A more tragical duel had just taken place at Westminster.  Conway Seymour, the eldest son of Sir Edward Seymour, had lately come of age.  He was in possession of an independent fortune of seven thousand pounds a year, which he lavished in costly fopperies.  The town had nicknamed him Beau Seymour.  He was displaying his curls and his embroidery in Saint James’s Park on a midsummer evening, after indulging too freely in wine, when a young officer of the Blues named Kirke, who was as tipsy as himself, passed near him.  “There goes Beau Seymour,” said Kirke.  Seymour flew into a rage.  Angry words were exchanged between the foolish boys.  They immediately went beyond the precincts of the Court, drew, and exchanged some pushes.  Seymour was wounded in the neck.  The wound was not very serious; but, when his cure was only half completed, he revelled in fruit, ice and Burgundy till he threw himself into a violent fever.  Though a coxcomb and a voluptuary, he seems to have had some fine qualities.  On the last day of his life he saw Kirke.  Kirke implored forgiveness; and the dying man declared that he forgave as he hoped to be forgiven.  There can be no doubt that a person who kills another in a duel is, according to law, guilty of murder.  But the law had never been strictly enforced against gentlemen in such cases; and in this case there was no peculiar atrocity, no deep seated malice, no suspicion of foul play.  Sir Edward, however, vehemently declared that he would have life for life.  Much indulgence is due to the resentment of an affectionate father maddened by the loss of a son.  But there is but too much reason to believe that the implacability of Seymour was the implacability, not of an affectionate father, but of a factious and malignant agitator.  He tried to make what is, in the jargon of our time, called political capital out of the desolation of his house and the blood of his first born.  A brawl between two dissolute youths, a brawl distinguished by nothing but its unhappy result from the hundred brawls which took place every month in theatres and taverns, he magnified into an attack on the liberties of the nation, an attempt to introduce a military tyranny.  The question was whether a soldier was to be permitted to insult English gentlemen, and, if they murmured, to cut their throats?  It was moved in the Court of King’s Bench that Kirke should either be brought to immediate trial or admitted to bail.  Shower, as counsel for Seymour, opposed the motion.  But Seymour was not content to leave the case in Shower’s hands.  In defiance of all decency, he went to Westminster Hall, demanded a hearing, and pronounced a harangue against standing armies.  “Here,” he said, “is a man who lives on money taken out of our pockets.  The plea set up for taxing us in order to support him is that his sword protects us, and enables us to live in peace and security.  And is he to be suffered to use that sword to destroy us?” Kirke was tried and found guilty of manslaughter.  In his case, as in the case of Spencer Cowper, an attempt was made to obtain a writ of appeal.  The attempt failed; and Seymour was disappointed of his revenge; but he was not left without consolation.  If he had lost a son, he had found, what he seems to have prized quite as much, a fertile theme for invective.