rioters obstinate, rode through them, cutting at them with their swords. Some were killed, and several of them were so desperately wounded that fears of their recovery were entertained. The quarrel had begun between two chairmen. Such was the state of society in London, and of its police, at that period.
A week after this outrageous breach of the peace, a Captain Fitzgerald, and three young men, met a lady in the Strand, returning from St. James’s in a sedan-chair. They stopped the chairmen, and brutally attempted to force the lady out. The chairmen opposed them; then they drew their swords, and demolished the vehicle. The watchmen interfered, and one of them was run through the body, and immediately expired.
Clubs were formed of those desperadoes, who assumed the name of the “Bold Bucks,” and the “Hell-fires.” “Blind and Bold Love” was the motto of the former association, the members of which, according to a contemporary writer, “attempt females of their own species promiscuously. Their own sisters fear their violence, and fly their privacies.” Atheism was an indispensable qualification for admission into their society, and their favourite dish for supper, at the taverns they haunted, was called “A Holy Ghost Pie;” but their chief house of rendezvous was a tavern near Somerset House, where they usually assembled during Divine service with a loud band of music.
Their excesses became so notorious, and proved such a public grievance, that in 1721, a Royal proclamation was issued to suppress those clubs, and about the same time a check was put to duelling by the sentence of death passed on a Major Oneby, who thought it advisable to baulk the executioner and the public curiosity by committing suicide.