The case came on, and Beau Fielding had the honour of playing
a part in a famous state trial.
With his usual impudence he undertook to defend himself at the Old
Bailey, and hatched up some old story to prove that the first wife was
married at the time of their union to one Brady; but the plea fell to
the ground, and the fine gentleman was sentenced to be burned in the
hand. His interest in certain quarters saved him this ignominious
punishment which would, doubtless, have spoiled a limb of which he was
particularly proud. He was pardoned: the real widow married a far more
honourable gentleman, in spite of the unenviable notoriety she had
acquired; the sham one was somehow quieted, and the duchess died some
four years later, the more peacefully for being rid of her tyrannical
mate.
Thus ended a petty scandal of the day, in which all the parties were so
disreputable that no one could feel any sympathy for a single one of
them. How the dupe himself ended is not known. The last days of fops and
beaux are never glorious. Brummell died in slovenly penury; Nash in
contempt. Fielding lapsed into the dimmest obscurity; and as far as
evidence goes, there is as little certainty about his death as of that
of the Wandering Jew.
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