“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.