Pugilistica: The History of British Boxing, Volume 3 (of 3) / Containing Lives of the Most Celebrated Pugilists; Full Reports of Their Battles from Contemporary Newspapers, With Authentic Portraits, P
Date: 2020-12-22T00:00:00+00:00
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Title: Pugilistica: The History of British Boxing, Volume 3 (of 3)

Author: Henry Downes Miles

Release date: December 22, 2020 [eBook #64111]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUGILISTICA: THE HISTORY OF BRITISH BOXING, VOLUME 3 (OF 3) ***

PUGILISTICA

THE HISTORY

OF

BRITISH BOXING

SAYERS AND HEENAN, April 17th, 1860. See pages 419–435.

Frontispiece

PUGILISTICA

THE HISTORY

OF

BRITISH BOXING

CONTAINING

LIVES OF THE MOST CELEBRATED PUGILISTS; FULL REPORTS OF THEIR BATTLES FROM CONTEMPORARY NEWSPAPERS, WITH AUTHENTIC PORTRAITS, PERSONAL ANECDOTES, AND SKETCHES OF THE PRINCIPAL PATRONS OF THE PRIZE RING, FORMING A COMPLETE HISTORY OF THE RING FROM FIG AND BROUGHTON, 1719–40, TO THE LAST CHAMPIONSHIP BATTLE BETWEEN KING AND HEENAN, IN DECEMBER 1863

BY HENRY DOWNES MILES

EDITOR OF “THE SPORTSMAN’S MAGAZINE.” AUTHOR OF “THE BOOK OF FIELD SPORTS,” “ENGLISH COUNTRY LIFE,” ETC., ETC.

VOLUME THREE

Edinburgh

JOHN GRANT

1906

TO

LEAR JAMES DREW, ESQ.,

A PATRON OF SPORT, AND A

SUPPORTER OF THE RECREATIONS OF THE PEOPLE,

THIS VOLUME OF LIVES OF THE

MODERN BOXERS IS DEDICATED, AS A

TOKEN OF FRIENDSHIP, RESPECT, AND ESTEEM,

BY

THE AUTHOR.

Wood Green.

PREFACE TO VOL. III.

The Reader who has attentively accompanied us through the biographies which form the contents of our first and second volumes will not find the memoirs in this third and concluding volume of less interest and variety of incident than the former.

The period comprised herein extends from the year 1835 (the first appearance of Bendigo), and contains the battles of Caunt, Nick Ward, Deaf Burke, William Perry (the “Tipton”), Harry Broome, Tom Paddock, Harry Orme, Aaron Jones, Nat Langham, Tom Sayers, and Jem Mace, closing with the last Championship fight between Tom King and John Camel Heenan, on the 10th of December, 1863.

In these chapters of the “Decline and Fall” of Pugilism it has been the aim of the author to “write his annals true,” “nothing extenuate nor set down aught in malice;” leaving the deeds of each of the Champions to be judged by the “test of time, which proveth all things.”

In these pages will be found all the battles of the actual Champions, and of those who contended with them for that once-coveted distinction. It must be evident, however, that the space of three volumes thrice multiplied would not suffice to record the numerous battles of the middle and light weight men of this period; indeed, they do not come within the scope of this work. As these include some of the best battles of the later days of the P. R., and for the greater part fall within the memory of the writer of these pages, he will collect them in a series of “Pencillings of Pugilists.” These “Reminiscences” of the Ring, will form, when completed, a concurrent stream of pugilistic history, subsidiary and contemporary with this last volume of this work.

In bidding farewell to his subject the writer would plead, with the Latin poet—

“Nor is the book the index of my mind,
But as I feel an honest wish to find
Some way of pleasing, be it grave or witty;
Accius were else the greatest brute in Rome,
Terence a rake, who never dined at home,

And those who sing of wars all fighters and banditti.”[1]

[1]

“Nec liber indicium est animi, sed honesta voluntas

Plurima mulcendis auribus apta refert;

Accius esset atrox; conviva Terentius esset;

Essent pugnaces, qui fera bella canunt.”

Ovid.

PUGILISTICA

WILLIAM THOMPSON (“Bendigo”)
of Nottingham.

PUGILISTICA:
THE HISTORY OF BRITISH BOXING.

PERIOD VII.

FROM THE CHAMPIONSHIP OF BENDIGO (WILLIAM THOMPSON) TO HIS LAST BATTLE WITH CAUNT (1845).

CHAPTER I.

WILLIAM THOMPSON (“BENDIGO”), OF NOTTINGHAM, CHAMPION. 1835–1850.

William Thompson, whose pseudonym of Bendigo has given its name to a district or territory of our Antipodean empire, first saw the light on the 11th day of October, in the year 1811, in the city of Nottingham, renowned, in the days of rotten boroughs and protracted contested elections, for its pugnacious populace, its riotous mobs, and rampant Radicalism, succeeded, in a like spirit, even in later “reformed” times, by its lion-like “lambs,”[2] and “tiger-Tories.” William was one of three sons at a birth, and, we are assured, of a family holding a respectable position among their neighbours, some of them filling the ministerial pulpit, and others belonging to a strait and strict denomination of dissent. The late Viscount Palmerston expressed his opinion that had not John Bright, the coadjutor of Cobden and Gladstonian Cabinet Minister of our own day, been born a Quaker, he must have grown up a pugilist; a similar reflection suggests itself to those who knew the character and genius of William Thompson; with the difference that in his case the young pugilist did grow into an elderly Methodist parson, as we shall hereafter see, while the Broadbrim secular Minister has not yet figured in the roped twenty-four feet.

There is a closer psychological connection between fighting and fanaticism, pugnacity and Puritanism, than saints and Stigginses can afford to admit, and the readiness of wordy disputants to resort to the argumentum ad hominem, or ad baculinum, and the facile step from preachee to floggee of parsons of all sects and times, need no citations of history to prove. The young Bendigo, as we shall see hereafter, became another illustration of the wisdom of Seneca,[3] and took to theological disputation when he could no longer convince his opponents by knock-down blows.

Of the earlier portion of the career of Bendigo, previous to his first victory over the gigantic Ben Caunt, in July, 1835, much apocryphal stuff has been fabricated by an obscure biographer.

In 1832, William Thompson, then in his twenty-first year, beat Bill Faulker, a Nottingham notoriety. In April, 1833, he defeated Charley Martin, and in the following month polished off Lin Jackson, another local celebrity.

Tom Cox (of Nottingham), who had beaten Sam Merriman, was defeated easily in June, 1833; and in August of the same year (1833) Charles Skelton and Tom Burton[4] are said to have fallen beneath Bendigo’s conquering fist. Moreover (surely his biographer is poking fun at us) he is credited with beating Bill Mason in Sept. 1833, and Bill Winterflood in October! Now as we know no Bill Winterflood except Bill Moulds, the Bath champion, and he never met Bendigo at all, are we not justified in rejecting such “history”?

The last in this list is a defeat of one Bingham, who is set down as “Champion,” in January, 1834, which brings us near enough to Bendigo’s first appearance in the blue posted rails of the P. R. with Caunt on July 21st, 1835. On that day, we read—

“A fight took place in the Nottingham district between two youngsters who were both fated to develop into Champions of England. The meeting-place was near Appleby House, on the Ashbourne Road, about thirty miles from Nottingham.” Both men were natives of Nottinghamshire; the elder one, William Thompson, hailing from the county town; while the younger, Benjamin Caunt, was a native of the village of Hucknall, where his parents had been tenants of the poet, Lord Byron—a fact of which the athlete was always intensely proud. Caunt on this occasion made his first appearance in any ring, and having been born on the 22nd of March, 1815, had only just completed his twenty-first year, and had therefore a very considerable disadvantage in point of age. On the other hand, he was a youngster of herculean proportions and giant strength; stood 6ft. 2in. in height, and his fighting weight was 14st. 7lb. Thus, in point of size, it was a horse to a hen; but Caunt had no science at all, while Bendigo had a very considerable share of it. The big ’un was seconded by Butler (Caunt’s uncle) and Bamford, and Bendigo by Turner and Merryman. Throughout twenty-two rounds Caunt stood up with indomitable pluck and perseverance to receive a long way the lion’s share of the punishment, while his shifty opponent always avoided the return by getting down. Caunt at last, in a rage at these tactics, which he could not counteract or endure, rushed across the ring, called on him to stand up, before the call of “Time” by the umpires, and then struck Bendigo before he rose from his second’s knee. The referee and umpires having decided that this blow was foul, the stakes, £25 a side, were awarded to Bendigo. “It was the expressed opinion of the spectators that, had Caunt kept his temper and husbanded his strength, the issue would have gone the other way, as he proved himself game to the backbone, while his opponent was made up of dodges from heel to headpiece.”

This fight had the effect of calling the attention of backers to both men. Of Bendigo’s cleverness there could be no question, while Caunt’s enormous strength and unflinching pluck were equally indisputable; and it is a curious illustration of the circular theory of events that these two men, whose pugilistic career may fairly be said to have commenced in this fight—when they were, of course, at the bottom of the ladder—should meet again when they were half-way up, and a third time when they stood on the topmost round.

This victory over the gigantic wrestler of Hucknall Torkard could not fail to bring his conqueror prominently before the eyes of the boxing world. John Leechman, alias Brassey, of Bradford (of whom hereafter), Charley Langan, Looney, of Liverpool, Bob Hampson, also of Liverpool—indeed, all the big ’uns of the “North Countrie” were anxious to have a shy at the audacious 11st. 10lb. man who had beaten Ben the Giant.

In November, 1835, Brassey, of Bradford, announced by letter in Bell’s Life, that he was prepared to meet Bendigo half-way between Nottingham and the Yorkshire town for £50 a side. But the erratic Bendigo was wandering about the country, exhibiting with Peter Taylor, Sam Pixton, Levi Eckersley, & Co., electrifying the yokels by his tricks of agility and strength, and his irrepressible chaff and natural humour—gifts which made him, formidable as he really was, a sort of practical clown to the boxing ring. Hence nothing came of the challenges and appointments, although Bendigo, by a letter in a Midland sporting paper, in February, 1836, declared himself ready to make a match for £25 a side with Tom Britton or Jem Corbett—Bendigo to be under 12st. on the day. He also threw down the gauntlet to “any 12st. man in the four counties of Nottingham, Leicester, Derbyshire, and Lincolnshire; money ready at his sporting house in Sheffield”—a rather amusing challenge, as it excluded Brassey, of Bradford, and three well-known Lancashire heavy weights. Tom Britton replied to this challenge that he would not fight under £100, being engaged in business; but informed Bendigo that he could find two 12st. candidates for his favours for £25 or £50, if he would attend at the “Grapes,” Peter Street, Liverpool.

John Leechman (Brassey) now came out with a definite cartel, that he was open to fight any 12st. man within 100 miles of Bradford for £25 or £50, and that his money was ready at the “Stag’s Head,” Preston Street, Sheffield. This brought Bendigo to the scratch, and the match was made for £25 a side, to come off on Tuesday, May 24th, 1836. The deposits were duly made, and on the appointed day, May 24th, 1836, the men met nine miles from Sheffield, on the Doncaster road. No reliable report of this fight, which was for £25 a side, is extant: nothing beyond a paragraph in the following week’s papers, declaring it to be won by Bendigo, “after a severe contest of 52 rounds, in which the superiority of science was on the side of the lesser man, Bendigo weighing 11st. 12lb., Brassey nearly 13st.”

Brassey and his friends were not satisfied with this defeat, and immediately proposed a fresh match for £50; and Jem Bailey (not of Bristol, but an Irishman, afterwards twice beaten by Brassey) also challenged Bendigo. Bendigo accepted Bailey’s offer, but Paddy’s friends hung back and forfeited the deposit.

Our hero now visited London, and was for some weeks an object of some curiosity, putting up at Jem Burn’s, where he kept the company alive by his eccentric “patter.” Jem offered to back Bendigo against Fitzmaurice (who had been beaten by Deaf Burke), but Fitz’s friends also backed out. It may be remarked, par parenthese, that the Deaf ’un was in America during this paper warfare.

At this period a remarkably clever eleven stone black, hight Jem Wharton, who fought under the names of “Young Molyneux,” and “The Morocco Prince,” had successively polished off Tom M’Keevor, Evans, Wilsden, and Bill Fisher, and fought a gallant drawn battle of four hours and seven minutes, and 200 rounds, with the game Tom Britton, was the talk of the provincial fancy. A match was proposed for £50, half-way between Nottingham and London. But in the interval of talk Molyneux got matched with Harry Preston, and a most interesting fight, from the crafty style of both men, was lost for ever. A forfeit in the interim was paid to Bendigo by Flint, of Coventry.

Molyneux also accepted Bendy’s offer, but insisted on raising the stakes to £100 a side, and to Bendy confining himself to 11st. 7lb. (!) Molyneux not to exceed 11st. 2lb., &c., &c.

To these stipulations Bendy replied: “My Liverpool friends will back me £100 to £80, or £50 to £40, at catch weight, against Young Molyneux. I shall be in London in a few weeks, and shall be happy to meet Luke Rogers for £50 or £100, as Looney’s match is off, owing to his being under lock and key for his day’s amusement with Bob Hampson.—Nottingham, November 25, 1836.” Molyneux got matched with Bailey, of Manchester, and this second affair fell through.

At length, in December, articles were signed with Young Langan (Charley), of Liverpool, to fight within two months, catch weight, and the day fixed for the 24th of January, 1837, when the men met at Woore, eight miles from Newcastle, in Staffordshire. At a few minutes to one o’clock Bendy appeared, esquired by Harris Birchall and Jem Corbett; Young Langan waited on by two of his countrymen. Langan weighed within 2lb. of 13st.; Bendigo 11st. 10lb. on this occasion. The battle was a characteristic one. The “long ’un,” as he was called by the bystanders, began by “forcing the fighting,” a game which suited the active and shifty Bendigo, who punished his opponent fearfully for almost every rush. Cautioned by his friends, Langan tried “out-fighting,” but Bendy was not to be cajoled into countering with so long-armed and heavy an opponent. He feigned weakness, and Langan, being encouraged to “go in,” found he had indeed “caught a Tartar.” He was upper-cut, fibbed, and thrown, until, “blind as a pup,” his seconds gave in for him at the close of the 92nd round, and one hour and thirty-three minutes.

Negotiations with Tom Britton, of Liverpool, fell through, as Britton could not come up to Bendy’s minimum of £100 a side.

Bendigo and his trainer, Peter Taylor, were now in high favour, and a sparring tour among the Lancashire and Yorkshire tykes was organised and arranged. Bendigo also wrote in the London and provincial papers that he was “ready to fight any man in England at 11st. 10lb. for £50 to £100 a side; and, as he is really in want of a job, he will not refuse any 12st. customer, and will not himself exceed 11st. 10lb. Money always ready.”

At this period Looney, declaring that Bendigo had shuffled out of meeting him for £50, claimed the Championship in a boastful letter. This was too much for Jem Ward, who then kept the “Star” tavern in Williamson Square, Liverpool; so he addressed an epistle to the editor of Bell’s Life, offering to meet Mr. Looney for £200, “if there is no big ’un to save the title of Champion from the degradation into which it has fallen.”

Ward’s letter had the effect of leading to a meeting of Looney’s friends, whereat that boxer discreetly declared that he never meant to include Ward in his general challenge for £100 or £200, as he considered that Ward had retired. Barring, therefore, Ward, Mister Looney renewed his claim. Hereupon a gentleman from Nottingham, disputing Looney’s claim to fight for “a Championship stake,” offered to back Bendigo against him for £50 a side and “as much more as he could get.” This was closed with, and a deposit made. On the following Tuesday, at Matt Robinson’s, “Molly Moloney” tavern, Liverpool, articles were signed for £50 a side (afterwards increased to £100), to fight on the 13th of June, 1837, half-way between Nottingham and Liverpool. A spot near Chapel-en-le-Frith, Derbyshire, was the rendezvous, and thither the men repaired. Looney arrived in Manchester from his training-quarters at Aintree, and Bendigo from Crosby, on the overnight, when there was some spirited betting at five and occasionally six to four on Looney.

The next morning proving beautifully fine brought hundreds from distant parts to the spot, in the usual description of drags, until there was not a stable left wherein to rest a jaded prad, or a bit of hay or corn in many places to eat. Looney had fought many battles, the most conspicuous of which were with Fisher (whom he defeated twice, and another ended in a wrangle) and Bob Hampson, who suffered defeat three times by him. Bendigo, as we have seen, had scored victories over Caunt, Brassey, and young Langan. A little after eleven the magnets of the day left their hotels, and were immediately followed by an immense body on foot to the summit of a rasping hill, where a most excellent inner and outer ring was formed with new ropes and stakes, the latter being painted sky blue; near the top were the letters L. P. R. (signifying Liverpool Prize Ring), encircled in a wreath of gold; the one to which the handkerchiefs were attached was, with the crown, gilt. Soon after twelve o’clock the men entered the ring amidst the cheers of their friends—Bendigo first. They good-humouredly shook hands, and proceeded to peel. Young Molyneux (who was loudly cheered), along with Joe Birchall, appeared for Looney, whilst Peter Taylor and Young Langan were the assistants of Bendigo. The colours—green and gold for Looney; blue bird’s-eye for Bendigo. A little after one o’clock, the betting being five to four on Looney, with many takers, commenced

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The appearance of Bendigo, on coming to the scratch, was of the first order, and as fair as a lily, whilst Looney displayed a scorbutic eruption on his back. Both seeming confident of victory put up their fives, caution and “stock-taking” for a few moments being the order of the day. Looney made a half-round right-hander, which told slightly on the ear. He then made three hits at the head and body, which Bendigo stepped away from, and dropped a little left ’un on the chin. Bendigo was not idle, but on the defensive, and succeeded in putting in two left-handers on the canister, and blood, the first, made its appearance from the mouth and under the left eye of Looney. This was a long round; in the close Bendigo was thrown.

2.—Looney, all anxious, made play left and right; one told on the ear, a scramble, both fighting; Bendigo thrown, but fell cat fashion.

3.—Bendigo put the staggers on Looney with a left-handed poke on the head; closed, and both down on their sides.

4.—Both came up smiling. Bendigo made two short hits, had his left intended for the “attic” stopped, but put in a straight one on the breast, and the round finished by both men hammering away right and left in splendid style until Looney was sent down.

5.—Two light body blows were exchanged, and Looney was thrown.

6.—Bendigo got away from two right-handers, received a little one on the left ear, and both down one over the other.

7.—Looney made two short hits with the left; Bendigo stopped his right at the ear; some capital in-fighting took place, in which Looney got his right eye out, and Bendigo slipped down.

8.—This was another good round, but in the end Bendigo got his man on the ropes in such a position as to operate pretty freely on his face, and showers of “claret” were the consequence. Looney fell through the ropes, Bendigo over him.

9.—Looney came up as gay as possible, with two to one against him, and a slashing round ended in favour of Bendigo; Looney down.

10.—Bendigo sent home a tremendous whack on the left eye, which drew claret. Looney seemed amazed, and put up his hand to “wipe away the tear.” Looney thrown.

11.—A very long struggle on the ropes, in which Looney appeared awkwardly situated, but he got down with little damage.

12.—Up to this round there was not a visible mark of punishment on Bendigo. Looney put in two hits on the left ear, but was thrown through the ropes, Bendigo over him.

13.—Looney hit short with his right on the body, but was more successful in the next effort; planted it on the ribs, and staggered Bendigo to the ropes, where both struggled down.

14.—A capital round, in which some heavy hits were exchanged, and Looney fell.

15.—Looney staggered his man again with his right, and, in making another hit, Bendigo dropped on his nether end, throwing up his legs and laughing. (Great disapprobation.)

16.—Looney again delivered his right on the ribs. Bendigo bored him to the ropes, and Looney got down.

17.—Looney put in two smart hits on the left ear, and one on the ribs. Bendigo dropped on his knees.

18.—Bendigo pressed Looney on the ropes, held him for some time in a helpless position, and gave it him severely in the face, the claret flowing copiously. He was lowered to the earth by a little stratagem on the part of his seconds.

19.—Notwithstanding the loss of blood in the last round, Looney was lively to the call, went up to his man, and knocked him through the ropes with a body blow.

20.—Looney caught his man with his right; a struggle on the ropes in favour of Bendigo. Both down.

21.—Another struggle on the ropes, in which Bendigo was forced through.

22.—A rallying round, which Looney finished by knocking his man through the rope by a blow on the breast.

23.—Looney again put in his right; another struggle on the ropes, until they were forced to the ground.

24.—Looney rushed in and was going to work when Bendigo fell.

25.—Bendigo put in a smart hit on the face, caught it in return on the head, and was thrown over the ropes.

26.—Bendigo popped in three very heavy hits on the face, put three hits on the body, and went down as if weak.

27.—Looney hit short. Bendigo gave it him on the conk, and threw him a clever somersault.

28.—Looney put in his right heavily on the ribs, which compliment was returned by a stinger on the head, which staggered him down.

29.—Both got to a close, and Bendigo was thrown, coming on his head.

30.—A slashing round; give and take was “the ticket” on the ribs and head, until both went down weak.

31.—Both got to the ropes, and went down together. Ditto the next round.

33.—Bendigo put in two facers, and threw his man heavily.

34.—After an exchange, Bendigo caught hold and threw Looney heavily.

35.—Bendigo got on the ropes, and Looney dragged him down on his back.

36, 37.—Two struggling rounds at the ropes; Looney under in the falls.

38.—Looney planted a nasty one on the ribs, followed his man up, and forced Bendigo through the ropes.

39.—Looney planted three tidy hits on the head and body, as did Bendigo on the mug, again tapping the claret; but in the end was whirled on the ground.

40.—A rally in favour of Bendigo, who threw Looney.

41.—Looney caught Bendigo’s head, put in a smart upper cut, but was thrown clean.

42.—Bendigo’s left arm appeared a little black from the effects of Looney’s right, as did his ear, but with the exception of a small bump on his left eye he had not a scratch on his face, whilst Looney’s phiz began to assume a frightful aspect, his left eye completely closed, with a terrible gash over it, one under, another over his right, and his nose and mouth in a shocking state of disorder. Still he was game and confident of the victory; he rushed in, put in two sharpish hits on the head, and downed Bendigo in a heap on the grass.

43.—Body blows exchanged. Bendigo under in the fall.

44.—A rally in favour of Bendigo, in which Looney clasped him round the legs; but it was considered more by accident than design. He let go, and went down.

45.—Looney rushed in, and in the struggle went down on his nether end.

46, 47, 48, 49.—Struggling rounds—favour of Bendigo.

50.—Bendigo shot out his left, and, in going down, Looney caught his head, but, not observing Hoyle’s rule of “when in doubt take the trick,” held back his fist, and let him go.

51.—Looney popped one in the ear, but was thrown through the ropes.

52, 53, 54.—Nothing done. In the latter Looney missed a heavy upper cut, and swung himself through the ropes.

55.—Bendigo got Looney’s head in chancery, peppered away, and again the crimson stream flowed. Both down.

56.—A struggle. Both down.

57.—A close, in which Looney threw Bendigo a burster, with his head doubled under.

58.—Bendigo, being doubled on the ropes, received a few heavy hits on the ribs, but on Looney striving for his head he got away, and both went down.

59.—A close, Looney receiving a shattering throw.

60.—Looney had his man on the ropes, but was too weak to hold him, and received another burster for his pains.

61.—Looney, again on the ropes, caught pepper in the face until it assumed a frightful appearance, and the claret gushed freely; he escaped by the cords being pressed down.

62.—Looney’s right eye was now fast drawing to a close, but his game was undeniable, and he still calculated on victory; he rushed in wildly, caught Bendigo in his arms, and threw him.

63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68.—Strange to say these rounds were in favour of Looney, without any mischief, in the latter of which Bendigo was driven against one of the posts by a hit on the breast, from which he rebounded, and fell forwards on the turf.

69.—Looney rushed in, Bendigo caught his head, drew his cork, and threw him.

70, 71.—Bendigo’s optics all right, and very cautious. The first a scrambling round, Looney under. Bendigo, in the next, went to a close, and was whirled down.

72.—A little altercation took place in this round, owing to Bendigo falling on his back without a blow being struck, which was the case, but it was not done for the purpose of evading a blow. Looney was creeping up to him, and his heel, in retreating, caught a tuft of grass and threw him, which appeared to be the general opinion.

73.—Bendigo gave three facers, but was thrown.

74.—Looney bored his man to the ropes, and sent him through them by a muzzler.

75.—Bendigo slipped his left at the all but closed eye, and went down. (Cries of “Cur.”)

76.—Looney put in with his right, and gained the throw.

77.—Hugging. Looney down.

78.—Bendigo made a hit, and got down by the ropes.

79, 80.—Looney received two hits on the body, and was thrown in each.

81, 82.—In both of these rounds Looney was thrown heavily, but put in a well-meant hit on the head.

83.—Bendigo, on the ropes, received a heavy hit on the ribs. Looney was about to repeat the dose, but was stopped by the cries of “Foul,” and he left him.

84.—Another rush. Bendigo whirled down.

85.—Looney was floored cleverly by a spanking hit on the chops.

Nothing particular occurred in the next six rounds; the throws, with the exception of one, being in favour of Bendigo.

92.—Bendigo showed a good feeling in this round. In the struggle Looney got seated on the under rope, but Bendigo would not take advantage, and walked away.

93, 94.—Looney down in both these rounds.

95.—Looney rallied a little, and made two hits tell with the right on the ear, and Bendigo went down rather shook.

96, 97.—Both down together. Bendigo gave a muzzler in the last, got his man on the ropes, but was too weak to hold him.

98.—Looney put in his right on the temple, but was thrown very heavily.

99, and last.—Looney came up as blind as a bat, and rushed in with his right, when Bendigo mustered up all his remaining strength and gave him another fall. Molyneux, finding it useless to prolong the contest, gave the signal of defeat, after fighting two hours and twenty-four minutes.

Remarks.—It will be seen by the above account that Bendigo won all the three events—first blood, first knock down, and the battle. He stands with his right leg foremost, has a good knowledge of wrestling, steps nimbly backwards to avoid, and hits out tremendously with his left. He was trained under the care of Jem Ward and Peter Taylor, who must have spared no pains in tutoring him, being much improved since he fought Young Langan; and no doubt will prove a troublesome customer to any 12-stone man who may meet him. He walked about a quarter of a mile to his carriage. A tint of black only appeared under his left eye, but his bodily punishment must be severe, as he could not bear to be touched on the left side. He arrived in Manchester the same evening per gig, and proceeded to Newton races the following morning. Poor Looney was terribly punished about the face, being cut under and over each eye, and his lips and nose terribly mangled: besides the loss of a grinder or two, he lost a great quantity of blood from nose, mouth, and other gashes in the face. He is possessed of most unflinching game, but is slow in his motions; he strikes very heavy with his right, but it is too long a time in arriving at its destination. All that could be done for him by his seconds, Molyneux and Birchall, was done. The ring was sometimes in great disorder, owing to want of attention on the part of the ring-keepers.

Bendigo, on the occasion of a joint benefit with Peter Taylor at the Queen’s Theatre, Liverpool—which northern city at this period appeared to have become the metropolis of milling, vice London and Bristol superseded—boldly claimed the belt. Looney disputed the claim, complaining that Bendigo had recently refused him another chance, though ready to make a new match for £50. Tom Britton also demurred to the Championship claim, and offered to fight Bendy at 11st. 10lb.; money ready to £100 at Mrs. Ford’s, “Belt Tavern,” Whitechapel, Liverpool.

Fisher, Molyneux (proposing the impossible 11st. 7lb.), and others now rushed into letter-writing, but Bendy kept up his claim and his price; and so ran out the year 1837 and part of 1838, the Championship remaining in abeyance, as Jem Ward had retired, and the Deaf ’un was still in America.

Bendy’s old opponent and fellow-townsman next re-appeared on the scene. Ben Caunt, who in the interim had beaten Ben Butler, at Stoney Stratford, in August, 1837, and Boneford, a big countryman, at Sunrise Hill, Notts, in October of the same year, proposed to meet “the self-styled Champion” for £100. Bendigo, more suo, thereupon observed, that “at that price, or any other, the big, chuckle-headed navvy was as good as a gift of the money to him.”

All, therefore, went merrily; the instalments were “tabled” as agreed; Bendy was a good boy, and took care of himself; Big Ben worked hard, and got himself down to 15st. 7lb. (!), as will be seen in our account of this tourney, which, according to the plan of our work, must appear in the memoir of the victor, Ben Caunt (Chapter II., post), in the present volume. In this unequal encounter, after seventy-five rounds, Bendigo, who from a mistake had no spikes in his shoes, had the fight given against him for going down without a blow. Two to one was laid on Bendigo within four rounds of the close of the battle.

No slur on the skill, honesty, or bravery of Bendigo was cast by the umpires and referee in this battle, when they gave their decision that he had fallen without a blow, and handed over the stakes to Caunt. Bendigo proposed, before the decision, to make a match for £500, each to raise £200, to be added to the old battle-money. This Ben declined, but declared his readiness to enter into new articles for £100. Another match was accordingly made for £100 a side, to take place on Monday, July 20th, 1838. Bendigo, after bumper benefits in Liverpool, Derby, and Nottingham, now came to London, with Peter Taylor, and took up his quarters at Tom Spring’s, where he became an object of much curiosity; his animal spirits and practical joking being almost too much for Tom Winter’s quiescent and almost sedate temperament. In London he also took a benefit, “before going into strict training,” said the bills. There was “somewhat too much of this,” for Ben also was taking benefits in Notts, Leicester, and Derby. In the month of June it may be noted Deaf Burke returned from America, a fact which occasioned a hitch in Bendigo’s arrangements, as we shall presently see, for on June 24th, 1838, we read in Bell’s Life: “The match between Caunt and Bendigo is off by mutual consent, and Caunt desires us to state, that he is now open to fight any man in the world, barring neither country nor colour, for from £50 to £500. What does this mean?” The following paragraph in the ensuing week’s paper may show what it meant:—

“Bendigo and Caunt.—On the authority of a letter signed Caunt, we last week stated that this match was off by mutual consent; but we have since been informed by our Nottingham correspondent that such is not the fact, and that Caunt’s deposits are forfeited. Our correspondent adds that Caunt’s backer tried to get the match off, on the plea that it was a pity to see so little a man as Bendigo fight a giant like Caunt, who was anxious to enter the ring with Burke. He was, however, told that the fight must go on, and he promised to attend, but he neither came nor sent the deposit, but forwarded a letter to London stating that the match was off by mutual consent. As a proof that Bendigo’s backers intended the mill to go on, the deposit (£20) was received from Sheffield on the Thursday prior to the Monday, and on that very day £19 towards the next £20 deposit was raised.”

Thus pleasantly released from his engagement with his gigantic competitor, Bendigo instantly responded to the cartel of Deaf Burke, issued on his landing from the New World, in which the Deaf ’un defied any man in the Eastern or Western hemisphere to meet him for £100 to £500, within the twenty-four feet of ropes. £100 was remitted to Peter Crawley to make the match; but lo! Burke had gone over to France (Owen Swift, Young Sam, Jack Adams, &c. were already there) with a “noble Earl,” and at two several meetings, to which the Deaf ’un was summoned, though Bendigo’s “ready” was there, there was no cash from across the water, and Jem Burn announced to Peter Crawley, that he had “a letter” from Paris that “Mister Burke,” who was on a Continental tour, could not fight for less than £200. In the midst of the ridicule and censure of this proposal, so inconsistent with his own published challenge, a gentleman offered to put down the other hundred himself for Bendigo. Crawley, however, declined to put down £50 of Bendigo’s money until guaranteed the £100. Thus the matter fell through. The public feeling in this matter was not badly expressed in a contemporaneous “squib” entitled:—

HEROIC STANZAS FROM BENDIGO TO DEAF BURKE.

Why, truly, my nabs of the torpid auricular,

Your conduct of late ha’nt been wery particular,

And I tell you in werse, which I’m no hand at tagging,

That I shrewdly suspect you of bouncing and bragging.

When a challenge you gave, and defiance was hurl’d

To any professor of fives in the world,

Of course I consider’d that nothing was wrong,

Tho’ I fancied you com’d it a trifle too strong.

I knew you were brave, and as strong as a horse,

And remembered your sending poor Simon to dorse;

And you told us how Yankees all quak’d at your name,

And “guessed” they ne’er witnessed such bottom and game.

You swore as Jem Ward had retir’d on the shelf,

Your mind was made up to be Champion yourself;

And you dar’d all the world to contend for the prize,

While you barred neither country, nor colour, nor size.

This was all wastly well, but how came you to trot

Ere you knew if your challenge was answer’d or not,

And to cut from your quarters in London adrift

On the coming consarn between Adams and Swift?

I tell you, my Deaf ’un, without any flourish,

Your conduct appears most confoundedly currish;

And as straightforward dealing was always my plan,

If you wish for a customer, I am your man.

You boast, my “Venetian,”[5] whoe’er may attack you,

You have lordlings and dukes in attendance to back you;

Well, as folks can’t suppose you are telling us fibs,

Pray, are these patricians to fork out the dibs?

I give you my word, Peter Crawley, my crony,

On my part is ready for posting the pony;

How is it, on yours, that your pal, Jemmy Burn,

In spite of your chaffing, keeps dropping astern?

Do you fancy that conduct like this will content us?

Oh, let no folks say of you “Non est Inwentus;”

Come forward, if e’er as a man you have felt,

For Bendigo dares you to strive for the belt.

Presume not brave fellows henceforward to taunt,

For though of my prowess I’ve no wish to vaunt,

An out-and-out good one I fac’d in big Caunt,

Who in stature and muscle match’d owld John of Gaunt.

In capital style you exhibit, I’m told,
As statues of worthies wot figur’d of old;
Apollor, and Wenus, and Mars to the letter—

Wouldn’t Back-us, my cove, suit a precious deal better?

But perhaps, arter all—such, believe me, my trust is—

I may not exactly be doing you justice;

And when you’re aware I will meet you at milling,

At the scratch you may show yourself ready and willing.

It will give me much pleasure, my Deaf ’un, I swear,

To see how you’ll show off your attitudes there—

While I, glad to see you returned from your mizzling,

As you’re partial to statues, may give you a chiselling.

I trust that in Paris you show’d in prime feather,

And that you and old Soult had a bottle together;

I’d like to have seen how you sported your tanners,

And mark the French polish you got on your manners.

But perhaps it is time to leave off, my prime feller,

For I an’t wery much of a writer or speller;

Yourself and your pals of the Fancy arn’t green,

And will doubtless diskiver at once what I mean.

They may call me a fool, and the words won’t affront,

For ’tis sartain they can’t say the same of my blunt;

They may swear you are sartain to vanquish me—good—

But pray do not crow till you’re out of the wood.

For the present farewell! May we soon have a shy,

And if I don’t floor you, my Deaf ’un. I’ll try—

So off, without any desire to offend, I go,
Remaining, in hopes the best man may win—
“BENDIGO.”

September came, and the Deaf ’un was still studying “Paris graces and parley-vous,” seconding Owen Swift in his second fight with Jack Adams at Villiers, on the 5th of September, 1838. The police prosecution by the French authorities sent home the tourist, but meantime Bendy’s friends had been offended by some of his eccentric escapades, and had withdrawn the cash from Peter’s hands. In November Bendigo writes to the editor of Bell’s Life, that “he was induced to challenge Burke on the promise of certain friends at Nottingham to stand by him; but they having broken faith with him, he could not go on. His readiness and disposition to fight Burke or any other man continue the same, and, whenever friends will come forward to back him, he will be found glad of the opportunity to prove that there is no unmeaning bounce about him, and that he is neither deficient in courage nor integrity.”

Such an appeal had an immediate response. The match was made at Sheffield, Burke’s friends proposing to stake £100 to £80, and a lively interest was soon awakened. On the occasion of the third deposit, on the 27th of November, at Jem Burn’s, in Great Windmill Street, the aristocratic muster was numerous, and five to four was freely laid on Burke, who was present, full of quaint fun, for the Deaf ’un, as well as Bendy, was indeed a “character.” Burke said he had “lowered his price by £50, rather than not ’commodate Mishter Bendys, as he ses his frinds is backards in comin forards.” The articles specified that the battle should take place within thirty-four miles of Nottingham, and the day to be the 15th of January, 1839. These articles were afterwards revised, and the fight postponed to February 12th, the stakes—£100 Burke to £80 Bendigo. The Deaf ’un went into training near Brighton, but removed later to Finchley; Bendigo at Crosby, near Liverpool. Here, on Sunday, January 4th, Bendigo had a narrow escape of his life, as the following paragraph records:—

“Narrow Escape of Bendigo.—During the storm on Sunday night Bendigo who is in training at Crosby, near Liverpool, narrowly escaped being ‘gathered unto his fathers.’ It appears that Peter Taylor went to meet Bendigo on Monday morning, but not finding him at the appointed place, proceeded at once to Crosby, when he discovered that the house in which he had left his friend on the previous evening was almost in ruins, the roof having been blown in, and nearly every window broken. Peter’s fears were, however, soon allayed by ascertaining that Bendigo was at a neighbouring cottage, where he found him between a pair of blankets, and looking quite chapfallen. Bendigo said that he would sooner face three Burkes than pass such another night. He went to bed about nine o’clock, but awoke about eleven, by his bed rocking under him, the wind whistling around him, and the bricks tumbling down the chimney. Every minute he expected the house to fall in upon him, and at three o’clock the hurricane increased so much in violence that he got out of bed, put on his clothes, and made his escape out of the window. He had not left the house ten minutes before the roof was blown in. A knight of the awl kindly gave him shelter, and he has since obtained fresh quarters in the same village.”

As the day approached, intense interest prevailed both in London and Liverpool, to say nothing of Nottingham, Birmingham, Derby, and Manchester, all of which towns sent their contingents of amateurs. Jem Ward undertook to give Bendy “the finishing touch,” and reported him “in prime twig,” while Burke was declared by Tommy Roundhead, his faithful red-nosed “secretary” and “esquire,” to be “strong as a rhinoceros and bold as a lion.”

At length the eventful morn of Tuesday, the 12th of February, 1839, dawned; it was Shrove Tuesday, and the concourse on all the roads to Ashby-de-la-Zouch, for which the “office” was given, was something more marvellous than that which was occasioned by the “gentle passage of arms” in which Richard Cœur-de-Lion figured, for which see “Ivanhoe.” But we will leave Bell’s Life to tell the further proceedings of the tournament.

According to articles, the men were to meet within 35 miles of Nottingham, and it was finally agreed that they should meet at the “Red Lion,” at Appleby, in Warwickshire, on the Monday, to agree upon the battle-field. A centre of attraction having been thus appointed, the men were moved from their training quarters, to be near the scene of action. Burke, attended by Jem Burn, King Dick, Tommy Roundhead (his secretary), and other friends, took up his position at Atherstone, while Bendy, under the fostering care of Jem and Nick Ward and Peter Taylor, approached in an opposite direction. The contest seemed to excite extraordinary interest, and the bustle of preparation was observable in all directions. In Atherstone, a most pugnacious town by ancient charter, Burke was hailed with great favour, as a precursor of the local sports of Tuesday; for, from time “whereto the memory of man runneth not to the contrary,” on Shrove Tuesday the inhabitants of the village exercise a sort of prescriptive right to settle all disputes in fistic or other combat.

It was decided to pitch the ring as near Appleby as possible, and if practicable to have the men in the ring at ten o’clock. In the interim all sorts of vehicles were pressed into the service, horses were at a high premium, and the most ludicrous shifts were made to procure conveyances. In some instances mourning coaches, and even a hearse, were irreverently brought into use, while nags of the most unseemly description were drawn from their privacy and honoured by being hooked as leaders to post-chaises, or harnessed to any out-of-the-way kind of vehicle that fortune dictated. Beds and other accommodation were also difficult to procure, and, as in times of yore, hundreds, de necessitate, sat up all night to be up early in the morning.

Long before dawn on Tuesday multitudes were progressing towards Appleby, and at nine o’clock the assemblage in front of Burke’s domicile was immense. The crowd continued to increase steadily until the arrival of a cavalcade of “swell drags” from the direction of Leicester, which gave the signal for departure, as in and upon these were the patrician supporters of the Deaf ’un. On the arrival of these traps the Burke party instantly prepared for a start. Jem Ward and Bendigo, who were located about two miles off, were also in readiness, and lost no time in repairing to the trysting-place, which, to the dismay of the toddlers and the discomfiture of the prads, proved to be at least seven miles off. The ring was formed on the top of a hill, in the parish of Heather, which spot was not reached by the Deaf ’un, owing to various impediments, until half-past eleven o’clock. A vast crowd had preceded him, and hailed his approach with cheers, but it was evident that thousands were yet to arrive, and fortunately for them an unexpected delay in the arrival of Bendigo proved favourable to their hopes, by protracting the commencement of hostilities.

It was nearly half-past twelve before the actual arrival of Bendigo was made known, and at that time, upon a moderate calculation, there were not less than 15,000 persons present of all degrees, the aristocracy forming no inconsiderable portion.

From some inexplicable delay it wanted only a quarter to one when Burke entered the ring, attended by King Dick and Jackson, and if good humour and confidence could be taken as indications of success his friends had no reason to grumble. While waiting for the arrival of Bendigo an incident occurred which produced considerable laughter: it was the approach of a well-dressed and not unlikely woman, who, forcing her way through the well-packed mass of spectators, ran up to the roped arena, and, seizing the Deaf ’un by the hand as an old acquaintance, wished him success, and, but for the intervening rope, would no doubt have added an embrace. She then seated herself in front of the inner circle, and waited the issue of the battle, subsequently cheering her favourite throughout his exertions. Shortly before one o’clock Bendigo made his salaam amidst deafening shouts, attended by Peter Taylor and Nick Ward, and, walking up to Burke, shook him heartily by the hand. The men then commenced their toilets, and on being stripped to their drawers a subject of much contention arose; Bendigo, on examining Burke’s drawers, discovered a belt round his waist, which he insisted should be taken off. In vain did Burke and his friends assure him it was merely a belt to sustain a truss which he wore in consequence of a rupture, and, as it was below his waist, was of no importance; in vain, too, did the referee pronounce it to be perfectly fair; Bendigo was not to be driven from his point, and it was not till the obnoxious belt was taken off that he was satisfied. The belt was exhibited, and fully corroborated the opinion of the referee as to its perfect inutility as a means of defence.

The signal having been given, the men threw off their great coats, and, advancing to the scratch, threw themselves into position; and now, for the first time, a superficial estimate of their condition could be formed. Burke presented all that fine muscular development for which he is famed, but he was pale, and it struck us most forcibly that his flesh wanted that firmness and consistency, the sure consequence of perfect training, and to the attainment of which the mode in which he passed his time was anything but conducive; still he was playful and confident, and regarded his adversary with a look of conscious superiority. Bendigo, in point of muscularity, was inferior to Burke, especially in the shoulders, arms, and neck, but he appeared in perfect condition, and firm as iron. The colour of his skin was healthful; his countenance exhibited perfect self-possession, and wore an easy smile of confidence. The current odds, on setting to, were six to four on Burke, with plenty of takers. In Nottingham, where the physical qualities of Bendigo were better known, the odds had been as low as five to four.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The position of Burke was easy and unconstrained. He stood rather square, his left foot in advance, and his arms well up, as if waiting for his antagonist to break ground. Bendigo, on the contrary, dropped his right shoulder, stooped a little, and, right foot foremost, seemed prepared to let fly left or right as the opportunity offered. After a little manœuvring, he made a catching feint with his left, but found the Deaf ’un immovably on his guard. They changed ground, both ready, when Bendigo let go his right, and caught Burke on the ribs, leaving a visible impression of his knuckles. More manœuvring. Bendigo tried his left, but was stopped. The Deaf ’un popped in his right, and caught Bendigo on the ear, but soon had a slap in return from Bendigo’s right, under the eye, as straight as an arrow. (Cheers for Bendigo.) Both steady. Bendigo made two or three feints with his left, but did not draw the Deaf ’un. Each evidently meaning mischief, and getting closer together. Counter hits with the left, when both, by mutual consent, got to a rally, and severe hits, right and left, were exchanged. The Deaf ’un closed, but Bendigo broke away, and turning round renewed the rally. Heavy exchanges followed, when they again closed, and trying for the fall both went down in the corner. (There was a cry of first blood from Bendigo’s left ear; but, although very red from the Deaf ’un’s visitations, the referee, who examined it, decided there was no claret.)

2.—Both men showed symptoms of the “ditto repeated” in the last round, although no great mischief was done, nor was there much advantage booked, each having given as good as he got. The Deaf ’un resumed his defensive position, and was steady. Bendigo again tried the feint with his left, evidently desirous of leading off with his right, but the Deaf ’un was awake to this dodge, and grinned. The Deaf ’un tried his right, but was stopped. After a pause, during which the men shifted their ground, Bendigo let go his left, but was prettily stopped. He was more successful with his right, and caught the Deaf ’un a stinger under the eye. The straightness and quickness of these right-hand deliveries were now conspicuous. Counter hits, left and right, followed, and the Deaf ’un showed a slight tinge of claret on the mouth, but it was not claimed. The Deaf ’un now made up his mind for a determined rally, and to it they went ding-dong; the stops, hits, and returns, right and left, were severe, and no flinching. Bendigo again wheeled round, but the Deaf ’un was with him, and the rally was renewed with equal vigour and good will. Bendigo, rather wild at the end, closed, and after a sharp struggle, both down. (The Deaf ’un’s chère amie, before alluded to, now cheered him, but, indifferent to her blandishments, he was carried to his corner piping a little from the severity of his exertion. Bendigo, on reaching his corner, seemed freshest, and exhibited less impression from the blows which he had received than his antagonist.)

3.—Both came up strong on their pins, but the Deaf ’un’s face, especially on the left cheek, was greatly flushed, and other marks and tokens of searching deliveries were visible. The Deaf ’un looked serious, and coughed as if the contents of his pudding-bag were not altogether satisfied with the disturbance to which they had been exposed. Sparring for a short time, when Bendigo let go his right, but was stopped; it was a heavy hit, and the sound of the dashing knuckles was distinctly heard. Well-meant blows on both sides stopped. The Deaf ’un again coughed; his “cat’s meat” was clearly out of trim. Again did the Deaf ’un stop Bendigo’s right, but did not attempt to return. He now seemed to gain a little more confidence, and exhibited a few of his hanky-panky tricks, making a sort of Merry Andrew dance; but his jollity was soon stopped, for Bendigo popped in his left and right heavily, and got away. The Deaf ’un changed countenance and was more serious; Bendigo again tried his left-handed feints and was readiest to fight, but the Deaf ’un stood quiet. (Even bets offered on Bendigo.) Bendigo closed in upon his man, who waited on the defensive; but his defensive system was inexplicable, for Bendigo jobbed him four times in succession with the right under the left eye, on the old spot, jumping away each time without an attempt at return on the part of the Deaf ’un, and producing a fearful hillock on the Deaf ’un’s cheek-bone. The Deaf ’un seemed paralysed by the stinging severity of these repeated visitations and his friends called on him to go in and fight. He made an attempt with his right, but was short; at last he rushed to a rally, and some heavy hits were exchanged; Bendigo retreated, but kept hitting on the retreat. The deliveries were rapid and numerous, but those of the Deaf ’un did not tell on the hard frontispiece of his opponent. They broke away, but again joined issue, and the rally was renewed. The jobbing hits, right and left, from Bendigo were terrific, and the Deaf ’un’s nose began to weep blood for the state of his left ogle, which was now fast closing. (The question of first blood was now decided.) Bendigo broke away again, the Deaf ’un following, but Bendigo, collecting himself, jobbed severely, the Deaf ’un apparently no return, and almost standing to receive. He looked round and seemed almost stupefied, but still he kept his legs, when Bendigo went in and repeated his right-handed jobs again and again; he then closed, gave the Deaf ’un the crook, threw him, and fell on him. (The seconds immediately took up their men, and both showed distress, especially the Deaf ’un, who was obviously sick, but could not relieve his stomach, although he tried his finger for that purpose. All were astonished at his sluggishness. He seemed completely bothered, and to have lost all power of reflection and judgment.)

4.—The Deaf ’un now came up all the worse from the effects of the last rattling round, while Bendigo scarcely showed a scratch. The seconds of the Deaf ’un called on him “to go in and fight;” he obeyed the call, but again had Bendigo’s right on his damaged peeper. Bendigo fought on the retreat, hitting as he stepped back, but steadying himself he caught the Deaf ’un on the nose with his right, and sent his pimple flying backwards with the force of the blow. The Deaf ’un rushed in, hitting left and right, and in getting back Bendigo fell over the ropes out of the ring. (The fight had now lasted sixteen minutes; the Deaf ’un had all the worst of it, although Bendigo from his exertions exhibited trifling symptoms of distress.)

5.—The Deaf ’un came up boldly, but all his cleverness seemed to have left him. Bendigo, steady, was first to fight, popping in his right; exchanges followed, and in the close both went down, Burke uppermost.

6.—“Drops of brandy” were tried with the Deaf ’un, but his friends seemed to have “dropped down on their luck.” Still he came up courageously, although his right as well as his left eye was pinked. Counter-hitting, in which Bendigo’s right was on the old spot. A close at the ropes, the Deaf ’un trying for the fall, but after some pulling both went down and no harm done. (Three to one on Bendigo, but no takers.)

7.—The Deaf ’un’s left eye was now as dark as Erebus, and as a last resource he tried the rush; he rattled in to his man without waiting for the attack, but in the close, after an exchange of hits and a severe struggle, was thrown. The moment the Deaf ’un was picked up he cried “Foul!” and asserted that Bendigo had butted him, looking anxiously at the umpire and referee for a decision in his favour; but there was no pretence for the charge, as it was obvious Bendigo merely jerked back his head to relieve himself from his grasp. Like “a drowning man,” however, it was obvious he was anxious to “catch at a straw.”

8.—The Deaf ’un showed woeful punishment in the physog, although not cut. Again did he make a despairing rush, stopping Bendigo’s right, but in the second attempt he was not so fortunate, for Bendigo muzzled, closed, and threw him.

9.—The Deaf ’un’s game was now clearly all but up, for while he showed such prominent proofs of the severity of his antagonist’s visitations to his nob, the latter was but little the worse for wear. The Deaf ’un, however, was determined to cut up well, and again rattled in left and right, Bendigo retreating and jobbing as he followed, and at length hitting him down with a right-handed blow on the pimple. The Deaf ’un, with one hand and one knee on the ground, looked up, but Bendigo stood steadily looking at him, and would not repeat the blow, showing perfect coolness and self-possession.

10, and last.—The Deaf ’un, greatly distressed, still came up with a determination to produce a change if he could by in-fighting. He rushed into his man, hitting left and right, but receiving heavy jobs in return. He forced Bendigo with his back against the ropes, and, as he had him in that position, deliberately butted him twice, when both went down in the struggle for the fall. Jem Ward immediately cried “Foul!” and appealed to the referee, who refused to give any decision till properly appealed to by the umpires. He stepped into the ring, where he was followed by the umpires, when he was again appealed to, and at once declared that Burke had butted, and that therefore Bendigo was entitled to the victory—a judgment in which, it is due to say, the umpire of the Deaf ’un, although anxious to protect his interests, declared in the most honourable manner he must concur. Several of Bendigo’s friends wished no advantage of this departure from the new rules to be taken, foreseeing that a few more rounds must finish the Deaf ’un; but the decision of the referee was imperative, and thus ended a contest which disappointed not only the backers of the Deaf ’un but the admirers of the Ring generally, who anticipated on the Deaf ’un’s part a different issue, or at least a better fight. With regard to the butting, of which we have no doubt, our impression is that it was done intentionally, and for the express purpose of terminating the fight in that way rather than by prolonging it to submit to additional punishment and the mortification of a more decided defeat; and we are the more inclined to this conclusion from the Deaf ’un’s readiness to claim a butt on the part of Bendigo in the seventh round, a convincing proof that he was fully sensible of its nature and consequence. An attempt was subsequently made to wrangle with the referee on the soundness of his decision, for the purpose of sustaining the character of the Deaf ’un, and exciting a spirit of discontent among his backers. This was not creditable, and to be classed among these petty expedients to which some of our modern “Ringsters” are but too willing to have recourse—namely, at all events “to win, tie, or wrangle,” a practice to which every honest man must be opposed. The time occupied in the contest was exactly four-and-twenty minutes. In no one of Burke’s former battles was he more severely punished in the face, not, it is true, in any vital part, for all Bendigo’s hits, both left and right, were as straight as a line, going straight from the shoulder and slap to their destination. There were no round hits on his part, and the body blows on both sides were few and far between.

Remarks.—Perhaps no battle on record offers a stronger illustration of the consequences of vanity and headstrong confidence than that which we have just recorded. Burke, puffed up by his former successes, and flattered by the good-natured freedom of young men of fashion, placed himself beyond the pale of instruction and advice. He was self-willed and obstinate, and quarrelled with all who presumed to guide him in the proper course. His repeated acts of imprudence while in training called forth the strongest remonstrances, but in vain; and thus he has found, when too late, that “a man who will be his own adviser” on such occasions “has a fool for his client.” Nothing but the most decided want of condition can account for the slowness which he exhibited; and, when his career from the time he went to Brighton till the day of the battle is considered, that state of constitution is sufficiently explained; and yet those besotted friends who knew all this were as prejudiced in his favour that they blindly pinned their faith to his former reputation, believed no man alive could beat him, and risked their money, as well as stultified their judgment, on we issue of his exertions. But then say these wiseacres, opening their eyes with well-feigned astonishment, “We could not have erred. It is impossible, seeing all that we have seen, and knowing what we have known of the Deaf ’un that he could have made so bad a fight, and be beaten so hollow by a countryman!” Oh no! this could not be—and what follows? Why, the old story—the honest Deaf ’un has all at once turned rogue—he had been bought and fought a cross!—he has sold his friends, and must be consigned to degradation. Why, from the third round it was seen by the merest tyro in the ring that he had not a chance. He was completely paralysed by the unexpected quickness of his adversary, who has, as Jem Ward foretold, proved himself a better man than has for some years appeared in the ring. This has been Ward’s constant cry, and had his advice been taken all the odds that were offered would have been taken. But no; the Londoners were not to be beaten out of their “propriety.” Twos to one, sevens to four, and sixes to four have, as is well known, been offered over and over again in sporting houses without takers, and many who lamented the impossibility of “getting on” before the fight, have now, after it, the consolation of feeling that they have “got off” most miraculously. And yet this was a cross; and the cunning concoctors of the robbery had the generosity to refuse the hundreds which were, as it were, forced under their noses. Verily this is “going the whole hog” with a vengeance; but from the little we know of such speculations we are inclined to think that those who hazard such an opinion will be deemed greater flats than they have proved themselves. It is an accusation unjust towards a weak, but, we believe, an honest man, and still more unjust towards Bendigo, who, throughout, proved himself, in every respect, a better fighter, as well as a harder hitter, than Burke, and who, in no part of the battle, was guilty of an act which would disentitle him to the honour and profit of his victory. But some facts seem to be altogether lost sight of in forming a just estimate of poor Burke’s pretensions, for, independent of his want of condition, it seems to be forgotten that instead of fighting or sparring for the last two years he has been confining himself to the personification of “the Grecian statues,” forsooth—anything but calculated to give energy to his limbs—added to which he is ruptured. We are also informed on medical authority that the patella or knee-pan of his right leg is as weak from the fracture which he sustained in the hospital some time back that he is obliged to support it by double laced bandages, and he has been altogether precluded from taking strong walking or running exercise, never having walked more than ten miles in any one day of his training. For our own part we think his day is gone by, and, like many other great performers, he has appeared once too often; but that he intentionally deceived his friends we believe to be a most ungenerous calumny, although his friends may have deceived themselves. After the fight, Burke, who was sufficiently well to walk from the ring, returned to Appleby, and from there to “foot-ball kicking” Atherstone, where the annual sports were merrily kept up in his absence. The same night he returned to Coventry, and arrived by the mail train in London the next morning, none the worse in his bodily health from the peppering he received, however mentally he was “down on his luck.” He complained much of his arms, which, from the wrists to the elbows, were covered with bruises, the effects of stopping—and stopping blows, too, which, had they reached their destination, would have expedited his downfall. Bendigo returned to Nottingham the same night, decorated with his well-earned laurels; and it is to be hoped he will enjoy his victory with becoming modesty and civility, bearing in mind that he has yet to conquer Caunt before he can be proclaimed Champion of England.

The Deaf ’un, who showed on the Friday at Jem Burn’s, with the exception of his “nob” was all right. He complains most of having been stripped of his belt, which was attached to his truss by a loop, and the absence of which filled him with apprehension. This, combined with his admitted want of condition, he declares placed him on the wrong side the winning post. He is, however, most anxious for another trial, and instructs us to say that he still has supporters who will match him once more against Bendigo for £100 a side, the fight to come off in the same ring with Hannan and Walker; Burke to be permitted to wear his belt, as in the case of Peter Crawley and Jack Langan. It is needless to say that Burke never again faced Bendigo in the ring, getting on a match at this time with Jem Bailey.

For several months the newspapers were rife with challenges from Caunt to Bendigo and Bendigo to Caunt; each “Champion” roving about the counties in which he was most popular upon the “benefit dodge,” each with a star company, and each awakening the city or town where his company performed with a thundering challenge, while each pugilistic planet revolved in his own peculiar orbit without giving the other a chance of a “collision.”

In this interval Jem Ward presented a “Champion’s” belt to Bendigo, at the Queen’s Theatre, Liverpool, amid great acclamations, and again the tiresome game of challenging and making appointments for “a meeting to draw up articles,” at places where the challenged party never attended or meant to show, went on. Brassey, of Bradford, too, having in the interim beaten Young Langan, of Liverpool, and Jem Bailey, put in his claim and joined the chorus of challengers. Burke also offered himself for £100, which Bendigo declined, according to his published challenge. In the latter half of 1839 we read as follows:—

“To the Editor of ‘Bell’s Life in London.’

“Sir,—Caunt states that he has been given to understand I wish to have another trial with him for £200 a side, and that his money is ready at any sporting house in Sheffield. Now, Sir, I have been to many houses that he frequents, and cannot find any one to put any money down in his behalf; and as he was in Sheffield for a fortnight previous to my going away to second Renwick, I think, if he meant fighting, he would have made the match when we were both in Sheffield. Now, Sir, what I mean to say is this—I will fight Caunt, or any other man in England, for from £200 to £500 a side, and I hope I shall not be disappointed, as I mean fighting, and nothing else; and to convince the patrons of the Prize Ring that there is no empty chaff about me, as I am going to leave Sheffield this week, my money will be ready any day or hour at Mr. Edward Daniels’, ‘Three Crowns,’ Parliament Street, Nottingham. Or if Burke wants another shy, I will fight him for £150 a side.

“WILLIAM THOMPSON, alias BENDIGO.”

This certainly looked like business, yet the next week we find Caunt declaring “I will make a match with Bendigo for £200, and I will take a sovereign to go to Nottingham, or give Bendigo the same if he will meet me at Lazarus’s house at Sheffield.” This was in July, and shortly after Bendigo writes:—

“To the Editor of ‘Bell’s Life in London.’

“Mr. Editor,—Having sent a letter to Caunt accepting his challenge on his own terms, and not receiving an answer, I wish to put that bounceable gentleman’s intentions to a public test. I am willing to fight him on his own terms, and I will give him the sovereign he requires to pay his expenses in coming to Nottingham to make the match, and let it be as early as possible. As to Deaf Burke, he is but of minor importance to me. I have no objection to give him another chance to regain his lost laurels, and will fight him for his ‘cool hundred,’ as he calls it, providing he or his friends make the first deposit £50, for my friends are not willing to stake less. Should the above not suit either of these aspirants for fistic fame, I again repeat I will fight any man in the world for £200 or £500, barring neither weight, country, nor colour. I am always to be heard of at the ‘Three Crowns,’ Parliament Street, Nottingham.

“WILLIAM THOMPSON, alias BENDIGO.

“August 3rd, 1839.”

Soon after we read:—

“Caunt and Bendigo.—Bendigo went to Nottingham to make the match with Caunt on Saturday week, but the latter could not find more than two sovereigns to put down as a deposit. Caunt, before he indulges in bounce, should reflect that he only disgraces himself and gains nothing by his ‘clap-traps.’ These benefit humbugs must be suppressed.”

No wonder that the much-enduring editor should thus express himself. Nevertheless the “benefit humbug,” like other humbugs, exhibited irrepressible vitality; 1840 wore on, and Caunt, who seemed to prefer a tourney with Brassey or Nick Ward (who had challenged him), did not close with Bendigo. Had there been a real intention, the subjoined should have brought the men together:—

“To the Editor of ‘Bell’s Life in London.’

“Sir,—I agree with you that there is more ‘talk than doing’ among the professors of ‘the art of Self-Defence’ of the present day—more challenges than acceptances—evidently for the purpose of giving to the members of the Ring, for benefits and other interested purposes, fame and character which they do not always possess—I allude particularly to Caunt and Bendigo, ‘the Great Guns of the day.’ Each talks of being backed, but each, in turn, avoids ‘the scratch.’ Now to the test: I am anxious, for the sake of society, that ‘old English Boxing’ should not decline, because I am sure it is the best school for the inculcation of ‘fair play,’ and the suppression of the horrible modern use of the knife—and of this I am prepared to give proof. Bendigo says he will not fight Caunt for less than £200, which sum I presume he can find, or he, too, is carrying on ‘the game of humbug.’ Caunt says he is equally ready to fight Bendigo, but cannot come to his terms. Now to make short work of it—if Caunt can get backed for £100, I will find another £100 for him, and thus come to Bendigo’s terms. Let him communicate with Jem Burn, in whom I have confidence, and the money shall be ready at a moment’s warning. I wish for a fair, manly fight and no trickery; and my greatest pleasure will be to see the ‘best man win.’ In and out of the Ring prize-fighters ought to be friends—it is merely a struggle for supremacy, and this can be decided without personal animosity, foul play, or foul language, all of which most be disgusting to those who look to sustain a great national and, as I think, an honourable game.

“I am, &c.,

“A MEMBER OF THE NEW SPARRING CLUB AT JEM BURN’S.”

Brassey, however, was withdrawn from the controversy by an accident beyond his own control. The magistrates of Salford, determining to suppress pugilism so far as in them lay, indicted Brassey for riot in seconding Sam Pixton in a fight with Jones, of Manchester, and, obtaining a conviction, sentenced him to two months’ incarceration in the borough gaol. He was thus placed hors de combat.

Early in 1840 Bendigo was in London, with his head-quarters at Burn’s, where Nick Ward exhibited with him with the gloves in friendly emulation. The brother of the ex-champion, however, was averse to any closer engagement. Bendigo returned to the provinces, and the next week the public was informed that “Caunt’s money, to be made into a stake of £200, was lying at Tom Spring’s, but nothing has been heard from Bendigo!” The conjunction of circumstances is curious, for in the same week the subjoined paragraph appeared, which records an accident which certainly crippled Bendigo for the rest of his life. Indeed the author, who at this period saw him occasionally, did not consider him well enough to contend in the ring up to the time of his crowning struggle with the gigantic Caunt.

“Accident to Bendigo.—William Thompson, better known by his cognomen of ‘Bendigo,’ has met with an accident which is likely to cripple him for life. On Monday he had been to see the military officers’ steeplechase, near Nottingham, and on his return home he and his companions were cracking their jokes about having a steeplechase among themselves. Having duly arrived nearly opposite the Pindar’s House, on the London Road, about a mile from Nottingham, Bendigo exclaimed, ‘Now, my boys, I’ll show you how to run a steeplechase in a new style, without falling,’ and immediately threw a somersault; he felt, whilst throwing it, that he had hurt his knee, and on alighting be attempted in vain three times to rise from the ground; his companions, thinking for the moment he was joking, laughed heartily, but discovering it was no joke went to his assistance and raised him up, but the poor fellow had no use of his left leg. A gig was sent for immediately, in which he was conveyed to the house of his brother, and Messrs. Wright and Thompson, surgeons, were immediately called in. On examination of the knee we understand they pronounced the injury to the cap to be of so serious a nature that he is likely to be lame for life.

This serious mishap, which befell him on the 23rd of March, 1840, was the result of those “larking” propensities for which Bendy was notorious. It shelved our hero most effectually, leaving the field open to Caunt, Nick Ward, Brassey, Deaf Burke, Tass Parker, and Co., whose several doings will be found in the proper place.

While Bendigo suffers as an im-patient under the hands of the Nottingham doctors for more than two years, we shall, before again raising the curtain, interpose a slight entr’acte in the shape of a little song to an old tune, then in the height of its popularity, “The Fine Old English Gentleman;” of which we opine we have read worse parodies than this, which was often chaunted in the parlour of Tom Spring’s “Castle,” in Holborn, at various meetings of good men and true, the patrons of fair play and of the then flourishing “Pugilistic Association,” whereof Tom was the President, and “the Bishop of Bond-street” the Honorary and Honourable Treasurer.

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH PUGILIST

By the P.L. of the P.R.

I’ll sing a song of days of old now vanish’d like the mist,

And may the fire of “Frosty Face” a modern bard assist

To pay the honours justly due to each Old Pugilist,

Who, not for filthy lucre, but for conquest, clenched his fist,

Like a fine Old English Pugilist,

One of the olden time!

No plans of crossing robbery he ever deigned to hatch,

The honest backers to betray, or simple ones to catch;

But at a moment’s notice always ready for a match,

Whoever was the customer that dar’d him to the scratch,

Like a fine Old English Pugilist,

One of the olden time!

Whate’er his size, whate’er his weight, he didn’t care a pin,

The science of his challenger, or colour of his skin,

But gallantly he went to work, regardless of the tin,

And though not certain of success he did his best to win.

Like a fine Old English Pugilist,

One of the olden time!

Those were the days when Ben the Big and Johnson fought of old,

Mendoza, Humphries, Bristol Pearce, and both the Belchers bold,

That was, I mention it with pride, Pancratia’s age of gold,

When men, like cattle in a fair, were neither bought nor sold,

But shone true British Pugilists,

Men of the olden time!

Then manfully within the ring each boxer kept his ground,

Bestowing wholesale pepper in each well-contested round;

And when the victory was proclaim’d, their brows with conquest crown’d,

All anger, in a foaming pot, was in an instant drown’d,

Like fine Old English Pugilists,

Men of the olden time!

But, ah, those hours flew swiftly by, of boxing annals bright,

And men began to do the thing that wasn’t very right,

And honesty from Pugilists prepar’d to take a flight,

For cross coves manag’d, as they pleas’d, to win or lose a fight,

Unlike brave English Pugilists,

Men of the olden time!

Then censures on the fancy Ring on every hand were rife,

And beaks proclaim’d they’d put an end to Boxiana’s life;

And now, as a more gentle mode of settling points of strife,

We’ve introduc’d, God save the mark! the dagger and the knife;

Oh, for brave English Pugilists,

Men of the olden time!

Now surely it were better far the Ring should thrive again,

And good Old English Boxing should a character maintain,

Than that assassination foul our annals still should stain,

And crimes best suited to the soil of Italy and Spain,

Unlike Old English Pugilism,

Milling of olden time!

In 1842 Bendigo, maugre the advice of the medicos, made his way to London, and, putting in an appearance at a “soirée” at Jem Burn’s, solicited the honour of a glove-bout with Peter Crawley. Bendy’s resuscitation was hailed with delight, and as he declared his readiness to renew a broken-off match with Tass Parker, a spirited patron of the Ring declared that money should be no obstacle. On the Thursday week ensuing, Tass also being in town with his friends for the Derby week, all parties met at Johnny Broome’s, and articles were penned and duly signed. By these it was agreed that the men should meet on Wednesday, the 24th of August, within twenty miles of Wolverton, in the direction of Nottingham, for a stake of £200 a side.

Parker having beaten Harry Preston, the game Tom Britton, of Liverpool, and the powerful John Leechman (Brassey, of Bradford), was now at the pinnacle of his fame. His friends, too, were most confident, as Bendigo’s lameness was but too painfully apparent. Tass offered to “deposit the value of Bendigo’s belt, to be the prize of the victor.” The match went on until June 28th, when, £140 being down, it was announced at the fifth deposit that the bold Bendigo was in custody on a warrant issued by his brother (a respectable tradesman in Nottingham), who was averse to his milling pursuits. The rumour was too true. Bendy was brought before their worships, charged with intending a breach of the peace with one Hazard Parker, and held to bail to keep the peace towards all Her Majesty’s subjects for twelve months, himself in £100, and two sureties of £100 each.

During this interval, too, Ben Caunt had not been idle. He had beaten Brassey on the 27th of October, 1840, after a long, clumsy tussle of 101 rounds in an hour and a half, as may be read in the memoir of Caunt. He had also lost a fight with Nick Ward, by being provoked to a foul blow, and then beaten the same shifty pug. in May, 1841, thereafter departing on a tour to America, after the fashion of other modern champions. “Time and the hour wore on;” Bendy’s knee strengthened, and Big Ben returned from Yankeeshire, bringing with him, from the land of “big things,” the biggest so-called boxer that ever sported buff in the P.R., in the person of Charles Freeman, weighing 18st., and standing 6ft. 10½in. in his stocking feet. Freeman’s brief career will be found in an Appendix to that of his only antagonist William Perry, the Tipton Slasher.

At the close of 1843 Bendigo once again disputed the now established claim of Caunt to the proud title of Champion of England, when Brassey also offered himself to Bendigo’s notice. The Bradford Champion, however, does not seem to have had moneyed backers, and the business hung fire. On the 14th February, 1844, we find the following:—

VALENTINE FROM BENDIGO TO BRASSEY.

Many happy returns of the Spring, bouncing Brassey,

I hope Fortune gives you no cause to complain,

That you’re right as a trivet, determined and saucy,

And ready for mischief with Bendy again.

May I never again take a sip of blue ruin

If I love to see fair English fighting take wing;

’Tis time for the “big ’uns” to up and be doing,

For bantam cocks only show now in the Ring.

Then again for the laurel crown let us be tugging,

May fair play be always our motto and plan!

But Caunt I denounce, and his system of hugging,

A practice more fit for a bear than a man.

As to Freeman, the giant—I don’t mean offending—

His bulk and his weight may astonish the raw,

But when with Bill Perry, the Slasher, contending,

I’m bless’d if he showed any point worth a straw.

Of falsehood I scorn the unclean manufacture,

My luck with good men always forward to try;

And but for my knee-pan’s unfortunate fracture

With the Yankee I wouldn’t have shrunk from a shy.

Then, Brassey, come out if you truly mean milling,

And drop down your dust for a match if you dare,

And you’ll find Billy Bendigo ready and willing

To give you a sample of Nottingham ware.

I’m anxious, bold Brassey, again to be busy,

And face a good fellow, true-hearted and tough;

And I’d cheerfully draw from my cly my last tizzy

To see two game pugilists stripp’d to the buff.

But here I conclude, for my time’s up for starting,

And conscience is giving a sort of a shove;

But I just drop a hint, my good fellow, at parting,—

If you can’t raise the needful, I’ll fight you for love.

Brassey did not make a deposit, and Caunt, who was now settled at the “Coach and Horses,” St. Martin’s Lane, seemed rather given to benefits and bounce than boxing.

The rest of the year was consumed in correspondence, in which Bendigo demanded the odds offered and then retracted by Caunt, the latter having, ad interim, a row, and ridiculous challenge from Jem Burn, and an equally absurd cartel from a burly publican named Kingston, whose eccentric antics will be noticed in the memoir of Caunt.

The year 1845 was, however, destined to see the eccentric Bendigo and the ponderous Caunt brought together. All doubts and surmises were silenced when articles were signed to the effect that on the 9th of September, 1845, the men were to meet, Bendigo having closed, after innumerable difficulties, with Caunt’s terms of £200 a side and the belt.

At the final deposit, on August 26th, at Tom Spring’s, the Castle Tavern, Holborn, it was officially announced that both men were in splendid condition. Bendigo had trained at Crosby, near Liverpool, under the care of Jem Ward, and Caunt near Hatfield, in Hertfordshire, where he was looked after by his uncle, Ben Butler, and by Jem Turner, the D’Orsay of the Ring, besides being constantly visited by his great friend and patron, the gallant Tom Spring. Caunt, who was now thirty-three years of age, had scaled over 17st. when he went into training, but on the day of the fight was reduced to a pound under 14st., the lightest weight he ever reached in any of his fights. Bendigo, who was three years older, weighed 12st. 1lb., and was also in the pink of condition. When articles were originally signed, on April 17th, it was arranged that the fight should take place half-way between London and Nottingham, but at the final supper this was altered by mutual consent to Newport Pagnel, in Bucks. On the Sunday Bendigo, Merryman, and Jem Ward arrived at Newport Pagnel, which led to an immediate issue of a warrant, and Bendigo’s friends took him out of the town to a neighbouring farmhouse. Caunt turned up in London, at Spring’s, with his uncle, Ben Butler, on the Monday afternoon, in high spirits, though remarkably thin. He had got rid of every ounce of superfluous flesh, and was nothing but bone and sinew. Two hundred of his handkerchiefs were sold, at a guinea each if he won, nothing if he lost. He left by the four o’clock train for Wolverton, from whence he proceeded, with Spring and other friends, to the “Cock” at Stony Stratford. Newport Pagnel was full of the Nottingham division. The “Swan” (Tom Westley’s) and all the other inns were filled to excess. In the evening Spring went to the “Swan” to meet Bendigo’s friends to settle the place. Bendigo wished to fight in Bucks; Spring had seen constables with warrants, and wanted to take them to Oxfordshire, to Lillingston Level, where Deaf Burke and Nick Ward fought in 1840. There was a long disputation, but at last they agreed to toss. Jem Ward, for Bendigo, won, and they chose Bedfordshire. In the morning they again altered their minds, and determined to try Whaddon in Oxfordshire. This ill-judged proceeding necessitated a ten miles’ tramp to Whaddon, where the first ring was pitched. Meanwhile, at the “Cock,” at Stony Stratford, the chief constable told Spring that Whaddon was in Bucks, and that they could not fight in that county. Spring sent off a messenger, but at first the Nottingham roughs would not allow a move to be made; at last they started for another eight miles’ walk to Sutfield Green. At half-past two a second ring was formed, when there were at least 10,000 people present. The Nottingham roughs, who were in great force, made an invasion, and drove all back who would not buy Nottingham tickets. Spring, who had provided tickets for the London men, had not yet arrived. At twenty minutes past three the men entered the ring—Caunt first, attended by Molyneux the Black and Jem Turner as seconds, Butler having charge of the bottles. Bendigo was attended by Nick Ward and Jack Hannan, Jem Ward and Jem Burn. They shook hands, and tossed for choice of corners. Caunt won, and took the higher ground, with his back to the sun. Spring, in compliance with the articles, produced Caunt’s belt, and handed it to Bendigo to show it was the genuine article. He buckled it on in bravado, and laughingly offered to bet Caunt £50 that he would win the fight. Caunt declined; he evidently did not appreciate Bendy’s funniment. The belt was then handed to Jem Ward to await the result. There was another disputation about choice of referee. After various names had been proposed on one side only to be captiously rejected on the other, “t’Auld Squire”—the renowned George Osbaldiston—who had retreated to his carriage to get out of the rush, was agreed to. At first the Squire declined, but being pressed, and it being urged that if he did not consent the match would not come off, he accepted. Bendigo’s colours were blue with white spot—Caunt’s bright orange, with blue border, the following inscription in a garter in centre:—“Caunt and Bendigo, for £200 and the Championship of England, 9th September, 1845.” This was surrounded with the words, “May the best man win!”

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Caunt threw himself into attitude erect and smiling, whilst Bendigo at once began to play round him, dodging and shifting ground in his usual style. Caunt let fly his left, but missed. Bendigo, active on his pins, retreated, and chasséed left and right; at last he crept in closer, then out again, till, watching his opportunity, he got closer, and popped in a sounding smack with his left on Caunt’s right eye. After a few lively capers he succeeded in delivering another crack with his left on Caunt’s cheek, opening the old scar left by Brassey, and drawing first blood, as well as producing an electric effect on Caunt’s optic. (Shouts unlimited from Bendigo’s friends.) Bendy got away laughing, and again played round his man. Caunt got closer, missed an intended slasher with his left, and closed for the fall. Bendy grappled with him, but could not escape, and Caunt, by superior strength, forced him down at the corner.

2.—Caunt up at the call of time, his cheek and eye testifying the effects of the visitations in the last round, Bendy dancing round him, and waiting for an opening. Slight exchanges left and right, Caunt missing his opponent’s head; Bendigo, in retreating to the ropes, slipped down, was up again in a moment, and dashed to his man. Wild exchanges, but no apparent execution; Caunt hit out viciously left and right, missed his kind intentions, and Bendy got down unscathed.

3.—Caunt came up quiet, and determined on annihilation. Bendy again played about him, but did not get near enough for execution. After some wild passes, Caunt missing, Bendigo, on the retreat, was caught in the powerful grasp of Caunt, who threw him across the ropes and fell on him, but no mischief done. (Shouts from the roughs.)

4.—Caunt came up blowing, when Bendigo, after a little dodging, popped in his left under his guard, and got away. Caunt, determined on mischief, followed his man, and at last getting to him let fly left and right, catching Bendy with the left on the mouth slightly, but missing his right. Bendigo finding himself in difficulties got down, falling on the ropes, and grinning facetiously at Goliath the Second, who walked back to his corner.

5.—Caunt, first to lead off, drew on his man, but Bendy retreated, Caunt after him, till he reached the ropes, when Caunt hit out left and right, his blows passing harmlessly over Bendigo’s head. There was a want of precision in Caunt’s hitting not to be accounted for with his supposed science. Bendigo, who stopped rather wildly, got down.

6.—Caunt, first to the call of time, waited with his hands well up, but blowing. We believe he was over-trained, and really distressed thus early in the struggle. Bendy manœuvred to the right and left; Caunt approached him, but he retreated. Caunt let fly left and right, but Bendy ducked his canister, and got down with more caution than gallantry.

7.—Left-handed exchanges on the nobs, but of no moment. Caunt made some desperate lunges left and right, but was too high, and Bendy slipped down.

8.—Bendy, after a few dodges, got within Caunt’s guard with his left, and gave him a pretty prop on the cheek. Caunt missed his return, but, seizing Bendy in his grasp, flung him over the ropes. Here he leaned heavily on him, overbalanced himself, and fell over on his own head, bringing Bendy with him, amidst loud shouts and abusive epithets. Caunt fell at the feet of his friends, Tom Spring and the editor of Bell’s Life, the latter of whom was seated on that side of the ring near the centre stake.

9.—Bendy came up full of glee, and played round his man, watching for his opportunity to plant his left. This at last offered, and catching Caunt on the old wound he ducked his head to avoid the return, and got down.

10.—More sly manœuvring by Bendy, who, after dancing about at arm’s length, stole a march, and caught Caunt a stinging smack with his left on the right cheek, drawing more claret, and giving the big ’un more of the tragedy hue. Caunt instantly closed, gave Bendy the Cornish hug, flung him by main strength, and fell on him.

11.—Bendy pursued his eccentric gyrations round his man, when with the swiftness of lightning he popped in his left on the jaw and right on the body, and fell. Caunt, stung by these visitations, followed him, and dropped on his knees close to his man, but luckily did not touch him, and Bendy was picked up laughing and uninjured; in fact, up to this time he scarce showed the semblance of a hit beyond a slight contusion on the lip and left ear.

12.—Bendigo retreated from Caunt’s vigorous charge right and left, and slipped down, but instantly jumped up and renewed the round. After some wild fighting, but no execution worth recording, Bendy went down in his corner, amidst cries of “Foul!” “Unmanly,” &c.

13.—Caunt, on coming to the scratch, let fly with his left, just grazing the top of Bendigo’s scalp. A sharp rally followed, and counter hits with the left were exchanged, Bendy hitting Caunt with such terrible force on the old spot on the right cheek that he knocked him clean off his legs, thus gaining the first knock-down blow, amidst deafening shouts from the Nottingham roughs. Bendigo’s blow was so powerful that he actually rebounded back against the stakes, and Caunt was picked up almost stunned by the severity of the visitation.

14.—Bendy, elated with his handiwork in the last round, again dashed in with his left, but not being sufficiently quick in his retreat Caunt caught him round the neck with his left and lifted him to the ropes, and there hung on him till, in trying to escape from his grasp, he pulled him forward, threw, and fell heavily on him, amidst the indignant shouts of his opponents.

15.—Bendy came up as lively as a kitten, while Caunt, undismayed, came smiling to the scratch. Caunt plunged in his left and right, but missed; he then seized his man for the throw, but Bendy slipped round, and seizing Caunt by the neck pulled him down.

16.—Bendy tried his left-hand dodge, but missed and retreated. Caunt followed him up to his corner, hitting out right and left, but throwing his hands too high. Caunt grappled for the fall, but Bendy got down, Caunt following suit, and as he sat upon the ground beckoned Bendy to come to him.

17.—Bendy made himself up for mischief, and played round his man for a few seconds, when, getting within distance, he delivered a terrific hit with his left on Caunt’s mouth, and fell. Caunt’s upper lip was completely split by this blow, and the blood flowed from the wound in torrents. (Renewed cheers from the Nottingham division.)

18.—Bendy again came the artful dodge put in his left on Caunt’s mouth, and fell. Caunt pointed at him, but Bendy laughed and nodded.

19.—Bendy, more cautious, kept out Caunt rushed to him, hitting out left and right, but with little effect. Bendy retreated. Caunt caught him on the ropes, and hung on him till he fell. (More shouting and some threats at Caunt.)

20.—Caunt, anxious to be at work, advanced, while Bendy retreated to the ropes, where he hit up with his left, and slipped. Caunt turned his back, and was retiring, when Bendy jumped up, and had another slap at him. Caunt turned round and caught him under his arm as he attempted to escape, lifted him to the ropes, and there held him till he fell, amidst the cries of Bendy’s friends.

21.—Caunt prompt to the call of time, his hands well up, but Bendy again stole a march, popped in his left, and slipped down to avoid a return of the compliment. (Indignant expressions at Bendigo’s shifty way of terminating the rounds.)

22.—Bendy was still free from punishment, and looked as fresh as when he entered the ring, while Caunt, although firm and active on his pins, showed heavy marks of punishment on his frontispiece; his cheek had a gaping wound, his lip cut, and eye and nose evincing the consequence of Bendy’s sly but stinging visitations. Caunt, impatient at Bendy’s out-fighting, rushed to him left and right, but Bendy, unwilling to try the weight of superior metal, slipped down, and Caunt fell over him, but not on him, as his friends anticipated, and as perhaps he intended.

23.—Both fresh. After a little dodging, advancing, and retreating, Bendy again nailed Caunt with his left on his damaged kissing-trap. Caunt caught him a slight nobber on the head with his left, and Bendy got down.

24.—Bendy again played round his man till within distance, when he popped in a heavy blow on the ribs with his left, and got down without a return. There was an immediate cry of “Foul!” and an appeal was made to the referee. He hesitated, amidst tumultuous cries of “Fair! fair!” and allusions to the size of Caunt. The uproar was terrific, and the inner circle was overwhelmed by the roughs from without rushing in to enforce their arguments in favour of Bendy. At last the referee decided “Fair,” and “time” was called.

25.—Nick Ward was here so overcome with his exertions that he was taken out of the ring, and his office was filled by Nobby Clark. The moment time was called, and Bendy reached the scratch, Caunt rushed to him left and right, and after slight and wild exchanges with the left Bendy slipped and got down cunning.

26.—Bendy, after a little hanky-panky manœuvring, popped in his left on Caunt’s mug, and retreated to the corner of the ring. Caunt followed him with so much impetuosity that he hit his hand against the stake. In the close and scramble for the fall, Bendy succeeded in pulling Caunt down, falling with him.

27.—Caunt on his guard, his hands well up. Bendy stepped in, delivered his left on the old spot, and dropped to avoid; Caunt shaking his finger at him as he retired to his corner. Caunt’s right was visibly puffed by its contact with the stake in the previous round.

28.—Caunt attempted to lead off with his left, but Bendy retreated to the ropes, over which Caunt forced him, and as he lay upon him, both still hanging on the lower rope, Bendy hit up with his left. In this position they lay, half in and half out of the ring, till released by their seconds.

29.—Caunt let fly left and right, but he was short, Bendy playing the shifty game. Wild fighting on both sides, till Caunt fell on his knees. Bendy looked at him, lifted his hand to strike, but he prudently withheld the blow, and walked to his corner. (Shouts from the Nottingham “Lambs.”)

30.—A rally, in which both fought wildly, Caunt catching Bendy a crack over the right brow, from which the claret flowed, and Bendy returning the compliment on Caunt’s smeller. In the end Bendy slipped down, and, on rising, a small black patch was placed on the damaged thatch of his peeper.

31.—Bendy resumed his hitting and getting down system, popping in his left on Caunt’s muzzle, and slipping down.

32.—The same game repeated. Spring, indignant, appealed to the referee; and Molyneux, in like manner, called on the umpires for their decision; they disagreed, and Molyneux ran to the referee. The roughs again had their say. A blow was aimed at Spring’s head with a bludgeon, which fortunately only fell on his shoulder. It was a spiteful rap, and he felt the effect of it for some days. The referee declared, however, that he had not seen anything unfair, and Molyneux returned to his man, and brought him to the scratch at the call of time, amidst tremendous confusion, sticks in operation in all directions, and many expressing great dissatisfaction at Bendy’s unfair mode of fighting, and the reluctance of the referee to decide against him.[6]

33.—A short round, in which Bendy retreated, and Caunt, following, caught him at the ropes and threw him over, falling on him.

34.—Bendy again popped in his left, and threw himself down (?) This was repeated in the two succeeding rounds, but Bendy’s friends attributed it to accident, and not design, and there was no adverse decision on the part of the referee, whose position, amidst the tumult that prevailed, was far from enviable. He must have been possessed of no small nerve to have presumed to decide against the arguments that were so significantly shaken in the vicinity of his knowledge-box, and to this must be attributed his reluctance to give a candid opinion. [Partisan writing.—Ed. “Pugilistica.”]

37.—Bendy tried his hit and get-down practice, but Caunt seized him round the neck, threw, and fell over him.

38.—A wild and scrambling rally, in which Bendigo caught it on the nob. After a scramble they fell, Caunt within and Bendigo without the ropes, when each put his tongue out at the other like angry boys.

39.—A slight exchange of hits with the left, when Bendy went down laughing.

40.—Bendy popped in his left on Caunt’s ancient wound, his right on the ribs, and slipped down.

41.—Bendy renewed his left-handed visitation, and was retreating, when Caunt rushed after him, caught him at the ropes, over which he threw him, and fell on him. A blow was here aimed at Caunt’s head by one of the roughs with a bludgeon, but it fell on Bendy’s shoulder.[7]

42.—Exchanges of hits left and right, when Bendy got down.

43.—Bendy manœuvred in his old way, delived a smashing hit with his left on Caunt’s throat, and went down to avoid a return.

44.—Caunt came up fresh, and rushed to the assault, but Bendy got down. Caunt, indignant, jumped over him, but luckily fell on his knees beyond him, without touching him. It was assumed that he meant to jump on him, and an uproarious appeal of “Foul” was made to the referee, which, after much confusion, he decided in the negative, and ordered the men to go on.

45.—Bendy renewed his Merry Andrew curvetings, and tried his left, but Caunt seized him round the neck with his right, and swung him twice round like a cat. Bendy succeeded in getting the lock with his right leg, when Caunt gave him a twist, threw, and fell heavily on him, a little to the derangement of the Nottingham heroes, who shouted vociferously.

46.—Caunt again succeeded in catching Bendy by the neck under his powerful arm, threw, and fell heavily on him, but at the same time came with great force against the ground himself.

47.—Caunt led off with the left, catching Bendy on the forehead. Bendy retreated, hit Caunt as he came in with his left on his distorted phiz, dropped, and looked up in derision. Appeal from this species of generalship seemed now to be idle, and was not repeated. [He slipped through Caunt’s hands, which he was entitled to do.—Ed.]

The succeeding ten rounds were fought in the same style. Little worthy of note occurred; each in turn obtained some trifling advantage in the hitting or failing but neither exhibited any disposition to say enough, although we thought that Bendigo from his repeated falls, began to evince symptoms of fatigue. The confusion round the ring continued most annoying, although, the ropes and stakes were still preserved entire. Many persons, from the pressure of those behind, were completely exhausted, and happy to beat a retreat. For ourselves (Ed. of Bell’s Life) we had repeatedly to bear the weight of some half-dozen neighbours, to which the bodies of both Caunt and Bendigo were occasionally added as they fell over the ropes on us. During all this time the members of the London Ring, with one or two exceptions (Macdonald and Johnny Broome in particular), were perfectly quiescent, and looked on with modest timidity, evidently afraid to interfere with the “club law” of the Nottingham bands, who were regularly organised, and obeyed the signals of their leaders with a discipline worthy of a better cause. [An impartial observation convinced us that Caunt’s partisans quite rivalled those of Bendigo in riotous ruffianism.—Ed. “Pugilistica.”]

58.—Bendigo “jumped Jim Crow” round his man, tipped him a left-handed smeller, and dropped without a return.

59.—Caunt followed Bendy to the corner of the ring, hitting out left and right, but without precision, and certainly without doing execution. Bendy nailed him with his left in the old style, and slipped down, but instantly jumped up to renew the round. Caunt, instead of stopping to fight, considering the round over, ran across the ring to his corner, Bendy after him, till they reached the ropes, and after a confused scramble, in which Bendy used his left and right behind Caunt’s back, both were down, amidst general expressions of distaste at this style of fighting, but loud applause for Bendy.

60.—Caunt no sooner on his legs than to his man, but Bendy escaped his intended compliments left and right, threw in his left on the mouth, and dropped, Caunt falling over him.

61.—One hour and twenty-four minutes had now elapsed, but there were still no symptoms of an approaching termination to the battle; each appeared fresh on his pins and strong; and although Caunt showed awful flesh wounds on his dial, there was nothing to diminish the hopes of his friends(!) Bendy exhibited but a few slight contusions, and although, no doubt, shaken by the falls, and his own repeated prostrations, he appeared as active and leary as ever. Caunt, anxious to be at work, rattled to his man, hitting left and right, but Bendy retired, and fell back across the ropes.

62.—Bendy again on the retreat; Caunt after him, hitting wildly and without precision left and right. Bendy gave him an upper pop with his left, and slipped down. Caunt was retiring, when Bendy jumped up again to renew active operations, but Caunt dropped on his knees, looked up in Bendy’s face, grinning, as much as to say, “Would you?” and Bendy, deeming discretion the better part of valour, contented himself with shaking his fist and retiring to his corner. Spring here remarked that jumping up to hit a man when the round was over, and when he was unprepared, was as much foul as striking a man down, and in this we perfectly concur. [No appeal was made, but the Squire sent to Clarke to caution his man that such conduct was dangerous.—Ed.]

63.—Caunt let fly left and right, but missed his blows. Both slipped down on their knees in the struggle which followed, and laughed at each other. In Caunt’s laugh, from the state of his mug, there was little of the comic.

64.—Bendy renewed his hanky-panky tricks, and trotted round his opponent. Caunt rushed to him, but he retreated to the ropes, hit up, and dropped, but instantly rose again to renew the round. Caunt was with him, but he again got down, falling over the bottom rope; and Caunt narrowly escaped dropping with his knee on a tender part.

65.—Bendy again dropped his left on the sly on Caunt’s damaged phiz, and went down. Caunt fell over him, jumped up, and retired to his corner.

66.—A slight rally, in which wild hits were exchanged, and Bendy received a pop in the mouth, which drew the claret. Bendy dropped on one knee, but, although Caunt might have hit him in this position, he merely drew back his hand and refrained.

67.—Bendy came up cautious, keeping à la distance for a few seconds, when he slyly approached, popped in a tremendous body blow with his left, and dropped, as if from the force of his own delivery, but evidently from a desire to avoid the return. Caunt winced under the effect of this hit, and went to his corner.

68.—Caunt quickly advanced to his work, but Bendy retreated to the corner, waited for him, popped in a slight facer, and, in a wild scramble, got down.

69.—Bendy threw in another heavy body blow with his left, and was going down, when Caunt, with great adroitness, caught him round the neck with his left arm, lifted him completely off the ground, and, holding him for a few seconds, fell heavily on him.

70–73.—Scrambling rounds, in which wild exchanges took place, and Bendy slipped down as usual to avoid punishment.

74.—Caunt to the charge, and Bendy on the retreat to the corner, where he succeeded in flinging in his left with terrific force on Caunt’s damaged cheek, and dropped.

75.—Bendy again on the retreat, till he came to the ropes, over which he was forced, Caunt on him.

76.—Caunt planted his left on Bendy’s pimple, and he slipped down.

77.—A scrambling round, in which both hit wildly and without effect. Caunt in vain tried to nail his man with his right; he was always too high, and Bendy went down. The uproar without the ring was tremendous, and whips and sticks were indiscriminately applied.

78.—Bendy, after some dodging, delivered his right heavily on Caunt’s body, and got down. It was a fearful smack.

79.—Caunt led off with his left; Bendy ducked to avoid; and in the close both were down. Bendy was too cunning to allow his opponent the chance of the throw.

80.—Bendy made his favourite sly hit with his left on Caunt’s smeller, and slipped down without the account being balanced. “Time” was very inaccurately kept, a minute, instead of half that time, being frequently allowed. [The blame was alternately in each corner; the seconds continuing their attentions to their men, heedless of the call of the holder of the watch.—Ed.]

81.—Bendy again displayed symptoms of fatigue, and was tenderly nursed. On coming to the scratch, however, he planted his left on Caunt’s carcase, and slipped down.

82.—Caunt led off. Bendy retreated to the ropes, and fell backwards stopping, but instantly jumped up to recommence hostilities, when Caunt literally ran away across the ring, with his head down, Bendigo after him, hitting him on the back of his neck. At length Caunt reached his corner, and in the scramble which followed, and in which Caunt seemed to have lost his presence of mind, both went down, amidst contemptuous shouts at the imputed pusillanimity of the Champion.

83.—Bendy, on the retreat, hit up; Caunt returned the compliment on Bendy’s mouth with his left, and on Bendy attempting to get down he caught him round the neck with undiminished strength, pulled him up, threw him over, and fell heavily on him.

84.—Bendy, on being lifted on his second’s knee, showed blood from the mouth, and was certainly shaken by the last fall; still he came up boldly, but cautiously. Caunt rattled to him left and right, but he retreated towards the stake, which Caunt caught with his right as he let fly at him, and Bendy slipped down, receiving a body tap as he fell.

85.—Caunt rushed to his man, but Bendy, on his attempting to close, got down, unwilling to risk another heavy fall. He was obviously getting fatigued from his exertions and the excessive heat of the sun.

The uproar was now greater than ever; the referee was driven into the ring,[8] and the roaring and bawling in favour of Bendigo and in contempt of Caunt were beyond description. We [Ed. Bell’s Life] were overwhelmed again and again, and were with difficulty extracted from a pyramid of our fellow-men by the welcome aid of Jack Macdonald, our togs torn, and our tile quite shocking. The exertions of Jem Ward and others enabled them to restore the referee to his position, but he was evidently in a twitter, and the whips and sticks often reached within an inch of his “castor,” while they fell heavily on the nobs of some of his neighbours. Several “Corinthians,” who endeavoured to brave the storm, were involved in the general mêlée, and had sufficient reason to be disgusted with the conduct of the parties towards whom they are always disposed to vouchsafe their patronage, and who, as we have already said, with few exceptions, looked on inactive. [These observations are coloured, and form part of the “manipulation” undergone by the “report,” as revised under the suggestions and supervision of the Caunt and Spring party. The ruin of their confident hopes was impending.—Ed.]

86.—The Nottingham hero came up nothing daunted, but with an evident determination to continue to play the old soldier. Caunt, as usual, evinced a desire to get to his opponent, but the latter jumped away, and waiting his opportunity threw in his left heavily on the big’un’s eye, and, in escaping from the retort, slipped down.

87.—Caunt, although so repeatedly hit, came up as fresh and strong as ever (?) He was incapable, however, of parrying the cunning dodges of Bendy, who again gave him a stinging rap on the cheek, and, staggering back, fell, amidst cries of “Foul,” and appeals from Caunt’s friends to the referee; but in the din which prevailed no decision was obtained. [They were both fencing for “time,” and told by the Squire to “go on.”—Ed. “Pugilistica.”]

88.—Two hours had now elapsed, and still there was no apparent approximation towards a termination of the combat, while the confusion which prevailed round the ring prevented anything like a dispassionate criticism of the operations within. Bendy came up slowly, while Caunt was evidently disposed to annihilate him, as indeed his formidable fists induced every one to believe he would have done long before, but Bendy prudently kept out of distance until a slight opening in the guard of Caunt enabled him to jump in and deliver his left twice in succession, on effecting which he slipped down, and looked up with a triumphant leer at the mystified Champion.

89.—Bendy again made himself up for mischief, and, cleverly avoiding Caunt’s attempt to reach him left and right, delivered a heavy hit with his right on the Champion’s ribs, which was distinctly heard amidst the row; after which he dropped, and Caunt retired to the corner.

90.—A close, and struggle for the fall, which Caunt easily obtained, falling heavily on his adversary, and his knee again happily escaped pressure on a vital part. From Bendy’s shifty tactics it was impossible for Caunt to avoid falling as he did. It, however, led to a fresh appeal by Johnny Hannan, on the part of Bendigo, and a contradiction by Molyneux on the part of Caunt. The umpires disagreed, and the question having been put to the referee, amidst a horrible outcry raised by both parties, he decided “Fair,” declaring that there was nothing intentional on the part of Caunt.

91.—A scrambling round. A close, in which, after having delivered his left, Bendy contrived to get down, amidst fresh cries of “Foul,” “Fair.”

92.—Exchanges of hits with the left, when Bendy, stooping to avoid the repetition of Caunt’s blow, as he was going down struck Caunt below the waistband and near the bottom of his stomach. Bendy fell on his back at the moment, while Caunt dropped his hands upon the place affected, and fell as if in great pain. An indescribable scene of turmoil ensued; shouts of “Foul” and “Fair” escaped from “a thousand tongues—a thousand pair of iron lungs,” many evidently influenced by their desires and not their convictions. There is no doubt that the blow, according to the rules of the Ring, was foul; but that it was intentional we cannot say, as it was struck when Bendy was in the act of falling. At last the umpires, disagreeing, made the customary appeal to the referee, who, almost deafened by the roaring of the multitude, finally said he had not seen the blow, and consequently could not pronounce it foul.[9] The seconds immediately returned to their principals, and the latter, time being called, commenced the

93rd and last round.—The men were quickly at the scratch, and Caunt commenced operating left and right, catching Bendy slightly on the forehead. Bendigo was forced back upon the ropes almost in a recumbent position, but got up and was again knocked down, and Caunt turned from him, considering the round had concluded. Bendy, however, awake to every chance of administering punishment, jumped up as he had done before, and rushing after Caunt, who was half turned from him, was about to let fly, when Caunt dropped on his nether end, evidently disinclined to renew or continue that round.[10] And now a final, and, as it turned out, a decisive appeal was made to the referee (not by the umpires, but by Jem Ward, Hannan, and others), who, with very little hesitation, pronounced the fatal word “Foul,” declaring that he considered Caunt had deliberately violated the rules of the Ring by going down without a blow, and had therefore lost the fight. This verdict was hailed with the loudest vociferations by the roughs, and Bendy, without further delay, was borne off the scene of his unexpected triumph by his partisans, and carried to his carriage amidst reiterated acclamations. So sudden was this issue to the affair that thousands were for some time unable to discover who was the real victor, many imagining that the foul blow in the previous round had led to the decision being against Bendigo. It was only by those immediately contiguous to the ring that the true state of the case was known; and the mortification and disappointment of the friends of Caunt, who stood up immediately afterwards to renew the fight, were beyond description. Caunt himself, as well as Spring and his seconds, was incredulous as to the result, but personal application to the referee, who had escaped from the rabble, left no doubt on the subject. He declared “he had seen Caunt go down without a blow, and that upon his conviction of the unfairness of such conduct, he had pronounced against him.” Spring remarked that there had been clearly an exchange of blows; that to all appearance the round had been finished; and that when Caunt went down he did so from a determination not to be taken by surprise or to renew the struggle till “time” was again called. The referee said, in answer, he was not aware of this fact, nor had such a representation been made to him. He judged from what he saw in the overwhelming difficulties in which he was placed, and he had given his decision accordingly. He had been chosen referee by both parties, and he had accepted the office against his own inclination. In discharging his duty he had done so impartially to the best of his abilities, and certainly had no bias in favour of one man or the other. What he had said could not now be recalled, and therefore the business was at an end. We must here repeat that the umpires were not consulted, nor did they express any difference of opinion. It was the duty of the referee to have withheld his decision till properly appealed to, not by the interested partisans, but by the appointed officials, who were on the other side of the ring from him, and could hold no immediate communication with him. He ought to have been placed between those persons. He was clearly bullied and hurried into a premature judgment. Had he been allowed to reflect, we are persuaded he would have hesitated in pronouncing a fiat which the state of Bendigo rendered almost indispensable to his success.

The time occupied by “the battle,” such as it was, according to our watch, when we could venture to have a peep at it, was two hours and ten minutes. We do not intend to speak to a minute, nor is a minute more or less important on this occasion, few bets having been made on “time,” and those certainly not having reference to so long a period as that recorded. We heard that long odds were taken that Caunt won in half an hour, and others that Bendy would not be licked, if at all, in one hour, and these are of course settled by the issue of the fight, as well as the first blood and first knock-down blow, both of which were properly booked to Bendy. On Bendy reaching his carriage, we are informed he was dreadfully exhausted from the repetition of heavy falls to which he had been exposed, as well as his own continued exertions under a broiling sun; but his punishment being of comparatively a trifling description, he soon recovered on the application of proper restoratives. The only perceptible marks of the visitations of Caunt to his cranium were a cut over his right eye, a few contusions of the cheek, mouth, scalp, and forehead, and a little enlargement of his auricular organ. He was quickly conveyed from the ground to his “quarters,” both he and his friends highly elated at the result of their operations. Caunt, on quitting the arena, although displaying convincing marks of the severity with which his opponent could use his mawleys, was strong on his legs, but dreadfully mortified at having been thus suddenly stripped of his laurels, and deprived of the proud distinction which he had so long held. Spring, who had throughout acted as his fidus Achates, was not less mentally depressed; he was “dead beat,” not only from his incessant exertions to procure “fair play” throughout the fight and the cowardly assaults to which he was exposed, but from a perfect conviction that the decision against his man was not only premature, but utterly opposed to the rules of the Ring. He lost no time in returning with Caunt to the Cock, at Stony Stratford, and the great event of the day having been concluded, the immense multitude followed suit. The scenes exhibited on the road home were of the most extraordinary description. Every house of entertainment was besieged, and the call for swizzle so continuous that many of the best-filled cellars were exhausted, and even water at last became an acceptable luxury to those who never pretended to be patrons of the hydropathic system. We have neither time nor space however to dwell on these vicissitudes, and shall proceed at once to offer such general observations as the events of the day seem to warrant.

Remarks.—Upon the character of “the Great Fight for the Championship of England,” we have no doubt our readers have formed their own opinions. During the last thirty years it has been our fate to witness almost every important battle in the P.R., but we confess, although we have occasionally had to record transactions of the most discreditable description, and to administer castigation to wrong-doers in no measured terms, the proceedings on Tuesday far exceed in enormity anything we had before witnessed.

With regard to the pretensions of the two men who took so prominent a part in the day’s proceedings, few remarks are necessary. Caunt, although a big man, and possessed of great physical strength, does not possess the attributes of an accomplished boxer. He is deficient in science, and wants the art of using the gifts of nature with that tact and precision which are calculated to ensure success. There was a wildness and indecision in his deliveries which prevented his doing execution, and the major part of his blows either flew over Bendigo’s head or were short or wide of their destination. Had he been steady and self-possessed, and hitting at points, this would not have been the case, and did he understand the perfect art of self-defence, four-fifths of the punishment he received might have been avoided; but he left himself open to attack, and thus his opponent was enabled to plant on him with stinging severity. With a man of his own bulk the case might have been different; and perhaps there are few if any of the present day who would prove superior to him in fair fighting.

Our own opinion of the fight may be gathered from the few brief notes we have bracketed in the report. The immense amount of assertion and rejoinder which filled the sporting papers for weeks was “flat, stale and unprofitable.” The stakeholder being served with legal notice to return the stakes, the referee (George Osbaldiston, Esq.) wrote thus to that gentleman:—

“To the Editor of ‘Bell’s Life in London.’

“Sir,—An appeal having been made to me, as referee, by Mr. Spring, to reverse my decision in the late fight between Bendigo and Caunt, on grounds unworthy of my consideration, I request you will confirm that decision by paying over the stakes to Bendigo, who, in my opinion, is justly entitled to them. It was with the greatest reluctance, and at the particular request of my friends and the unanimous solicitations of the backers of the men, that I accepted the office; but I shall always consider it one of the greatest acts of folly I ever was guilty of in my life. In discharging my duty I endeavoured to do justice to the contending parties to the best of my abilities and judgment; and, arriving at the conclusion I did, and now confirm, I was actuated only by a complete conviction of the justness of my decision, and not by the intimidation of the roughs, as stated by Mr. Spring in his letter.” After some further remarks in reply to Spring, the referee goes on to say:—“Had I been under the intimidation of the ‘roughs’ I had several opportunities of putting an end to the fight before the conclusion by foul acts on the part of Caunt. A noble lord, and several gentlemen who stood close by me during the whole fight, can corroborate this statement. I most positively deny that I stated to any one that a man going down without a blow, after he himself had treacherously delivered blows, was fair. In no one instance, in my judgment, did Bendigo break the laws of fair fighting. I must also deny, in the most positive manner, that I ever stated to any person that I did not see the last round. I saw every round distinctly and clearly, and when Caunt came up the last round he had evidently not recovered from the 92nd. After the men were in position Bendigo very soon commenced operations, and Caunt turned round directly and skulked away, with his back to Bendigo, and sat down on his nether end. He never knocked Bendigo down once in the fight, nor ever got him against the ropes in the last round. In my opinion Caunt got away as soon as he could from Bendigo, fell without a blow to avoid being hit out of time, and fairly lost the fight.

“I am, your obedient servant,

“THE OLD SQUIRE.

“Doncaster, Sept. 18th, 1845.”

In 1849 the Championship was certainly at a low ebb. Con Parker, a big brother of Tass, so it was publicly said, challenged the distinction, after beating Jem Bailey in a scrambling fight in February of that year, and received a forfeit from the Tipton Slasher in September. He was a great, hulking pretender, of 6ft. high, and about 13st., but his pretensions were quickly snuffed out by Tass Parker (weight 11st. 8lb.), who showed at Frimley Green, on November 26th, in 27 rounds, that Master Con had no points of a fighting man about him. Con went to America, and died soon after suddenly. As Tass declined to call himself Champion, there was literally no Champion at all. In this interregnum, at the beginning of 1850, the bold Bendigo called upon the editor of Bell’s Life, and declared that sooner than the title should be so knocked about he would once more do battle for the honour of the Ring. He then left £10 with the editor as an earnest that he was ready to meet any man in England, for £200 a side, half-way between home and home. At the same time it was stated that Bendy and Caunt had met, shaken hands, and buried the past in oblivion. Caunt had undertaken to stand a portion of Bendy’s battle-money, fight whom he might, and Bendy, to prove his sincerity, had presented Caunt with the belt with which he had been girded by Jem Ward after his defeat of the Deaf ’un. The Nottingham challenge was not long unanswered. Caunt and Bendigo, the new Orestes and Pylades, took, three weeks later—namely, February 4th, 1850—a joint benefit at the National Baths, Westminster Road.

Now, Johnny Broome had, ad interim, stated publicly that he had an unknown whom he was ready to back against Bendy for his own sum. Accordingly, after a friendly glove-bout with Harry Broome, Tom Paddock came forward, and announcing himself as Johnny’s “Unknown,” declared his readiness to post, and make a match with Bendy for £200 a side. Peter Crawley responded, and £30 was staked, the next meeting to take place at Peter’s house, the “Queen’s Head and French Horn,” Smithfield, on the next Tuesday. This merely produced a stormy meeting upon details, deposits, and a stakeholder, and a further adjournment to another night, to meet at Jem Burn’s. Here the matter was finally adjusted, and accordingly the men met on the 5th of June, 1850.

It was much to Bendigo’s credit that on this occasion he took unusual pains with his training, and came to the post in prime fettle, looking, as a friend said, “fresh as a four-year-old,” though verging on his fortieth year. When we saw him we felt some misgiving about the stability of his damaged knee; he walked unmistakably lame, and the whole left side was evidently lower than the right.

The articles provided that the fight should take place, as nearly as possible, half-way between London and Nottingham—the stakeholder to name the place. The recollection of former events in which Bendy had been concerned led to some difficulty in making a selection, and after much consideration it was determined that Mildenhall Road Station, in the county of Suffolk, should be the fixture, that place being, by road, rather nearer to Nottingham than to London; but, as it turned out, the travelling by rail gave the advantage to the London party—the Nottingham folks having to make three changes before they reached the ground, while the Londoners proceeded direct.

Due notice of the place was given to the parties interested on the Tuesday week before the mill, and they made such arrangements as best suited them. A special train was announced to start from Shoreditch Station at precisely eight o’clock on the morning of fighting. It was resolved only to have first and second class carriages, and that the fares should be £2 and £1 respectively for conveyance “there and back.” Third-class carriages were rejected to prevent the obtrusion of persons whose presence is invariably productive of disorder. Public notice was given of this arrangement, and on the morning in question, the weather being in every way desirable, the arrival, in rapid succession, of cabs, &c. in which an unusual number of Corinthians were perceptible, evinced the spirit that was abroad.

We must now turn to Bendigo. It would seem that during the previous week his Nottingham friends had come in great numbers to visit him at his training quarters, and being of the rough class, and not very particular when out for a spree, they contrived to create so much prejudice in the minds of the quiet and easy folk of the neighbourhood, that an application was made for a warrant to apprehend Bendigo on his way to the battle-field, and this warrant was placed in the hands of a constable for execution. Bendigo had previously shifted his quarters, and taken up his abode at the house of a staunch friend, whence, on Monday, he proceeded to a station eight miles from Nottingham, intending thence to depart for the scene of action. Here he was recognised by a “blue,” and an attempt was made to take him into custody. Bendy, however, being on the alert, broke from the grasp of the Philistines, and rushed through the house in which he was to a back yard, locking the door as he retreated. He then scrambled over some pig-sties, reached the open country, and by a circuitous route gained the main road, where a fly followed, picked him up, and conveyed him on his course. Police were mounted as quickly as possible, but too late to overtake the fugitive, who reached Newark, posted on to Stamford, where he slept, and on Tuesday evening reached in safety the Railway Tavern at Mildenhall, where he took up his quarters for the night, thus safely evading the trap which had been laid for his detention; and here he was found, surrounded by a good many friends, on the arrival of the metropolitan division.

An admirable inner and outer ring were formed on a spot about a quarter of a mile from the station, and few meetings had taken place in modern times at which there were so many persons of rank and consideration assembled. The total number of spectators was under 2,000, and the partisans of the men were pretty evenly balanced.

Soon after twelve o’clock, Paddock, who had been reposing under some shady trees, approached the scene of action, and, flinging his tile into the ring, was received with loud applause. It was nearly one o’clock before Bendy put in an appearance. He seemed in perfect good humour, but exhibited none of those antics by which his early career was distinguished. He was quiet and easy in his deportment, and submitted himself to the guidance of Jemmy the Black and Jack Hannan. Paddock was escorted into the arena by Solid Coates and Macdonald. There was a grim smile upon his countenance. He approached Bendy, and they shook hands with apparent cordiality. Bendy pulled a roll of bank notes from his pocket, as if intending to challenge his opponent to make a bet, but this Paddock declined. The toss for choice of corners was won by Bendy, and to the surprise of many he selected that in which he had to stare old Sol in the face; and perhaps his solar majesty never put forth a more glowing phiz, for in truth it was “phizzing” hot throughout the day, and the shades of umbrellas were sought for the protection of both men, who seated themselves on the ground in their respective corners, while the usual discussion arose concerning the selection of a referee. This knotty point led to a variety of difficulties. Several persons, noblemen and gentlemen, were suggested and rejected, and at last serious apprehensions were entertained that there would be no fight. Finally, the representative of Bell’s Life, who had twice refused the office, was induced, rather than spoil sport, to waive his own feelings on the subject, and to undertake a duly as unpleasant as it proved to be dangerous.

The men then commenced their toilettes. They fought in sparrow-bills instead of the objectionable spikes. On being completely peeled, their condition and physical pretensions were open for general criticism. Bendigo appeared extremely well in health, but thinner than usual, his weight not exceeding 11st. 9½lb., being 2lb. less than when he fought Caunt. His face also looked thinner, and, it could not be denied, betrayed the advance of time, and although not an old man, when compared with Paddock he certainly might be pronounced a veteran warrior. He was very quiet, and evidently foresaw that he had his work to do—work which he resolved to perform for the last time with as much acuteness as his experience could suggest. Paddock looked as fresh and fit as his best friends could desire. His face presented a glow of florid health, and there was nothing superfluous about his frame. Immediately beneath his drawers was a strengthening plaister, which seemed to cover his loins. He stood much taller than Bendigo, over whom his length of reach appeared to give him a decided advantage. Regarding the general appearance of the two men, the current seemed strongly to run in favour of youth; but, notwithstanding this apparent discrepancy, two to one was offered on Bendigo. The customary overtures having been adjusted, time was called, and the men appeared at the scratch.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—At twenty minutes to two the men were in position, Bendigo right foot foremost, with his arms close to his chest, and waiting for the attack. Paddock, on the contrary, had both arms stretched out before him, evidently, to our judgment, too much so to admit of heavy delivery. He made two or three steps forward, as if to commence the attack, but Bendy stepped back. Paddock exhibited great anxiety to get to work. Bendigo shifted his ground and got away. They played round each other in this way for a second or two, when Paddock came to a standstill, crossed his arms on his breast, and looked thoughtfully at the “old’un.” At last Paddock commenced his long-armed operations, and both flung out their feelers left and right, but without getting home. They fought wildly, and missed their blows. In the close Paddock was down, Bendy on him; but the trifling taps which reached their persons would not have ruffled the wing of a butterfly.

2.—Paddock quick to the scratch, impatient to get to work; and slight taps were exchanged, Bendy on Paddock’s body, and Paddock returning the compliment with his right. It was a scrambling affair, and the round ended in Bendigo getting down.

3.—Paddock again rushed to the charge with more impatience than judgment, popped in a slight slap with his right on Bendy’s nut, and was following up his tactics, when Bendy pirouetted round. Paddock pursued him with resolution, and as he was on the retreat let fly with his right, which, catching Bendy on the ribs, tumbled him down, amidst the cheers of the Redditch representatives. (First knock-down for Paddock.)

4.—No sooner was “time” called than Paddock rushed to the scratch, his arms still too much in advance. Bendigo adopted the dodging system, retreating from his man, and got away. Paddock, however, would not be denied, hit out wildly left and right, Bendigo covering his head with both arms, and again turning round on the pirouetting principle. Paddock fought fast and wild, but without precision. Bendigo, equally abroad, hit out twice, but missed his destination, and in the close went down.

5.—Paddock up and at it still, but without the judgment of a good tactician. He missed left and right, but rushed on with such vigour that Bendigo was again obliged to retreat with a twirling evolution, and in avoiding Paddock’s wild pursuit got down—Paddock pointing at him with his finger with contempt.

6.—Bendy came coolly to the scratch, looking as cunning as an old fox, and prepared for the attack. He had not long to wait, for Paddock, with his usual impetuosity, dashed to his work, Bendy getting away. Paddock followed him up till they reached the ropes, and a hasty rally followed, when Paddock popped in his left and right, the latter on Bendy’s ear. Bendy returned the compliment, hit out left and right, caught Paddock on the left eyebrow, and dropped. First blood was now claimed for Bendy, a slight tinge being perceptible on Paddock’s left eyebrow.

7.—Paddock again as quick as lightning to the scratch, and after some wild but very ineffective exchanges, Bendy went down. As he lay Paddock held his foot above his body, as if intending to scrunch him; but luckily, whatever might have been his wishes, he had discretion enough to resist the momentary impulse.

8.—Paddock no sooner up than at it; Bendy on the retreat, and twirling round to avoid his resolute pursuer. Paddock followed him till they closed at the ropes, over which Bendy fell, Paddock on him.

9.—Paddock again too hastily to business, when, after some wild exchanges, they closed. Paddock grappled his man, and, as he held him in his left arm, chopped his nob with his right, till he slipped down on his nether end.

10.—Paddock pursued his fast tactics, but so wild were the deliveries on both sides that no serious mischief was done; and in the close, in trying for the fall, they were both down, Bendy uppermost.

11.—Paddock hit short with his left; Bendy got away. Paddock would not be denied, delivered his left and right, and closed, when after a severe struggle (Paddock chopping with his right) Bendigo was thrown over the ropes. On getting up blood was perceptible on the left brow of Bendigo; so far, therefore, the punishment was pretty much upon a par.

12.—Paddock impatiently rushed to his man, hit wildly with his left, and closed at the ropes. A short struggle; both down, Bendy undermost.

13.—Paddock, quick to work, gave the “old ’un” no time for reflection, dashed at him left and right, tumbled him over the ropes, and fell on him. The youth and vigour of Paddock up to this time seemed to have put all Bendy’s memorable tactics at defiance, and although nothing had been done to produce a sensation in the way of punishment on either side, the manner in which Bendy retreated from his opponent, which was so utterly unexpected, produced a strong feeling to his disfavour, and those who had so freely backed him in the first instance, turned round and laid against him; in fact, six to four was offered on Paddock.

14.—The quickness of Paddock’s onslaughts obviously set Bendigo’s bellows in motion; he was, however, ready at the call of “time,” and met the coming charge with determination. Some heavy hits were exchanged, Paddock catching the lion’s share. In the close there was a desperate struggle for the fall, during which Bendigo, to resist the throw, caught Paddock round the face with his right, amidst a cry of “He’s gouging him.” It was asserted that he was endeavouring to force his fingers into his eye, but it was not so. His hand was against Paddock’s bleeding cheek. In the end Bendy was down, Paddock on him. Complaint was made to the referee of the alleged gouging, but the evidence was not sufficient to justify any interruption of the fight on that account.

15.—Paddock was not to be restrained; he rushed across the ring, delivered his left twice, and Bendigo, in getting away, fell.

16.—The fighting on the part of Paddock was still at railway speed, not a little exhausting to both men in the heat of the sun. Bendy fought on the get-away principle, and after some wild exchanges Paddock slipped down, Bendy falling over him.

17.—A determined rally, in which heavy hits were exchanged; Bendy catching it on the nob and nose, from whence the blood trickled. They stood well to their work, Paddock never flinching, and in the end Bendy was down.

18.—Paddock, as resolute as ever, rushed in left and right; his hands were, however, too far from his body, and his execution not effective. Bendigo waited his opportunity, and popped in his right on Paddock’s cheek, on which he made another incision. A scrambling rally followed, which ended in Bendy being down. The fighting was the reverse of scientific, and as wild as at a country fair.

19.—Paddock, so impatient was he to be at work, rose from his second’s knee before time was called. Bendigo dodged from his corner, but in getting away slipped down without a blow. He was evidently playing the old soldier and reserving his strength, while Paddock was putting forth all his energies. The referee called on Paddock’s seconds to check his impetuosity, and to prevent his running over the scratch to meet his man.

20.—Paddock, to time again, dropped on Bendy’s nob with his right twice in succession. Bendy down and threw up his hands; the fighting was too fast for his taste, and the young one would not be denied; still on Bendy’s frontispiece there were few marks of punishment, save on his left ear, which was considerably swollen from Paddock’s occasional pats.

21.—Another ferocious onslaught by Paddock; wild hits were exchanged in Bendy’s corner, where he dropped.

22.—Paddock, as usual, first to work, but Bendy succeeded in planting a left-handed stinger on Paddock’s cheek-bone, drawing more claret. A rally in the corner; both down, and Bendy undermost.

23.—Bendigo waited for Paddock’s charge, and gave him a heavy counter-hit with his left. A rally followed, in which Bendy popped in his right three times in succession on Paddock’s ribs. Paddock was not idle, and, in the close at the ropes, continued hammering away with his right as Bendy fell on the ropes. A cry of “Foul,” but the referee decided “Fair.” Bendy had not reached the ground.

24.—A scrambling close, in which both were down; not much mischief done.

25.—Paddock to business, and after some trifling exchanges Bendy got down on the saving system.

26.—No time lost; Paddock up and ready, when Bendy rattled in and delivered a terrible smasher on Paddock’s smeller, and fell. More claret from Paddock, and cries of “The old ’un’s not beaten yet.”

27.—To business in earnest. Paddock got home slightly with his left. Bendy down in getting away, when Paddock followed him and delivered an upper-cut with his right; and as he was getting away, Bendy jumped up, retorted, and a desperate rally followed, in which heavy hits were exchanged. Bendy down and up again. Bendy ultimately down. Paddock had lost control over his temper, and was wild with excitement. The punishment to both was severe, although not so perceptible on Bendy, from the blows being delivered on the side of his head and ear.

28.—Paddock got home with his left on Bendy’s optic, and Bendy fell.

29.—Bendy no sooner at the scratch than dropped by a delivery from Paddock’s right on the side of the head.

30.—Paddock, more impatient than ever, darted across the ring to his man, hit left and right with his customary wildness, and repeating the dose with his left; Bendy down. The fight had now lasted thirty-five minutes.

31.—Wild fighting; Bendy down to avoid.

32.—The fighting all one way. Paddock rattled in left and right as before, not giving Bendy time to arrive at the scratch, and almost before “time” was called delivering his one, two.

33.—On Bendigo the marks of punishment were not prominent, and he was as cool and quiet as ever. Paddock delivered left and right, and Bendigo fell.

34.—Paddock in left and right, as heretofore. Bendigo, retreating, fell back under the ropes. Paddock dropped on him with his knees. Another appeal of foul rejected, on the plea that Paddock’s fall was unavoidable.

35.—Again did Bendy fall, after Paddock had delivered slightly left and right. This dropping system of Bendy’s created a strong feeling of disgust, but it was clear that he was out-fought, and could not resist the vigorous attacks of his antagonist. He was obviously “biding his time.”

36.—A wild but rattling rally. The men fought and closed at the ropes, over which Bendy hung, Paddock peppering away at him from above. Another appeal of foul, which the referee again rejected, to the danger of his life. Several of the Nottingham division threatened him with their sticks, charging him with gross partiality, and asserting that the fight had been lost over and over again. The referee repeated his caution to Paddock’s friends to restrain his impetuosity and keep his temper.

37.—A lively rally, in which some wild hits, left and right, were exchanged. Both were down. Another appeal was made, on the ground that Paddock had been using turpentine and resin on his hands, contrary to the 27th rule of the Ring, by which it is provided “that the use of resin be deemed foul.” A suspicion existed that Paddock had been provided with resin in a dissolved state before the fight commenced, and a protest was entered against its use. Paddock was brought to the referee for examination, and there could be no doubt that his hands had been smeared with resin, but whether put on before the fight commenced, or after, could not be proved. The referee pronounced that such practice was foul, but, in the absence of direct evidence ordered that his hands should be washed, and that the fight should proceed—much to the renewed distaste or Bendigo’s friends, whose exclamations of partiality were vociferous.

38.—The delay occasioned by this examination gave an opportunity for Bendigo to recover his second wind, and come fresher to the scratch, for on time being called he waited steadily for his man, and on his coming in met him with a tremendous hit with his right on the bridge of the nose, drawing his cork in a most decided manner; the blood came trickling from his proboscis in a purple stream, and, after a short rally, both were down. The last hit made a decided turn in “the affairs of man,” and more especially in the minds of Bendy’s patrons, who cheered lustily.

39.—Bendigo again made himself up for mischief, and after stopping Paddock’s one, two, he delivered three loud sounding whacks on his ribs, which were heard all round the ring. A wild rally followed, and Bendy was down. The betting was now evens; Bendy was taken for choice.

40.—Bendy came up like “a giant refreshed.” He clearly saw he had brought his man to his level. He met him as he came bouncing in, stopped, closed, grappled for the throw, and fell on him. Renewed shouts from the Nottinghamites.

41.—Paddock came up, the claret still dripping from his nose. A wild rally, a close at the ropes, and Bendy down.

42.—Paddock, on getting into his corner, dropped his head as if stung by hits recently received. Still he obeyed the call of “time” as game as a pebble. Bendy, who had also reposed in his corner, got up fresher on his pins, waited for him, again parried his left and right, and once more delivered three heavy body blows with his left, and fell laughing.

43.—Bendy up at the usual summons, and steady. Paddock impetuously rushed to the attack, Bendy meeting him left and right as he came in. Paddock hit away left and right, forced him back on the ropes, and fell on him.

44.—Again, after a short struggle at the ropes, did Paddock fall over Bendy.

45.—A wild rally, in which there were some flying hits exchanged, but Paddock wanted steadiness—he was too impatient—and Bendy played the part of Master Reynard. In the close Paddock was down.

46.—The heat of the weather began to tell on both, and each showed symptoms of fatigue. After a short pause there was a lively rally, in which Paddock received another visitation on the left cheek, and Bendy was down.

47.—A slight rally, in which exchanges were made, Bendy getting home with his left and going down smiling.

48.—Six and seven to four were now offered on Bendy, but no takers. The fight had lasted fifty-seven minutes. Paddock had lost none of his precipitate propensities; he rattled to his man, still fresh on his legs, but wild and passionate. Bendy retreated, Paddock after him, and Bendy, in avoiding, fell. Paddock struck him as he was down, and just brushed the top of his head with his right. Another cry of “Foul,” but the referee considered Paddock could not restrain the blow, and the appeal was once more rejected, and another urgent caution given to Paddock’s seconds to prevent his throwing a chance away.

49, and last.—Bendy waited for his man, but did not wait long. Paddock was with him, and, after an exchange of blows, Bendy fell on the lower rope, which, from being loose, let him down on the ground, and in this position, with his hands up, Paddock deliberately hit his man with his right on the side of the head twice. The last and final appeal was then made, and the referee had now no other option than to pronounce “Foul,” being perfectly satisfied that the man was on the ground when the blow was given.

The decision, of course, produced a great uproar among the losers; and, on Bendigo coming up to have it confirmed, Paddock, who had completely lost his temper, and while he was not offering the slightest resistance, hit him down almost at the feet of the referee. Thus ended this most unsatisfactory battle, with little credit to Bendigo, although strictly in accordance with the 14th rule of the Ring—“That a blow struck when a man is thrown or down shall be deemed foul.” There were those, of course, who repudiated the decision of the referee, and who, perhaps, without the same opportunity of seeing the real state of the men, considered that Bendy was not actually on the ground. There was not the slightest doubt, however, that he was seated on terra firma, with both his arms spread out, and his legs flat; and in this position Paddock, in the absence of that caution which the referee had so repeatedly recommended, foreseeing what would happen, committed the fatal mistake which ended in his chances being put out of court. It was thought by some that he struck foul for the express purpose of terminating his labours.

The confusion which followed was immense. The friends of Paddock were, of course, clamorous, and highly incensed at the disappointment of their hopes. There was, however, no help for it; the decision was strictly in accordance with rule, and although certainly mortifying could not have been otherwise if the laws were to be obeyed, added to which, Paddock had been over and over again cautioned against suffering his temper to get the better of his judgment. It is said that his seconds urged him to go in; this might be the case, but they should also have impresed upon him—if he were capable of guidance—what must be the sure result of intemperance, on which Bendigo and his coadjutors no doubt relied. However provoking it might be for Bendigo to get down to avoid mischief—too much the practice of pugilists of modern times—in Bendigo’s case might be justified by the superior strength and length of his antagonist. It does not follow that the breach of a clear rule is to be overlooked. Indeed, the reader can hardly fail to perceive that the referee was slow to decide against Paddock where he had any excuse for palliating his errors. These were considerations, however, which did not weigh with the angry party; they followed the referee out of the ring with volumes of abuse, and finally one of the gang (Long Charley Smith, of Birmingham) stealthily came behind him, and with a bludgeon dealt him a terrific blow on the back of the head, which for a moment paralysed him. Fortunately Tom Spring, who was behind, and heard the blow, turned round to prevent a repetition of the cowardly assault (narrowly escaping a similar compliment intended for himself by another ruffian), and the assassin fled, although his companions, also well known, remained to applaud the act with the consoling exclamation of “Sarved him right.” The effects of the concussion were serious, and subjected the sufferer to some inconvenience, probably to the triumph of those by whom it was abetted. Mr. Vincent Dowling was not one likely to seek redress for an act which no man, however sunk in degradation, in his moments of cool reflection can approve, and which certainly could receive no sympathy from the lovers of fair play.

Remarks.—Of the character of the fight we cannot speak in terms of praise. Bendigo was clearly overmatched; it was old age opposed to youth, vigour, and determination. In the early rounds of the fight he found his mistake. He could not withstand the impetuous rushes of the young’un, whose tactics were to bear down all the shifty dodges of his opponent, and this he did with a vengeance, and with a precipitation altogether at variance with sound discretion, although, for a time, Bendigo’s knowledge of the art was set at naught by it. The rapidity of the rounds—49 in 59 minutes—will show that there was little time for reflection on either side. Bendy soon discovered that he had “caught a Tartar,” and not, as he imagined, “a yokel.” Physically he was incapable of resisting the avalanche of sinew and bone which poured upon him, and as the only resource he had recourse to the distasteful practice of getting down, when he found destruction inevitable. This all practitioners will pronounce perfectly consistent with rule; as no man can be expected, for the mere gratification of the spectators, to submit to punishment if he can avoid it by legal expedients. The editor of Bell’s Life is candid enough to admit that he had a prejudice against Bendigo. We may add that the reading of his report of Bendigo’s third fight with Caunt fully shows this. For his own sake, and that of his friends, it was Bendigo’s duty to make the most of his knowledge and strength, and to husband whatever powers he possessed. This he did to the best of his ability, and had the worst of the battle, as the betting would show, till Paddock, by his own headstrong career, began to exhibit the effects of his own folly; he was, in fact, reduced to the level of his crafty antagonist, who, the moment he saw his time, came out with his reserve, and the blows which he then administered were of stinging effect, quickly perceptible by the judges, who, foreseeing the storm approaching, turned round to get out of their difficulties, and, from being a non-favourite, Bendigo soon had the call at six to four. The effects of this change were obvious; Paddock became still more wild, and rushed to his work without temper or reflection, although repeatedly called to by the referee to be careful in avoiding that which was easily foreseen, viz., the delivery of a foul blow. More than once was he saved from the consequences of his precipitation by the indulgence of the referee; there were doubts of which he had the benefit, to the personal risk of the referee; and yet at last he fell into the trap which was laid for him, and left to the referee no other option than to pronounce judgment against him—a judgment which was given with reluctance, but, as every impartial witness of the battle must acknowledge, with justice.

With regard to the state of the men, we may mention that Paddock reached London, per special train, the same night, little the worse for wear, with the exception of his swollen mazzard and damaged snout. The same night, however, it was discovered that he had seriously injured his right hand, which he had to submit to surgical inspection, and for some weeks he wore his arm in a sling, and his hand protected by a splint.

Bendigo remained at the “Railway Tavern” till the London trains had departed, and in due course commenced his return, with his friends, to Nottingham, where he arrived the same night by the express train. His success had been telegraphed, and an immense crowd assembled to hail his return—a band of music being prepared to strike up “See the conquering hero comes.” He proceeded to his brother’s house, where, upon examination, his injuries appeared more serious than had been supposed. In a fortnight after the battle Bendigo came to town and received the battle-money at Jem Burn’s, when he declared in a formal manner his intention of finally retiring from the ring. Hereupon the Tipton Slasher, who was present, and who had recovered from his illness, again laid claim to the Championship, offering to meet any man in England for £200 to £300 a side, or to fight Tom Paddock and stake £350. This led to a match for £150 a side, but this ended in a draw. A second match was soon after arranged, which came off on the 17th December, 1850, at Woking, the details of which will be found in the history of the career of the Tipton Slasher.

This time Bendy kept his word, and thenceforward confined his eccentricities to occasional outbursts at Nottingham elections and other occasions of public holidays and festivities. In some of these escapades he afforded considerable amusement to the public, and employment to the pens of provincial reporters, by the mother wit of his defence, or the ludicrous aspect he imparted to the results of his fistic or gymnastic evolutions. After some solemn promises of amendment made to their worships, and a pledge to Father Mathew (he was never a sot), we heard of Bendy’s “conversion,” and of his appearance in the white choker (he always wore the straight hair) of a dissenting preacher. On the occasion of a visit to London, in which he was introduced to a congregation of the faithful at the Holborn Circus (turned for the nonce into a conventicle), a good story is told of “a keen encounter of the wits” between the ex-pugilist and a noble lord who met the preacher in a West-end thoroughfare. After a mutual stare of surprised recognition, his lordship inquired, glancing at Bendy’s parsonic “get-up,” what might be his “little game” now. As befitted his new vocation, the solemn reply was, “Truly, my lord, I am now fighting Satan—and behold the victory shall be mine.” “I hope so, Bendy,” rejoined his lordship, “but pray fight Beelzebub more fairly than you did Ben Caunt, or I may change my side.”

A final word on the much-disputed nickname of Bendigo. Of course, as people generally invent some plausible meaning or derivation for a word they do not comprehend, we were told (first, I believe, by an Australian paper) that “Bendigo was the name given to an English prizefighter from his bending as he went in to fight. Hence called Bend-I-go.” Prodigious etymologist! We never saw any such bend in Bend-i-go, or any other pugilist, though we have heard of “a Grecian bend” in a lady.

William Thompson was, as we have already noted, one of three boys at a birth, and these, among people irreverently familiar with the use of Scripture names, were called (though not at the baptismal font), Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. A curious confirmation of this is now before us in our hero’s first challenge, in Bell’s Life, in 1835, wherein he styles himself “Abednego, of Nottingham.” Yet ever afterwards that journal prints the popular vernacular corruption of “Bendigo.” In this matter of Abednego do we not find—

The breath of chance, the bubbles of the present,

Fraught with no meaning to the duller sense,

Foreshow and shape our dark and unknown future?

The Abednego of Nottingham, who nearly half a century ago was “ready to meet any 12st. man,” is now, in 1880, “articled” to floor the “Prince of Darkness” himself, who—we have Shakespeare’s word for it—is every inch “a gentleman.”

Thus far had we penned our memoir of the eccentric pugilistic preacher, when an annonce in the London journals informed the public, that on Monday, the 23rd of August, William Thompson (alias Bendigo) had died at Beeston, near Nottingham, in the 69th year of his age. His death was the result of an accident, he having fallen downstairs at his own house, and fractured three of his ribs, a bony splinter perforating the lung. Poor Bendy, as we have already stated, was always fond of acrobatic tricks. A severe accident some years since while playing at quoits, a broken knee-cap, which permanently shortened his right leg, and, subsequently, a serious injury to his head, while in pursuit of “the contemplative man’s recreation,” bear witness that his talent for knocking a man about extended to his own person. In all probability, but for these untoward mischances, “the Bold Bendigo” might have added another to the many Champions of the P.R. who have exceeded the Psalmist’s limit of “three score years and ten.”

[2] Ponderous Parliamentary blue-books, election petitions, “Reports” of Committees of the House, bear abundant testimony to the frays and feuds of the “Nottingham Lambs,” from the sacking of Clumber and the burning of Nottingham Castle to the street and faction fights of this turbulent town.

[3] “Natura tenacissimi sumus eorum quæ pueri percipimus, ut sapor, quo nova vasa imbuuntur, durat,” says the old heathen tutor of Nero.

[4] If Burton, of Leicester, is meant, he was then 11 years old. His first fight was with a native of Swindon, in May, 1845.

[5] Burke’s performance of “The Venetian Statues” was highly popular in America and England.

[6] This is a gratuitous and unjust imputation on a most honourable sportsman. The writer on this eventful day sat on a small form, immediately by the side of the Squire, throughout the whole fight. Caunt was, unless a chance hit or fall had turned the tide, a beaten man thus far.—Ed. “Pugilistica.”

[7] We saw this, but believe it was meant for the man who was hit.—Ed. “Pugilistica.”

[8] There was great confusion, but the referee rose from his seat and went to Bendigo’s corner of his own accord, and without obstruction. The partisans of the men were equally violent.—Ed. “Pugilistica.”

[9] As we made a full note of every round of the fight, the perusal of this in the following Sunday’s paper astounded us.—Ed. “Pugilistica.”

[10] We firmly believe, from his position near the centre stake, on the grass, that the editor of Bell’s Life was unable to see clearly what passed, that he was compelled to trust to others for the actual incidents of these later rounds, and that he was designedly misled.—Ed.

CHAPTER II.

BENJAMIN CAUNT (CHAMPION).
1835–1857.[11]

Benjamin Caunt, like his noted opponent Bendigo, was a native of Nottinghamshire. He was born on the 22nd of March, 1815, at the village of Hucknall Torkard, his parents being tenants of Lord Byron, the poet, a fact of which the huge, unsentimental Ben in after-life was fond of boasting. His father having been engaged in some humble capacity at Newstead, Ben had some traditions of the wayward genius, more or less apocryphal. According to his own account (he was certainly a first-rate shot) his earliest employment was as gamekeeper or watcher; his Nottingham opponents insisted on his having been a “navvy.” His size and strength might well fit him for either occupation, his height being 6ft. 2½in., and his weight 14st. 7lb.

Caunt appears at an early age to have aspired to pugilistic honours, and acquired some local reputation by being victor in a couple of battles, of which, however, we have no reliable details. His first recorded contest is, therefore, his encounter with William Thompson, of Nottingham, on the 21st July, 1835, near Appleby House, Notts, when he had just completed his twentieth year, wherein he was defeated by the greater experience, shifty tactics, and superior boxing skill of the afterwards famous Bendigo. (See Bendigo, Chap. I., page 6, ante.)

Caunt’s next appearance within the ropes was attended with better fortune. On the 17th August, 1837, he met and defeated a local celebrity, William Butler, at Stoneyford, Notts, in fourteen rounds, for a stake of £20 a side. In this battle his opponent, a 12-stone man, was beaten by weight, strength, and resolute, though by no means scientific, fighting.

In like manner Boneford, a big one, was polished off in six rounds by “Young Ben,” at Sunrise Hill, Notts, in November of the same year.

In the interval his former opponent had been rapidly rising in fistic fame. He had defeated Brassey, of Bradford (May 24th, 1836), Young Langan, of Liverpool (January 24th, 1837), and Bill Looney, another big one (June 13th, 1837).

These exploits could not fail to attract public attention, and the patrons of the P. R. were anxious to bring the antagonists together once again, an anxiety fully shared by Caunt and Bendigo themselves.

“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” so in this case preliminaries were arranged with much greater facility than in after-times. The stakes were posted to £100 on each side, and the day, Monday, April 3rd, 1838, fixed for the encounter, the field of battle to be in the neighbourhood of Doncaster.

BENJAMIN CAUNT, Champion 1842.

As a record of times and manners, and modes of travel, we shall give a sketch of how and in what company the representative of Bell’s Life in London, then, quâ the Ring, the only sporting “oracle,” was wont to make his way to distant battlefields, ere the steam steed had rendered the mail coach, the “Highflyer,” the “Red Rover,” the “Age,” et hoc genus omne, obsolete as public conveyances:—

As “Sheffield, or within 100 miles thereof,” was the mysterious “fixture” for the big tourney, on Saturday evening, at half-past seven, we threw ourselves into the Glasgow mail, on our route to Doncaster, between which town and Selby we had the “office” the affair was to be decided. Adventures in stage-coaches have often afforded topics for amusing detail; but we confess, from the laborious duties which fall to our lot to perform, private as well as public, every week of our lives, the last day, or rather the last night, of the week is not the one we should select as that most propitious to collect materials (if such materials were wanting) for filling a column in our ensuing publication. In taking our place in the mail, therefore, we looked forward rather to the enjoyment of an occasional snooze than to the hope that we should discover any subject on which to dilate at a future period, whether as to the character of our fellow-travellers, the general appointments of the “drag,” or the peculiarities of the coachmen or guards—of the former we had four, and of the latter two, in the course of the journey—and these we will at once dismiss, by stating, at the outset, that they did their duty admirably—taking care, as “in duty bound,” to seek the usual mark of approbation by farewell hints in the common-place terms of “I leave you here, gentlemen”—in other words, “tip” and “go”—a laconic mode of address which by all travellers is well understood, however coolly appreciated when spoken at an open door on a cold frosty night, as that night of Saturday was, and at a moment when you may perhaps have been dreaming of the “joys you left behind you.” Quietness and repose being our first study, we soon placed our hat in the suspending-straps at the top of the mail, and our travelling-cap over head, and then, quietly reclining in the corner with our back to the horses, waited for the “start” from the yard of the “Bull and Mouth.” We found one old gentleman had taken his seat before us, who subsequently followed our example in taking the same side of the coach with ourselves, and was not less careful in guarding himself against the chilling influence of a hard frost. A third gentleman soon after joined us, and thus, “trio juncta in uno,” we were whirled round to the Post Office, St. Martin’s-le-Grand, whence we shortly commenced our journey at a slapping pace. On reaching Islington, a fourth passenger, of colossal size, filled up the vacant seat. Few words, if any, were spoken; and the only interruption to the monotony of the night’s travel was the frequent popping out and in of the last-mentioned gentleman to comfort his “inward man” with “drops of brandy,” with which he so perfumed our “leathern convenience” on his return that if we were as sensitive as some Frenchman of whom we have heard (who dined upon the effluvia of the good things he could not otherwise enjoy) we should certainly have been “pretty jolly” before he took his leave of us at peep of day. His departure gave occasion for the first indication that our companions were gifted with the power of speech. Their words were few, and these only had reference to the “spirited” propensities of the gentleman who had just vacated his seat. On this there could be no difference of opinion, and consequently no argument—so that we soon relapsed into the appearance at least of sleep, which we maintained with great perseverance till a brilliant sun shining through the ice-covered windows called forth a remark on the fineness of the morning. This, to our surprise, for we thought ourselves incog., was followed by a remark of recognition from the third gentleman who had entered the coach at the “Bull and Mouth,” and who, alluding to quick travelling, recalled to our mind some feats of this sort in which we had been engaged in the course of a twenty years’ connection with the Press. The ice once broken, conversation commenced, with apparent satisfaction to us all, the venerable gentleman on my right joining, and contributing as well as exacting his proportion of information on all manner of topics—public men and public measures, and the public Press, forming prominent subjects of remark, upon all of which our friend on the right seemed agreeably conversant. We soon discovered that our opposite neighbour was going to Leeds, to and from which town he was a frequent traveller; but respecting the other we could form no opinion. Regarding ourselves our secret had been divulged, and we stood forward the confessed “representative of Bell’s Life in London.” Sporting of various descriptions opened new sources of gossip, and here we found “the unknown” as much at home as ourselves. It came out, in fact, that he had been a breeder of racehorses, and a patron of the Turf for pleasure, but not for profit—that he had been steward at Newmarket, and that, in fact, he knew all the leading Turfites of the age, and was familiar with all the recent important events on the Turf. All this led us to surmise that he was “somebody,” but who, we confess, we did not attempt to speculate. We found him a most pleasant associate, and with that we were content. Upon the subject of our own trip to Doncaster we were silent, for we considered that was “nothing to nobody.” The Ring as connected with our British sports was but slightly alluded to—and against the objections that were made arising out of the late fatal issue of the combat between Swift and Brighton Bill, we argued it was a casualty purely the result of an accident, which might have occurred on any other athletic competition in which no personal animosity existed, and wound up by saying that there was one unanswerable argument even to the opponents of prizefighting, that as by them the principals were invariably considered worthless and deserving of punishment, in becoming the instrument of punishing each other, they were only fulfilling the ends of justice, without the necessity of legal interference. We referred, of course, to the recent painful exhibition of the frequent use of the knife, and the strong remarks which the increasing extent of this treacherous mode of revenge had called from the judges; but upon these points our unknown friend, as we take the liberty of calling him, did not seem disposed to break a lance, and the subject dropped. At last we reached Grantham, where our fellow-travellers forewarned us we should have an excellent breakfast, and certainly one served in better taste or in greater profusion we never enjoyed. Here we met in the same room the Quaker member for Durham (Mr. Pease), on his way to the north, between whom and “the unknown” there was a friendly recognition, but we still made no effort to lift the veil by which he was enshrouded. On again taking our seats in the mail, we were alone with the old gentleman, our Leeds friend having mounted the roof, so that we had it all to ourselves. The chat was as pleasant to us as before—new topics were broached, and the description of the localities through which we passed—the “Dukery” (a sort of concentration of ducal seats), &c.—afforded us both amusement and information. Now, for the first time, when conversation flagged, on watching the physiognomy of “the unknown,” we imagined there was a meaning smile on his countenance, which seemed to say, “This fellow does not know to whom he is talking,” and we confess we began to try back and see whether we had said anything to which exception could be taken; and more especially whether anything had dropped from us whence the intent of our journey could be collected; for we began to suspect we had been talking to a beak, who was going down expressly to spoil sport, and who was chuckling within himself at the disappointment we were sure to incur. But all was safe—we had kept our secret, and from anything that had dropped from us everything was as “right as the day;” indeed we dismissed the thought of treachery from our mind, and we are now glad we did so, for it would have been most unjustly adopted; for, although a beak of the first magnitude was in truth before us, we are persuaded he had no sinister feeling towards us or the sport we anticipated. But we have spun our yarn longer than we had intended, and will come to the dénouement at once. We now rattled into the clean and quiet town of Doncaster with the customary flourish of the horn, and reached the “Angel” safe and sound. As we had collected that our companion was going no further, we were satisfied our doubts as to his real character would soon be removed; they were, sooner than we expected; for scarcely had he stepped forth when “My lord!” was congratulated on his safe arrival. My lord! thought we, and following his example, our first effort on stretching our cramped limbs was by a respectful touch of our tile to acknowledge the honour we had enjoyed—an honour, by-the-bye, which confirmed us in the good old maxim, “Where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise.” An answer to a simple question soon put us in possession of the “great secret.” It was to a noble Baron who was about to preside at the Pontefract sessions we were indebted for a pleasing relief to a tedious journey; and while we acknowledge his lordship’s kindness and urbanity, permit us to add that there was not a sentiment uttered by him in our presence to which we do not heartily respond. We are sure it will be gratifying to our milling readers to hear that although the fight which has given occasion for this episode was announced to take place in the district of Pontefract, formerly represented by a milling member,[12] neither our noble companion nor any of his sessional coadjutors offered any interference.

At Doncaster we had our “tout” (we hope he will excuse the use of a professional title), for whom we immediately sent, but he was profoundly ignorant of the all-important place of rendezvous—a fact at which we rejoiced, as it was clear the necessary secrecy had been observed. However quiet at Doncaster, at Sheffield, Nottingham, and all the surrounding towns, even to Manchester and Liverpool, all was bustle and commotion. The Fancy, of all degrees, were on the alert, and the roads, on Sunday evening, leading to Doncaster, were thronged, not only with pedestrians, including no small proportion of “hard-ups,” but with vehicles of every imaginable description—flies, phaetons, gigs, and fish-carts, all laden to dangerous excess, and with a perfect disregard to the qualities of the horses engaged in the service; it seeming to be an admitted principle that on such occasions the tits were not only “warranted sound and free from vice,” but masters of any indefinite proportion of weight. As Doncaster was the grand débouche through which the cavalcade must necessarily pass towards the “fixture,” the innocent inhabitants were soon enlightened respecting the approach of some extraordinary event, the character of which was quickly divulged. The whole night long the rattle of wheels, the pattering of horses’ feet, and the shouts of the anxious throng, proclaimed the interest which was felt, and the wild spirit which was abroad. “The Selby road!” was the cry; and on crossing the Don, at the foot of the town, a short turn to the right threw the nags into the right direction, to the no small gratification of the collector at the turnpike gate, although rather to the discomfiture of many who had the “bobs” to “fork out;” but fights are of rare occurrence nowadays, and for such a luxury expense is no object.

Askerne, or Askeron, a neat little village seven miles from Doncaster, on the Selby road, celebrated for its sulphurous spring—which rises from a fine piece of water called Askerne Pool, and which is much visited by patients afflicted with rheumatism and other diseases—was the first grand halting-place, and here, at the “White Swan,” had Bendigo, under the surveillance of Peter Taylor, of Liverpool, taken up his abode. In and about this house an immense multitude had assembled. Caunt had travelled further afield, and at the “Hawke Arms,” a new inn about two miles further, had pitched his tent, attended by young Molyneaux, the black, his honoured parent, and divers other staunch and sturdy friends. The ring was formed in a field a short distance from the road, about half way between the “Swan” and the “Hawke,” by the Liverpool Commissary, and all looked well. Soon after ten o’clock we made our appearance at the “Swan” in a post-chaise, and drove up to the motley group in front of the house. Our appearance was no doubt suspicious, and from the scowling looks of some of the “hard-ups” with whose private signs we were unacquainted, we were evidently regarded with more fear than affection. At last, recollecting that we had seen Izzy Lazarus down the road, and knowing that he is regularly installed as a publican in Sheffield, we asked for him, in order that he might be our cicerone to his friends. The “poy” soon made his appearance, being a full stone heavier than when he left town, and recognising us, he made known the agreeable intelligence that “’twas t’editor of Bell’s Loife in Lunnon”—an announcement so unexpected, and apparently so agreeable, that when we descended from our trap we verily believe the sudden appearance of a hippopotamus would not have excited more astonishment. “What,” cried one, “is that t’editor of Bell’s Loife? Well, I’m dom’d if I didn’t take un for a gentleman!”—while another declared he “thought it were summat worse, for he took un for a beak, or summat o’ that koind.” Our opinion was not asked as to our notions of these critics; but certainly had we been put to our oath we should have said they were some of the “unwashed from the Hardware Country,” who had come thus far to perform their ablutions in the Pool of Askerne—a ceremony which the dust of the roads, and the hasty manner in which they had performed their toilets preparatory to their “stopping up all night to be up early in the morning,” rendered requisite.

We did not wait to bandy civilities, but proceeded direct to the dormitory of Bendigo, whom we found, like a bacon sandwich, comfortably encased between two slices of flannel, vulgarly called blankets. It was the first time we had the honour of an interview, and we made our salaam with due reverence, while the object of our embassy was duly announced by Peter Taylor. Bendigo appeared uncommonly well, and was in high spirits. He is a rough, handy-looking fellow, very muscular, and as we were informed weighed but 11st. 10lb. His seconds, we were informed, were to be Taylor and Nick Ward, and, judging from his manner, he seemed to have booked victory as already secure. To all present we enjoined the expediency of getting early into the ring, as there was a gentle whisper before we left Doncaster that the constables were on the alert. From the “Swan” we proceeded to the “Hawke,” where our presence was not less a matter of surprise. We soon obtained an introduction to Caunt, who was assuming his fighting costume. He expressed his joy at seeing us, but proceeded sans cérémonie with the adornment of his person. His father sat by his side, and if having a gigantic son is a source of pride he has sufficient to render him doubly so, for the hero of the day proved to be a fine young fellow, two-and-twenty years of age, standing six feet three inches in height, and weighing fifteen stone and a half, apparently active, strong, and full of confidence. Comparing him with Bendigo, it was a camelopard to a nylghau; and yet Bendigo was the favourite at five and six to four—a state of odds which seemed unaccountable when the disparity in size was considered. Having here also urged the wisdom of taking time by the forelock, we returned towards the ring, which by this time was surrounded by a most numerous and heterogeneous crowd, many of whom carried sticks of enormous size, and presented aspects which to eyes polite would have been far from inviting. We knew, however, that “rough cases often cover good cutlery,” and we were not disposed to form our opinion from the outside alone, and more especially when we were aware that many of these hardy ones had toddled the whole way from Sheffield or Nottingham, or places equally distant, to witness the prowess of their favourite champion.

The adage of “the cup and the lip” was in this case, as in many others before, again illustrated, for just as we were about to enter the field some half-dozen horsemen rode up, and in an authoritative manner forbade, not the banns, but the fight, in terms, however, so persuasive and agreeable that it was impossible to be angry: in fact, there were so many doubtful-looking sticks performing evolutions in the air, and so many grim visages watching those evolutions, that their worships (and they proved to be veritable J.P.’s, attended by a posse of constables well mounted) evidently thought that the suaviter in modo was the safest game, and therefore, while they indicated their determination to preserve the peace, they assured the mobocracy they would not do more, provided the combatants “mizzled out of the West Riding.” Some were for bidding defiance to legal authority so weakly supported, but Jem Ward, who now came up, assured their beakships that due respect should be paid to their behests, and with this assurance a mutual feeling of confidence was established.

The men were now in their respective carriages in the main road, waiting for the “office,” when Jem Ward, who assumed the friendly character of director, after consulting with persons well acquainted with the localities, determined that the next move should be to Hatfield, about seven miles distant, and within a short run of Lincolnshire. This he publicly declared to be the final resolve, and, sending a horseman to the Commissary and the men, started forthwith for his destination, to prepare a suitable and unobjectionable spot. He was attended by Young Langan, who carried Bendigo’s fighting-shoes, Hackett, who was to have been Caunt’s second, and a numerous cavalcade of charioteers and horsemen, who reached the “Bell” at Hatfield in quick time. Had his arrangement been adopted all would have gone off well, but unfortunately there were too many masters and too little of system. A new leader sprang up in the person of Grear, the sporting sweep of Selby, who, being perfectly well acquainted with the localities of the country, as well as anxious to take the fight nearer his own quarters, led the way towards Selby, followed by a prodigious crowd, and, from some misunderstanding, by the combatants in their carriages. The new commander gave hopes that the ring might be formed before they reached the Ouse, which divides the West from the East Riding, but although several attempts were made it was no go, for the constables kept up with the vanguard, and the passage across the Ouse became indispensable, many of the company in the rear—horse and foot as well as charioteers—falling off dead beat. Those who were able to keep up their steam, however, crossed the bridge over the Ouse into Selby pell-mell, to the no small astonishment of the inhabitants, and the crowds of market people who were assembled with their wares. One old lady, almost petrified at such a sudden incursion, in great agitation inquired what had brought so many “gentlemen” into the East Riding. “Oh,” said a wag, “there’s a rebellion in the West, and we’re all driven over the river.” “Lord help me,” cried the old lady, “I live at Ricall, and ye’ll eat us all up!”

Grear, undismayed, pushed on, and knowing every inch of the country, did not halt till he got nearly four miles beyond Selby, when he turned down a romantic lane to the left, opposite Skipworth Common, and in a large field a few removes from the main road, near the bank of the river, the ring was, with great labour, formed; and the crowd, which had received fresh accessions from the town of Selby and surrounding country, collected round it. There were but few of the original followers able to reach this distant point, and thousands were thus deprived of the object of their long and wearisome journey, as well as dissatisfied with a move which, had Ward’s directions been obeyed, would have brought them nearer home, with a more certain chance of proceeding to business without interruption.

“What cannot be cured must be endured;” and Ward, as well as his unfortunate companions, had only to console themselves with the cold consolation of having been made “April fools.” Among others to whom the change was productive of unforeseen enjoyment were several members of the Badsworth Hunt, who came up in scarlet, headed by Captain B., one of the right sort, who backed Bendigo at six to four, with a well-known sporting whip, “wot drives the London mail,” and whose mackintosh cape formed no disagreeable recommendation to the Captain, by whom it was borrowed at “shent. per shent.” interest. Having taken breath, all prepared for action, and the ring was beaten out with as much effect as so sudden and unceremonious an assemblage would permit. The men entered the ring about half-past four o’clock, Bendigo taking the lead, attended by Peter Taylor and Nick Ward; he was in high spirits, but on calling for his spiked shoes, it was “all my eye,” for they had unfortunately been sent on to Hatfield, and thus he had the disadvantage of adopting less suitable “crab-shells,” a circumstance which did not seem, however, to disturb his equanimity. Caunt then came forward, waited upon by Young Molyneaux and Gregson. On peeling, as we have before stated, their condition seemed admirable, and the flush of expected victory animated their “dials.” Two umpires and a referee having been chosen, all was ready, and then commenced

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—On setting to, the gigantic size of Caunt, as he stood over his antagonist, excited general surprise, and, as a natural result in such disparities, produced a feeling of sympathy towards the smaller man; but Bendigo displayed perfect self-possession, and commenced manœuvring without delay. He dodged backward and forward several times, with a view of drawing his man, having his right ready for a fly as he came in, but Caunt was not to be had at that game—when Bendigo, making a feint with his right, let go his left and caught him a tidy smack on the left ogle. Caunt instantly closed, and a struggle ensued, in which the superior strength of the “big one” was sufficiently apparent, and Bendigo, finding he had no chance at this work, went down.

2.—Caunt was now on his mettle, and on coming to the scratch went straight in to his work, hitting out left and right; Bendigo got away, but napped a nasty one or two. Steadying himself he caught Caunt a crack on the side of his head with his left. Caunt did not choose to stand these pops, but rushing after his shifty antagonist, caught him in his arms, and threw him after a short struggle.

3.—Both men came up steady, with no great harm done. Bendigo again pursued the dodging system, and, after a little in-and-out work he succeeded in planting his left on Caunt’s “’tato trap,” and drew first blood. Caunt felt indignant at this liberty, rushed to his man, literally lifted him up in his arms, and forcing him against the stake, gave him such a hug that, after a severe struggle, he got down, Caunt falling heavily upon him.

4.—Bendigo showed symptoms of distress from the Bruin’s hug he had received in the last round, but, keeping at a distance till he had recovered his wind, he became as lively as ever. After some time devoted to sparring, Bendigo, evidently having no desire to get within grasp of his man, let fly with his right, but did not get home. A little more time being devoted to play, Caunt let fly left and right, but his blows did not tell. Bendigo, on the get-away system, at last brought himself to a steady point, and caught Caunt a tremendous crack on the cheek, which opened “mouth the second,” and drew claret in abundance. Caunt instantly rushed to work; a severe rally followed, in which several hits, left and right, were exchanged. In the close Caunt again had it all his own way, and in the end threw Bendigo and fell on him. When both men were picked up it was seen that their nobs had been considerably damaged; Caunt bled profusely from his nose and a cut under his left eye, while the side of Bendigo’s pimple was swollen from a visitation from Caunt’s right, but their seconds soon brought them in “apple-pie order,” and they were ready when “time” was called.

5.—After some sparring, Caunt, who took a distaste to Bendigo’s system of popping and shifting, went in right and left, and at once closing, seized his man as if in a vice, holding him on the ropes till nearly strangled, amidst cries of “Shame!” After a violent struggle by Bendigo to get away, he was at last thrown; Caunt fell heavily on him.

6.—From this to the 11th round the fighting was very quick on both sides, Caunt leading off left and right, Bendigo meeting him as he came in with severe jobs, and then getting down to avoid—a shifty mode of fighting, far from agreeable to the spectator, but rendered almost indispensable from the great inequality in the size of the men. In the closes Bendigo had not a chance, but his pops at Caunt as he rushed to the charge told dreadfully on his head, which he gave to get what he expected to be a home hit on his adversary, but in which he was nearly every time disappointed.

12.—Both as fresh and ready as ever—Bendigo, from his generalship the favourite; still Caunt was bold as a lion. Bendigo now changed his system, and finding he often missed the “head-rails” of his opponent, he commenced peppering right and left at the body, the whacks sounding like the music of a big drum. Cries of “Go in, Bendigo!” at length induced him to get closer to his man, and he popped in a stinger with his left under the right eye. Caunt instantly closed, and a violent struggle for the fall succeeded, when both fell.

13.—Bendigo led off well with his left; but Caunt was for close work, and rushing to his man, hit right and left, and grappled, when, catching Bendigo in his arms, he carried him to the ropes, and there held him with such force as almost to deprive him of the power of motion. The spectators, disgusted at this mode of fighting, cried out “Shame!” and exclaimed, “Thou big ugly twoad, dost thou call that foighting? whoy, the little ’un would lick thee and two or three more such if thee’d foight.” Caunt was not, however, disposed to listen to these hints, and stuck to his man like wax, till at last fears were entertained that Bendigo would be strangled, and a cry of “Cut the ropes!” burst from all directions. This suggestion was adopted, and the ropes were instantly cut in two places, when down went both, Caunt uppermost. The mob then rushed to the stakes, and the most dreadful confusion followed—umpire and referee and all forced into a dense mass. Still the interior of the ring was preserved, and cleared, and an attempt was made to repair the ropes.

From the 14th to the 38th round the greatest confusion prevailed. Bendigo persevered in his getting-down system after he received the charge of Caunt, and popped him in return; he had had enough of Caunt’s embraces, and studiously avoided them.

During this portion of the battle a magistrate made his appearance, if possible to put an end to hostilities, but he was “baying the moon,” and he was forced to retire, no doubt feeling that amidst such a scene the dignity of his office would not be properly vindicated. About the 50th round a wrangle arose from an allegation that Bendigo had kicked Caunt as he lay on the ground. Caunt claimed the fight. An appeal was made to the referee, who declared he saw nothing that was avoidable, and the fight proceeded up to the 75th round, during all which time the crush was overwhelming. Bendigo’s hitting was terrific, but still Caunt was game to the backbone, and although heavily punished, fought with him, and when he caught him gave him the advantage of his “Cornish hug.” Both men were alternately distressed, but the powerful hitting of Bendigo made him a decided favourite; in fact, he showed but little appearance of injury, although he had received some heavy body hits, and was somewhat exhausted by Caunt’s hugging and hanging upon him; still he rallied, and was well on his legs.

In the last round, on “time” being called, both men came ready to the scratch; when Caunt prepared for his rush, Bendigo slipped back, and fell on his nether end, “without a blow.” This all his friends ascribed to a slip, but Molyneaux, the second of Caunt, cried “Foul!” and claimed the battle, evidently anxious to save his man from the “fire.” An appeal was immediately made to the referee, who seemed to be a stranger to the laws of the Ring; and on being enlightened as to the fact of “going down without a blow” being deemed “foul,” he decided that Bendigo had so gone down, on which Molyneaux instantaneously threw up his hat and claimed the battle.

An indescribable row followed, the friends of Bendigo declaring he had gone down from accident, owing to his substitute shoes being without spikes. Bendigo was indignant, and ready to fight, but it was all U.P. Wharton would not throw a chance away, and took his man out of the ring, while Bendigo seized the colours, and in turn claimed a win.

The scene that followed beggars description. Caunt, who was conveyed to his carriage, was brought out to renew the fight; but this he declined, and being placed on a horse, he was pulled off, and but for the protection of his friends would have been roughly handled. He had to walk to Selby, whence he was conveyed back to the “Hawke Arms,” where his wounds were dressed and every attention paid him. He was dreadfully punished, but still strong and vigorous.

The fight lasted one hour and twenty minutes.

No sooner had the astute “Morocco Prince” snatched his verdict, and got his man away, as he was entitled to do, than we discovered, on reentering the ring—from which we had been glad to retire during the disgraceful disorder that followed the appeal—that the umpires had never been asked if they differed as to the “foul” at all; in fact, Bendy’s umpire declared he had been separated from the referee and shut out of the ring in the confusion, so that the issue depended upon the judgment of the referee, who, in such an uproar, added to his inexperience, had indeed a most difficult duty to fulfil. Of course, according to the then new practice, a lawyer’s letter was immediately posted to the stakeholder warning him not to part with the stakes until the matter had been thoroughly sifted, as both parties claimed them.

It must be admitted that Bendigo, in the course of this battle, exhibited extraordinary powers of punishment; his hits were terrific, as Caunt’s condition after the battle testified, his head and body being dreadfully shattered, but still, from the specimen thus afforded, we should not regard Bendigo as a fair stand-up fighter; he was shifty, and too much on the get-away-and-get-down system. With Caunt, however, it must be admitted there was every excuse for this course, for with four stone extra to cope with in weight, and six inches in height, it required no common nerve and caution to escape annihilation. Caunt, who claims the “Championship,” is anything but a well-scienced man; he hits at random, and has no idea of self-defence. His great attributes are game and strength, which he possesses in a pre-eminent degree. Throughout the fight there was not a single knock-down blow, which, when Caunt’s length and weight are considered, is the strongest evidence that the big one lacked the gift of hitting at points, or, as John Jackson expressed it, “judging time and distance accurately.” When we look back at the recorded battles of Mendoza, Jackson, Dutch Sam, Gully, and Randall, and remember the fights of Spring, Crawley, and Jem Ward, the pretensions of Caunt to the Championship must point the moral of the Ring’s decline. Pulling, hauling, squeezing, and hugging, the grand offensive manœuvres of Big Ben’s style of boxing, would have been scouted as a disgrace to all but pitmen, navvies, and provincial “roughs.”

Bendigo, after the battle, proceeded to Selby, where he remained for the night. He appeared little the worse for the encounter, so far as hitting was concerned. The only marks of punishment were a flush under the right eye, a swelling under the left ear, some marks of hits on the lower part of the right shoulder-blade, and sundry excoriations and abrasions of the cuticle, bearing full evidence of the severe squeezing and scrapings on the ropes inflicted by the Bruin-like hugs of his huge antagonist. To us Bendigo expressed his readiness to meet his giant opponent “anywhere, anyhow, on any terms—to-morrow, next week, or next month, anything to accommodate the big chucklehead”—which, as we afterwards knew, was Bendy’s uncomplimentary but characteristic epithet, not only in speaking of, but in personally addressing, his gigantic rival.

Much correspondence of the “’fending and proving” order followed this debateable conclusion. Mr. Lockwood, the referee, however, declared his adherence to his “decision that Bendigo went down without a blow,” and thereupon the stakeholder handed over the battle money to Caunt, with the observation:—“The referee’s decision must be upheld, and if in his judgment Bendigo went down (he says, ‘in fact, fell to avoid’), then, whatever might have been his chances—and it is admitted he had the best of the battle—Caunt is entitled to the stakes, and pro tem. to the title of ‘Champion.’” The next week Bendy was as good as his word, for articles were entered into for a third meeting, for £100 a side, to come off on the 30th of July; but when £40 a side had been deposited, a forfeit took place, under the following circumstances:—

The “Deaf ’un,” as Jem Burke was usually called, had returned from America, in the height of his popularity, and his challenges to “any man in or out of England,” especially “Mister Bendy,” proved too strong a “red herring” across the trail for the Nottingham hero to resist, so he forfeited £40 cash down, to grasp at what proved, for a time, a fleeting shadow, as the Deaf ’un, after his challenge and its acceptance, went on a Parisian tour (see the Life of Bendigo, ante, p. 12); and it was not until Shrove Tuesday (Feb. 12th), 1839, that Bendigo and Burke had their “cock-shy,” at Appleby, and Bendigo thereafter received a much disputed “belt” from Jem Ward at Liverpool.

The remainder of 1838, and the whole of 1839, passed without Caunt sporting his colours in the lists. In August, 1840, we find our old friend Ned Painter, at Norwich, and honest fat Peter Crawley, in London, made the channels of the challenges of Brassey and of Caunt. Ned Painter writes thus, on the last day of July:—

“Mr. Editor,—In answer to an observation made in last week’s paper, that ‘providing Brassey’s friends will sustain their promises,’ allow me to say that ‘corn,’ not ‘chaff,’ is the answer of Brassey to Caunt. Brassey went to Liverpool to make the match with Hampson; when he arrived there neither man nor money was to be seen. When Caunt challenged the whole world, Brassey and his friends accepted the challenge, and to meet Caunt’s wish, sent £25 to Tom Spring a week previous to the day appointed. I went myself on the very day, but Caunt and his party were invisible. If Caunt means a fight, and not a farce, he must go to Leeds or come to Norwich, and match at his own expense this time, as neither Brassey nor myself were allowed even the £2 for expenses promised. I am, Mr. Editor, for work, not mere words or wind.

“NED PAINTER.

“Norwich, July 30th, 1840.”

To which Peter Crawley thus practically replied on behalf of Caunt:—

“Sir,—My having placed £25 in your hands will, I hope, remove all doubt as regards Caunt’s money being ready; and it remains with the friends of Brassey alone to appoint a day, either Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday week, through the medium of your paper, to meet at my house, to draw up articles and put down their dust; and unless this be attended to, for my part I shall consider they do not mean business. I have taken the responsibility on myself of detaining the money a little longer; that would give Brassey time to join his friends at Norwich, which, I understand, is all that prevents the match being made now.

“I am, &c., “P. CRAWLEY,

“‘Queen’s Head and French Horn,’
Duke Street, West Smithfield.

“August 21st, 1840.”

All difficulties were now smoothed, and a match for £100 a side was made, to be decided on the 26th October, 1840. As the deposits were made good, and the day approached, the interest in sporting circles rose to an intense height, and at the last deposit Tom Spring’s “Castle” was literally stormed by eager crowds.

As a relief from these prosaic matter-of-fact proceedings, we will here enliven our page with a few rhymes in the shape of—

“AN HEROIC EPISTLE FROM BRASSEY TO BIG CAUNT.”

To thee I send these lines, illustrious Caunt!

Of courage tried, and huge as John of Gaunt,
To thee my foolscap with black ink I blot,
To tell the big ’un Brassey fears him not,
And that in battle, should the fates allow,
He means to snatch the laurels from his brow,
At all his boasted pluck and prowess smile,
And give him pepper in superior style.

Yes, gallant Caunt, next Tuesday will declare
If you or I the Champion’s belt shall wear;
And be assured, regardless of the tin,
I’ll go to work, and do my best to win,

Prove that in fight one Briton can surpass ye,

And if you ask his name, I thunder—Brassey!

What proof of milling prowess did you show
In your two scrambling fights with Bendigo?
When of your foeman’s punishment aware,
You roughly squeezed him like a polar bear,
Nearly extinguished in his lungs the breath,
And almost hugged him in your arms to death—
Such a base system I pronounce humbugging;

Don’t call it fighting, Caunt, I call it hugging,

And if bold Brassey with that game you tease,
The bear may soon be minus of his grease,
And for a practice cowardly as foul,
Receive a lesson that may make him growl.
But bounce I bar—plain dealing is my plan,
And in the ring I’ll meet you man to man,
And do, most certainly, the best I can.

May no base beak, or trap with aspect rude,
Upon a comfortable mill intrude—
A mill between not enemies, but friends,
And upon which a lot of blunt depends;
A mill, I trust, which, as in days of yore,
Will honest fighting to the ring restore;
A mill which, whosoe’er may win the same,
Will show the British boxer’s genuine game,
Unkind aspersions on the Fancy crush,
And put accurs’d knife-practice to the blush—

A practice which, with bold and fearless face,

In bloody letters stamps our land’s disgrace!

But let that pass, while we, like boxers bold,

Shall manly contest in the ring uphold,

And settle matters, not with slaughtering knives,

But well-braced muscles and a bunch of fives.
What tho’ in battle with some Fancy lad
An ogle should in mourning suit be clad?
What tho’ profusion of straightforward knocks
Should for a while confuse the knowledge box?
Why, these are trifles which a cur may scare,
But teach good men hard punishment to bear;
And as they pass this earthly region thro’,
All men will have a clumsy thump or two,

And there’s no doubt ’twill lessen their complaining

To meet hard knocks to get them into training;

But Time, my worthy, warns me to desist,
So for awhile farewell, my man of fist;
Of your conceit on Tuesday I will strip ye—
On Tuesday next “I meet you at Philippi;”
Till then believe me resolute and saucy,
A foe without one hostile feeling—
“Brassey.”

Six Mile Bottom, Cambridgeshire, distinguished in former times by the contests of dons of the olden school, under the patronage of men of the highest rank in the kingdom, was named. Although inferior in stamp and action to bygone heroes, the present competitors were not less great in their own estimation, and certainly quite as great in bulk—for Caunt stood 6ft. 2in., and weighed 14st. 7lb., and Brassey, two inches shorter, weighed 12st. 1lb. (a standard which, according to the best judges, is sufficient for all useful purposes in the P. R., all beyond that being deemed surplusage). In point of age they were pretty much upon a par, and in the prime of life, Caunt having been born in March, 1815, and Brassey in the month of January in the same year.

The opinion of Bendigo as to the merits of the two men was naturally sought, and he, without hesitation, gave the “palm” to Brassey, whom he pronounced the better tactician, if not the gamer man. As provincial champions they were held in high estimation—Brassey at Leeds, Bradford, and those districts, and Caunt at Nottingham, Sheffield, and the surrounding country. In London, however, their pretensions as scientific men were viewed with little favour—and, in fact, in that respect their acquirements were but of an inferior character—as their sparring displays with the accomplished Tom Spring sufficiently demonstrated. Still, although “rough,” they were deemed “ready,” and a slashing fight was anticipated.

Brassey went into training under the auspices of Ned Painter, of Norwich, and Caunt claimed the attention of “the Infant” (Peter Crawley), by whom he was placed “at nurse” in the neighbourhood of Hatfield. More competent mentors could not have been selected; and all that judgment and good advice could effect was accomplished—for it was impossible for men to have been brought to the “post” in better condition, or with a stronger feeling of personal confidence. The articles specified that the belligerent meeting was to take place halfway between Norwich and London, but by mutual consent (although Crawley won the toss for choice) the locality we have mentioned was eventually agreed upon—thus combining a double object of attraction—the mill and the races—and being alike convenient to the training quarters of the combatants.

On Monday both men neared the point of rendezvous, Brassey being installed at the “Queen Victoria,” Newmarket, and Caunt at Littlebury, in Essex.

In the former town, too, the Commissary had lodged his matériel as early as Saturday, being provided with new and substantial stakes for the purpose—a precaution which the herculean proportions of the men rendered judicious.

As on all these occasions the betting was influenced by local prejudices; and while at Leeds, Bradford, and their vicinities, the “Yorkshire tyke” (Brassey) was the favourite at five to four, in Sheffield, Nottingham, Newmarket, and London Caunt had the call at six and seven to four, and finally at two to one and five to two, at which price large sums were laid out.

With a view to prevent interruption, and to gratify the “sporting nobs” of Newmarket, it was stipulated in the articles that the men should be in the ring between eight and nine o’clock a.m.—an arrangement which proved most judicious, although it shut out a numerous class to whom early rising and long trots of an autumnal morning are not agreeable. The whisper, which was anything but soft, of the forthcoming event, soon extended far and wide; and the arrivals from distant quarters at Newmarket proved that the office had been very extensively circulated and promptly obeyed—as the unusual muster of fighting nobs on Newmarket Heath, on the Monday, including all the élite of the corps pugilistique, sufficiently evinced. During the night the contributions from the provinces increased; all the coaches passing through the town were loaded, and the clatter of fresh arrivals in various equipages proved the interest which had been excited.

Unfortunately a fine day had been succeeded by a night of heavy rain, and the drenched appearance of the early birds, as they shook their feathers, fully sustained the established rule that there are few human amusements without alloy, or, as Sir G. Cornewall Lewis philosophically put it, “Life would be tolerable were it not for its pleasures.” Still, among the Fancy, these vicissitudes were of little moment, and were submitted to with becoming philosophy. The morning was not more propitious than the night, but there was, nevertheless, no lack of bustle in Newmarket; in fact, hundreds were seen in busy preparation for “the start,” and vehicles of every description were called into requisition, while all classes, from the Corinthian to the humble stable-boy, were full of lively anticipation. The troop of equestrians which went forth showed the excitement that prevailed, while the carriages, gigs, and carts which followed produced a cheerful commotion in the direction of the appointed fixture, which was about six miles from the town.

A hostile declaration of a reverend parson of Cheveley, on the Monday, led to an apprehension that an interruption was not unlikely. Indeed, we believe it was intended, but happily his reverence, by some unfortunate accident, was put on the wrong scent, and proceeded in an opposite direction, towards the borders of Suffolk, where, attended by a posse of special constables, he waited with creditable patience for the expected arrival of the “misdoers.” He watched, however, in vain; in the interim the belligerents had settled their differences elsewhere, to his infinite mortification, as well as to the imminent danger of his health, from so long and unprofitable an exposure to the warring elements. On his return to Cheveley, his forlorn aspect induced strong expressions of commiseration; but we are inclined to doubt the sincerity of those by whom they were uttered, who obviously thought the worthy divine should not have forgotten the old maxim, “Charity begins at home,” where, in all probability, he would have found abundant opportunity for the exercise of his Christian virtues without wasting them idly on the “desert air.”

An agreement having been made that both men should be in the ring precisely at eight o’clock, by that hour the lists were completed, and were quickly surrounded by the coming throng, who formed a circle of ample dimensions round the all-important arena, which every moment increased in density, and included in its motley features several foreigners of distinction; a large contribution from the University of Cambridge (who came in style in drags and fours, all “lighted up” in such profusion that many were disposed to think, from the halo of smoke which fumed from their fragrant havannahs, an engine had broken loose from some distant railroad); a vast concourse of the Turf aristocracy, and not a few of the right sort, who had posted from London to participate in the amusements of the day. The remainder, to the extent of 2,000 or 3,000, was of that mingled character which it would be difficult to particularise, many of them being so disguised in their north-westers and storm-defying protectors as to give them the advantage of perfect incognito, combined with personal protection. We did hear of a stray magistrate or two being present, yet for this we cannot vouch; but we must remark, if the fact were so, it showed their good sense. This we do know, that one or two proved by their conduct “none are so blind as those who will not see;” and upon the appearance of the parson of Cheveley at the magisterial divan in Newmarket on the same day, after the fight, to deplore the hoax of which he had been made the victim, his vicissitudes produced a good deal of fun, and not a little commendation of the ingenious concocter of the “secret despatch” to which he had fallen so simple a victim.

Brassey was first on the ground; and as the rain fell in torrents impatience was manifested for the arrival of Caunt. Unhappily, however, he did not reach the cheerless scene till within five minutes of nine. Come he did, however, at last, and the thrill of pleasure soon dissipated the melancholy forebodings of disappointment; for it was feared that Brassey would have been allowed to walk over the course and claim forfeit. An inner circle of the privileged was soon formed by those who chose to “qualify” by taking out “certificates” at 5s. each from the Commissary. For the accommodation of these a quantity of straw had been spread a few yards from the ring, but such was its saturated state, from the continued rain, that it afforded little protection, and carriage seats and gig cushions were in general request, often with little regard to the laws of meum and tuum. Never was the modern invention of waterproof wrappers more prized; and when we witnessed the aristocratic groups thus recklessly reposing on the slimy soil we could not withhold the expression of our delight at finding the spirit of olden times still unsubdued, notwithstanding the inroads of pantilers and teetotallers. We recognised among the mass many old soldiers, who good-humouredly remarked it was but a memento of the past, and reminded their young friends the time might not be far distant when even such inconvenience would be a luxury compared with what they would have to endure in maintaining the fear-nought reputation of John Bull on the “tented field.” Beyond the privileged stood rows of perpendicular spectators, and behind them again were the carriages and other vehicles, covered with not less anxious gazers.

At last, soon after nine o’clock, the heroes of the day made their appearance; Caunt under the care of Peter Crawley, and attended by Dick Curtis and a Liverpool friend as bottle-holder and second; Brassey escorted by Ned Painter, and officially accompanied by Jem Hall and Johnny Broome. On entering the lists Caunt, who wore a large Welsh wig, approached Brassey, and offered to lay him a private bet on the issue of the contest; but Brassey regarded this as a piece of bounce, and turned from him. The umpires and referee having been chosen, the yellowmen—for both sported the same colours—were tied to the stake, and all prepared for action. On stripping, the gigantic frame of Caunt struck the uninitiated with surprise. His superior height and weight left no room for nice calculations, and the fate of his adversary was already foretold; his broad back and muscular developments had a most formidable aspect, while his long arms and proportionate supporters showed him as a giant among pigmies, in which light Dick Curtis, and some of his little friends who stood beside him, could alone be regarded. There was, however, something ungainly in his huge frame, and more of awkwardness than symmetry in his configuration. Brassey, although less, was still “a man for a’ that,” and if not in juxtaposition with such a Goliath would have been regarded as an excellent specimen of the Grenadier fraternity. His figure was muscular and his limbs well knit, exhibiting appearances of strength and vigour not to be despised, while his mug displayed fearless determination. The preliminaries having been adjusted, at twenty-five minutes after nine “business” commenced.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—No sooner had the seconds retired to their corners, on leaving the men at the scratch, than Caunt rushed to his man and threw out his arms, left and right, with the quickness and vigour of a just-started windmill; his kind intentions were, however, evaded, and he missed his blows, especially a terrific upper-cut with his right, which, had it reached its destination, would have “told a tale.” Brassey in like manner was wild, and missed his blows, but finding Caunt closing upon him, he hit up with his right, and on closing instantly went down.

2.—Caunt again hit out left and right, but without precision. He made his right slightly on Brassey’s nob, when the latter rattled in left and right, like Caunt, missing, and again went down. It was pretty obvious that Brassey was fearful of the Russian hug of ursa major, and had made up his mind to the falling system, which, however obnoxious to the spectators, was evidently his only safe game.

3.—“Steady,” cried Dick, “and hit straight.” Caunt led off right and left, and succeeded in planting his left on Brassey’s forehead, but he had it in return. Brassey got to him and delivered a tremendous left-hander on his cheek, and was as quick with his right on his nozzle; the claret flew in abundance, and the big ’un was posed. He hit out wild, left and right, and missed, while Brassey got down. (Loud cheers for Brassey. The spectators were electrified by the effect of these blows. A gaping wound ornamented Caunt’s right cheek, and his nose emitted the purple fluid, which Dick quickly mopped up with his sponge.) This decided the first event—first blood for Brassey. (The Cauntites looking queer.)

4.—Caunt came up by no means improved in beauty. He led on as before, wild left and right; but his deliveries wanted precision. Brassey fought with him, but, like sticks in an Irish row, their arms were the only receivers, and little mischief was done. Brassey got down grinning.

5.—Caunt planted his left on Brassey’s eye, but missed his right, which, had it reached its destination, would have been a poser. It went over Brassey’s shoulder. Brassey, finding he could not well stand the overwhelming rush of his antagonist, got down.

6.—Brassey popped in his left, and escaping the visitation of Caunt’s left and right, pursued his tumbling system, while Caunt laughed, and pointed at him with contempt.

7.—Caunt, more successful, caught Brassey left and right on the nob, when Brassey went down, but Caunt’s blows did not seem to tell.

8.—Caunt delivered his left and right, but so wildly as to be ineffective, and Brassey went down, throwing up his legs and knees in the rebound.

9.—Caunt, as usual, opened the ball with a wild rush right and left, catching Brassey on the forehead with his right. Brassey hit left and right, but was stopped, and went down, Caunt with difficulty escaping treading on him as he stepped over him.

10, 11, 12.—All of the same character, Caunt doing no great execution, and Brassey invariably getting down.

13.—Caunt hit out of distance with his right, when Brassey caught him on the smeller with his left, again drawing his cork. Caunt, stung, hit out heavily with his right, and caught Brassey on the back of the ear. Brassey went down.

14.—Caunt, the first to fight, planted his right on Brassey’s left eye; Brassey fell. (First knock-down blow claimed, but doubtful, as the ground became inconveniently slippery.)

15.—Caunt missed one of his tremendous right-hand lunges, and Brassey went down.

16.—Caunt dropped heavily with his right on Brassey’s ribs, who fought wildly, but again caught Caunt with the left on his damaged cheek; more blood, and Brassey down.

17.—Brassey in with his right on Caunt’s ogle, and went down.

18.—Caunt, in his wild rush, hit Brassey left and right on the pimple, and on his going down, as he stepped over him, scraped his forehead with his shoe, peeling off a trifle of the bark.

19.—Caunt, more steady, planted his left on Brassey’s dexter peeper, and hit him clean down with his right. (First knock-down blow unequivocally declared for Caunt.)

20.—Caunt delivered his left heavily on Brassey’s snout, and his right on the side of his head. Brassey made play, but missed, and went down. On being lifted on his second’s knee, he bled from mouth and nose.

[The friends of Caunt, who had been silent up to this, regarding the issue of the battle anything but certain, now again opened their potato traps, and offered 2 to 1, which was taken.]

21.—Caunt delivered another heavy body blow with his right, which made a sounding echo. Brassey rushed to a close, and clung with his legs around Caunt’s thighs. Caunt tried to hold him up with his left while he hit with his right, but he found this impossible, and flung him down with contempt. It was here clear that if once Brassey suffered himself to be grasped in a punishable position by his opponent it would be all over.

22, 23, 24, and 25 were all pretty much in the same style—the hitting wild and ineffective, Brassey either clinging to his man or throwing himself down.

26.—Another heavy blow on the ribs from Caunt’s right told smartly on Brassey’s corporation. Brassey attempted to close, but Caunt threw him heavily with his head on the ground.

27, 28, 29.—Not much done, Brassey going down every round, after slight and wild exchanges.

30.—Caunt hit Brassey down with one of his swinging right-handed hits on the side of his head, which made his left eye twinkle again. (3 to 1 offered and taken on Caunt.)

In the next three rounds there were some heavy exchanges left and right, but Brassey pursued his falling tactics.

34.—Tremendous counter-hitting with the right, and equally heavy exchanges with the left. Both down on their knees, from the stunning severity of the deliveries. (Caunt’s beauty improving. A splendid likeness of the “Saracen’s Head” without his wig.)

35.—Again did Caunt nail his man on the nose with his left, and the claret came forth freely.

From this to the 53rd round there were some heavy exchanges left and right. To all appearance, the punishment was most severe on Caunt’s face, whose left cheek was cut, as well as his right, but the heavy deliveries on the left side of Brassey’s head, as well as his ribs, had evidently weakened him, although he still came up as game as a pebble. In his frequent falls, Caunt occasionally could not avoid falling on him, and his weight was no trifling addition to his other punishment. It is but just to state, however, that Caunt fought in a fair and manly style, and avoided everything like unfair advantage.

In the 55th round the ground became so muddy that the men, from fighting in the centre of the ring, could scarcely keep their legs, and Brassey went down without a blow. This was claimed, but rejected by the referee, who cautioned him, however, against giving such another chance away.

56.—Caunt planted his left heavily on Brassey’s winker, but Brassey, in return, hit him on the jaw with his right, and making up his mind for further mischief, repeated the blow with terrific effect a little below the same spot, Caunt countering at the same moment, and with the same hand. The collision was dreadful—both fell in opposite directions—Caunt as if shot by a twenty-four pounder, end Brassey all abroad.

Here was a decided change; Caunt was evidently unconscious, and was with difficulty held on his second’s knee. His head rolled like a turtle in convulsions. Curtis, however, steadied his tremulous pimple, administered a slight dash of water, and on “time” being called he was enabled to go to the scratch, but with such groggy indications that we doubt whether he knew if he was on his head or his heels.

57.—Brassey now endeavoured to improve his advantage, but instead of steadily waiting to give his man the coup de grace, he rushed in, and bored Caunt through the ropes, and he fell on his back, while the force of Brassey’s fall on him was stayed by his own chin being caught by the upper rope, on which he hung for a moment.

58.—Caunt recovered a little, but Brassey again rushed in, hitting left and right, and in the struggle both down, Brassey uppermost.

59.—Caunt steadied himself, and went in to fight. Some heavy exchanges followed, and Brassey went down, but Caunt was far from firm on his pins. It was now seen that Caunt’s right hand, from its repeated visits to Brassey’s head and ribs, was much swollen; his left, too, showed the effects of repeated contact with the physog. of his antagonist. This, in the following rounds, led to a good deal of contention, on the ground that Caunt had unfair substances in his hand; but he showed it was only paper, and threw it away, although entitled to the use of any soft material to steady his grasp.

The rounds which followed, to the 100th, offered but little variety; both men became gradually exhausted, and it required all the care and encouragement of their partisans to rouse them to action. Each was assured that victory smiled upon him, and that it only required another effort to make all safe. Brassey came up manfully round after round; but although he occasionally stopped and hit, the pops of his opponent, who now and then saved him the trouble of falling by hitting him down, told with increasing effect. Caunt repeatedly tried to hold him in the closes, with the view of fibbing; but Brassey was too leary, and got down without this additional proof of kind intention. In some of his tumbles, however, Caunt fell heavily on him, and once more, in trying to evade him, scraped his foot on his nose, a casualty almost unavoidable from his sudden prostrations.

The weakness of Brassey gradually increased, while Caunt evidently got stronger on his legs; and although his right hand was gone, he continued to hit with it. He was entreated to use his left, which he did three times in succession in one round on Brassey’s muzzle, till he dropped him. Such was the prejudice in favour of Brassey, however, from the vigour with which he occasionally rallied, that it was still hoped he might make a turn in his favour, and if encouraging shouts would have effected that object, he was not without stentorian friends. Caunt, too, had his anxious attendants; and all that cheering could do to rouse his spirits was heartily afforded him.

From the 90th to the 100th round poor Brassey came up weak on his legs, and either fell or was hit down, but to the last made a manly struggle against superior strength and weight. In the 100th round Broome said he should fight no more, and Crawley stepped into the ring to claim the battle; he was, however, called out, and Brassey came up once more, but he was incapable of prolonged exertion, and being hit down with a right-handed smack on the head, he reluctantly submitted to the calls of his friends to give in, and all was over. Caunt was proclaimed the conqueror, after fighting one hundred and one rounds, in one hour and thirty minutes.

Remarks.—We have seldom recorded a fight in which we experienced more difficulty to render the details interesting. It will be seen that in ninety minutes one hundred rounds were fought, deducting the half-minute time, often prolonged to nearly a minute by mutual delay in coming to the “scratch” when “time” was called; therefore, the average time occupied by each round did not much exceed twenty seconds. There was no attempt at stopping (except in a few instances by Brassey), nor any of those scientific manœuvres which give interest to such an exhibition. Caunt was invariably the first to fight, but led off with nothing like precision, repeatedly missing his blows and upper cuts, many of which, had they told, might have been conclusive. Brassey seemed to be fully aware of this mode of assault, and generally waited till he got within Caunt’s guard, and thus succeeded in administering heavy punishment. This point once gained he lost no time in getting down, feeling quite confident that in close contact he would not have had a chance. This, although far from a popular mode of contest, is certainly excusable considering the inequality of the men in height and weight, and the only surprise is that the lesser man should have endured so much before he cried “enough.” The repeated visitations to his ribs from Caunt’s right, or “sledge-hammer,” were searching in the extreme, and led to the belief that three of his ribs had been broken, although subsequent examination proved that he was only labouring under the effects of severe contusions and inward bruises. In like manner the right-handed deliveries behind his left ear, on the ear itself, and on the left eye and jaw, as well as the left-handed jobs, were so far from jocular that we were not surprised the vis comica had ceased to be displayed on his “dial,” and when to these visitations are added his repeated falls, with the weight of Caunt occasionally superadded to his own, and this in such rapid succession, the only surprise is he should have held out so long. Caunt in his modus operandi evinced a sad ignorance of the art. Like the yokels of old before the principles of mechanism were discovered, he has to learn the proper application of his strength, of which, did he possess the requisite knowledge, he might bid defiance not only to such a man as Brassey, but even to the caperings of an avalanche. He is not, like most men of his size, slow—on the contrary, he is too quick; and for the want of judicious deliberation, like a runaway steam-engine without a controlling engineer, he over-shoots his mark. This, if it be possible, he ought to correct, and while he husbands his strength, where he does apply it, he should measure not only his distance but the tactics of his opponent. Had he waited for his man, instead of leading off with a rush, he must have brought Brassey down every round, for nothing could resist the force of his heavy metal if properly applied. Strange as it may appear, on examining both men on Wednesday morning, the punishment on the part of Caunt was greater than that of Brassey, and viewing both frontispieces and saying, “Look on this picture, and on this,” our opinion would have been, “Caunt has received the greater and more effective punishment.” Added to this, his hands, and especially the right, were essentially hors de combat, while Brassey’s were uninjured. Upon the whole, therefore, although Caunt is the victor, and entitled to praise, Brassey, as the vanquished, deserves almost an equal degree of credit, if not of profit. That this is the feeling of others was demonstrated at Newmarket after the battle, for there was not only £30 collected for him by voluntary contributions, but a promise of still more liberal consideration was held out, and in the end fulfilled.

On the Monday following, at Peter Crawley’s, “Duke’s Head,” Smithfield, the battle money was paid over to Caunt, in the presence of an overflowing muster of the patrons of British boxing. Brassey was present, and confessed himself fairly conquered. A subscription was made to console him for his honourable defeat, and £40 presented to him as a reward for his valiant conduct, some merriment being excited by one of the donations being announced as from “the parson of Cheveley.”

Caunt, in a short speech, stated that he once again claimed the “Championship of England,” and was ready to make, then and there, a match for £100 a side with any man, to fight within fifty miles of London. Nick Ward, he added, had challenged him, and “he hoped he had pluck enough to prove that his challenge was not mere bounce.”

Jem Ward lost no time in responding to Caunt’s remarks on his brother Nick, as follows:—

“Mr. Editor,—The friends of Nick Ward have consulted, and consider (as his efforts in the Ring have been but few, and as you, whose judgment, from long experience, is entitled to great weight, have expressed an opinion that Nick Ward would never be a first-rate man) that Caunt, who lays claim to the Championship, should, as a set-off to his superiority of weight and position, give odds to make a match. Nick Ward, without bouncing, is willing to fight Caunt if he will deposit £150 to Ward’s £100.

“JAMES WARD.

“Star Hotel, Williamson Square, Liverpool.
“November 12th, 1840.”

The preliminaries were arranged without delay, and at Caunt’s benefit, at the Bloomsbury Assembly Rooms, in the following week, a deposit was made, and the next week articles drawn for the men to fight for £100 a side, within two months, not more than sixty miles from London.

On February 2nd, 1841, in the seventh round and twelfth minute of the fight, Caunt lost this battle by delivering a foul blow under irritation of feeling at the shifty tactics of his opponent. (See Life of Nick Ward, post.)

Of course the matter could not rest thus—that is, if, as many surmised would not be the case, “brother Nick” could muster courage to face once again his gigantic opponent.

In pursuance of appointment, Caunt and his friends met Nick Ward and Co. at Young Dutch Sam’s, the “Black Lion,” Vinegar Yard, Brydges Street, on Thursday, the 18th of February, 1841, to draw up articles, which set forth that—

“The said Benjamin Caunt agrees to fight the said Nick Ward a fair stand-up fight, in a four-and-twenty-foot roped ring, half-minute time, according to the New Rules, for one hundred pounds a side, half-way between London and Liverpool; the place to be decided by toss at the last deposit; neither place to exceed twenty miles from the direct line of road, unless mutually agreed upon to the contrary. The fight to take place on Tuesday, the 11th of May. In pursuance of this agreement twenty pounds a side are now deposited. A second deposit of ten pounds a side to be made on Thursday, the 25th inst., at Mr. Swain’s, the ‘Greyhound,’ Woodside, Hatfield. A third deposit of ten pounds a side at the ‘Black Lion,’ Vinegar Yard, on Thursday, the 4th of March. A fourth deposit of ten pounds a side at the ‘Bell,’ Hatfield, on Thursday, the 11th of March. A fifth deposit of ten pounds a side at the ‘Black Lion’ aforesaid, on Thursday, the 18th of March. A sixth deposit of ten pounds a side at the ‘Cherry Tree,’ Kingsland Road, on Thursday, the 25th of March. A seventh deposit of ten pounds a side at Jem Ward’s, Williamson Square, Liverpool, on Thursday, the 1st of April. An eighth deposit of ten pounds a side at the Castle Tavern, Holborn, on Thursday, the 8th of April; and the ninth and last deposit of ten pounds a side at Young Dutch Sam’s, the ‘Black Lion,’ Vinegar Yard, on Thursday, the 22nd of April. The said deposits to be made between the hours of eight and ten o’clock, or the party failing to forfeit the money down. The men to be in the ring between twelve and one o’clock, or at an early hour if mutually agreed upon, or the money down to be forfeited by the party absent. Two umpires and a referee to be chosen on the ground; the decision of the latter, in the event of dispute, to be conclusive. In case of magisterial interference the stakeholder to name the next time and place of meeting, unless a referee shall have been chosen, to whom that duty shall be assigned. The fight to come off on the same day if possible; but the money not to be given up till fairly won or lost by a fight. The ropes and stakes to be paid for by the men, share and share alike. Neither man to use resin or other powder to his hands during the combat. The party winning the toss for choice of place to name the ground seven days before fighting to the backers of the party losing the toss.”

The parties, after signing, shook hands with great good humour, and joined in drinking the general toast, “May the best man win!” Caunt expressed much mortification at the assertion which he said had been made that the cause of his loss of the late fight was attributable to design rather than accident. He protested that he acted from the ungovernable impulse of the moment, irritated by Ward’s going down at the moment he was within his reach. He said, further, that he would profit by his experience, and be specially careful to avoid a similar “accident.” The backers of Ward offered to take six to four on the issue; but odds were refused.

The deposits duly made, Young Dutch Sam, who acted on Nick Ward’s behalf, won the toss for choice of ground, and named Stratford-on-Avon for the place of meeting. The selection of Shakespeare’s birthplace proved judicious, as the proceedings from first to last passed off without interruption. We may perhaps note that one inducement of Ward to the choice of Stratford-on-Avon might be that there, in July, 1831, his brother Jem closed his brilliant career by defeating Simon Byrne at Willycuts, three miles from the town.

Caunt reached Stratford on Monday afternoon, in company of Tom Spring, and made the “Red Horse” his resting-place. Nick Ward, accompanied by his brother, put up at the “White Lion.” Every inn in the place was crammed to overflowing, and many who were unable to procure beds at any price returned to Warwick or Leamington, and some even to Coventry, necessitating a return journey the next morning. We must, in justice to the many followers of the four-square Ring, state that the utmost order and regularity prevailed in the town throughout the evening, and that hilarity, joviality, and good temper prevailed among the partisans of both men, a fact which we would commend to electors and political factions.

All were astir early, and there was a strong muster of Corinthians of the first water—indeed, the “upper crust” was unusually well represented by numerous hunting men from the “shires,” who, by liberal expenditure, gave the good, hospitable fellow-townsmen of the immortal Will every reason to be grateful for the selection which had been made; and they, on their part, showed their sense of the obligation conferred by their civility and the moderation of their charges.

The scene of action was in a field at Long Marsden, on a farm belonging to a Mr. Pratt; and thither the Commissary proceeded to make his arrangements, and thither also the immense cavalcade of equestrians and charioteers, as well as innumerable groups of pedestrians, took their way in due time. On the last occasion the unlucky “footpads” were thrown out entirely, but on this they had undoubtedly the best of it, for they, by means of short cuts and familiar paths, shortened their pleasant journey, while those who were on four legs—or worse, on wheels—were compelled to scramble and jolt over roads of the most villainous description, in which the most imminent risks of spills or a break-down were only avoided by care and good luck. In fact, many of those who endured the miseries of both roads declared, that the sixteen miles between the Andover road and Crookham Common, with all its horrors, was surpassed by the shorter journey from Stratford to Long Marsden.

The spot was admirably selected, and the ropes and stakes pitched upon a piece of sound, elastic turf that delighted the cognoscenti. The immense multitude, as they arrived, arranged themselves in a most orderly, methodical manner. The day was beautiful, the country around green, fresh, and odoriferous with the blossoms of the may. Everything was conducted in a style to ensure general satisfaction.

Caunt made his appearance first, with an oddly assorted pair of seconds as ever handled a champion in the P.R. They were old Ben Butler, his uncle, well known in after times in the parlour of the “Coach and Horses;” a man well stricken in years, and a cross-grained old curmudgeon to boot. With him appeared Atkinson, of Nottingham, a 9½ stone man, whose disparity of size with the man he was supposed to pick up excited the risibility of old ring-goers. Benjamin himself, however, seemed particularly well satisfied, and remarked laughingly, in reply to a jocose observation of a bystander, “Never thee mind—I’m not goin’ to tummle down; he’s big enow for me!” Had the fight which ensued been of the desperate character of Ben’s late encounter with Brassey, the ill-assorted pair could about as much have carried Colossus Caunt to his corner as they could have carried the Achilles in Hyde Park. Nick had with him, as on the former occasion, Harry Holt and Dick Curtis, certainly the two ablest counsellors on the Midland, Northern, or any other Circuit. Tom Spring, who was in friendly attendance upon Caunt, addressed an emphatic warning to the big one to keep his temper, cautioning him not to play into the hands of his opponent by allowing himself to be irritated by his shifty dodges. Caunt listened with a grim, self-satisfied smile, and nodded his head, as much as to say he was not going to be caught this time. Each man, in reply to a question, declared he “never felt better in his life,” and their looks justified the assertion. Caunt was a little “finer drawn” than at their previous meeting, and weighed, when stripped, exactly 14st. 6lb. He never went to scale so light before—indeed, it was not an excessive weight for a big-boned man measuring 6 feet 2½ inches. He had, however, a narrow escape in his training, for, on the Sunday week previous, in his walking exercise, he trod on a stone, and turned his foot aside with such suddenness as to strain the muscles of his leg and ankle so severely that he was unable to walk for several days, exciting the serious apprehensions of his friends; with rest and constant surgical care, however, he overcame the mischief, and was as well as ever. Ward looked to us a trifle too fleshy. He weighed 13st. 6lb., 10lb. more than when he fought in February.

Some time previously a subscription had been raised to produce a “Champion’s Belt,” to be given to the victor on this occasion, and to be hereafter transferable, should he retire from the Ring or be beaten by a more successful candidate for fistic honours. This belt, under the superintendence of a committee, was completed, and now for the first time was held forth as an additional incitement to bravery and good conduct. Previous to the commencement of the battle, Cicero Holt, the well-known orator of the Ring, and second of Nick Ward, approached the scratch, and silence being called, held up the belt, pronouncing that in addition to the stakes this trophy had been prepared by a number of liberal gentlemen, as a spur to the honest and manly feeling which it was desirable should ever pervade the minds of men who sought distinction in the Prize Ring. “Honour and fair play,” it was their opinion, should be the motto of English boxers, and it would be their proud gratification to see this belt girded round the loins of him, whoever he might be, who entitled himself in spirit and principle to the terms of that motto. They were influenced by neither favour nor affection, nor by prejudice of any kind; all they desired was that the best man might win, wear this trophy, and retain it so long as he was enabled to maintain the high and distinguished title of Champion of England. On resigning, or being stripped of the laurels of Championship, it would then be his duty to transfer this proud badge to his more fortunate successor, and thus a prize would be established which it would ever be the pride of gallant Englishmen to possess, and its brightness, he trusted, would never be tarnished by an act of dishonour. It was to be finally presented, he said, when complete, at a dinner to be given at Jem Burn’s, where the subscription originated, on Monday, the 31st instant.

The belt was then exhibited to the gaze of the curious; it is composed of purple velvet, and lined with leather; in the centre are a pair of clasped hands surrounded by a wreath of the Rose, the Thistle, and the Shamrock, entwined in embossed silver; on each side of this are three shields of bright silver, at present without inscription, but on these are to be engraven the names of all the Champions of England which the records of the Fancy preserve, to conclude with the name of the conqueror on the present occasion. The clasps in front are formed of two hands encased in sparring-gloves. It is due to state that this belt is altogether very beautifully executed, and highly creditable to the motives and good feeling to which its origin is attributable. Its inspection afforded general pleasure, and the oration of “Cicero” was received with loud cheers. Caunt, on taking it in his hand, significantly said to Nick Ward, “This is mine, Nick,” to which Ward replied, “I hope the best man may win it and wear it.”

These preliminaries, so novel in the P.R., having been concluded, the colours of the men were entwined on the stake, and umpires and a referee having been chosen, no time was lost in preparing for action.

The betting at first was 5 to 4 on Ward, though we never could understand the quotation, and did not see any money posted at the odds. At twenty minutes to one all was ready, and the champions toed the scratch for

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The men faced each other with an expression of good humour on their countenances that could hardly be expected by those who knew how they had expressed themselves at former meetings. Caunt’s rough lineaments bore a grin of satisfaction, that seemed to say he had his wishes gratified. Ward, though he also smiled, it was a vanishing smile, and he looked eagerly and anxiously at his antagonist. Ward’s attitude was scientific and well guarded, his left ready for a lightning-shot, as he poised himself on his left toe, with his right somewhat across, to parry the possible counterhit. Caunt stood erect, as if to make the most of his towering height, but a trifle backward. Ward moved about a little, as if measuring his distance, and then let go his left. It was not a determined hit, and did not get home. Caunt dashed out his left in return, but Nick stopped it prettily. However, as he meant it for a counter, his friends were pleased at his quickness, and cheered the attempt, especially as he almost instantly followed it with a lunge from the right, which just reached Ward’s neck. The big one now bored in for a close, meaning mischief. Ward bobbed his head aside, delivered a slight job, and was down on his knees. It was clear that Nick meant to fight in the evasive style of their former encounter, but it was also clear from Caunt’s coolness that he was likely to have more trouble over this day’s business, and we heard no more about odds upon Ward.

2.—The men faced each other as before, no harm as yet having been done on either side. Caunt now began manœuvring in rather an ungainly manner; but as some of his movements suggested a plunge in, Nick was resolved to be first, and let go his left on Caunt’s mouth, who heeded not the blow, but dashed out left and right. The blows were wild, but his right reached Ward’s cheek; and Caunt was pulling himself together for heavy punching, when once more Ward slipped his foot, and was on both knees. Caunt threw up both hands, and gave a sort of guttural “Hur, hur!” as he looked at the cunning face of his opponent, then walked to his own corner. The big one’s friends were delighted at this proof of caution, and cheered lustily.

3.—Ward came up with a keen and anxious look at his opponent. Ben nodded, and flourished his long arms like the sails of a windmill. He seemed ready to let Ward lead off and then take his chance of going in for the return. Ward drew back at arm’s length, and Caunt hit short more than once, but Nick did not get near enough for an effective return. Caunt, with a grim smile, almost rolled in, sending out left and right as he came. His right just reached Ward’s head, who hit up sharply and then slipped down, as though from his own blow. It was a very questionable get-down, but there was no appeal.

4.—Nick seemed to feel that he was by no means taking the lead, and he was told that unless he hit, and kept Caunt employed in defending himself, he would bore in on him continually. The advice was doubtless sound, but it wanted more pluck than Nick possessed to put it in practice. Nick hit out with his left, but not near enough, and Caunt stopped him, amid some cheering; Caunt paused, as if expecting Ward to come closer, but he did not, so he let fly, and in a sort of ding-dong rally gave Ward a tidy smack on the nose; Nick jobbed him heavily three or four times, then dropped so close to Caunt that they both rolled over, the big one falling heavily on Nick. On rising blood was seen oozing from Ward’s nose, and the first event was awarded to Caunt, amidst the cheers of his friends, and to the astonishment of Ward’s backers.

5.—The faces of both men were flushed from the blows received, and Caunt, who was anxious to be at work, went in at once, left and right, again catching Ward upon the nose, and increasing the appearance of claret. Ward made no return, he was too anxious to get away, and on Caunt grappling him, he got quickly down, Caunt stumbling forward and falling over him.

6.—The rounds were too short and hurried to admit of much in the way of description. Caunt, still eager to be at work, tried his left, but was stopped. Counter-hits with the left followed, but though Nick was a fine counter-hitter, he never exhibited any great relish for that mode of fighting—the most telling in its effects and most exciting to witness of all practised in the P. R. Caunt lashed out with his left, and on Nick’s cleverly avoiding the smash, rushed to in-fighting. Nick, however, pursued his plan of getting down, but Caunt came heavily upon him. Although up to the present time Caunt had not done much execution, yet he was certainly getting the best of the fight, and he maintained his improvement in his style of hitting, substituting straight hits from the shoulder for the overhanded chops which had formerly marked his attempts.

7.—Ward tried to regain the lead—if he had ever had it—and let fly with his left, but he had not sufficient courage to go close to his man, and once again the blow fell short. He stopped Caunt’s attempt at a return with his left, which came pretty heavy and quickly, and on the latter’s rushing in for close work Nick dropped on his knees. There was no blow struck in this round, and Caunt, who was about to deliver, wisely restrained his hand, and with his deep, short laugh, shook his finger menacingly at Ward as he knelt, and walked away.

8.—Up to this period no material damage had been done on either side, few of the hits having more than a skin-deep effect. Ward still preserved his elegant attitude, and tried his left, but did not get home, and Caunt hit short at the body with his right. Nick now steadied himself for mischief, and, after a short pause, threw his left with the quickness of lightning, and caught Caunt over the right eyebrow, on which it left a gaping wound, from which a copious crimson stream flowed over the undamaged optic and down his cheek. Caunt hit out wildly, left and right; Ward, in retreating, fell on his knees, and Caunt tumbled over him.

9.—Atkinson was seen to be busily engaged in stopping the flow of claret from Caunt’s eyebrow when “Time!” was called. At the sound Caunt jumped up vigorously, and continued the contest with a figurehead anything but improved by the crimson stain which marked its right side. Nick smiled at his handiwork, waited for his man, and as Caunt came plunging in, met him with a heavy hit from the left on the cheek, opening an ancient wound originally inflicted by Brassey, and starting a fresh tap of claret. Caunt was stung by the hits, and dashed in left and right; but Ward adhered to his dropping tactics, and again fell on his knees, amidst strong expressions of disapprobation.

10.—Ward again tried his left, but was unsuccessful; Caunt came in, and after a couple of slight exchanges, left and right, Nick got down.

11.—Caunt came up nothing daunted, stopped an attempt with Ward’s left, and made a terrific rush, which if as clumsy as the elephant’s was almost as irresistible. Nick retreated, stopping left and right, till he fell under the ropes, amidst cries of dissatisfaction, Caunt dropping on him.

12.—Ward stopped Caunt’s left and right, and almost immediately dropped on his knees, and while in that position instantly hit up left and right, delivering both blows heavily; that from his right, on Caunt’s ear, from whence blood was drawn, was evidently a stinger. Spring, who witnessed this, exclaimed against so cowardly a practice, and observed that the blows of Ward were obviously foul, inasmuch as Ward had no more right to hit when down on his knees than Caunt had a right to strike him in that position. The umpires, however, did not interfere, and the referee cautioned Ward to be more circumspect in his conduct.

13.—Caunt, lively as a young buffalo, rushed to the scratch the moment time was called, and immediately made play. Nick, as usual, retreated, when Caunt endeavoured to close, but Nick in his cowardly way dropped on both knees. Caunt’s right hand was up, and he was unable to restrain the falling blow, but it fell lightly, and although “down” no claim was made. (Spring and Atkinson both cautioned Caunt to be more careful, for, however unintentional, if he struck his opponent when down the consequences might be serious.)

14.—Caunt led off, and caught Nick on the side of his head with his left, and repeated the dose on the opposite side with his right. Nick popped in a touch with his left on Caunt’s nasal promontory—Caunt missed a terrific hit with his right, and Nick went on his knees to avoid punishment.

15.—Caunt, who was now evidently provoked by the cowardly game of Ward in getting down in every round, the moment he came to the scratch rushed to him, and endeavoured to get him within his grasp in such a way as to be enabled to fall with him. Unluckily, however, instead of catching him round the body he caught him round the neck, and, in this manner, lifting him off the ground, for a short time held him suspended. He then let him go, but did not succeed in giving him the scrunch he contemplated. Instead of this, he hit the back of his own head against the stakes, and incurred an ugly concussion.

16.—Caunt came up full of life and frolic, and was first at the scratch. Nick made play with his left, but Caunt stopped and got away. Caunt hit short with his right, and after a short pause right-hand hits were exchanged—Nick at the head, Caunt at the body. Caunt immediately closed, and caught Nick’s pimple under his arm, but Nick slipped down, and looked up as if expecting to be hit.

17.—Trifling exchanges, when Nick again provokingly slipped on his knees.

18.—Caunt led off, planted his left slightly, and Nick down on his knees. Caunt looked at him derisively and laughed, exclaiming, “It won’t do to-day, Nick.”

19.—Caunt still fresh as a four-year-old, and first to the scratch, Nick evidently fearful of approaching too near. Caunt made a feint, with his left, and then delivered a tremendous round right-handed blow on the base of Ward’s ribs; the blow was too high, or it might have told fearfully. Nick let go his left, and Caunt jumped back, but again coming to the charge Ward retreated. Caunt following him up again seized him with a Herculean grip round the neck, lifted him clean off the ground, and then fell squash upon him.

20.—Some tolerably good exchanges, in which Nick hit straightest, but immediately went down—Caunt pointing at him with contempt.

21.—Nick tried his left and right, but missed, his timidity evidently preventing his getting sufficiently near to his man. Caunt again seized him, lifted him up, and fell upon him, but lightly.

22.—Caunt hit short at the body with his right, and tried his left, which was stopped. Counter-hits with the right, ditto with the left, when Nick went down.

23.—Ward planted his left heavily on Caunt’s mug, and opened his previous wounds; this he followed with a touch from his right on the ear. Caunt rushed wildly to the charge, but Nick, as usual, tumbled, this time rolling over away from Caunt.

24.—Caunt rushed forward, and delivered his left and right on Ward’s nob, the first on his nose, the second on the side of his head; Ward’s nose again trickled with the purple fluid. Nick went down on his knees, amidst shouts of disapprobation.

25.—Caunt delivered his left on the head and right on the body, with stinging effect, and Nick went down.

26.—Nick again had it on his nose from the left, and dropped on his knees. Caunt, who had his right up with intent to deliver, withheld the blow, and walked away.

27.—Nick slow in approaching the scratch, and Caunt impatient to be at him. Holt cautioned Caunt not to cross the scratch till his man reached it. Caunt let fly with his right, and again caught Nick heavily on the body, following this up with a smart touch from his left on the mazzard. Nick again went down on one knee, and, while in that position, struck Caunt with his left. Caunt stooped, nodded, and laughed at him, as he looked up in his face. Nick also nodded and laughed. “We’ll have a fair fight to-day, Nick,” said Caunt.

28.—Good counter-hits with the left, when Caunt once more grasped Ward, and held him up; but Ward slipped from his arms, and got down.

29.—Ward slow, when Caunt planted two right-handed hits on Ward’s jaw and neck. Ward slipped down on one knee, but Caunt refrained from striking him, although entitled to do so by the rules of the Ring.

30.—Caunt lost no time in rushing to his man, and planted his right heavily on the side of his head. Ward hit widely left and right, and went down on his face.

31.—Ward evidently began to lose all confidence, and fought extremely shy. Caunt rushed in, caught his head under his arm, and although he might have hit him with great severity, he restrained himself, and let him fall.

32.—Ward came up evidently counter to his own inclinations, being urged forward by his seconds. Caunt caught him left and right, and he fell to avoid further punishment.

33.—Caunt gave a lungeing slap with his right on Ward’s pimple, when Ward dropped on both knees, and popped his head between Caunt’s knees. He seemed disposed to poke in anywhere out of danger’s way, and any odds were offered on Caunt.

34.—Caunt rushed in to mill, but Ward had obviously made up his mind to be satisfied, and down he went without a blow.

35, and last.—Ward was “kidded” up once more by his second and bottle-holder; but it was clear that all the King’s horses and all the King’s men could not draw him to the scratch with anything like a determination to protract the combat. Caunt let fly right and left at his mug, and down he went for the last time. His brother ran to him, but it was all up; and as the only excuse for such a termination to the battle, Nick pretended that his ribs were broken from the heavy right-handed hits of Caunt, and that he was incapable of continuing the contest. Caunt was thus proclaimed the conqueror, and “THE CHAMPION OF ENGLAND,” amidst a general cheer, and expressions of contempt towards Ward—so strongly emphasised that the usual collection for the losing man was omitted by Holt, who shook a hat with a few halfpence he had himself dropped into it, and then put them in his pocket with a laugh.

We examined the supposed fracture in his ribs, but could discover nothing beyond severe contusions. It will be recollected that Brassey closed his labours with Caunt upon similar grounds, though perhaps with better reason. Nick was immediately conveyed to his omnibus, where he became prostrate in mind and body, exciting but little sympathy in the breasts of the general body of spectators. The fight lasted forty-seven minutes. The ceremony of girding Caunt with the Champion’s Belt then took place, and it was put round his loins, with a hearty wish from those who witnessed his unflinching courage from first to last, as well as his manly forbearance amidst cowardly provocation, that he might long retain it. He afterwards went to Ward’s carriage, and offered him all the consolations of which he was susceptible, hoping that they might hereafter be the best friends, a feeling which Jem Ward, who evidently blushed for the pusillanimity of his brother, good-naturedly reciprocated. Caunt, he said, had proved himself the better man, and should always be an acceptable guest at his house. We ought to have mentioned that Caunt, on quitting the ring, disdained to do so in the usual way, but leaped clear over the ropes, a height of four feet six, and on his way home ran a pretty fast race against a “Corinthian” across a piece of ploughed land for a bottle of wine, which he cleverly won.

Remarks.—The report of this fight tells its own tale. Nick Ward’s conduct completely confirmed the suspicions of his chicken-hearted pretensions. He wanted that one requisite of all others indispensable to a pugilist—courage; and although his science was unquestionable, it can only be displayed to advantage in the sparring school. As he said himself after his fight with Sambo Sutton, he “was not cut out for a fighting man;” and the best advice we can give him is to retire altogether from the Ring. Caunt, who from the first booked victory as certain, sustained his character for bravery, and left off as fresh as when he commenced, although somewhat damaged in the frontispiece. His right eyebrow and cheek were much swollen, and the back of his head displayed a prominent bump of combativeness from the fall against the stakes. His hands were little damaged, but the knuckle of his right hand showed that it had come in ugly contact with Nick’s “pimple” or ribs. He was much improved in his style of fighting since his former exhibitions in the Ring; instead of hitting over the guard, as was his former practice, he hit straight from the shoulder, and having learned to lead off with his left, was enabled the more effectively to bring the heavy weight of his right into useful play. He still, however, hit round with his right, and the most severe blows which Ward received during the contest were those which were planted on the ribs and side of the head with this hand. These blows, with the heavy falls, to which was superadded the weight of his antagonist, no doubt tended to extinguish the little courage he might have possessed. Caunt was carefully seconded by his aged uncle and Atkinson, and although, had it been necessary to carry him to his corner, they might not have been able to afford him the requisite assistance, as that necessity did not arise no fault was to be found. Throughout the battle excellent order was maintained, and there were none of those irregularities observable on the former occasion. Jem Ward and his friends conducted themselves with great propriety, and submitted to defeat as well as to the loss of their money with as good a grace as could well have been expected. To the amateurs and patrons of British boxing the conduct of Nick Ward was most displeasing, and they one and all declared that they had never seen a man whose pretensions to the Championship had been more disgracefully exposed. Caunt came to town the same night, accompanied by Tom Spring, and on reaching the “Castle” was received with universal congratulations.

Caunt now resolved, after the fashion of our great public performers, to make a trans-Atlantic trip, to show the New World a specimen of an Old World champion, and to add another “big thing” to the country of “big things;” though in this America sustained her eminence by sending us a bigger champion than our “Big Ben” himself, in the form of Charles Freeman, of whom more anon.

Ben’s departure was thus announced on the 10th of September, 1841—“Ben Caunt, Champion of England, sailed from Liverpool for New York on Thursday, taking with him the Champion’s Belt, for which, he says, any Yankee may become a candidate.”

In the New York Spirit of the Times of November 13th we find this paragraph:—

“Caunt, the ‘Champion of England,’ arrived on Monday week last in the packet ship ‘Europe,’ bringing with him the Champion’s Belt. He has appeared several times at the Bowery Theatre, in ‘Life in London,’ being introduced in the scene opening with Tom Cribb’s sparring-room. He is an immensely powerful man, two or three inches above six feet in height, and well proportioned. Caunt’s reputation at home is that of a liberal, manly fellow; prodigious strength and thorough game have won him more battles than his science, though he is no chicken. The following challenge has appeared in some of the daily papers: ‘Challenge—To Caunt, the Champion of England,—Sir, I will fight you for 500 dollars, three months from this date, the forfeit money to be put up at any time and place you may name. You can find me at 546, Grand Street.—Yours, James Jerolomon.”

This challenge, of course, was mere “buncombe.” After a profitable and pleasant tour, in which, as he declared on his return, he met nothing but hospitality and civility from our American cousins, Ben returned to England early in 1842, accompanied by a magnificent specimen of humanity named Charles Freeman, dubbed, for circus and theatre purposes, “Champion of the World;” and truly, if bulk and height were the prime requisites of a boxer, Charles Freeman was unapproachable in these respects.

The first mention of Freeman is in a letter from Caunt, dated from New York, December 20th, 1841, in which we suspect the hand of some Yankee Barnum, rather than the fist of burly Ben, may be detected. Caunt says, “I declared my intention of not fighting in America, but if anything can tempt me to change my intention, it will be the following circumstance:—

“When at Philadelphia I intended taking a Southern tour, but an unexpected circumstance brought me back to New York. There appeared a challenge in the papers of New York from the Michigan Giant to me; my friends at New York went to try to make a match with him; they offered to back me for ten thousand dollars a side, and sent for me to return as soon as possible. There is no match made yet, but it is likely there will be soon. I am quite prepared to fight him—he is the only man who could draw me from my first determination. This Giant is seven feet three inches high, proportionally stout, and very active; he can turn twenty-five somersets in succession, can hold a large man out at arm’s length, he weighs 333lb., and has nothing but muscle on his bones. I have all reasons to believe a match will be made. I expect to be in England in a short time if the above match is not made, when I shall be ready to accommodate Bendigo. You will oblige me by inserting some or the whole of the above in your valuable columns.

I remain, Yours, &c.   “BENJAMIN CAUNT.”

“New York, December 20th, 1841.”

That there were showmen before Artemus Ward, as ingenious, if not so “genial” or witty, the reader must allow. The bathos of being ready for little Bendigo, after disposing of a monster “seven feet three inches high, and proportionally stout,” and “weighing 23st. 11lb.,” is overwhelming. The “gag” is sufficiently indicated by another paragraph from a New York paper, in which the “Michigan Giant” becomes the “New York Baby,” without any mention of fistic collision between the so-called “Champions.”

“The amateurs of the Ring have been on the ‘ki wivy’ (according to a notorious ex-justice of police) since the arrival of the English Champion, Caunt. He has just concluded a successful engagement at one of the Philadelphia theatres, after having appeared several nights here at the Bowery, in ‘Life in London.’ Caunt has put on the gloves for a friendly set-to with most of our amateurs at Hudson’s ‘Sparring Rooms and Pistol Gallery,’ corner of Broadway and Chambers Street; he hits hard, and is as active as a bottle imp. But ‘a baby’ has at length been found who promises to show both fun and fight, in the shape of a young New Yorker, standing seven feet in his stockings, and whose weight is three hundred and fifteen pounds. His name is Charles Freeman, and he is about the tallest specimen of our city boys that ever came under the notice of the ‘Tall Son of York.’ He has immense muscular developments, and is well put together, with arms and legs strong enough for the working-beam or piston-rod of a Mississippi steamboat. Freeman has lately returned from a visit through the British Provinces, where he was sufficiently successful to lay claim to Cæsar’s motto, ‘Veni, vidi, vici.’ At Halifax, recently, some one sent him a challenge, which was accepted, but upon seeing the ‘New York Baby,’ waived the honour of meeting him, except with the muffles on. It is, we believe, arranged that our specimen youth shall accompany the English Champion back to the Old World, where, we’ll lay a pile, they’ll be gravelled to match him.”

These pilot balloons were soon followed by the return of the doughty Ben with his Giant protégé, in the month of March, 1842. The “sparring tours” were carried out by Ben and his Giant partner, including appearances at provincial theatres, &c. with an undercurrent of pugilistic challenges and “correspondence” kept up in the sporting papers, in which the Tipton Slasher challenged the American Giant, and Bendigo now and then offered terms to Ben himself. These do not belong to a history of pugilism, and we pass them by, with a mere reference to our notice of Freeman’s fiasco with the clumsy Tipton Slasher in another place. (See Life of William Perry, Chapter IV.)

We may here interject a paragraph to say that the cup which Ben was wont to exhibit to visitors to St. Martin’s Lane, as the “Champion of England’s Cup,” was a handsome piece of plate, subscribed for by a number of Ben’s admirers and friends in Newcastle, Gateshead, Nottingham, &c. and presented to him at a “spread” at Izzy Lazarus’s, “Cross Keys,” Gateshead, on the date given in the inscription, which was as follows: “Presented to Benjamin Caunt, Champion of England, by his Newcastle friends, as a token of respect for his abilities as a pugilist and his conduct as a man, July 6th, 1842.”

That Ben kept himself before the public, may be gathered from the following comprehensive challenge, which we select from several of the same character, and which served for gossip for the gobemouches in 1843 and 1844:—

“A WORD FROM THE CHAMPION.

“To the Editor of Bell’s Life in London.

“Sir,—Seeing a challenge from Bendigo this week, I shall be happy to meet him on his own terms, £200 a ride (in which I heartily hope he will not disappoint me). I will meet him at my own house, on Tuesday evening next, to stake not less than £20 as a first deposit. Should this challenge not be accepted, I will fight Bendigo, Tass Parker, and the Tipton Slasher, once each within six months, for £200 a side, and shall be prepared to deposit £60—viz., £20 each match—as the first deposit, any time at my house, or at Tom Spring’s, the Castle Tavern, Holborn. Should this not be ‘a go’ within four months, I shall beg most respectfully to decline the Ring altogether.

“B. CAUNT.

“January 21st, 1844.”

By many it was thought that the severe accident which had occurred to Bendigo, and occasioned a forfeit by him of £75 to Tass Parker, had placed another contest between him and the ponderous Ben out of the question. This did not, however, prove to be the case. At a sporting dinner at Owen Swift’s, at which, besides a full muster of Corinthians, Tom Spring, Peter Crawley, Jem Burn, Frank Redmond, Tom Oliver, Dan Dismore, Bill Jones, and many of the “professionals” were present, the matter of the Championship was formally discussed.

Therein, with the consent of Caunt, Bendigo was matched to fight him for £200, Caunt’s subscription belt, and the Championship, and the Tipton Slasher staked £10 as a first deposit to fight the winner. How the first of these events did come off (unsatisfactorily), and how the second did not come off at all, are fully recorded in the lives of Bendigo and of William Perry. Suffice it here to say that Caunt lost his third battle with Bendigo by falling without a blow. (See Chapter I., page 28, ante.)

A fearful catastrophe, by which the Champion suffered a heavy domestic bereavement, occurred during Caunt’s temporary absence from London on a visit to some country friends in Hertfordshire.

By a fire which suddenly broke out at the “Coach and Horses,” St. Martin’s Lane, of which Caunt was at this time the landlord, two of Caunt’s children, and the servant by whom they were attended, were burnt to death. The facts of the case will best be gathered from a condensed report of the evidence at the coroner’s inquest, held at the Board Room of St. Martin’s parish, on the Thursday following the melancholy event.

The jury having viewed the bodies of the unfortunate victims, the first witness called was Mrs. Anne Tomlins, who identified the bodies as those of Ruth Lowe, aged 18 years, Martha Caunt, aged 9 years, and Cornelius Butler Caunt, aged 6 years, the two latter being the children of Benjamin and Martha Caunt, and the former a cousin of Mrs. Caunt.

Susanna Thorpe was next examined: She said she came to town on Sunday last, on a visit to Mrs. Caunt, who was her cousin. Mrs. Caunt and herself were in the bar when the clock struck two on Wednesday morning, shortly after which they both went upstairs to bed. Ruth Lowe and the children had gone to bed some hours previously. Mr. Caunt being away in the country, Mrs. Caunt asked witness to sleep with her. Witness consented to do so, and had already got into bed herself, when she heard Edward Noakes, the cellarman, who slept upstairs, give an alarm. Mrs. Caunt had not got into bed when this happened, and she immediately opened the door, and found that the furniture in the middle room, on the second floor, was on fire. Witness got out of bed, and went downstairs with Mrs. Caunt to call for assistance. Witness saw fire and smoke in the middle room as she crossed the landing to go downstairs.

Coroner: Does it occur to you how the fire originated there? No, sir. I was in that room just before I went to bed. I went to fetch my nightdress, which I had left on a chair near the window, having slept in this room on the three previous nights. I had a common candlestick in my hand when I went into the room. There were two beds in the apartment. I passed them both, but not closely, and I have no recollection of any circumstance which might account for the origin of the fire.

Corroborative evidence was given by Edward Noakes, the cellarman and waiter, by Sarah Martin, the barmaid, and by Dominic Carr, sergeant of police.

John Short, conductor of the fire escape stationed by St. Martin’s Church, proved having attended with his machine immediately after the alarm was given. He first directed the machine to the second floor window, through which he entered. He found no person in this room, and as the fire prevented his getting further, he came down, and having thrown up the top ladder, reascended to the parapet. He tried to make an entrance through the parapet window, but the flames and smoke at this time shot through with such violence that all his efforts were unavailing, and he again descended. He heard no cries coming from the attic window while he was there.

The coroner briefly charged the jury. It was a most deplorable case, but he apprehended, after the testimony they had had from the various witnesses, the jury would have little difficulty in arriving at a conclusion.

The jury, after consulting for a few moments, found “that the deceased parties were suffocated in a fire, the origin of which they had no evidence before them to determine.”

Caunt did not return from the country till the following morning. His feelings may be more easily conceived than described. Both himself and his wife were so deeply affected as to excite the commiseration of all classes.

The last appearance of our ponderous hero in the P.R. was one that adds no leaf of laurel to his pugilistic biography. Some absurd family quarrels (Nat Langham had married a relative of Mrs. Caunt), together with some petty trade jealousy, (Nat being the popular landlord of the “Cambrian Stores,” Castle Street, Leicester Square, hard by Big Ben’s “Coach and Horses”), gave rise to all sorts of unpleasant personalities on more than one occasion. Nat, though a civil and, except professionally, non-combative sort of fellow, having over and over again expressed his opinion that Caunt had no pretensions to pugilistic honours beyond the possession of unwieldy bulk and clumsy strength, and further, that “he couldn’t hit him (Nat) in a month of Sundays,” the feud, aggravated by crabbed old Ben Butler and Mrs. Caunt, assumed the bitterness of a family feud, and finally Ben proposed and “Ould Nat” accepted a challenge to settle this “difference of opinion” in the manner and form prescribed by the fair rules and regulations of British boxing. The articles were formulated on the 16th of May, 1857, by which, and a deposit of £10 a side, the parties agreed to stake £200 a side in instalments, the battle to come off on the 23rd of the ensuing September. It is regrettable to find that the “feud of kindred” received yet another proof of its exceeding intensity over all ordinary quarrels among strangers. At the second deposit Nat (he was going out of town) actually left his £10 with the final stakeholder a week before it was due, whereon Caunt and Co. appealed to the “letter of the articles,” which declared that the “said deposits should be made at the times and places hereinafter mentioned,” and claimed forfeit of the money down; although the “final stakeholder, to whom all deposits should be paid over in time for insertion in Bell’s Life in London” had actually given notice to “uncle Butler,” (Caunt being away at Brighton,) of the previous deposit of the money in his hands. This quibbling plea was, however, repudiated by Caunt himself, as will be seen below, and the match went on:—

“Mr. Editor,—I respectfully ask that you will admit into your columns this declaration on my part: That my match with Langham is the result of a dispute that can only be settled, so far as I am concerned, by an appeal to the fists. That the articles will be strictly abided by on my part, and that so far from throwing any impediment in the way of the match it is my anxious desire to bring it to an issue in the Ring. Thus far, I beg my friends will take my assurance of ‘honourable intentions.’ Were they but aware of the personal nature of the affair, such assurance would not be needed; but, as many must necessarily be unacquainted with its cause of origin, it is due to my own character to take the course I have now done in writing to you an emphatic statement of my intentions, which I solemnly assert are unalterable, until that result comes to pass which shall prove either me or my antagonist the better man.

“Yours, &c. BENJAMIN CAUNT.

“‘Coach and Horses,’ St. Martin’s Lane, London,
May 27th, 1857.”

To which the editor adds:—

“Ben has also paid us a personal visit, and repeated the statements contained in his letter, and in addition has given up all claim to the forfeit, which, from the first, we believe was not his own doing.”

The atmosphere thus cleared, all went on serenely, the bona fides of the match, which had been sorely doubted and even ridiculed in sporting circles, being now placed beyond dispute. If “there is only one step from the sublime to the ridiculous,” however many gradations there may be before arriving at the last step but one, we think the reader will agree that it was taken by Caunt in the affair we will now briefly relate. In the month of June Tom Sayers (see Life of Sayers, post) beat the “Old Tipton Slasher” (Wm. Perry) in a battle for the Championship and the “Belt,” from all claim to which Caunt had years before publicly retired. Among the challengers of Sayers’s remarkable position as a 10-stone Champion we find—risum teneatis, amici?—Caunt, although then engaged in articles with an 11-stone man. Ben shall here speak for himself:—

“To the Editor of ‘Bell’s Life in London.’

“Sir,—Unaccustomed as I am to public challenging, long laid upon the shelf as I have been, it may perchance startle the sporting world to learn that Ben Caunt is once more a candidate for the Championship. Win or lose with Langham, I challenge Tom Sayers for £200 a side and the Championship, the contest to take place within six months of my forthcoming fight. My money is ready at your office, and I trust that this offer will be accepted, in order that the world may be as speedily as possible undeceived with regard to the merits of the much-vaunted new school of British boxing.

“Yours obediently, BENJAMIN CAUNT.

“June 18th, 1857.”

“Note.—Caunt has left £10 in our hands to prove he is in earnest.”

This Waterloo Day flourish of trumpets was followed the next week by the fearless little Tom covering Big Ben’s “tenner,” announcing that, if his match with Caunt did not go on, he was prepared to meet his other challenger, Tom Paddock. The “lame and impotent conclusion” of Caunt’s challenge is soon told. Ben proposed that Sayers should come to his house (of course as a “draw”) to draw up articles, &c. Tom didn’t see it; and as he was engaged in the provinces making hay while the sun shone, he offered to sign articles, if transmitted to him, and duly post the needful with the editor of Bell’s Life. This, on the other hand, didn’t suit Ben’s fireside, and so the incongruous affair ended in smoke. Meantime Paddock had a severe accident, which put his right hand hors de combat, and a disabling illness followed. Ben now announced his departure for “sea breezes and strict training,” and Nat did the same, which brings us to the 22nd day of September, 1857.

As we have already remarked, the match from its first inception was considered so extraordinary, not only from the great disparity in the size of the men, but from the supposed irreparable state of Nat’s constitution (he having, as was known to many, sought the advice of the principal physician of the Brompton Hospital for Consumption), that the public generally looked upon it with distrust and suspicion, and up to the very last deposit sporting men refused to believe that it would ever come to a fight. Indeed, so strong was this impression on the minds of many, and not a few of them influential patrons of the P. R., that they pooh-poohed the whole affair, absented themselves from the houses where deposits were made good, and also from the fight itself. Great therefore was their disappointment, and no less their disgust, when they learnt that not only had the men met, but that they had actually fought a battle which was certainly as well worth seeing as almost any modern battle between big men.

Those with whom we conversed appeared to hold but two opinions on the subject. Either one or the other of the men would be apprehended and held to bail, or there would be police interference on the day. At one time, indeed, so infectious is suspicion, we began to participate in the general distrust, and awaited expectantly the bursting of the bubble, by the news of a domiciliary visit from Sir Richard Mayne, or some of his satellites, to one or other of the rival houses; both Caunt and Langham announcing flying visits to their respective hostelries on more than one occasion. Up to the eleventh hour this or some other obstacle was confidently predicted. On the Monday, however, it was known that arrangements had been agreed on by Dan Dismore on the part of Nat Langham, and Jemmy Shaw and Ben Butler on the part of Ben Caunt, to hire two steamboats between them, one for first and the other for second-class passengers. It was also arranged that the boats should rendezvous at Tilbury, and that the men and their friends should proceed to the same place by the 7.50 a.m. train on the eventful morning. In the course of Monday, however, it seems that apprehensions arose in the minds of Nat’s friends that it would be unsafe to start from Tilbury, and they telegraphed to the owner of the boats to change the venue and muster at Southend. They did not seem to think it necessary to communicate with Caunt or his uncle, concluding of course that they would be at the London terminus at the time arranged, and that then everything could be settled. At the time appointed Ben Butler and Young Ben (Caunt’s son) were at Fenchurch Street, but Caunt did not show, and we thought of course he had adopted some other means of conveyance. At Tilbury, however, Uncle Ben and Jemmy Shaw came to us, and said that Caunt expected the boat at Tilbury, and had not heard of any alteration. Here again our suspicions arose that some casualty had happened, and that there would be no fight. Ben’s friends could give no reason for his not being at the appointed station in the morning, and all seemed quite nonplused. To add to other difficulties there were no signs of young Fred Oliver, who, as the deputy of Old Tom, had charge of the ropes and stakes, although he had distinct notice on Friday at what time the expedition was to leave London. This state of things cast a gloom on the travellers, many of whom had serious thoughts of returning to town. On persuasion, however, they made up their minds to “see it out,” and as the train could not be stopped, all resumed their seats and sped on to Southend, hoping to find Caunt there, or, at any rate, to hear some tidings of him. On reaching this spot all at once made their way to the pier head, but not a word could be heard of the ex-Champion, or of the ropes and stakes. Butler at once went on board one boat (that reserved for first-class passengers), while Dan Dismore remained on the pier to supply tickets for the voyage.

The party now repaired on board the second-class boat, where Nat was found installed, waiting impatiently for the appearance of Caunt, of whom nothing could be heard; Dan Dismore also came on board this vessel.

It was now nearly twelve o’clock, and all began anxiously to look for the half-hour, at which time the next train was due at Southend, by which it was, of course, expected that Ben would come. Half-past twelve, one o’clock arrived, the train had been in some time, but still there was no appearance of Ben on the pier. At length an emissary was sent ashore, and he ascertained that Caunt and the ropes and stakes had been embarked on board an opposition tug, singularly enough called the “Ben Bolt,” at Tilbury, and that they were on the way to join the flotilla as quickly as possible. It was two o’clock or nearly so before the “Ben Bolt” hove in sight, with “’tother Ben” on board. By a quarter-past two o’clock, everything being settled, the office was given, and an experienced pilot conducted the flotilla, which now numbered four steamboats, besides innumerable small craft, to the proposed scene of action, within a very short distance of the spot where Tom Sayers and Aaron Jones settled their differences. Against a strong ebb of course progress was very slow, and it was past three before the first vessel arrived off the point. The ropes and stakes were at once sent ashore, and Fred Oliver with due diligence proceeded to erect the ring. Poor Old Tom was sadly missed, and many expressions of regret were uttered at his continued ill health. The number of persons present was extremely large, but of Corinthians there was a lamentable absence, arising, no doubt, from the before-mentioned suspicions as to the men’s intentions. As soon as the arena was ready, the combatants, who were evidently all agog to be at it, tossed their caps into the ring, Nat being the first to uncover his canister, Ben being not two seconds behind him. Both looked hard and healthy, but their mugs bore distinct traces of their being veteran boxers. Ben, of course, looked the older man, his not handsome dial being as brown as mahogany, and looked as hard as a nutmeg-grater. Nat’s phiz was smoother, softer, and of a lighter tint, and there was a hue of health upon it that we had not seen there for many a day. They shook hands, but it was evident that the ceremony was against the grain. As four o’clock was fast approaching, it was hinted that no time ought to be lost, and the men at once proceeded to accomplish their toilettes. Nat Langham was assisted by the Champion (Tom Sayers) and the accomplished Jack Macdonald—certainly the best second out—while Ben Caunt was waited upon (we cannot say picked up, for he never once was down throughout the fight) by Jack Gill, of Nottingham, and Jemmy Shaw, who, between them, could never have carried him to his corner, had occasion required it, in the time allowed between the rounds, indeed they must have inevitably have carried him a limb at a time. How he could have been persuaded to select two such assistants we are at a loss to conceive. Jack Gill could not have had much experience in his new vocation, and Jemmy Shaw will excuse us for saying that, however staunch a friend and good fellow he has proved himself in other ways, his stature and proportions by no means qualify him as a porter to either Gog or Magog, should those gigantic worthies need to be picked up from a horizontal position.

At a quarter to four the seconds proceeded to knot the colours on the centre stake—a blue, with white spot, for Langham, orange with a blue border for Caunt. The betting on the ground was trifling in the extreme; nothing was laid between the men, and but small sums at 5 and 6 to 4 on Caunt. As to Nat’s training, he went first to Dover and then to Stockbridge, in Hampshire, where by steadiness and perseverance he got himself into extraordinary fettle; to our eye, he looked bigger, stronger, and healthier, though of course somewhat older, than when he fought either Harry Orme or Tom Sayers. And now, having brought our men to the “post,” we will start them for

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—On toeing the scratch the disparity between the men was of course extraordinary. Ben Caunt, barring his mug, was a study for a sculptor. His massive frame and powerful legs and arms—the former set off to the best advantage by pink silk stockings and well-made drawers—presented a sight worth going some distance to see; and as he stood over old Nat any one would have agreed with Jerry Noon, who declared that it was “Chelsea Hospital to a sentry-box” in his favour. He smiled good-humouredly, and had clearly made up his mind to win in a trot. Nat was, as usual, clear in skin, and neatly made at all points. His shoulders and arms were well covered with muscle, and for an encounter with a man of his own size he looked all that could be desired; but as to his being a match for Ben Caunt it seemed too absurd to be credited, and few, we think, expected to see him “perform” with anything like effect. His attitude, as of yore, was perfection, and his dangerous left was playing about close to his side all in readiness for one of his neat deliveries as Ben came in. Caunt stood just as he ever stood, very square on his pins, his brawny arms almost straight out before him, which he ever and anon moved backward and forward with all the deliberation of a couple of pendulums. He had come, however, not to spar, but to fight, and after very little feinting he went up to Nat, who retreated towards the ropes, and Ben at length lunged out left and right, just catching Nat with the former on the ribs, and Nat was down laughing.

2.—Both very quick to time. Caunt walked after Nat, sawing the air with both fins, and as he got close he sent out his left, but Nat, quick as lightning, shot out his left on the kisser, drawing first blood from Ben’s upper lip and got down.

3.—After a little dodging Nat feinted, and then let fly his left straight on the jaw. Slight exchanges followed on the side of the wig block, and Nat was again down out of harm’s way.

4.—No time cut to waste, Caunt went to his man and poked out his left, just catching Nat on the chin, and Nat dropped.

5.—Nat fiddled Ben to within distance, and then popped his larboard daddle on Ben’s jaw, a cracker; this led to heavy exchanges, Caunt getting on to Nat’s forehead above the left peeper, and receiving on the cheek; Nat fell.

6.—After one or two passes the men got close, and very slight exchanges took place, when Nat got down by a roll over.

7.—Caunt stalked up to Nat, swung his mauleys slowly round, and then dropped the left on Nat’s left cheek, Nat nailing him prettily at the same time on the left eye; Nat down clumsily, Caunt carefully stepping over him.

8.—Caunt again approached Nat, and lunged out his left, Nat countering him quickly on the right peeper. Ben got home on the left cheek, and Nat fell.

9.—Nat dodged about for an opening, and then got sharply home on the left cheek. Caunt returned very slightly on the side of the nut, and Nat was down.

10.—Both sparred a little for wind, but soon went to close quarters, when, after a very slight exchange on the forehead, Nat sought Mother Earth. The 11th round was precisely similar, Caunt missing with both hands.

12.—Nat, after a few passes, got within distance and shot out his left as straight as a dart on Ben’s conk, inflicting an ugly cut on the bridge, and drawing more claret. The blow had double force from the fact that Ben was coming in at the time. He, nevertheless, bored in, and had Nat down at the ropes.

13.—Nat again timed his man judgmatically with his left on the proboscis, and slipped down from the force of the blow. He recovered himself, however, and after a little sparring got sharply on Ben’s potato-trap. Ben retaliated, but not effectively, on Nat’s cheek, and Nat fell.

14.—Nat feinted, and dropped smartly on the snorer. He tried again, but missed, and in getting away slipped down.

15.—Langham missed his left, and slight exchanges followed at the ropes, where Nat got down, Caunt again, in the most manly way, refraining from falling on him, as he might have done as he was going down.

16.—Ben took the first move, and got home, but not heavily, on Nat’s jaw. They then sparred a bit, and on getting close Caunt lunged out his one, two, on Nat’s left cheek, but the blows appeared to have no steam in them. Nat popped a straight one on the left brow, and dropped.

17.—Slight exchanges, no damage, and Ben bored his man down at the ropes.

18.—Nat let fly his left, but Ben was too far off. Ben, however, went to him, and slight exchanges took place, Nat on the mark and Caunt on the side of the head, and Nat down.

19.—After slight exchanges, Ben got home sharply on the back of Nat’s brain pan, and Nat fell.

20.—No time lost. They walked up to one another, and at once let fly, Caunt on Nat’s forehead, and Nat on the left brow. Nat down.

21.—Good exchanges, but Nat straightest, getting another good one on Ben’s conk, and renewing the crimson distillation. Caunt touched Nat’s forehead, and Nat down without a visible mark of punishment.

22.—Caunt rushed at Nat, who being close to the ropes, slipped down. An appeal of “foul” was made, but not by the umpires. The referee, however, sent Nat’s umpire to him to caution him.

23.—Nat fiddled and dodged until Caunt drew back his arm, when pop went the left on Ben’s cheek. Exchanges followed, Nat getting on Ben’s left peeper, and Ben on the brow, and Nat down.

24.—Slight exchanges; Ben on the forehead, and Nat down.

25.—Nat missed his first delivery, but in a second effort caught Ben on the body, Caunt retaliating with a swinging round hit on the cranium, and Nat down.

26.—Sharp exchanges; Nat on the kisser, and Ben on the side of the canister, and Nat down, Ben as usual stepping over him, but asking him why he “did not stand up and have a round.”

27.—Ben went to his man, and began business by lunging out both hands, but he missed, and Nat popped his left on the whistler. Ben, however, returned on the cheek, just drawing claret, and Nat down.

28.—Ben again succeeded in reaching Nat’s cheek with his right, drawing the ruby, and Nat fell.

29 and 30.—After trifling exchanges in these rounds, Nat got down, much to the annoyance of Ben, who, however, preserved his good temper, and merely remonstrated with his cunning opponent.

31.—Nat dodged, and popped his left sharply on the mazzard, received the merest excuse for a blow, and dropped.

32.—In this round the exchanges were very slight, but Nat’s were straightest. As usual, he was down.

33.—Nat crept in, let go his left on Ben’s lip, which he cut, and Nat fell on his back from the force of his own blow.

34.—Ben, whose warbler was bleeding, rushed at Nat furiously, and regularly bored him down.

To go into details of the next few rounds would be merely a repetition of what we have already written. Nat feinted, dodged, timed his man with the greatest precision whenever he moved his arms, and, although his blows did not seem very heavy, they still were always “there, or thereabouts,” and poor old Ben’s mug began to be all shapes. The manly fellow, however, never grumbled; he went straight up to be planted upon, and although he occasionally got home a body blow or a round hit on the side of Nat’s knowledge box, still he left no visible marks. Once or twice Jemmy Shaw claimed “foul,” on the ground that Nat fell without a blow; but Nat was cunning enough to keep just within the pale of the law. There was not one round in which he did not go down, and Ben invariably walked to his corner. In the 43rd round Ben got the first knock-down blow on Nat’s forehead. In the 48th, he bustled in with desperation, but Nat met him full in the mouth, and then on the snorter, with his left, drawing the crimson from each, Ben returned on the top of the forehead, and Nat got down.

49.—Nat crept in craftily, and popped a little one on the snuffer-tray, and this led to a tremendous counter-hit, Caunt on the cheek, and Nat on the jaw very heavily, drawing more ruby. Nat fell, his nut first reaching the ground, and Ben staggered to his corner, evidently all abroad. By great exertions, and a little extra time, his seconds got him up to the scratch. Nat, however, was not in a much better state. Both were severely shaken.

50.—Nat on coming up, was evidently slow, but, to the surprise of every one, showed no mark of the hit in the last round, while Ben’s kisser was considerably awry, and he was scarcely himself. Now would have been Langham’s time, but he had not strength to go in. After a short spar, Ben got on to Nat’s jaw, staggering him; Nat returned sharply on the left eye and nozzle. After heavy exchanges on the body, Nat fell.

51.—In this round Ben just missed Nat as he was falling, and caught the stake very heavily with his left, which was thereby rendered useless, or nearly so. From this to the 60th and last round there was nothing to call for particular notice. Nat pursued his defensive tactics, and his pop for nothing when there was a chance. Still, however, old Ben kept swinging his dangerous limbs about, and every now and then got heavily on Nat’s body and left shoulder, and occasionally on the top of his head. Nat fell every round, but oftentimes be had to do it so quickly, owing to the close proximity of Ben, that he fell most awkwardly for himself, and must have been shaken severely. He gradually got tired, and Caunt, whose dial was much cut about, was evidently puzzled what to be at. At length, in the sixtieth round, after a little sparring and a slight exchange, they stood and looked at one another, and rubbed their chests. Neither seemed disposed to begin, and it was pretty clear that each had the same end in view—namely, to protract the battle until it was dark. Each, doubtless, felt that he was unable to finish that day, and did not feel disposed to throw a chance away by going in, and getting an unexpected finisher at close quarters. After standing several minutes, Dan Dismore came to us and said it was a pity that men who had been such close friends should proceed any further with hostilities, and suggested that it would be much better if they forgave and forgot their quarrel, and shook hands. We coincided with Dan in his kindly opinion, and he then took upon himself to go into the ring and suggest some such arrangement, and in doing so he said he would gladly give £5 out of his own pocket to see them bury their animosity there and then, and draw their stakes. Caunt said he was willing if Nat was, and after a little consideration Nat held out his mauley, which was cordially shaken by Ben, and then Langham went with Caunt into the corner of the latter, where he shook hands with Ben Butler, and also with Caunt’s son. Dan Dismore now left the ring, and on the referee asking him what had been done, Dan said, “It is all over; it’s settled.” The referee inquired whether they intended drawing altogether, and Dan said again, “It’s all done with; there will be nothing more done in it;” or words to that effect, but we believe these were Dan’s exact expressions. The referee at once, on hearing this, expressed his pleasure at so amicable an arrangement, and on the men quitting the arena he also left the ring side, his office of course ceasing, and on the faith of Dan’s statement he at once gave up what bets he held. After being some time on board the boat, however, he was somewhat staggered at being accosted by one of Nat’s Corinthian patrons and Jack Macdonald, who told him that Nat was quite astonished when they had mentioned to him that a draw had been agreed to, and had declared that such a thing never entered his head. He thought Dismore merely wished them to draw for the time being, and that the referee would name another day in the same week to fight again. The referee replied that his impression certainly was that an arrangement had been made to draw stakes, or he should not have vacated his post, and this application on Nat’s behalf took him so much by surprise that he did not know how his position was affected. It was a case that had never occurred before, and he must think it over. Nat’s backer said he also was impressed at the time with the notion that everything was arranged, and had left the ring side with that belief, but still he thought the referee had the power to name another day, as Nat had been no party to any final arrangement. At the railway station, on the arrival of the boats, the referee called both the men together, and asked them in the presence of each other what they had understood on leaving the ring. Caunt said he understood they were friends again, and were to draw their money, while Nat repeated the statement that had been conveyed to the referee by Jack Macdonald. Caunt seemed quite taken aback, as did also his friends. Dan Dismore now came up, and repeated the statement that he had previously made, to the effect that he had recommended the men to shake hands and be friends, and that he had certainly said he would give £5 out of his own pocket to see the matter settled. They had shaken hands at his recommendation, and at the time it certainly had been his impression that they would not fight again. He declined, however, to take upon himself the responsibility of saying that either man had actually said anything about drawing stakes. The referee was now completely nonplused, and said, at that time, and in such a crowd, he could not undertake to give an opinion either way. He then suggested that the men and their friends should meet at the Stakeholder’s office the following day to discuss the matter, when all were calm, and had had time to think over the affair.

Owing to the low state of the tide when the fight was over, and the narrowness of the causeway to the boats, a great deal of time was lost in embarkation, and not a few of the travellers obtained mud baths at much less price than such a luxury would have cost in Germany. The consequence of the delay was, that the 8 o’clock train was missed, and there being no other until 9.30, the travellers, weary, muddy, and wet, but tolerably well satisfied with their entertainment, did not reach the Metropolis until twelve o’clock.

The following morning the referee took the opportunity of laying the case before a Corinthian patron of the art, who, although no longer a frequenter of the Ring side, was for many years one of the staunchest attendants. That gentleman, after thinking the matter over for a few minutes, said he was of opinion there could be no doubt as to the course of the referee. There had been, he said, no appeal to him to stop the fight—there was no reason for his interference, as he could see both men perfectly, and he had stated there was sufficient daylight for eight or ten more rounds. The men had shaken hands in the ring, and, putting Dismore and his statement out of the question as unnecessary adjuncts to the case, he was of opinion that the men, by voluntarily quitting the ring without any appeal being made by themselves or their umpires, had clearly taken the whole affair out of the referee’s hands, and altogether deprived him of any power in the matter.

At the appointed hour both men and their friends were in attendance—Nat all but scatheless, while Ben had an ugly cut on his nose, and his left peeper was partially closed. He had also other severe marks of punishment on various parts of his dial, and his hands were much puffed. Both men made their statements. Caunt repeated that he fully believed Nat had agreed to draw stakes when he shook hands with him and his uncle, or he should never have consented to leave off fighting, as there was still daylight for ten or a dozen rounds. He was then warm, and felt confident he could have won. He was as strong as ever on his legs, and was convinced that Nat had done all he knew. Langham, in reply, denied that this was the case. He understood that Dismore only proposed a postponement until another day, as it was not likely they could finish that evening. He shook hands with Caunt and his uncle because he did not think he ought to leave the ring without performing that ceremony. Dan Dismore repeated the statement he had already made, adding, that he certainly was not authorised to say they had agreed to draw their money, whatever his own impression might have been. He was of opinion then that it would have been a proper course, and that opinion he still entertained; and he would willingly give £5 or £10 out of his own pocket to see them shake hands and make up their differences. Tom Sayers, who was also present, said he had left the ring with the idea that his principal had agreed to draw the money, and he had no idea until some time afterwards that Nat had contemplated a renewal of hostilities. The referee, after hearing both sides, said that he had thought the matter over very carefully, and had come to a conclusion in his own mind, before consulting the gentleman above referred to, and he was glad to find that conclusion coincided with the opinion of his adviser. The men had taken the matter quite out of his hands. They had made an arrangement between themselves, had shaken hands and left the ring without asking his opinion, or appealing to him in any way, although he stood close to the ropes and stakes at the time they were shaking hands, and what other conclusion could he arrive at than that they had amicably settled their differences? That a misunderstanding had arisen as to future arrangements was to be regretted, but he had no power whatever to name another day. If his advice were asked it would be that they should shake hands, but if they did not choose to do this, they must agree upon another day and place between themselves. Nat at once proposed fighting again on Saturday, to which Caunt objected. He said he was now stiff, and his hands were injured, and required time to get round. He believed a bone in one of his fingers was broken. As he had before said, he could have finished it the same night, but he should decline agreeing to fight again at present. Nat then asked what he proposed, to which Ben said he proposed that on the next occasion Nat should stand up and fight like a man. He could not fight a man who was always on the ground. A good deal of angry discussion followed, Ben Butler again going beyond the bounds of decorum, while Caunt remained perfectly quiet. Nat was, of course, incensed at being baulked of his rights, as he considered them, but still there was no prospect of an arrangement. At length Nat asked Caunt to give him some portion of the stakes, as an inducement to draw, a proposition indignantly scouted by Caunt. This was the last offer. The men were then informed that the referee had given his decision, that he could not interfere, and it remained for them to agree between themselves upon a time and place.

Having gone so fully into details of this affair, it will be unnecessary for us to make many remarks either upon the respective styles of the combatants or the untoward result of the battle. Caunt, from first to last, showed not the slightest improvement in his style of fighting; nor was it likely that after a life of ease, and of abstinence from athletic exercises (if from nothing else) the case could have been otherwise. His position was unartistic. He held his arms too high, and never displayed the least head or judgment in his efforts to get at his shifty opponent. He was always too quick and too anxious to be doing something, and thereby threw away many chances, and so put himself at the mercy of the crafty Nat, who seldom or never failed to avail himself of Big Ben’s incautiousness. Unartistic as he was, however, no one will deny that Caunt upheld the character he has invariably borne of a manly upright boxer, disdaining to avail himself of repeated opportunities, which many persons would unscrupulously have adopted, of falling on an opponent when he dropped in the not very manly manner that Nat, on many occasions, certainly did. From first to last Ben never lost his temper. He received all Nat’s props with the greatest sang froid, smiling upon him, and sometimes shaking his head at him for his shiftiness. As to Caunt’s game, there never was, and never can be, a question. He was punished most severely, and yet he never once flinched or showed signs of not liking it. The only remark he condescended to make from time to time in his corner was, that Nat had done all he could, and that he must be getting weak. He did not wish to win by a foul, and on several occasions when his seconds desired to appeal he said he would rather try to win on his merits. In addition to the punishment on his mug, he contrived to seriously injure both hands. Of Nat Langham it is not necessary to say much. As we have before remarked, he was fitter to fight than we thought he ever could be, and was as confident as if all had been settled. There was all the old cunning and extraordinary quickness with his left, and, if possible, he had improved both in his powers of timing his props and his judgment of distance. He, like Caunt, never for a moment flinched from his receipts, which, on many occasions, must have been anything but agreeable; and, so long as he stood on his pins, he faced his man with unruffled indifference.

That he went down on many occasions in a suspicious manner cannot be denied, and that this occurred on some few occasions when he was not in danger is equally true; but he almost invariably kept just within the pale of the law. Several times he was hit, and hit severely, and when Jemmy Shaw appealed to the referee as to his falling, on most such occasions he received a gentle tap, just sufficient to save him; still he persevered in the practice much too constantly to admit of our stating that it was a fair stand-up fight on his part. His friends contend that when a man is opposed to such superior weight and strength he is justified in resorting to such shifts to enable him to withstand his opponent, but this we deny. The rules of the Ring say distinctly “it shall be a fair stand-up fight,” and if a man cannot vanquish an opponent of heavier metal than himself by fair means, he has no business to make a match with him. Nat knew perfectly well Caunt’s superiority in height and weight, and Caunt was perfectly justified in his observation that this knowledge ought to have deterred him from match-making except on the usual terms. That Nat’s shifty tactics arose from cowardice would of course be a ridiculous suggestion. Every one who has seen him fight knows that a braver man never pulled off his shirt, and no one we ever saw enter a ring has impressed us with so just an idea of what may be accomplished by science and judgment; but still we cannot help repeating a remark we have over and over again made—we do not and cannot admire the hit and drop system. It is not consonant with the principles on which, and on which alone, we can uphold British boxing. The fight lasted one hour and twenty-nine minutes.

The floodgates of newspaper letter-writing were opened by this undecided encounter. It is needless to say that the controversy ended in much ink-shedding and a draw of the £400 staked, leaving the debateable question of “getting down to finish the round” much where it previously and subsequently stood.

From this period Caunt may be said to have finally retired from the Ring, though he still kept his house, the “Coach and Horses” (now the “Salisbury Stores”), in St. Martin’s Lane. The parlour here was a general resort of aspirants for pugilistic honours and their patrons, Ben busying himself in bringing forward and occasionally backing or finding backers for men, among whom may be named Bob Caunt,[13] his brother, David Hayes (thrice beaten by Murray), Perry, the Black, who beat Burton, of Leicester (January 20th, 1846), George Gutteridge (beaten by Nat Langham, September 23rd, 1846), and others.

Caunt was also well known as no mean performer at pigeons, on the various club grounds near the Metropolis and in Hertfordshire. Having caught a severe cold in a long day’s match at “the doves,” in the early part of 1860, it settled on his lungs, and coupled with late hours, and the free living inseparable from his calling as a publican, gave the powerful pugilist his final knock-down blow on the tenth day of September, 1861.

“Strength too—thou surly and less gentle boast

Of those that loud laugh round the village ring—

A fit of common sickness pulls thee down

With greater ease than e’er thou didst the stripling

That rashly dared thee to th’ unequal fight.”

Blair’s “Grave.”

[11] Caunt’s last battle, as closing his Ring career, may be properly considered to have been that with Bendigo, September 9th, 1845; the silly exhibition with Nat Langham in 1857 being a mere hors d’œuvre.

[12] John Gully, Esq., of Ackworth Hall. Elected M.P. for Pontefract, 1832.

[13] “Brother Bob,” a lumpy, civil, but uncouth-mannered rustic, weighing 12 stone, and 5ft. 1O½in. in height, may be dismissed in half-a-dozen lines. He was beaten in his first battle by Nobby Clarke, a clever but chicken-hearted big ’un, in 7 rounds, occupying a short quarter of an hour, October 22nd, 1844, in the Kentish Marshes. He next, after five years’ interval, met Burton, of Leicester, who polished him off in 48 minutes, during which 23 rounds were fought, April 17th, 1849, at Balsham Road. Bob’s last appearance in buff was during a tour in America, where, at Harper’s Ferry, May 7th, 1847, he struck his flag to Yankee Sullivan, after 7 rounds, in which 12 minutes were passed, for a stake of 1,000 dollars.

CHAPTER III.

JAMES BURKE (KNOWN AS “THE DEAF’UN”).
1828–1843.

No one who reads with attention the chequered career of James Burke will deny that “The Deaf’un” deserves to rank as one of the most honest, courageous, hardy, simple-minded, and eccentric fellows who ever sought praise and profit in the Prize Ring. Jem was the son of a Thames waterman who plied at the Strand Lane stairs. Left at an early age to the charge of a widowed mother, young Jem betook himself to the amphibious calling of “Jack-in-the-Water,” at the stairs where his father once plied with his “trim-built wherry.” At the time of which we write, before steam-boats, with their gangways and ugly dumb-lighters (the latter to give way yet later to a noble embankment with its broad granite-stepped landing places) had superseded the “caus’eys,” and “old stairs,” from Wapping to Westminster, the favourite and popular mode of transit of the dwellers in Cockaigne to Lambeth, to the glories of Vauxhall with its al fresco concerts and 30,00 (additional) lamps; to Cumberland Gardens, with its trellised tea-boxes, and “little gold and silver fish that wagged their little tails;” to the Red House, Battersea, with its gardens and pigeon shooting; to “Chelsea Ferry,” with its elm-bordered promenade and Soldiers’ Home, and to the numerous places of riverside resort, was by “oars or sculls,” plied by the brawny arms of the “firemen-watermen,” one of the most laborious and deserving fraternities who devoted their well-earned and well-paid services to the pleasure-seeking public who patronised the broad highway of the Thames. The popularity and consequent prosperity of the stalwart “firemen-watermen” (for most of them wore the handsome coat and badge of, and were retained by, one or other of the great London Insurance Offices, and were the only organised body for the extinguishing of fires and saving of life) extended to the humble “Jack-in-the-Water,” whose duty consisted in wading bare-legged into the rippling tide, dragging the sharp nose of the wherry on to the paved causeway, or by its pile-protected side, and there steadying it, while the “jolly young waterman” politely handed his “fare” over the rocking “thwarts” of his smart, light boat to his or her cushioned seat in the “stern-sheets.” For his services in thus holding on, and thereby securing the balance of the staggering land-lubbers, for a pair of “sea-legs” were never included in the cockney’s qualifications, “poor Jack” seldom went unrewarded by one or more “coppers,” for we had not then come to the “age of bronze.” This humble and weather-beaten calling was by no means an unprofitable one to a hardy, handy, and industrious lad, such as young Jem Burke undoubtedly was.

JAMES BURKE (“The Deaf’un”).

The date of Jem’s birth was Dec. 8th, 1809, in the closing years of the “war of giants,” and in his earlier days London was alive with war excitement; with processions on the Thames of the gilded and bannered barges of the Corporation and the public companies, with gaily painted pinnaces, shallops, and house-boats, aquatic fireworks and illuminations, and galas in honour of our victories in Portugal and Spain; to say nothing of frequent grand doings along the then bright river on all sorts of City “gaudy” days. It was moreover the line of procession on the 9th of November and other times when my Lord Mayor went in state to Westminster; and of continually recurring wager matches of skill and strength for prizes given by citizens, public bodies, and aquatic clubs, for the encouragement of the Thames watermen “between the bridges.” All these have vanished with the crowds who enjoyed them. The “fireman-waterman” is as extinct as the dodo. The half-penny or penny steam-boat of an utilitarian age has “improved him off the face of the earth,” and the picturesque silver Thames runs a paddle-churned cloaca maxima of the great towns in its upper course, by the stately buildings of our Palaces of Parliament and Palatial Hospital, sweeping by where once Strand Lane stairs offered itself as a convenient outlet for “taking the water,” along a spacious embankment, with its leafy avenues, bordered by lofty stone-built public edifices. Far different the Thames by which the young Deaf’un earned his “crust,” and added to the poor comforts of a widowed mother. Then the merry-makings we have above alluded to made the miscalled silent highway a lively and populous show-scene, to the profit of such snappers-up of unconsidered trifles as our “poor Jack,” whose Christian name was Jem. As to the “schooling” of our hero—for a hero he unquestionably was—it amounted to that sort of general knowledge which could be picked up in that “university” which Mr. Samuel Weller declares to be the best for sharpening a boy’s wits—the streets. The Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge as yet was not; the “schoolmaster” was altogether “abroad,” in the wrong sense; and the Briarean School-board had not yet “comprehended all vagrom” boys and girls, and taught them the “three R’s” in spite of their teeth. “Reading, ’riting, and ’rithmetic” not being in the curriculum of young Jem’s “’varsity,” he was perfectly innocent of those accomplishments, despite Dogberry’s assertion that to “read and write comes by nature,” though at figures, we can certify from our own personal converse, the Deaf’un had, on special occasions, an almost intuitive aptitude. His knowledge too, upon out-of-the-way subjects, was occasionally surprising; he had much “mother-wit,” a quaint felicity of expression, a sly touch of humour, and a quiet stolidity of look and manner, the outcome of his infirmity of deafness, which amused the hearer, from the apparently unconscious humour with which his comical notions were set forth. Of Jem’s physical powers and muscular endowments, the story of his Ring performances in after years will sufficiently speak.

Thus the young “Jack-in-the-Water,” like Topsy, “grow’d,” and we need not say he was well furnished in these respects to take his own part in the very rough “battle of life” to which he was from his earliest infancy introduced.

That the future Candidate for the Championship, born and bred in those “fighting days,” when Gully and Gregson, Belcher and Cribb, were on every tongue, should have yearnings to “improve his gifts,” as the goody-goody books express it, was but a natural sequence to what philosopher Square calls “the eternal fitness of things.” Hard by the Strand Lane stairs stood a well-frequented public-house, known as “The Spotted Dog,” the landlord of which was an ex-pugilist of no mean renown, hight “Joe Parish, the Waterman.” What wonder, that Joe’s judicious eye noted the good “points” in the sturdy little “Jack-in-the Water’s” build and disposition, and that he befriended the boatman’s orphan, patting his head as he warmed his chilled hands by the tap-room fire, where he dried his always damp and scanty clothing, and, as the Deaf’un himself has told us, saying, “You go straight, Jemmy, and we’ll see if you won’t be a topsawyer among ’em yet”? This early patronage by Joe Parish, as we shall see hereafter, continued down to Burke’s latest days, a fact creditable to both parties.

A passing remark on the pugilistic eminence of watermen may here be in place. Jack Broughton, the Father of the Ring, was a waterman; as also was Lyons, who beat Darts for the Championship in 1769; while, passing over many boxers who plied the oar, the names of Bishop Sharpe, Harris, “The Waterman,” Harry Jones, and the Deaf’un’s “guide, philosopher, and friend,” Joe Parish, occur to us. No wonder, then, that on the 5th of February, 1828, young Jem Burke, under the wing of old Joe, was by the ring-side at Whetstone, near Barnet, an admiring spectator of the eccentric battle which there and then took place between a couple of dwarfs; one a Welshman named David Morgan, a vendor of shrimps and shell fish well known in various sporting and other public-houses, and the other Sandy M’Bean, a Scotch professor of the Highland bagpipes and the “fling.” After a ludicrous display of bantam game, Taffy was declared the conqueror, the second of the canny Scot carrying him out of the ring vi et armis, in spite of his protestations that he “wasna beaten ava’,” though the poor little fellow had not the ghost of a chance.

And now there was a pause, and a purse of £14 being collected, Ned Murphy (who had already fought M’Carthy, and a commoner or two), presented himself as a candidate for the coin. Our hero (who, doubtless, knew something of the challenger), eager of the opportunity of showing the stuff he was made of, at once, with the approval of Joe Parish, stepped into the ropes, and threw down his cap as a reply. No time was wasted in elaborate toilettes, and the ring being cleared, all eyes were bent on the “big fight” of the day, which, on this occasion, was presented as the afterpiece. Mister Murphy was so cock-sure of the money, and so eager to win, that he went off at score to polish off “the boy” for his presumption. Not only was his gallop stopped by some clever straight ’uns from the resolute young Jack, helped by an occasional upper-cut as he went in, but he, in turn, was fain to stand out, and retreat to “draw” his opponent. Young Jem, however, was not to be had twice at this game, and Mister Murphy not quite liking the look of the job, began to fight for darkness, which was fast coming on. Harry Jones, who was picking up Murphy as a “pal,” seeing the dubious state of affairs, stepped up to the referee and asked a “draw.” The men had now fought 50 rounds in the like number of minutes, and were quite capable, if they were of the same sort as the last dozen, of fighting 50 more; so the Young’un was persuaded to “whack” the stakes, and make up matters over a pot and a pipe at “The Spotted Dog,” by which arrangement Mr. Murphy got the “half a loaf” which is proverbially “better than no bread,” while the young “Jack-on-the-water” was in the seventh heaven of delight, not only at his success (for he felt he must win), but at the possession of several golden portraits of His Majesty George the Fourth, of a value which to him seemed to vie with the fabulous treasures of Aladdin’s cave.

Jem was now “a card,” not only at the Strand Lane soirées, but was a free and accepted brother at all the sporting cribs in the hundred of Drury, Wild Street, the pugnacious purlieus of Clare Market, and among the “porterhood” of Covent Garden. Those were rough times, and among other rough entertainments the “rough music” of the butchers of Clare Market was not the least popular. Their marrow-bones and cleavers were always ready to “discourse” loud, if not “sweet music,” upon occasions of a wedding, a birth, or a christening among their own fraternity, or when any popular or well-known inhabitant took unto himself a wife. Foremost in these charivaris was one Tom Hands, who further had the reputation of being “sudden in quarrel,” and with him and the Deaf’un there had passed a sharp round or two at one of these uproarious gatherings, which had ended in their being separated by their friends.

On August 14th, 1828, Ned Stockman and Sweeney were matched to fight at Old Oak Common; the affair being arranged at a dinner at Alec Reid’s, at Chelsea. The ring was pitched, the expectant crowd assembled, and “time” was called. Peter Sweeney showed in battle array, but where was the “Lively Kid”? and echo answered “where?” He didn’t show at all, and a forfeit of the stake being then and there declared, his representative urged as a reason for what Sweeney called “making a fool of the public,” that Stockman “preferred his match with Harry Jones” (in which he was deservedly thrashed on September 16th, 1828). As the day’s draw thus proved a blank, and the meet could hardly separate without sport of some kind, a whip was made for an impromptu fight. The hat went round, and the cash being gathered by Alec Reid and the renowned Frosty-faced Fogo, a hint from one of the Clare Market Guild of Kill-Bulls that Tom Hands would like to cross hands with Jem Burke, there and then, if the namesake of “the author of The Sublime and Beautiful” dared face him, was at once seized with avidity. A shout went up from a hundred lungs as the burly butcher, his hair shiny with grease, and his cheeks red as a peony, drew his blue smock over his head and proceeded to divest himself of his upper clothing; nor was “poor Jack” without friends. Behind him stood Joe Parish and Alec Reid; Hands being seconded by Sweeney and a Clare Market amateur. The fight was a sad exposé of Tom Hands’ want of skill in the opening, and lack of what a slaughterman never should be deficient in—pluck. The Deaf’un, who looked hard as iron and solid as the trunk of a tree, fought the first three or four rounds on the retreat, jobbing the butcher fearfully, and bleeding him from every vein of his fleshy jowl; then, having got him down to his own weight, he reversed the process, and fought him all over the ring so effectively that in the 10th round, 17 minutes only having elapsed, Hands’ second threw up the sponge in token of defeat, the butcher being terribly punished, while the Deaf’un was scarcely marked.

Indeed the effects of this encounter could not have seriously affected him, seeing that, on the day but one afterwards, namely on August 16th, the Deaf’un was again on Old Oak Common, to witness the battle between Mike Driscoll and Pat M’Donnell. This affair disposed of, a new Black offered himself “under distinguished patronage,” as the advertisements say, to box anyone for “a purse.” The Deaf’un, always ready, slipped modestly into the ring, announcing to Mike Brookery, the M.C. on this occasion, that he should like to be “introduced” to Massa Sambo for the next dance. The affair was a mere farce. The black had but one qualification, that of a first-rate receiver; as a paymaster he was nowhere. After rushing in head down a dozen times, and getting upper cuts and sound right-handers on the ear innumerable, he rolled down for the last time at the close of thirty-three minutes, declaring “Me can’t fight no more,” and the purse was handed to the Deaf’un.

In 1829, the Deaf’un, who was now regularly enrolled in the corps pugilistique, was with a sparring party in the Midlands, where, in the month of March, the great contest between Jem Ward and Simon Byrne was to come off near Leicester. The reader will find this fiasco, known as “The Leicester Hoax,” in its proper place in our second volume. On the 10th of March, 1829, an immense gathering from all parts of the kingdom was assembled at Leicester; and the great event having ended in smoke, and Bill Atkinson, of Nottingham, having beaten Joe Randall, in the ring prepared for the big’un’s, the day being yet young, a purse was collected. For this a big countryman named Berridge, of Thormaston, offered to “try conclusions.” The Deaf’un joined issue, and a smart battle ensued. The countryman was so overmatched that after 22 minutes, in which 11 rounds were got through, each ending by Berridge being hit down or thrown, his backers took him away, and Burke walked off with the 10 sovereigns.

Burke was now matched with Fitzmaurice (an Irishman nearly 13 stone, who subsequently defeated Brennan and Tim Crawley), for £25 a side, to come off on Epsom Racecourse in May; the rencontre was prevented by police interference, and the affair postponed to June 9th, 1829.[14] That day being appointed for the fight between Ned Savage and Davis (the Black), at Harpenden Common, near St. Alban’s, it was arranged that the Deaf’un and Fitzmaurice should follow those worthies. It was fortunate for the travellers who went to see the first-named fight that the Deaf’un and Fitz. were in reserve, for the affair of Savage and the bit of ebony proved “a sell;” and so the second couple were on the turf in good time, and in a well-kept and well-ordered ring. Young Dutch Sam and Gaynor, who had come down with Savage, volunteered to second Fitzmaurice. On standing up Fitz. loomed large in height and length, but a survey of the sturdy Deaf’un, his firm attitude and compact strength, brought the betting to even. We shall not attempt to detail the fight, which extended to no less than 166 rounds, fought under a burning sun, and lasting two hours and fifty-five minutes. There was some clever stopping in the earlier portion of the battle on the part of the Deaf’un, but he could not reduce the strength of Fitzmaurice, and he himself became exhausted. After the 70th round the fight became a question of endurance; the Deaf’un at the end of the rounds lying on his stomach on the turf to get wind, declining to be picked up by his seconds, kicking up his heels in a comical manner, and declaring himself “all right,” in reply to their anxious inquiries. On these occasions Young Dutch Sam and Gaynor, knowing the “blown” condition of their man, cunningly kept prolonging the “time” between the rounds, Fitzmaurice generally getting down, and the Deaf’un almost always rolling across, over, or beside him. About the 150th round both men were nearly incapable of delivering a hit, and Fitz. was more than once out of time, but the Deaf’un went in again, and so condoned the offence. At last, at the end of the time mentioned, Fitz. fell in his own corner from a left-handed poke; the sponge was thrown up, after as game and scrambling a fight as could well be imagined, and the Deaf’un was hailed the victor. Burke in a few minutes walked to his carriage, while poor Fitz. was conveyed to Wildbore’s, the “Blue Boar,” St. Alban’s.

At the Deaf’un’s benefit, on the following Wednesday week, Fitzmaurice was unable to put on the gloves as promised, but Young Dutch Sam did so. Although the Deaf’un was certainly a foil to show off the brilliancy of Sam, that accomplished boxer was somewhat mortified at the improved style of Burke, who more than once gave him an opening in order to send in a clever return; keeping his temper so unruffled that loud applause followed his exertions. Indeed not a few of the “knowing ones” expressed their opinion that the Deaf’un would yet puzzle some of the “fashionable” 12-stone men.

About this time, as we learn incidentally from the report of his next battle, the Deaf’un met with a serious accident—a rupture—for which he received surgical treatment, and was compelled to wear a truss. Nevertheless, we find him in August under an engagement to fight Bill Cousens, who is described in Bell’s Life as a fine, fresh young Chichester man (who had already beaten Tom Sweeney and “the Cheshire Hero”), on the 25th of August, on which day they met at Whetstone. Tom Oliver and Frosty-faced Fogo were the M.C.’s, and we are told the “crowd was considerable. Swells and scavengers, drags and dust-carts,” conveying the motley groups to the scene of action. Cousens was seconded by Tom Oliver and a “Sussex friend,” Burke by Ned Stockman and Sweeney. The weather was again intensely hot. Cousens had the advantage in length of reach and height, and a trifle in weight. Cousens, though receiving most punishment, had it all his own way in throwing, and several times gave the Deaf’un such desperate falls, that the battle was supposed to be at an end; but the Deaf’un’s hardy frame seemed to resist all vicissitudes, and he came again and again; on one occasion, about the middle of the fight, so flooring Cousens that the odds went round to 2 to 1 on the Deaf’un. In the 95th round, Cousens got the Deaf’un on the ropes, and kept him there until the stake and rope gave way. The Deaf’un would not leave off, though advised to do so, when Reuben Martin stepped into the ring and threw up his hat in favour of Cousens, and the Deaf’un was withdrawn from the ring, after fighting 101 rounds in two hours and three minutes. The reporter says, “it was stated that Burke was suffering from the effects of a rupture.”

That this was not, at that time, of a very serious nature may be inferred from the fact, that the Deaf’un finished up 1829 by balancing this, his only defeat, with yet another victory. On December 1st all the pugilistic world was on the move into Sussex to witness the great (second) fight between Ned Neale and Young Dutch Sam for £220 to £200, which came to nought, owing to the arrest of Neale on his way to the battle-field on a warrant issued by Mr. Chambers. Sore was the disappointment and loud the complaints of the hundreds who had left London on this hog-shearing expedition, as they surrounded the admirably formed ring at North Chapel, Sussex, and were told that there would be “no fight,” as Messrs. Ruthven and Pople, two “active and intelligent officers,” as the penny-a-liners styled them, had grabbed Neale, and were so strict in their attentions that they had declined to lose sight of him; indeed, they had at once carried him off in a postchaise to the great Metropolis. Harry Holt stepped forward, and addressing “the inner circle and boxes” (the latter represented by several four-in-hand drags and hired wagons), proposed “a collection.” Sam also presented himself amidst applause, rattling some coin in a hat. The money-matter was soon arranged, a big countryman named Girdler stepping into the ropes, and laying claim to the guerdon against all comers. In a few seconds the well-known, hardy mug of the Deaf’un was seen as he made his way through the crowd, and, amidst some cheering, declared that “he didn’t minds a shy at that chaps, if he did lose his sticks,” while Girdler, who had many country friends, said with a grin, “He knowed all about Mister Burke, and didn’t care a varden for ’un.” To give éclat to the affair, Jem Ward and Fogo offered themselves to second the Deaf’un, whereon Young Sam and Cicero Holt volunteered to wait upon the countryman.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Girdler was certainly, as Sam said, “big enough for anything,” and when be threw his hands up, did it in a style that showed he was not the mere yokel he had been supposed. The Deaf’un looked as serious and as stolid as a pig in a pound, and as solid as a stump of a tree. He nodded at his opponent, and pointed down to the scratch, to which Girdler at once advanced, and the Deaf’un went a step back smiling. Girdler let fly his left; it was a little too high, but just reached the Deaf’un’s nut, who returned on Girdler’s cheek sharply; heavy exchanges, in which Burke hit oftenest and last, and both were down on hands and knees. (6 to 4 on the Deaf’un.)

2.—The Deaf’un trying to get his distance hit short with the left; Girdler stopped his right, and popped in a sounding crack with his own right on the Deaf’un’s ribs, who broke away. (“Bravo!” cried Holt, “do that again for me.”) The Deaf’un grinned, licked his lips, and looked down slyly at his opponent’s feet. “Don’t be gammoned,” cried Young Sam. The advice came too late. Girdler rushed in, Burke popped his head aside, and the blow went over his shoulder, the countryman at the same instant receiving such a straight one in the mouth, followed by another over the left eyebrow, that he was brought up “all standing,” while the Deaf’un slipped down from his own blows. There was no mistake about the claim of first blood.

3.—In went Girdler like a bull at a gate. The Deaf’un, not clever enough to prevent him getting on a sort of pole-axe, hit on his impenetrable nob, from which we think the countryman’s knuckles suffered most. Burke hit up, but couldn’t this time stop his man, who bored him to the ropes, and got him down in a scrambling rally.

4.—Girdler again first; but this time Burke stopped him with one, two, and a ding-dong rally ensued, in which Girdler was first on the grass, blowing like a porpoise.

5, 6, 7, 8.—Sam cheering on his man, who answered the call cheerfully, but always got two for one in the rally, and in the 8th round fell over the Deaf’un’s leg on his face so violently that Ward cried out to Holt to take his man away. “Take your man away,” retorted Holt; “he can’t beat mine in a week.”

9.—Girdler came up game, but went in without any aim or precision; the Deaf’un propped him again and again, and at last ran in and threw him a burster. (Cheers for the Deaf’un.)

10, 11, 12.—A one-sided game. Girdler down at the end of each round against his will, and beaten by his own exertions.

13, 14, 15.—Girdler merely staggered up to be hit, and finally went down fearfully punished.

16.—Girdler came once more and made a wild rush; the Deaf’un stepped aside, and sending in his one, two, on the side of the countryman’s head, he fell over anyhow.

17.—Cries of “take him away!” from the Londoners; but Girdler would not have it, and was indulged with one more round, which ended in his being floored in the hitting; whereupon Holt stepped across the ring and beckoned the Deaf’un, who at once crossed and shook hands with his brave but almost insensible antagonist. Time, 89 minutes.

The immense assembly now dispersed, the roads being soon alive, especially that which led towards Chichester and London. On one of the four-in-hands was seated “White-headed Bob” (Ned Baldwin), then in the full sunshine of aristocratic patronage. Bob had spent the overnight, or rather the morning, at the Monday masquerade, then in vogue at “His Majesty’s Theatre,” in the Haymarket, and donning a most remarkable suite of grey moustaches, whiskers, and beard, the resemblance to the then Duke of Cumberland was perfect. As the populace recognised the counterfeit of the unpopular Duke, the fun was uproarious. Pulling up at the “King’s Arms,” mine host hurried out with a decanter of sherry, a waiter following with champagne. H.R.H. cried out, “No, thankee, waiter, the Duke will take something short!” The schnapps was supplied. “I’m glad to see ye, my people,” said His Royal Highness, “but d——e if I like this stopping of fights; when I come next this way I’ll give you a turn, and if there’s no one else to fight, I’ll make one in a fight myself! Drive on, coachee!” And off went His Royal Highness in what the poet Bunn called “a blaze of triumph.”

The topsawyers of the top-weights of the day set their public appearances at too high a figure for the poor, unsophisticated Deaf’un to obtain any hearing for his modest proposal to fight any 12 or 12½ stone man for £25 a side, so he sparred at benefits and at the fairs and tennis courts, and hung about looking for a job until September, 1830, when Gow, who had beaten Ned Savage in December, 1829, offered himself to the Deaf’un’s notice, and articles were signed for a meeting on October 5th. The toss being won by Gow, he named Woolwich, and thither all parties repaired. There, however, they found Superintendent Miller, of the Thames Police, with sundry row-boats, and off they moved into Essex; but they could not shake off the anti-milling Miller, who, calling on a couple of beaks, pursued the excursionists towards Leytonstone, reinforced by the “Essex lions.” A council was held, which decided that as the game was “U.P.” in Essex, a retreat to Temple Mills across the border into Middlesex was the only chance of a quiet meeting. A “horrid whisper” went round that Superintendent Miller had a warrant from the magistrates at Snaresbrook, and that two active constables were already on the track. Jack Carter, changing coat, hat, and handkerchief with the Deaf’un, with the quickness of a clown in a transformation scene, took the Deaf’un’s seat in a one-horse chaise, while both of the men made the best of their way towards Temple Mills. The ruse succeeded. Carter was yet a mile from the Essex frontier, when up rode a couple of mounted men, quickly followed by a posse of the amphibious Thames constables, and called upon the driver of the gig to “Stop, in the King’s name,” which he loyally and dutifully did, and away poor Carter was haled before the nearest beak, and his capture officially announced to the worshipful functionary. The culprit was brought forward. “James Burke,” said the awful representative of Majesty, reading the warrant, “it is my duty to commit you for a contemplated breach of the peace within this county of Essex——” “Excuse me, sir,” interposed Jack, “my name isn’t Burke at all, and why these here gentlemen——” “Then what is your name?” “I can save your worship trouble,” said Superintendent Miller. “I know this man well; his name is Jack Carter, and if I’d been at hand I shouldn’t have mistaken him.” “You are discharged, fellow,” exclaimed his worship, indignantly, and away went Jack, with a low bow to his crestfallen captors. At the bridge at Temple Mills the pursuit ceased, and all got over the river Lea.

The fight that now took place presented no features worth recording. The Deaf’un, who had always a touch of eccentricity, on this occasion appeared in the ring in a grotesque and original costume. His “nether bulk” was encased in a pair of green baize drawers, profusely bound and seamed with yellow braid, and with flying yellow ribbons at the knees, below which his sturdy pedestals were encased in a pair of bright striped worsted stockings and laced highlows. Although the day was waning, Burke managed to polish off his job before dark, Gow never getting a lead during 22 busy rounds, at the end of which his second, Birmingham Davis (who, as will be seen afterwards, fought the Deaf’un), claimed the fight for Burke, Gow not answering to the call of “Time.”

In the interim, before this affair with Gow, a curious incident illustrates the readiness of the Deaf’un, who was then always in training, to “do business at the shortest notice.” Bob Hampson, of Liverpool, visited London, where his fame as the conqueror of one Jack Pye, and subsequently of Wm. Edwards, at Bootle, and Bill Fisher, at Milbray Island, had gone before him. Bob offered himself, at £25 a side, to the notice of Burke; who expressed himself ready, as the Liverpool carpenter wanted to return northwards, to meet him at an early day as might be convenient. Two fights were “on the slate” for the 26th of the current month, one between Sam Hinton and the Bristol baker (Mike Davis), the other between the youthful Owen Swift, and an East End Israelite, of the name of Isaacs. To these the Deaf’un and Hampson were added, and all were satisfactorily got off at Harpenden Common on the same day.

Hampson, with these credentials, was the favourite at 6 and 7 to 4. Indeed, the chance of the Deaf’un looked by no means “rosy,” yet he never lost heart or confidence. Hampson came down to St. Alban’s under the wing of Tom Spring; to whose care he was recommended by no less a person than Jack Langan, Spring’s former foe, but now fast friend. Hampson came on the ground with Tom Oliver and Harry Jones as his seconds, the Deaf’un attended by Fitzmaurice (a former opponent) and Ned Stockman.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—As the men stood up Hampson did not impress the London connoisseurs favourably, either as to his boxing skill or his capability for rough work and endurance. He looked leggy, stood wide, and fidgeted, rather than manœuvred, in an anxious and hurried manner, while the Deaf’un, who was the picture of sturdy health, stood firmly facing him, eyeing him sharply, and only just moving so much as to prevent his opponent from stealing a march on him either to right or left. The Liverpool man, after some dodging, let fly his left and caught Burke a tidy smack on the cheek, but got a return on the mouth from the Deaf’un’s left, which more than balanced the account. A brief spar, when Hampson again was first, and reached the Deaf’un’s nob. This led to a smart exchange of blows, Hampson delivering several snowy hits on Burke’s dial, which, however, left hardly a visible mark, while the Deaf’un’s returns seemed to paint and flush the countryman. In the close Hampson got the Deaf’un’s head under his left arm cleverly, and hit up, but he couldn’t hold him, and Burke lifted him over and threw him an awkward side fall. (Cheers for the Deaf’un, but no offers.)

2.—Hampson again let off with the left, but was met with a counterhit, and Burke forced a rally; some sharp half-arm hitting at close quarters, in which the Deaf’un showed most strength. In the close both down.

3.—Hampson came up bleeding from the mouth and nose, and Burke seemed to have damaged his left hand. Hampson hammered away, and hit for hit was the order of the day. The men closed, and after a struggle both were down. (Even betting.)

4.—A short round. Hampson led off, but his blows left scarcely a mark, and after a break and some manœuvring Hampson slipped down.

5.—Counterhits with the left. Burke the best of the exchanges. Hampson the quicker fighter, but Burke the steadier and harder hitter. A long rally and no flinching till Hampson fell on his knees; Burke walking to his corner.

6.—Hampson dodging about and feinting with the left, the Deaf’un solid as a post, but moving his arms defensively. Hampson got in a smack with his left, which the Deaf’un countered, but not effectively. More weaving work, hit for hit, a close, Hampson thrown heavily. (6 to 4 on Burke.)

7.—Hampson seemed a little lame, and sparred for wind; Burke waiting. The Liverpool man, as before, let fly with the left, and reached Burke’s head just above the left eye, stopping the Deaf’un’s return neatly, amidst applause. The Deaf’un shook his wig-block and grinned. Hampson tried it again, and got such a return from Burke’s right in his ribs that he fell on his knees, but was quickly up again, and renewed the round in a lively manner, until the Deaf’un closed and threw him over his hip by a heave. (Applause.)

8.—Hampson came up blowing and coughed two or three times. He was evidently shaken by the last throw. He however kept in good form and led off. Burke shifted a little and retreated, but, biding his time, met Hampson with a fearful jobbing hit on the mouth that staggered him; Hampson returned to the charge and hit away wildly, and once and again the Deaf’un nailed him. This was not done without damage, for Hampson caught him with his right on the ear such a wax-melter, that if the Deaf’un could have been cured by that process he might have heard better for some time afterwards. A close embrace, in which neither man could get a hit, ended by Burke pulling Hampson down; both on the ground, blowing like grampuses.

9.—The last struggle had told most upon Hampson. He was distressed, while the Deaf’un might be described as “much the same as usual.” Hampson pointed to the scratch as they met, Burke shook his head, grinned, toed it, and then made half a step back as Hampson tried a feint with his left. Hampson once more led off, and there were some sharp exchanges. The Deaf’un nodded to Stockman as he got away, and Hampson did not follow, saying, “He can’t hit me hard enough, Mister Neds.” “I believe you, my boy,” replied the Lively Kid. Hampson again got on Burke’s nob, receiving a rib-roaster. Hampson was first down.

10.—Hampson made play, but the Deaf’un met him, and hit for hit was once more persevered in until Burke threw Hampson after a short wrestle.

11.—The Carpenter showed marks of severe punishment, and the Deaf’un’s cast-iron frontispiece was ornamented with some crimson patches and bumps. Hampson was evidently less inclined to go to his man, and worked round him à la distance. The Deaf’un, with a comical grin, in turn pointed down to the scratch with his right hand forefinger; Hampson seized the opportunity, as he thought, and hit straight at Burke’s head, who, quick as lightning, countered with his left on Hampson’s jaw. “Bravo!” cried Stockman, “I’d have told him to do that, only he can’t hear me.” The men were at it again, when Burke drove Hampson on the ropes and chopped him with the right. Hampson rolled down (7 to 4 on Burke).

12, 13, 14, 15.—Hampson came up game, and fought for a turn, but his confidence was gone, and the Deaf’un timed him, now and then putting in an ugly one, and ending the round by getting Hampson down.

16–20.—The Deaf’un still declined to lead off, but always had the best at close quarters. In the last named round Hampson dropped on his knees in the hitting, and the Deaf’un threw up his hands, bowed comically to the spectators, and walked to his corner. (Cheers.)

21.—Hampson, encouraged by his friends, fought vigorously, and at one time seemed to have got a turn; in the close the Deaf’un was under. (Shouts for Hampson.)

22.—Hampson appeared to have got second wind; he manœuvred round his man, and delivered one, two, neatly. The Deaf’un laughed and shook his head, but was short in the return. “That’s the way,” cried Harry Jones, “he’s as stupid as a pig. Hit him again, Bob, he’ll stand it.” Hampson did so, but the Deaf’un countered, and then went in for close work. Hampson could not keep him out, and was forced back on the ropes, where the Deaf’un hit him heavily until he got him down anyhow.

23.—Hampson much shaken by the last round; Burke waiting. “Why don’t you go in, Jem?” shouted Reuben Martin, “it’s all your own.” The Deaf’un nodded, and did as he was bid. The advice was not good, for Hampson nailed him sharply right and left, and in a rally Burke over-reached himself, missed his right, and slipped down.

24.—Some amusement was created by the Deaf’un’s evident attempt at gammoning distress, to induce his opponent to come on. Hampson, however, fought shy. After some sparring they got closer, and again give-and-take was the order of the day, the pepper-box being freely handed from one side to the other. Hampson was thrown, but not heavily.

25.—The tide was turned against Hampson. He retreated before the Deaf’un, who now assumed the offensive, and in a rally the Liverpool man was fairly hit down in his own corner.

26–40.—In all these rounds it was clear that Hampson’s defeat was a mere question of time. In the 40th round he was thrown heavily, and his friends proposed to give in for him; he, however, refused, and came up for the 41st round, when Burke hit him on to the rope, and then let him get down, walking away to his own corner. Hampson’s backer stepped into the ring and desired the sponge to be thrown up, saying it was useless to expose a brave man to further punishment. Time 44 minutes. The Deaf’un crossed the ring, shook hands with his opponent, and then indulged in a sort of hornpipe-step in his own corner, putting on his clothes with little assistance. Hampson was carried to his carriage, severely punished, complaining that he lost his power of wrestling from an injury to his leg in the 5th round.

Remarks.—This battle tells its own tale. The Liverpool man’s friends had much overestimated Hampson’s scientific attainments, and equally miscalculated his opponent’s cunning defence, backed as it was by extraordinary powers of endurance, indomitable pluck, and cool courage. “Hampson was, up to a certain point, the cleverer man, but, that point passed, his chance was gone, and he was beaten by toughness, readiness, and strength. The Deaf’un by this battle has shown himself a dangerous competitor for any 12-stone man on the list. He is now the winner of seven fights, mostly with big men, and must not be meddled with by any mere sparrer. However flash and wide-awake he may think himself, he will find the Deaf’un knows a thing or two that will astonish him when it comes to real work. The 200 and 300-pounders, though ‘great guns,’ will do well to take our hint.” These last remarks, which we transcribe from a contemporary sporting paper, show the good opinion which Burke was fast gaining among the most competent judges of boxing merit. Of course the 200 and 300 pounders mean the men who fixed £200 or £300 as the price for a Ring appearance.

We have just seen that our hero fought and won two sharp battles within three weeks, and we have now to record yet another arduous conflict within the three weeks next ensuing, namely, on November 16th, 1830, on which day he met Tim Crawley at the well-fought field of Whetstone, for a stake of £50.

Mister Timothy was a stalwart Milesian coalwhipper, aged twenty-three, hard upon six feet in height, and balancing 13 stone, and though no relation to “Peter the Great,” was only a shade less than the fighting weight and stature of that ponderous ex-champion. Tim was “presented at the Castle,” not of Dublin, but in Holborn, by a distinguished Hibernian field-officer, who intimated to Tom Spring his readiness to post the “needful” for Tim in a trial with any man Spring might select. There was the Deaf’un, rough and ready, “standing idle in the market place;” and as he said, when he was asked as to when he would be ready if a match were arranged, “Well, you see, Misters, I’se ready at any time—the sooner the better—but where’s the moneys to come from? I’ll put down five of my own, buts——” a well-known member of the Stock Exchange struck in immediately, “and I’ll find the second five, and perhaps some more, if it’s wanted.” So the articles were there and then drawn, and Tuesday, the 16th, set down.

East Barnet was the fixture, and on the appointed morning, despite a heavy storm of wind and rain, a numerous cavalcade thronged the roads from Finchley and Southgate to the rendezvous. Crawley came down in a brand-new white upper-benjamin, on the swell drag of his military patron. Tim was radiant, if the weather was gloomy, and assured his friends that “He thought mighty little of Misther Burke’s foightin”—(Tim had seen his battle with Hampson)—“if all he could do was what he did with that tumble down carpenther from Liverpool. By jabers,” he added, “I’m the boy that’ll tache him quite another sort o’ fun.” The storm increased in violence, the time was come, and all were waiting with what patience they could command. Crawley alighted from his vehicle and claimed the stakes, when Reuben Martin hastened up breathless and covered with mud, to announce that the Deaf’un would be there immediately. The Deaf’un had left Soho in a hired gig; the horse had proved a “bolter,” and after a gallop along the Finchley Road, and up a bye-lane into which he had been turned, had smashed the gig and deposited the Deaf’un and his pal in a clayey ditch, the former pitching on his head with no other damage than a mud-bath. The Deaf’un now hove in sight, attended by Welsh Davis (afterwards called “Birmingham”) and Ned Stockman; Crawley had the services of Harry Jones and an Irish “friend.” The colours were tied to the stakes, the ring whipped out, and amid a pelting shower of rain the men stood up for

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Crawley stood over the Deaf’un by at least three inches, and topped him in weight by about a stone. He was, indeed, a fine muscular specimen of humanity, though some critical anatomists pronounced him too thick about the shoulder-blades, and, therefore, what is technically termed “shoulder-tied,” a defect which detracts both from the distance and the quickness of a man’s blows. The Deaf’un’s solid, trunk-of-tree look, was by this time familiar to all ring-goers, as he stood with his comparatively short arms, the left slightly in advance, and the right across covering his side and mark. Crawley lost no time in letting his adversary know his “little game,” for in he went, swinging out his left arm rather than hitting straight, and following it with a lunge with the right, both of which would have been ugly visitations had they got well home; but the first was stopped, and the second only just reached the Deaf’un’s ribs as he shifted ground; Crawley followed up his charge with more round hits, or rather misses, in exchange for which the Deaf’un, getting within his guard, hit up so sharply, the right on Tim’s eye and the left on his mouth, that he paused a moment before he renewed his hitting out. The Deaf’un had broke away, and now led Mister Tim a short dance round the ring, during which he propped the big ’un several times. Crawley lost his temper, and made a furious grab at Burke with his open right hand, catching him round the neck, when, to the surprise of all, the Deaf’un, throwing his arms round Crawley’s waist and butting him in the breast with his head, heeled him and threw him a clear back fall, adding his own weight to the concussion, which would have been far more serious but for the fact that the ground was about the consistency of a half-baked Yorkshire pudding. (2 to 1 on Burke.)

2.—Crawley came up with his face painted the colour of the sign of the “Red Lion,” and the claim of first blood for the Deaf’un was admitted. Tim was, however, nothing daunted, and smiled contemptuously at his opponent, who nodded his nob in reply. At it again went Tim, in the style which we at a later day recognised as peculiar to Ben Caunt, whom Crawley (though better looking and not so tall) much resembled in his bust and mode of hitting. The onslaught was again but partially successful, the Deaf’un hitting up at close quarters with unusual precision, while Mister Tim pummelled away, often at the back of Burke’s head, neck, and shoulders, until they closely embraced, when the Deaf’un got his man down somehow.

3.—Crawley came up strong on his pins, but already much disfigured. His left eye was nearly closed, his lips swelled and bleeding, and his cheek-bones and forehead full of “bubukles, and knobs, and whelks;” yet he went to work as before. After a stop or two, the Deaf’un again got his length, and sent in a smasher on Crawley’s damaged kissing organ, but could not escape such a right-handed “polthogue” from Tim’s bunch-of-fives on the top of his head as sent him staggering across the ring, amidst the shouts of the Emerald party. Crawley tried to follow up his advantage, but the Deaf’un recovered himself, was “all there” after a few exchanges, and finished the round by slipping through Crawley’s hands as he tried to grab him at the ropes.

4.—A short round. Burke’s nob again visited; a rally in favour of the Deaf’un and both down.

5, 6, and 7.—Very similar. Crawley showing increasing signs of punishment; the Deaf’un’s left ear tremendously swelled, and some blue marks about his frontispiece. In a rally Crawley missed his right and struck it flush against the stake. Burke was undermost in the last-named round.

8.—Crawley, a deplorable spectacle, rushed in and got jobbed severely; in the close Burke threw Crawley heavily. Tim had no pretence to wrestling skill, and his right hand seemed almost hors de combat from contact with Burke’s granite skull and the oaken stake.

9.—Crawley nearly dark in one window, and the other with the shutter half-up. The Deaf’un now went in in turn. He allowed Crawley to get on his favourite right at the ribs, jumping aside at the moment with a quick step, and sending his own right as a return smash into poor Tim’s frontispiece. Ding-dong till both out of breath and Crawley down.

10–25.—The whole of these rounds were too much alike to deserve particular description. They varied only in which of the men finished the round by being first down at the close, and in this Crawley scored a large majority. In the 25th round Crawley’s remaining daylight became so nearly darkened that his last chance seemed gone. General Barton asked him to leave off, but he refused, saying, “Sure, yer hanner, an’ I can bate that fellow yet.” So he was indulged in seven more short rounds, and then, at the thirty-third, being in total darkness, his backers withdrew him after a slogging battle of 30 minutes only!

Remarks.—Each time the Deaf’un appears in the ring, he surprises us by his manifest improvement. True, Crawley turned out a perfect novice, still the Deaf’un’s style of hitting, stopping, and getting away from a powerful and determined assailant was a clever demonstration of the art of defence; while the way, when the time came, in which he adminstered pepper with both hands at close quarters was something astonishing. Burke walked to his conveyance; he declared himself little hurt by Crawley’s body blows. Poor Tim was carried to his patron’s drag, and was soon conversable. He declared, no doubt with truth, that he “Couldn’t for the life of him make out how he was bate, at all, at all, no more nor a babby.” Some of the fancy suggested that the great Irish champion, Simon Byrne, with whom Jem Ward’s fiasco of Leicester was yet rankling in the public mind, might find his match in the Deaf’un; but this was not yet to be.

The sky had how cleared and the wind abated, when some fun was promised by a proposed fight between two well-known eccentric characters in the fistic world. These were no other than the facetious Tommy Roundhead, the trainer, and in after-time the “Secretary” to Deaf Burke, and the renowned Frosty-faced Fogo, D.C.G. (Deputy Commissary General), C.P.M. (Chief Purveyor of Max), and P.L.P.R. (Poet Laureate to the Prize Ring), for all these honours had been conferred on him by the Press. These illustrious wights had it seems differed (so it is rumoured) about the etymology of a Greek verb, the use of the digamma, or the literary attainments of Jack Scroggins; and in one branch of the disputation Tommy had not only asserted his own superiority in prose and poetry to the Laureate, but had offered to back Scroggins against him in writing blank verse or hexameters. Fired at the insult, the Frosty-faced’un tipped Tommy such a volley of black (letter) chaff that the latter declared himself quiet dumb-founded and nonplushed; so he offered to post five bob, and to fight Fogo in the same ring as Burke and Tim Crawley, just to settle the knotty dispute. Frosty’s official duties having ceased with the exit from the ring of the two principals, the Deputy Commissary stepped into the middle of the ring, and “thrice called aloud for Richmond” (we beg pardon, Roundhead). Before, however, he was “hoarse with calling” Roundhead, Tommy appeared, ready stripped to the waist, hopping through the mud like a pelted frog. Shouts of laughter greeted his entrée to the ropes, and at once he of the Frosty-face, hearing his defiance answered, began (unlike the Homeric heroes) to divest himself of his panoply, and would have been quickly in his natural buff suit, had not the ring filled with curious inquirers, anxious to learn the cause of this unusual commotion. The matter explained, the literati (represented by the ring-reporters), the University wranglers, and the aristocracy of the P.R., decided unanimously and with one voice (remember it was “raining cats and dogs”) that it would be derogatory for so distinguished a votary of Apollo to descend from Parnassus to roll his laurelled brow in Middlesex mud. “Forbid it, Phœbus, and ye Muses nine!” exclaimed Cicero Holt, then, descending to plain prose, he added, “Come, shove on your toggery, Frosty-face, you’ll catch cold, you old muff;” and, suiting the action to the word, he tried to thrust the “pen-hand” of the irate bard into the ragged sleeve-lining of his “upper Ben.” The task was impracticable. “There’s five bob down, and I’ll have a round for it,” cried the Fancy Orpheus. “Oh, d—— your five bob, Frosty, we’ll make that right,” cried half-a-dozen voices. At that moment poor Frosty beheld with dismay the greasy sleeve of his old coat torn clean out at the shoulder, and his own naked arm protruding from the yawning rent. He felt like

“That bard forlorn,
By Bacchanals torn
On Thracian Hebrus’ side,”

so he cried for quarter; and being reassured that he would be indemnified for the five bob, and “leave the ring without a stain on his character,” as the police reporters have it, he was appeased, pocketed the affront (and the five shillings), and straightway, with assistance, returned to his chariot (a South Mimms farmer’s cart), in charge of his true-blue stakes, his ditto beetle, staples, tent-pegs, and neatly-coiled cordage. As for Tommy Roundhead, after calling the gods to witness his readiness to do battle, he waxed less pugnacious, and quickly “lost stomach for the fight” when he was told the victorious party (to which his principal and he belonged), had a dinner waiting at the “Blue Boar,” of which he was invited to partake. The rain had now come on again, and as Apollo was appeased, no one cared to expose himself any longer to the anger of Jupiter Pluvius, and all who had the means, got as quickly housed as possible; the pedestrians plodding their weary way through slush and mire to their humble homes, the equestrians rattling home to their more luxurious domiciles.

Hampson challenged the Deaf’un to fight for £50, within 30 miles of Liverpool, but the affair fell through.

The Deaf’un now came out with a challenge to any 12-stone man and upwards (bar Jem Ward), dating from Reuben Martin’s, in Berwick Street. This was promptly answered on the part of Birmingham (Welsh) Davis, who declared his £100 ready, if necessary. The match was, however, made for £50 a side on December 16th, 1830, “to fight within four months.” In Bell’s Life of December 26th, 1830, we read, à propos of a discussion of the merits of heavy weight exhibitors at the benefits at the Fives Court, and the sparring of Ned Neale, Young Dutch Sam, Tom Gaynor, &c. “The Deaf’un was transformed into a swell, but had not lost his civility, as do too many of his calling. He was never known to utter an oath or an offensive word to any one, and has established the character of a good-natured, well-meaning fellow.” Of how few men in most positions in life could this be written truly!

February 22nd, 1831, was the day, and Baldwin having won the toss for Davis, named Knowle Hill, near Maidenhead, the spot where he (White-headed Bob) beat George Cooper. Baldwin had forgotten that Sir Gilbert East had “departed this life,” and that his place was filled by an anti-millarian justice. Davis, with Arthur Matthewson and Perkins, the Oxford Pet, reached Maidenhead on Monday, and there also arrived Jem Burn, Reuben Marten, Burke, cum multis aliis. At an early hour Tom Oliver and Fogo were on the move to Knowle Hill with their matériel, when they spied three mounted men in the distance. “My mind misgives me sore. By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes!” quoth Fogo. The horsemen approached. “S’help me,” said Tom Oliver, “they’re beaks to a sartinty; I don’t like the Jerusalem cut of the first one.” And Tom was right. Up rode Sir Maurice Ximenes. “My good men,” said Sir Maurice, “if you don’t want to get into trouble you’ll clear out of both Berkshire and Wilts. Myself and these two gentlemen have determined to suffer no breach of the peace in our jurisdiction. Go back at once to your party and tell them so.” Tom

Scratched his left ear, the infallible resource

To which most puzzled people have recourse.

“In course, yer worshup,” said the Commissary, “nobody would think of goin’ agenst yer worshup’s orders.” And he turned the head of his nag towards whence he came, muttering something very like a witch’s prayer for the Semitic nose and Israelitish carcase of his worship. All now were in motion for the Bush Inn, Staines, and, arrived there, Shepperton Range, in Co. Middlesex, was decided on. Burke, Reuben Marten, Stockman and company were on the ground in good time, but Davis was delayed by the overturning of his post-chaise between Windsor and Egham, through the clumsiness of his driver. It was, therefore, full two o’clock before he arrived, when no time was lost in preliminaries. Burke was seconded by Stockman and Reuben Marten, Davis by Harry Jones and Perkins. The colours being tied to the stake, and umpires and referee chosen, at the cry of “Fall back! Fall back!” and the crack of the ringkeepers’ whips, all settled themselves down, and the men began

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Both men set to in good form, and covered their vulnerable points well. Davis looked brown, strong, and hardy, his trade of a coachsmith being one well calculated to promote muscular development. The Deaf’un was paler than usual, though he looked bright and confident. There was a sly looseness about the Deaf’un’s action that seemed intended to induce the Brum to go in. Davis tried a nobber with the left, but Burke got away smiling. More shifting and Davis let go his right at the Deaf’un’s ribs, and his left at his head; the former Burke caught on his elbow, the latter got home sharply, and exchanges followed. The Deaf’un broke away, counter-hits and a close, in which the Deaf’un gained the fall. A most determined first round, with as much fighting as half a dozen first rounds of our modern sparring professors.

2.—Davis bleeding from the nose and a cut on the left cheekbone. The Welshman got on a heavy smack on the Deaf’un’s eye, which twinkled and blinked again. Burke shook his head and hemm’d twice or thrice. “He don’t like it,” cried Harry Jones, “do it again.” Davis tried to do so, but was stopped neatly. Mutual stopping and shifting, until the Deaf’un balanced accounts by a straight’un on Davis’s left ogle that seemed to electrify him for the instant. Both men now got at it ding-dong. Davis staggered once or twice from the heavy hits, but recovered and went on again. At last Burke drove Davis into his corner and hit him down. (First knock down for the Deaf’un.)

3.—Davis flushed, but still strong, fresh, and active. Deaf’un hit short to draw his man, and then sent in a cross counter as Davis hit out with his left. A rally. Davis fought fast and furious; a close and Davis under in the fall.

4.—Heavy hitting and a bustling round. Jack as good as his master, and not a pin to choose. Towards the close Burke’s heavier metal told, and both were down, blowing; Davis undermost.

5.—Fast work and bellows to mend. A terrific round. Counter-hits; give and take and no mistake; Davis determined to get the lead, and Burke resisting his assaults like a brick wall. At last Davis closed, but after a brief struggle the Deaf’un flung him a clear cross-buttock, poor Davis’s legs whirling in the air like the revolving spokes of a coach wheel.

6.—Davis slow from his corner, but did not appear to be so much shaken by the last round as was expected. This was a very short bout. Davis retreated, and the Deaf’un went in; exchanges, and Davis down in his own corner.

7.—The Deaf’un, sly as a ’possum, would not go over the scratch, but kept throwing out first one elbow, then the other, with a funny little jerk, and looking his adversary all over with a kind of self-satisfied grin on his stoneware mug, as much as to say, “Let’s see what you are going to do next,” to which poor Davis certainly did not seem able to give any practical answer. He, too, shifted from side to side, then taking courage from despair, in he went, Burke jumping back from his first delivery, and each of their left hands coming “bash,” as a bystander expressed it, in the other’s face. Some more left-arm hitting, both men as game as pebbles, Burke’s broadsides the heavier, and poor Davis over on his beam ends.

8.—On being righted, and got once more on an even keel, Davis yawed and rolled not a little. Still the Deaf’un stood off, waiting for his opponent to make sail for close quarters, which he did, and again they were yardarm and yardarm. It was not for long; away fell Davis, reeling under the weight of the Deaf’un’s shot, and went over among the bottles in his own corner.

9.—It was surprising to see how readily Davis recovered from what appeared almost finishing hits. There was much advice-giving in Davis’s corner, and “Time” was more than once called before the Welshman was out of the hands of his seconds. The round was very short. Davis once again went in, and this time got on a stinger on the Deaf’un’s left ear, and a round one in the bread-basket. A scramble, and both down.

10.—Davis on the totter, but he steadied himself and got home his right on Burke’s body; good counter-hits. Davis got Burke on the ropes, but he extricated himself, and closing threw Davis.

11.—Davis hit short and stepped back. The Deaf’un did not follow. Some little time spent in sparring; both blown. At last the men got together, and Davis, finding he must do some hard fighting, went in hand over hand. Burke was with him and got him down in the hitting under the ropes. Burke walked to his corner while the Lively Kid performed a fancy step, leaving Reuben to make a knee. (Cries of “Take him away!” from the Londoners.)

12.—Davis came up all abroad. His knees seemed to shake under him. Still he steadied himself as well as he could, and hit out. Burke merely stepped in and hit him down with one, two.

13.—It was all over with Davis. He walked up to the scratch with an unsteady step, and stood there quite bewildered. The Deaf’un faced him. Some one in Davis’s corner cried “Don’t hit him!” The Deaf’un stepped over the scratch and caught hold of his right hand, Davis’s seconds rushed forward, received him in their arms, and conveyed him to his corner. Time, twenty-seven minutes.

Remarks.—Burke is all to nothing the better fighter at points. The battle was never in doubt after the first few rounds. Experience, coolness, and readiness, and a good deal of work without much show, marked the Deaf’un’s tactics throughout. More than once he played off his favourite manœuvre with effect. This consists in throwing himself in a loose and careless attitude, and looking at his man’s feet, or anywhere but in his face, when, if his adversary takes the bait and comes in, he suddenly lets fly, and seldom fails to administer a couple of punishing blows, or at least a damaging counter-hit. David Davis, who, we learn, has a long time worked in London as a coachspring maker, and who beat Manning in the short space of 24 minutes on Wolverhampton race-course in December, 1828, has now been beaten by the Deaf’un in 27 minutes. The Brums were deceived by the reports of Bill Cosens, who never ceased disparaging the merits of the Deaf’un, whom he boasts of having “beaten easily,” though he has several times shuffled out of a second engagement with him. Davis returned to Birmingham on Wednesday week, after showing at the Deaf’un’s benefit, and the giving up of the stakes at Reuben Marten’s, on the following Tuesday. Davis’s chief visible hurts were these—injured left hand and discolouration of the eyes.

One Blissett, a 14-stone man, and a butcher by trade, having crept into favour with himself and his fraternity by some bye-battles, and defeating Brown (the Northampton Baker), was matched against the Deaf’un, not a few of the “kill-bull” brotherhood hoping to reverse the verdict in the case of Hands, who was still a popular favourite among them. In this affair the Deaf’un again posted the first “fiver,” this time out of his stake with Davis, whereon Tom Cannon, on the part of Mr. Hayne, promised the rest of the stake of £25, and the day of battle was fixed for the 26th of May. The betting began at 6 to 4 on the Deaf’un. Burke went into training at the “Crown,” at Holloway, and Blissett took his breathings at the “Black Horse,” Greenford Green. There was a good muster of the sporting public on the ground at Colney Heath, Blissett coming on the ground in style with a four-in-hand, sporting a crimson flag and black border, the Deaf’un a green-and-orange handkerchief. When stripped, Burke appeared in a fancy pair of white drawers of a glazed material, trimmed and bound with green ribbons, and tied with green bows at the knees, where they were joined by a pair of blue-and-white striped stockings. Blissett weighed 13st. 12lb., and stood 6ft; the Deaf’un 12st. 8lb., and stood 5ft. 8in.

THE FIGHT.

We shall give but a general sketch of the rounds of this one-sided affair. In the first round Blissett, who displayed more sparring ability than was expected, began by planting heavily on the Deaf’un’s eyebrow, which he cut, and thus gained the first event amidst the uproarious cheers of his admirers. Soon after, however, the scene was changed, for the Deaf’un, getting under his guard, gave him several such severe body blows, that the big one, who certainly carried too much flesh, literally staggered and caught the top rope with his hand, while the Deaf’un had his opponent’s head at his mercy, until, recovering himself, Blissett forced a wild rally, in which he bored the Deaf’un down, without doing much mischief. In the following rounds Blissett, who was already piping, tried to lead off, but generally either missed or was stopped, while the Deaf’un, every now and then, got in a rattling hit on the mouth, eyes, or nose, in pretty equal succession. Before the 10th round was reached, Burke had not only got his man down to his own weight, but forced the fighting, or the reverse, at his own will, getting slyly inside and under Blissett’s hands, and hitting up at half-arm with punishing effect. After two or three more rounds of furious and wild fighting on the part of Blissett, he fell off, and in the 13th round the Deaf’un closed, lifted him, and threw him heavily. In the 14th and 15th rounds Blissett, after receiving a prop or two, literally got down amidst some hissing. Despite Young Dutch Sam’s urging him on, the big one now fought shy; indeed he was frightfully punished about the head.

In the 17th and 18th rounds Blissett, after a hit or two, turned away and fell on his knees and hands; and when he fell in the 19th and last round from a coming blow, Sam threw up the sponge, and the Deaf’un was hailed the victor amidst loud cheering. Time, 44 minutes.

Blissett was conveyed back to town, and the Deaf’un, having dressed, assisted to beat out the ring for the next fight, in which Young Richmond (a smart bit of ebony only 18 years of age, son of the renowned old Bill), was defeated by the afterwards celebrated Jack Adams, a protégé of Jem Burn.

Burke now laid by for a time, part of the interval from a boating accident, in which he badly injured the cap of his knees, which detained him in a hospital for several weeks. That this was serious we may conclude from the fact, that the writer was more than once told by the Deaf’un, in after years, that, “Though you can’t see nothing, misters, I often feels my leg go all of a suddent.” There was, in fact, a partial anchylosis, or stiffening of the joint.

In May, 1832, at a dinner at Tom Cribb’s, in Panton Street, Spring, the ex-champion, Josh Hudson, Ned Neale, Jem Burn (his old antagonist, Ned Baldwin, had just dropped the reins and quitted his box at the “Coach and Horses,” St. Martin’s Lane), and other leading pugilists were present. The after-dinner conversation, of course, ran on the past exploits and future prospects of the Ring. The remarkable group of pugilists—which included Jem Ward, Peter Crawley, Jem Burn, Ned Baldwin (White-headed Bob), Shelton, Tom Cannon, Ned Neale, Young Dutch Sam, Alec Reid, and Bishop Sharpe, the successors of Tom Spring, Langan, Bill Neale, Ned Painter, Josh Hudson, Oliver, and Hickman—had, before 1832, each fought his last fight, and “the slate” was positively clear of any engagements among the “heavies.” Among the guests was a cavalry officer, whose regiment being ordered for India (“short service” and “home leave on urgent private affairs” were not then in fashion), expressed his regret to jolly Josh Hudson, that he believed the race of “big ’uns” was extinct, and that he should “never see the like again” of those present. Josh, of course, coincided, but when the soldier added, that he would gladly give “a note with a strawberry-tart corner” to see such a mill, old Jack Carter, who had come in with the dessert, “put in his spoke,” and asked Josh whether he couldn’t “find him a job,” as he was ready and willing, and felt himself man enough for any second-rater who would make a good fight for a little money. Jack added that he had only the day before seen Burke rowing at Woolwich, being well of his bad knee, and complaining of the “deadness” of everything, and that they had come up to town together.

“Where there’s a will there’s a way.” The soldier had no time to spare, and was prompt; the men promised to be at the “Old Barge House,” Woolwich, on the morning of the 8th of May, meeting on the previous day at Josh’s “Half-Moon” tap, to make final arrangements. Tom Oliver, who was present, was officially engaged, also Jack Clarke; Dick Curtis and Frank Redmond volunteered to pick up the Deaf’un, and all was smoothly settled.

There was a select muster, with an unusual sprinkling of swells, on that pleasant morning of the merry month of May in the Woolwich Marshes, near the “Old Barge House,” round the newly painted stakes and a new set of ropes, &c. recently presented to Tom Oliver by the F.P.C. (Fair Play Club), through the hands of Tom Belcher. The men were punctual. Carter was waited on by Barney Aaron and Sol. Reubens (who had lately fought Tom Smith, the East End Sailor Boy). Old Jack certainly looked “hard,” and also, as Barney added, “brown and stale, like a well-kept loaf.” He, however, stripped “big,” and showed the outlines of the once boasted “Lancashire hero,” the opponent of Spring, Richmond, Cribb (in a turn-up), Shelton, and Jem Ward. He was neatly got up, but showing unmistakable marks of age, as well he might, for Jack was now entering his 43rd summer, having been born in September, 1789. The Deaf’un, too, was in good trim, deducting the ugly defect of a stiff knee—a serious drawback when opposed to length, weight, and height. Of these, however, the cheerful Deaf’un made no account, and was as lively and quaint as a Merry Andrew, in his grotesque green and yellow kickseys, and striped coverings of his sturdy pedestals.

The fight, though displaying courage, offered little in the way of science. For the first four rounds Carter bored in and drove the Deaf’un against the ropes, where he tried in vain to hold him for a “hug,” the Deaf’un hitting up sharply to the damage of Carter’s figure-head, and then getting through his hands with little damage. The Deaf’un was certainly out of order somewhere in the victualling department, for towards the middle of the short fight he retched and was violently sick from his exertions in a throw. This revived the hopes of the Carter party, against whom the game was evidently going. It was, however, but a passing gleam; the Deaf’un shook off his qualms of indigestion, rattled in without standing for any repairs, old Jack became stiff as a wooden image, then groggy as a sailor three sheets in the wind, and finally, at the end of the 11th round, went down “all of a heap,” and declared he “could fight no more,” at which conclusion it took him only 25 minutes to arrive.

The ring cleared, Josh announced to his patron that he had, foreseeing that the big ’uns might, one or the other, “come short,” provided an after-piece, by then and there getting off a “little go;” said “little go” being the match between Izzy Lazarus[15] and Jem Brown (the go-cart man). This was indeed a rattling and active fight, until, after an hour’s sharp milling, in which capital “points” were made by both men, the Thames police landed from their galleys and compelled a move, at the same time informing them that “it was no use crossing the river, as they should follow them up or down, either to the City-stone at Staines, or to Yantlet Creek.” In this hopeless state of affairs it was proposed to divide the original £10 stakes and the added purse, which was assented to by the Napoleon, of Go-cart men, and his Israelitish opponent, who had had, no doubt, quite enough of each other “at the prishe.” The “swell” division bowled back to the great metrop., well pleased with their day’s outing, though the drop fell rather suddenly on the second pugilistic performance.

The Deaf’un for some months confined himself to the business of an exhibitor and teacher of the art, superintending the sparring rooms at the “Coach and Horses,” and demonstrating at Reuben Marten’s on certain nights in the week. He might also always be depended on (which many men not so good as he were not) to lend a hand in aid of any poor pug in distress or difficulty.

Towards the close of 1832 the Deaf’un formed part of a professional party (organised by his late opponent Jack Carter), who visited Manchester, Liverpool, Bradford, and other towns, to enlighten the Lancashire and Yorkshire tykes upon the true principles and manly practices of the art of self-defence, as taught in the best schools of boxing. These milling missionaries—we have seen less laudable missions since that day—of course awakened more or less a “revival” of “fair play,” the study of the gloves, and the legitimate use of the fist among both the “upper” and “lower” orders. While at Hull an immense specimen of a gigantic North countryman, of the name of Macone, having had “a try with the gloves,” thought “he could lick any of these Lunnoners except Jock (Carter) and he was too old to talk aboot.” The Deaf’un thought quite differently; so £20 a side was put down, and, with only a few days’ training, Macone and the Deaf’un faced each other at Lackington Bottom, near Beverley, on the 8th January, 1833. “Macone,” says the meagre report of the battle, “stood 6 feet 2 inches, and weighed 15 stone, and had polished off several big yokels in first-rate style. The Yorkshireman was in first-rate condition, while the Deaf’un was generally thought not quite up to the mark. He weighed 13 stone (a little too heavy) and stood 5 foot 8.” Of the battle we have scanty particulars, yet the reporter adds, “it was such a fight as would not have disgraced the days of Cribb and Belcher. Burke had to do all he knew to obtain a victory over his large opponent, who turned out the bravest of the brave, and took his gruel without a murmur, until he could no more stand up to receive.”

We have here, for the sake of keeping the chronological order of the Deaf’un’s fights, followed on with his “crowning triumph” over the mighty but unskilful Macone, and shall here “hark back” a few months, just to show how ready Jem Burke was to “negotiate” with any boxer who might be “getting mouldy for want of a bating.” His old adversary Cosens appears to have thought that the Deaf’un’s accident had laid him “on the shelf,” for he kept from time to time firing off challenges, in Pierce Egan’s and other sporting papers. Here is one of them, which certainly savours of “gag,” especially as the writer was then upon a sparring tour, and in the same paper advertises a “benefit” at Brighton:—

“The Editor of Life in London.

“Sir,—I wish to inform Deaf Burke, as he takes upon himself the ‘Championship of England,’ that I am ready to fight him again. Should he think proper to do so, I will meet him at the ‘Wheatsheaf Inn,’ Chichester, within a fortnight, and make a match for £50 a side, to come off within one or two months, as he may prefer.

“Hunston, January 24, 1832. WM. COSENS.”

Immediately beneath this epistle we read as follows:—

“Sir,—I understand that Josh Hudson sent something like a challenge to me in your paper last Sunday. If he means fighting I will meet him at the ‘Coach and Horses,’ St. Martin’s Lane, on Monday evening next, for from fifty to one hundred a side.

“St. Martin’s Lane, May 22, 1832. JAMES BURKE.”

This affair of Hudson’s was a mere “flash-in-the-pan.” Josh’s day was decidedly gone by, while the Deaf’un, whose birth dated but five years previous to Josh’s first ring-fight, was in the prime of youthful strength and vigour.

Another of Burke’s challengers at this time, a Welshman of the name of Bill Charles, “loomed large” in the Principality and the West of England. He had twice beaten Jem Bailey, of Bristol, and polished off several rural commoners, and recently (June 4, 1832) conquered a local favourite, Tom Trainer (much under his own weight). From this triumph the soi disant champion’s bounce became so intolerable that Trainer’s friends clubbed their resources, and resolved to back the Deaf’un, as a fit and proper man, a very Orlando, to floor this braggart Charles; but unfortunately this portion of As You Like It was not rehearsed in Taffy-land, the “Lunnon cove” not being to the liking of Charles’s friends. Burke went down to Newport (Monmouthshire) to make the match; but the Welshman’s backers (like Aminadab’s servant when he opened the door, on the chain, to the bailiff) seem to have taken alarm at the formidable appearance of the Deaf’un, and Mr. Charles replied, on behalf of his patron, “Master hath seen thee and he doth not like thee;” preferring to forfeit a small deposit. Burke offered to fight “the Welsh Champion” half-way between Abergavenny and Newport, or near Bristol, or at Monmouth Gap, for £50 or £100 a side, but the affair went off, and Burke returned to London—matchless.

On the retirement of Ward from the Championship, among the crowd of pretenders to the title, the Deaf’un certainly had the fairest claim, having fought his way up, refusing no opponent, and disposing of every competitor, save one, and he afterwards declined to risk a repetition of the contest, upon transparent quibbles.

At a meeting at Tom Spring’s, in a pugilistic palaver, wherein matches were discussed, examined, and the pros and cons agreed and decided on, the Deaf’un, in his peculiar style, suggested, that he would like a match with Young Dutch Sam, “becos he was so clevers,” or Simon Byrne, “becos he was big enoughs,” or, in fact, with anybody that “tought himselfs champions.” At first Young Sam seemed disposed to take up the glove, but on reflection he said, “Burke was too heavy for him by more than a stone and a half. That was giving too much away.” Shortly afterwards a well-known Irish Colonel coming in, declared his readiness to back Byrne against the challenger, and a meeting was appointed for the following Tuesday at Spring’s. On the day named Simon’s “needful” was tabled; but alas! the poor Deaf’un was obliged to acknowledge his failure in enlisting any kind friend to back him, as “they were all out of towns when he called on ’em. But,” continued he, “to shows as I means fightins there’s a soverins of my owns to begins with—let Byrne’s friends cover thats, and on Thursday week I hopes I’ll make it tens, an if not—why, I’m de fools.” Two gentlemen present, admiring Burke’s pluck, added a sovereign each, making three, which were covered by Spring for Byrne. Bell’s Life, speaking of this meeting, says: “It is to be hoped that Burke will not lack supporters; he may not possess the gift of the gab, but he wants none of the requisites of a British boxer; he is honest, brave, and confident; and from his past good character, as well as the prompt humanity he lately showed in rescuing fellow-creatures from danger at the risk of his own life (we allude to his saving two children, who were buried in the ruins of some houses in Essex Street, Strand), it would be discreditable to see such a man lost for a trifle. It is always in the power of many to assist one, and here is an opportunity for those who wish to patronise the old British game of boxing upon honest principles which should not be overlooked.” The week after this appeal Burke found his friends (he did not call upon those who were “out of town,” he told us), and the match was made for £100 a side, to come off on the 30th May, 1833.

A singular circumstance occurred to the Deaf’un on his way home from Spring’s on the night when the occurrences took place which led to this anecdote of Burke’s good qualities. A fire was raging in Long Acre, in a poor and populous neighbourhood, at which Burke especially distinguished himself, and was honourably mentioned for his courageous exertions, rescuing a great deal of humble property at no small personal peril.

As we propose to give but a brief sketch of the ring career of Simon Byrne, as a pendant to the present memoir, we shall not here break the thread of our story, but proceed at once to the details of this unfortunate contest.

“The Irish Champion” was backed on this occasion by “all the talent.” Jem Ward, Ned Neale, Tom Spring, and Jem Burn were, to use a professional phrase, “behind him,” and he had at his command all that money and skill could do for him. On arriving in town from Liverpool, Simon’s weight exceeded 15 stone, and this mountain of flesh he had to reduce and did reduce to 13st. 4lbs. With this view he was at once sent off to Ned Neale’s, at Norwood, and, under his skilful superintendence, by hard work and sweating, this reduction was effected; but not, we are convinced, without impairing his natural stamina, for Byrne’s habits in Ireland were, so said rumour, far from abstemious. Burke, on the contrary—for the Deaf’un was never a slave to liquor—had only to improve his condition by good air, sound food, and healthful exercise, of which he took at Northfleet, under the eye of the veteran Tom Owen, a full share both on and off the water, much of his time being spent in rowing. Burke on the morning of fighting weighed 12st. 4lbs., the weight which Captain Barclay declared, when combined with science, to be heavy enough to box Goliath himself. We ought not to omit that Tom Gaynor generously took Burke under his wing, and guaranteed his training and personal expenses.

No Man’s Land was fixed upon for the battle, in consequence of an undertaking on the part of Mr. Coleman, of the Turf Tavern, St. Alban’s, to raise £25, to be equally divided between the men. On Wednesday evening, May 29th, the night before fighting, both men reached St. Alban’s in good spirits, and both confident as to the result. Burke was the favourite in the betting, as he had been, more or less, since the match was made; the odds varying between 5 to 4 and guineas to pounds. The arrivals at St. Alban’s were not numerous on Wednesday, but on Thursday morning there was unusual bustle, and as the day advanced the crowd of vehicles was such as to recall the olden times of the ring. The piece of turf chosen for the encounter was smooth as a bowling-green; in fact, nothing could have been more suitable to the purpose, or better calculated to have afforded a good view of the contest, but for the irregularity which prevailed among the throng, who, in spite of all entreaty, crowded round the ropes and stakes during the battle, and, by the most disgraceful confusion, not only shut out the view of the combatants, but distracted the attention and excited the fears of the spectators by a succession of fights and squabbles. The men arrived on the ground soon after 12 o’clock. The Deaf’un was all jollity, and full of antics, having disfigured his Grimaldi countenance with white patches, for the amusement of the yokels, at whom he kept making wry faces all the way from his quarters; in fact, had he been going to a fair instead of into the P.R. he could not have been in higher spirits. Byrne was more staid, but still was cheerful. He was the first to enter the ring, attended by Tom Spring and Jem Ward; he was loudly cheered. Burke soon followed, accompanied by Tom Gaynor and Dick Curtis, and was received with equal marks of favour. A good deal of time was lost in settling preliminaries, during which the Deaf’un continued his playful tricks, much to the astonishment of Byrne, who exclaimed he did “not think the man was in his right sinses.”

On stripping, it was obvious that Burke, in point of muscularity, was decidedly superior to Byrne, especially in the arms and shoulders; he was also in the best condition. Byrne looked well, but there was a softness about his shoulder-blades which showed he was still too fleshy. He stood about an inch and a half over Burke, but, nevertheless, did not seem to have much advantage in the reach; upon the whole, the connoisseurs gave the preference to the Deaf’un, who was health personified. The men were conducted to the scratch at about half-past one, and immediately commenced

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Both threw themselves into defensive positions; the Deaf’un grinning most confidently, and slyly looking at his antagonist. Byrne made one or two feints to draw his man, but Burke waited steadily for him. They then changed their ground. Byrne again made a feint, and after the lapse of some time, both cautious, Byrne let fly with his left. Burke countered heavily, and caught Byrne on the mouth, while he had it himself on the nose. Burke snuffled, and Byrne cried “First blood.” “No,” said Burke, and wiping his finger on his nose, withdrew it unstained. Another short dodging pause, when Byrne again let go his left, which dropped on the old spot; while Burke as quickly returned on the mouth; and again did the cry of “first blood” resound from all quarters; and, on inspection, the crimson was seen on Byrne’s lips, and on Burke’s proboscis, at one and the same moment. First blood was claimed for Burke, but disputed; and we understand the umpires and the referee decided it was a tie—giving neither the advantage. Some good counter hits with the left followed, and in the close, after an awkward scramble, both went down, without any decided advantage. On getting up both showed claret, Byrne from the nose and mouth, and Burke from the nose. Burke also showed the mark of a hit on the right brow.

2.—Long sparring. Burke waiting for Byrne to begin, being well on his guard. Both offered, but did not strike. At last Byrne popped in his left on Burke’s mouth, while Burke’s left, in the counter, went over his shoulder. Burke looked slyly down at Byrne’s body, as if intending to make his next hit there, but stealing a march, he threw in his left on Byrne’s mouth. Byrne was, however, awake, and countered. Mutual dodging. Burke stopped Byrne’s left cleverly; and after more sparring, Burke exclaimed, “Isn’t this beautiful, Simons?” while Gaynor said “his man was certain to win, and should be backed against any man in England.” Burke tried his right, but missed, and the men rushed to a rally. Heavy hitting took place, and in the close Byrne had the advantage, giving the Deaf’un the crook, and falling heavily on him, but on getting up it was obvious the hitting was on a par, as both had received some ugly clouts. These two rounds occupied 17 minutes.

3.—Burke stopped Byrne’s left in good style, and waited for the renewed attack. Both cautious. Burke again stopped a left-handed stinger, and succeeded in throwing in his own left on Byrne’s mouth. This brought them to a rally, and the hitting left and right was lively and pretty. In the close there was some good in-fighting in favour of Byrne, but in the struggle for the throw both went down slovenly, Burke under.

4.—Counter-hits with the left, when Byrne threw in a tremendous whack with his right on the back of Burke’s head; had it been in front the effect might have been conclusive. Burke, at the same moment, caught him in the ribs with his right. A rally followed, in which hits were exchanged; and, in the close, Burke was thrown. On getting up, both showed additional claret from their smellers, and Byrne had evidently had a refresher on his left ogle.

5.—A good rally, commencing with left-handed counters; both napped it. Byrne stepped back, and as Burke came he gave him the upper-cut with his right, and closing threw him heavily. Loud shouts for Byrne; and Jem Ward asked the Deaf’un how he liked that. The Deaf’un laughed, and shook his head, observing, “Very good, Misters.”

6.—The knuckle of Byrne’s right hand now began to swell—the consequence of its terrific contact with the Deaf’un’s canister in the fourth round. Pretty counter-hits with the left, ending in a rally, in which both hit away left and right. In stepping back from his own blow, Burke fell on his corobungus, and first knock-down was claimed, but not allowed, as it was clearly a slip.

7.—Counter-hitting with the left. Burke again made some pretty stops. The men fought in a rally to the corner, where Byrne caught Burke under his arm, and fibbed, but not effectively, and ultimately threw him, falling heavily on his corpus. “He can do nothing but throw,” cried Curtis; and the Deaf’un was up, and as jolly as ever.

8.—Heavy slaps, right and left; both had it on the nob. Burke was driven against the ropes, and Byrne fought well in. Burke butted,[16] and in the end got down, Byrne on him.

9.—Both cautious. Byrne again trying the feint, but Burke well on his guard. At last Byrne let fly his left, but Burke was with him, and returned it heavily. In the close, Byrne tried for the throw, when Burke hung by his arms round his neck. At last Byrne hit him a tremendous blow with his right on the body, and they both went down together.

10.—Both resined their hands,[17] and set-to as fresh as daisies. Byrne dropped in a slight muzzler with his left, which was followed by counter-hitting, and a severe rally. Byrne missed a terrific upper-cut, which would have told a fearful tale, and fell. Both exhibited considerable marks of punishment on getting on their seconds’ knees.

11.—Short counter-hitting with the left, followed by a determined rally, in which the nobbers left and right were severe. In the close Byrne down.

12.—Burke threw in a stinging hit with his right on Byrne’s ribs. A weaving rally followed, which was concluded by Byrne’s getting down, amidst the jeers of the Deaf’un’s friends.

13.—Byrne popped in his left. Burke tried to counter, but missed. A wild rally, in which Burke was driven to the corner of the ring, and fell; Byrne tumbling on him with his knee, it was said, in a tender place, whether designedly or not we could not judge.

14.—Byrne had a suck at the brandy-bottle before he commenced; when the Deaf’un rattled in, and gave him a heavy round hit with the right on the body, and went down from the force of his own blow.

15.—Counter-hitting with the left. Burke active on his pins. Byrne missed a right-handed hit, and fell, we suspect rather from design than accident.

16.—Burke popped in his left and right, two stinging hits. Byrne returned with the left, closed, and threw him.

17.—Burke now had recourse to “drops of brandy,” and Byrne, who had shown symptoms of distress, seemed to have got fresher. Counter-hitting with the left, both catching it on the chops, and showing more pink. A short rally. Byrne fought well in; and in the close, both down, the Deaf’un under.

18.—The fight had now lasted 45 minutes. Long sparring, and both slow in their operations. Burke, in his usual cunning manner, looked down as if studying the movements of Byrne’s feet, and popped in a whack with the left on his body; a manœuvre which he tried a second time, with equal success, with his right on the ribs. Burke stopped a left-handed hit, but caught another nasty one from Byrne’s right on the neck; it was a round hit, and missed the butt of the ear, for which it was intended. A short rally; when Byrne tried for the fall, but in swinging round was himself thrown.

19.—Burke showed feverish symptoms in his mouth, which was extremely dry. Long sparring, and pretty stops on both sides. Burke threw in a heavy smasher with his left on Byrne’s mouth, and followed it with tremendous heavy hit with his right on the ear. Byrne made a rejoinder with his left on the Deaf’un’s nose, and turned quickly round on his heel. “How do you like that?” cried Ward. Both ready, and on their guard; Burke evidently waiting for Byrne to commence; but incautiously putting down his hands to wipe them on his drawers, Byrne, as quick as lightning, popped in a snorter. Loud laughter at Burke’s expense. Burke rushed to a rally, and some severe hitting right and left followed, Byrne receiving a cut over his left eye. Byrne administered the upper-cut, and in the close, went down.

20.—One hour and 20 minutes had now elapsed. Counter-hitting with the left, but not much execution done. In the close, both down. Byrne’s right hand seemed to be of little use to him.

The same style of fighting was persevered in, with little advantage on either side, till the 27th round, by which time one hour and 47 minutes had elapsed; and the crowd had so completely closed in round the ropes as to prevent the distant spectators from witnessing the progress of the fight.

In the 27th round, after counter-hits with the left on both sides, at the head, Burke popped his left heavily on Byrne’s body. Byrne rushed to a rally, and Burke, retreating to the ropes, received a heavy hit in the head, which dropped him. The first knock-down was here universally admitted.

In the 29th round Burke was thrown heavily, his head coming with tremendous force on the ground; and in the 30th, Byrne, catching him against the ropes, gave him some severe body blows with the right, and finally threw him. While lying on his face, Burke was sick, and threw up some blood; his friends looked blue.

31.—Burke came up weak, and rather groggy. Byrne rushed in, and hit him heavily on the ribs, and in the close again threw him. Byrne now became a decided favourite, and was evidently the fresher man.

In the 35th round, two hours having elapsed, Byrne again caught Burke at the ropes, and in the in-fighting, gave him some severe punishment, while Burke butted. Burke thrown.

36.—Byrne pursued the same system of boring his opponent to the ropes, and peppered at him while in that position. In trying for the fall, Byrne held Burke up by the neck for some time, trying to fib with his right, but not effectively; but at last Ward gave him the office, and he let him go, falling heavily upon him.

37.—Burke sick, but still resolute. From this to the 43rd round Byrne seemed to have it his own way, and Burke was so much distressed that his friends began to despair of success. Tom Cannon now jumped into the ring, followed by several others, and considerable confusion prevailed. Cannon had been backing Burke, and evidently came to urge him to renewed exertion. He loudly exclaimed, “Get up and fight, Deaf’un; do you mean to make a cross of it?” A person who was equally interested on the other side struck at Cannon, and ultimately got him outside the ropes. In the interim, Burke went to work, bored Simon down against the ropes, but fell outside himself, while Simon was picked up within the ring.

In the five following rounds both fought in a wild and scrambling manner, equally exhausting to each; and in the 49th round, Burke, who had summoned all his remaining strength, rattled away with such fury that Simon at last went down weak. Here was another change, and Burke again became the favourite. From thenceforth to the 99th round, repeated changes took place. On one occasion the hat was actually thrown up to announce Byrne’s Victory, from the impression that Burke was deaf to time, as he lay, apparently, in a state of stupor; but, to the surprise of all, Curtis again brought his man to the scratch, and he renewed the contest with unshaken courage. From the state of Byrne’s hands, which were dreadfully puffed, he was unable to administer a punishing blow; and round after round the men were brought up, surrounded by their partisans, who crowded the arena, and by sprinkling them with water, fanning them with their hats, and other expedients, endeavoured to renew their vigour. To attempt a description of each round, from the uproar which prevailed, would be impossible. Burke, whenever placed before his man, hit away right and left, at the body and head, and always seemed to have a good hit at him, although his left hand was almost invariably open. In the 91st round Simon gave him a heavy fall, and fell upon him; and it was here considered that the Deaf’un’s chances were almost beyond a hope. Still he continued to come up at the call of his seconds, and each round exhibited a determined display of manly milling; both hit away with resolution, and the men were alternately uppermost. At last, in the 93rd round, Byrne exhibited such symptoms of exhaustion that the shouts of the friends of Burke cheered him to fresh exertion, and, rushing in wildly, he hit Byrne down, and fell over him. This made such a decided change for the worse in Simon, and for the six following rounds he came up so groggy, that he was scarcely able to stand, and rolled before the Deaf’un like a ship in a storm. Bad as he was, he continued to meet the Deaf’un with his left, and to do all that nature would permit. Burke, however, proved himself to have the better constitution, and continued to pepper away till the last round, when Byrne fell senseless, and was incapable of being again lifted on his legs. Burke, who was also in the last stage of exhaustion, was immediately hailed as the conqueror, amidst the reiterated cheers of his friends. The fight lasted exactly 3 hours and 16 minutes and at its conclusion, Gaynor proclaimed that Burke was “Champion of England.” Ward, who was in the ring attending to Byrne, exclaimed “Walker,” but whether he means to dispute Burke’s claim to that distinction remains to be seen. Byrne was carried to his vehicle, while Burke, with difficulty, was able to walk from the ring. The scene that prevailed in the ring for the last hour was disgraceful, and shut out from the spectators a view of the most part of the fight. It would be difficult to say which side was most to blame, for in fact each man had his party, who were equally busy in their interference. It is but justice, however, to say that the men themselves received fair play, and that there was nothing done towards them which called for censure.

Remarks.—Upon the character of this protracted fight we have few observations to make. The length of time which two men of such size continued to attack each other, and to pour in a succession of blows, without any decided effect, proves that, as compared with the olden members of the ring, they did not possess those punishing qualities which are essential to an accomplished boxer; and that they have earned little of that admiration which, in former times, was excited by the slashing execution of big men. Burke evidently possessed more cunning than Byrne, and often took him by surprise by threatening the body when he meant the head, and vice versa. The early injury to Byrne’s right hand was a decided disadvantage, and had he fought more at the body, from Burke’s sickness, it was considered the result might have been different. Taking the battle as a whole, however, it certainly entitled the men to the greatest praise, and placed them on record as boxers of the highest courage and extraordinary powers of receiving. But for the disorder which prevailed, we have no doubt the contest would have elicited universal astonishment, especially towards the finish, when the adversaries rushed to each other repeatedly, and hit away with unshrinking courage and perseverance, never going down without a mutual dose of pepper. As the battle drew toward a close, Byrne missed many of his left-handed counters, and in the 98th round received such a stinging hit with the right on his temple, that on coming up for the last time, it was clear his chances were gone by. The Deaf’un rushed in to finish, and, being still “himself,” had only to hit out and end his extraordinary labours.

The men, after the fight, were re-conducted to their respective quarters at St. Alban’s, and were both put to bed. Byrne was bled by a surgeon, but continued in a state of stupor. His punishment seemed to have been severest on the left side of the head; his left eye was completely closed, while his mouth and face generally were much swollen. In the body, too, there had been many blows, especially on his left side. He received every possible attention, and a gentleman who had been extremely kind to him in his training remained with him the whole night. Burke was by no means so great a sufferer, although he bore severe marks of hitting, and his arms, from the shoulders to the wrists, were black with stopping. To his heavy falls his sickness was principally attributed. As a proof that he was “all right,” as he said, after lying in bed a few hours, he got up and dressed, and went to town the same night, and showed at Tom Gaynor’s, where he received the congratulations of his friends, and talked of throwing down the gauntlet to all England as soon as he recovered.

In the same paper we find that poor Byrne’s state had become very precarious on the day after the fight; that his head had been shaved, and leeches applied to the bruised parts. It was thought by his friends that his mind was deeply affected by his defeat, and that he suffered as much from this feeling as from bodily injuries. On the Saturday night intelligence was received in town that the poor fellow was much better, and it was hoped out of danger, but these hopes, unfortunately, were not destined to be realised, for we find in the next number of Bell’s Life, the following remarks:—“Poor Simon, on the Saturday after the mill, became so much better that he was apparently quite himself, and expressed his thanks for the attentions he had received. He said, ‘if he died, of which he had a presentiment, his death would be more attributable to the irregularity of his mode of life before he went into training, than to any injury sustained in the fight.’ His mind, however, was evidently deeply affected by his defeat, and he frequently declared he would rather have died than been beaten; and, indeed, such was his increasing nervous agitation, that in the course of the evening he again relapsed into insensibility, from which he did not afterwards recover. On Sunday morning an express was sent off to London for Spring, who had been called to town on business. He immediately obeyed the summons, and on arriving at St. Alban’s, and finding the precarious state in which Byrne was, at once sent for Sir Astley Cooper, who humanely proceeded without delay to the house where Byrne lay, and entered into consultation with the gentleman who was in attendance. Sir Astley at once saw that the case was hopeless. He, however, administered such remedies as he thought best, and remained with the poor fellow until his death, which took place at half-past eight in the evening. It was believed by both medical men that the symptoms of the unfortunate man were aggravated by his depressed state of mind at his defeat. There was also a strong belief that the reflection of his having been instrumental to the death of Sandy M’Kay also preyed upon his spirits, as he expressed a presentiment of his own death. From the first moment of his entering the ring, it was observable that his countenance wore an aspect of deep care and thought, and when Burke was distressed, he regarded him with evident feelings of commiseration. While he fought with manly courage, and never shrank from danger, it was clear he was not following the suggestions of his nature. He was not, in fact, a quarrelsome man, but on the contrary, seemed animated by the most kindly disposition, and was alike mild in his manner and his language. Burke, also, although a rough, unpolished man, evidently had no feeling of animosity towards his unfortunate antagonist; the only object he had in view was to obtain victory. In fact, no two men ever entered the ring whose sentiments towards each other were so thoroughly devoid of malice, and whose object was so entirely wrapped up in the desire of fame; the one being influenced by a wish to wipe out the prejudices excited most unjustly from a former defeat, and the latter by anxiety to excel in a profession which from his boyhood was the darling object of his ambition. With all his roughness, however, Burke has given traits of an excellent disposition he has on more than one occasion risked his own life to save the lives of others. He is also strictly honest and sober, and altogether his character stands so high that this alone has led to his obtaining backers.”

The inquest was held on Byrne on the Monday after the fight, before Mr. Blagg. Some of the witnesses deposed that the men were often carried to the scratch; and that towards the conclusion of the battle they did not think they could have gone up alone.[18]

Mr. Kingston, a surgeon of St. Alban’s, who attended the deceased, stated that he bled him, and applied leeches to his head; that there was concussion of the brain, but that the deceased was occasionally sensible. Witness attended him constantly until his death. On a post mortem examination he found a great deal of extravasated blood about the left side of the head. The brain and dura mater were also distended with blood. The heart, liver, and intestines were perfectly healthy. Deceased was a fine, muscular man, and witness attributed his death to the congested state of the brain, combined with prolonged and violent exertions, and the mental suffering under defeat.

The Coroner: “Then deceased came by his death from the blows?”—Witness: “In my opinion, had the deceased been the victor instead of the beaten party there would have been a chance of his recovery. There was not sufficient injury on the head to account for death.” The Coroner attempted to find out the names of the time-keeper and referee, but without avail, and at length summed up, and the jury returned a verdict of “Manslaughter against Deaf Burke as principal in the first degree, and Tom Spring, Jem Ward, Dick Curtis, and Tom Gaynor, and the umpires and referee as principals in the second degree.” The coroner then made out his warrant for the committal of the parties against whom the verdict was returned.

The body of poor Simon was buried at St. Alban’s, on the Tuesday after the inquest. He was 32 years of age. An appeal was made by the Editor of Bell’s Life in London for the poor fellow’s widow, which was headed by himself with five guineas, and to this, the same week, the Deaf’un, Spring, Ward, Gaynor, and Curtis each added a similar sum, and in a very short time the sum of £262 was raised for the unfortunate woman.

The Trial.—On Thursday, July 11th, 1833, the trial of Spring, Ward, Gaynor, Curtis, and the Deaf’un took place at Hertford Assizes. On the previous day, when Mr. Justice Bailey charged the Grand Jury, he alluded to the case in a humane and impartial manner, and the Grand Jury found a true bill against all the parties concerned. On the Thursday morning, Burke and Dick Curtis, who had surrendered, were put to the bar before Mr. Justice Park, and pleaded not guilty. As Spring and the other two accused did not surrender at first, the trial of these men was proceeded with. Witnesses were first called who proved that the fight had taken place, after which Mr. Kingston, the surgeon who had attended Byrne up to the time of his death, was examined. He described the post mortem examination, and the appearance of the body, in similar terms to those which he had used before the Coroner. He next said the fulness of the vessels of the brain might be caused in various ways, by blows, or falls, or excitement. After three hours’ fighting such an appearance might be produced; the exertion might have caused it without a blow. He did not find the vessels of the brain more distended where the bruises were than in the other parts; the cause of death was the congested state of the brain.

Examined by Mr. Justice Park: “Then, finding the vessels in the same congested state all over the head, as you have described, should you attribute that appearance more to general exertion than to blows or external violence?”—Witness: “The exertion the deceased underwent would have been sufficient of itself to have caused this appearance. I cannot say that the blows he received were the cause of death, either in the whole or in part. That was the conclusion to which I came on the post mortem examination.”

Mr. Justice Park, after hearing this statement, addressed the jury, and said, “Gentlemen, that makes an end of the case. The indictment charges that death was occasioned by blows and violence, whereas it appears the deceased died from other causes. The prisoners, therefore, must be acquitted.” The jury immediately returned a verdict of “Not guilty,” and Burke and Curtis were discharged from custody. Messengers were then despatched to inform Spring, Ward, and Gaynor of the result, and they then surrendered and were placed at the bar. No evidence, however, was offered against them, and a verdict of “Not guilty” relieved them from their anxiety.

On the Thursday following the trial, a congratulatory dinner took place at Tom Spring’s, at which a subscription was commenced towards defraying the expenses of the defence. At the suggestion of a gentleman who presided, a subscription was also opened, which, in a short period, amounted to the sum of 100 guineas, for the purpose of presenting a service of plate to the Editor of Bell’s Life in London, as a token of the respect in which he was held, not only by the men who had recently undergone their trial, and whose defence he had conducted, but also for the manner in which he invariably advocated the cause of fair play, and had always been foremost in the cause of the distressed, the fatherless, and the widow. The service of plate was presented to Mr. Dowling at a subsequent meeting at Tom Spring’s.

Soon after the termination of the proceedings against Burke, a challenge appeared in the Dublin and London papers from O’Rourke, “Champion of Ireland,” for a meeting on the Curragh of Kildare; but Burke’s friends properly objected at such a juncture to his fighting in Ireland, the match therefore dropped.

In July a renewed proposal from Young Dutch Sam to fight the Deaf’un for £500 a side was made over a sporting dinner at Spring’s, and £5 there and then posted; the battle to come off within a twelvemonth. This ended in talk and a forfeit, as the Deaf’un could not raise such a sum.

In the month of September, 1833, the air was filled with challenges, which fell “thick as the autumn leaves in Vallombrosa;” among them one from some “gentlemen,” who were ready to back an “Unknown, to be named at the last deposit, against any man in the world,” for £500 to £1,000 a side. Whereupon Jem Ward accepting the proposal for £500, and declaring his readiness to make the match, the challengers were silent, and the “Unknown” remained thenceforth unseen and unheard of.

In September, 1833, a paragraph appeared in London and provincial papers, to the effect that Deaf Burke would persist in his claim to the Championship, whereon Ward wrote as follows:—

“To the Editor of ‘Bell’s Life in London.’

“Sir,—Should the patron of the ’unknown’ candidate for ‘the Championship’ agree to allow his man to fight for £500 a side, my friends are ready to back me for that sum. Failing a match being made with him, I am ready to give any other customer a chance, and for his accommodation will fight for any sum, from £300 to £500 a side. I am, Sir, your most obedient servant,

“JAMES WARD. Champion of England.

“Liverpool, Sept. 18, 1833.”

The Editor having submitted this epistle to “the Deaf’un,” observes, “that individual desires us to say, that ‘he’s ready to stands nps for the title for a hundreds, but as for tousands, and that sorts o’ rediklus tings, he can’t say nuttins about ’em.’” Another challenge elicited the subjoined from Ward:—

“To the Editor of ‘Bell’s Life in London.’

“Sir,—I have long contemplated leaving the Ring altogether, and would not offer myself again to your notice, had you not inserted a challenge for the Championship, accompanied by a tempting stake; to which challenge I gave a suitable reply, stating at the time my readiness to fight the Unknown for £500, or a smaller sum—say £300 or £400 a side. I am not only willing to fight for the above sums, but to allow the Unknown three months to deliberate upon it.

“I perceive that Deaf Burke calls himself ‘Champion of England,’ and offers to make a match with me for £100 a side. Considering that I am in business, such a sum is not worth contending for, especially as a considerable portion of it must be expended in training and other incidental expenses. If Deaf Burke means fighting me, I will accommodate him for £200 a side, and no less. Should this not meet his views in a reasonable time, my intentions are to retire from the Ring in toto; to that the Unknown and Deaf Burke will know what to do.

“JAMES WARD, Champion of England.

“Liverpool, October 2, 1833.”

The Deaf’un seemed now doomed to the sickness of “hope deferred.” He was too good for any of the 12-stone men except the Champion, whose price, even lowered to £200, was still too high for him. Numerous letters passed and repassed between O’Rourke and Burke; and on one occasion O’Rourke dragging in the name of Ward, Jem offered to stake £300 to O’Rourke’s £200 and fight him in Ireland. To this O’Rourke made no response, and soon after sailed for America. Ward then offered to meet Burke £300 to £200; but even at these odds the Deaf’un could not find backers, at which we need not be surprised when the comparative merits of the men were weighed in the balance.

Burke, who had certainly, in addition to his great powers as a boxer, a fund of native and quaint comicality, now utilised his talent as a public exhibitor of models of statues from the antique, for which his athletic development well fitted him, alternating them with displays of the Art of Self-defence. In these tours, wherein his attendant or agent in advance was the well-known Tommy Roundhead, the trainer (whom the Deaf’un dubbed his “Secretary”), Burke visited Wales, Bristol, and the West, and subsequently the Midlands and the North. An incidental notice in a newspaper published in “the Potteries” gives us a peep at the Deaf’un on his travels.

“A Voice from the Pitcher Country. Disappointment of the Pottery Fancy.—On Saturday last Tommy Roundhead, the avant courier of Deaf Burke, arrived in Hanley, and cast anchor at Mr. Hawes’s, Angel Inn, in the Market Place. On making his business known, the worthy host offered him the use of the large room in which Tom Spring and Big Brown exhibited previous to Brown’s fight with Phil Sampson, at Bishop’s Wood. Roundhead immediately got his handbills printed, and the walls covered with well-displayed posters, announcing that on Monday and Tuesday evenings, ‘Deaf Burke, Champion of England, and Harry Preston, Champion of Birmingham, would take a benefit and exhibit the manly art of self-defence; the whole to conclude with a grand set-to, previous to Preston’s return to Birmingham to fight Davis for one hundred guineas.’

“Tommy gave out that Burke and Preston would arrive at Hanley at noon on Monday. During the day, but especially in the evening, the ‘Angel’ was crowded. Several indications of impatience were exhibited at the non-appearance of the men; but in the evening, when the last coach arrived from Birmingham, and there was no tidings of the ‘Deaf’un,’ an universal burst of disgust went through the rooms. They all turned upon Roundhead. Tommy got on his pins, and attempted to explain that he left Burke on the Thursday at Atherstone, and that he had come to Hanley, by Burke’s express desire, to engage a room for him and Preston to spar in. He had written to Burke, at Arthur Matthewson’s, and could only account for their non-appearance on the score that his letter had not reached them. The grumblers vehemently vociferated, ‘Stow your patter, it’s a hoax—it’s no go, Tommy.’ A regular ‘flare-up’ had very near taken place, but, by good words and persuasion, silence was restored, and the company dispersed peaceably.”

From what follows, it will be seen that that very shifty gentleman—Harry Preston—was the real cause of the apparent breach of promise.

“The cause of this disappointment is explained by a letter we have received from Birmingham; from which it appears that Preston and the Deaf’un had a fall out at Arthur Matthewson’s, which, after lots of chaff and a deposit of a sovereign a side, was to be decided by a fight the next morning, but on the Deaf’un going to the scratch Preston ‘would not have it.’ Some further chatter followed, in which Preston offered to fight Burke if he would reduce himself to 12 stone. This the Deaf’un declined, but offered to fight him £120 to £100, or £60 to £50. This would not suit Harry’s book, and thus the matter ended. The Deaf’un’s next trip is to Liverpool, and from thence to Scotland, where he is to join Bob Avery in Glasgow. Poor Tommy Roundhead has been undeservedly censured in this matter.”

That the Deaf’un had considerable pantomimic powers may be gathered from the fact that he was engaged by the experienced manager of the Manchester Theatre, to play Orson in the Christmas piece of “Valentine and Orson” at the Sheffield Theatre.

Thus wore away the year 1834. At Tom Spring’s Anniversary Dinner, January 14th, 1835, which was numerously attended, Burke announced that he was about to take a farewell benefit on the ensuing Wednesday evening, at the “Coach and Horses,” St. Martin’s Lane, previous to his starting for America, to fight the Irish Champion, O’Rourke, or any other man in the United States or Canada who might fancy him. He had come to this determination, he said, because, although ready and willing to fight Ward for £200, Ward, after proposing to fight for that sum, raised his price to £300, and then, finding even that large stake was likely to be obtained, valued himself at the still higher sum of £500, which was utterly beyond the reach of his (Burke’s) friends. For his own part, all he wanted was the glory of the title for which he was the candidate, and, to show that he was not afraid of any man breathing, he would fight even for £5; his friends were still ready to back him for £200 against the Champion, Ward. This speech, given in Burke’s sincere but blunt style, excited warm applause, and a pledge was given that his benefit should be well attended.

It was then suggested that the title of Champion of England ought not to depend on the capricious will of the person by whom it had been obtained, putting the sum at which he would risk its loss so high as to prevent the possibility of fair competition. Ward had gradually risen in his own estimation from £200 to £500, and he might, with as good a grace, if it depended on himself, say he would not fight for less than £1,000 or £10,000, and thus retain an honour to which other men might be entitled. This opinion seemed to meet the almost unanimous concurrence of the persons present, among whom were Spring, Jem Burn, Ned Neale, Young Dutch Sam, Dick Curtis, Owen Swift, Smith, Young Spring (Harry Wood, of Liverpool), and others, and a great number of amateurs and liberal supporters of the Ring. After some discussion, the following resolution was moved and seconded:—

“Resolved—That, in future, the maximum stake at which the Champion of England shall be considered bound to accept a challenge shall be £200; and that if he refuse to fight for this sum, he shall be considered as no longer holding the title of Champion.”

A gentleman proposed as an amendment that the sum should be £250, but this was negatived by a large majority, and the original resolution was carried with acclamation.

It was then moved and seconded—“That if Jem Ward refuses to fight Deaf Burke for £200, he shall no longer be considered Champion of England, but that Burke shall assume the title, until bound to yield to a man of greater merit.” This resolution was also carried unanimously.

These resolutions are certainly in the spirit of common sense, and if Ward’s situation in life placed him above the necessity of considering himself any longer a member of the Ring, it was no more than fair—as in the case of the veteran Tom Cribb and his successor Tom Spring—that he should retire; a step which certainly could not have stripped him of any of the honours to which he had previously entitled himself.

The disappointed Deaf’un now repaired to Liverpool, and departing thence, like another Childe Harold, “he sung, or might, or could, or should, or would have sung”:—

“Adieu! Adieu! My native shore
Fades o’er the waters blue;
The night-wind sighs, the breakers roar,
Load shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun, that’s setting o’er the sea,
We’ll follow in its flight;
Farewell awhile to it and thee—
My native land—Good night!

“With thee, my bark, I’ll swiftly go,
Athwart the foaming brine,
Nor care what land thou bear’st me to,
So not again to mine.
And if in Western land I find
A worthy foe in fight,
My conquering brow with bays I’ll bind—
So, native land—Good night!”

And so “Childe Burke” did, after a pleasant tour, in which he always spoke as receiving warm welcome and hospitality from the Americans; although, as we shall presently see, upon the unanswerable testimony of their own papers, the perfervidum ingenium of certain emigrant Hibernian rowdies proved the prudence of Burke’s friends when they declined a contest on the Curragh of Kildare.

After a brief stay in New York, where he was well received, Burke did not find any regular “professional” inclined to test his pugilistic capabilities, and, after duly acknowledging the good spirit in which he had been received, he announced, that, in compliance with “a vaunting challenge in a New Orleans paper, in which O’Rourke was stated to be resident in that city, and ready to meet any man in the world,” he, the Deaf’un, had determined on a southward trip, and to drop down on Mr. O’Rourke on the scene of his glory. As the Deaf’un always meant what he said, and, himself unconscious of foul play, did not suspect it in others, he sailed for the city of swamps and slavery.

He had reckoned, in his simplicity, that a stranger would have fair play, as with Englishmen, but soon found out his egregious mistake. As we desire the character of an impartial historian, we shall merely extract the account of this affair from the Charleston Courier of May 13th, 1837 which gives the account under date of New Orleans, May 6th:—

“Fighting Riots, &c.—For some two or three days past, large numbers of our population have been thrown into considerable excitement by handbills posted up in bar-rooms and at the corners of the streets, that a pugilistic combat was to take place yesterday between two celebrated prize-fighters, Deaf Burke, an Englishman, and O’Rourke, an Irishman. The fight between the rival champions, as they style themselves, took place at about one o’clock, at the forks of the Bayou Road. Some two or three rounds were fought, which resulted particularly to the advantage of neither of the belligerents. The second of O’Rourke, happening to come within hitting distance of Burke, received a severe blow from the Deaf-man himself. Whether this was right or wrong, not being at the fight, we know not. At any rate it was the signal for a general scrimmage, in which the Irishmen joined the O’Rourke party, and handled Burke and his friends with fists and sticks made of anything but dough and molasses. O’Rourke’s second was settled down by a settler from Burke’s own fist, when the Deaf-man, thinking his heels better preservatives of his face and feelings than his fists, took the leg-itimate course adopted by all men and animals when assaulted by a superior force.

“Matters were now coming to a fine pass. Burke was followed by crowds of Irishmen with shillelaghs, dray-pins, whips, and what not. A friend, on seeing him pass, handed him a bowie-knife, and another gave him a horse, with which he made good his escape.

“Of the different riots which took place at the scene of action we were not witnesses. Some say there was foul play on the part of O’Rourke’s friends, and especially by his second, and that it was intended long before the fight took place that Burke should get a thrashing by foul or fair means. The man who handed Burke the knife was cruelly beaten by the infuriated friends of O’Rourke: it is reported, and we fear with much truth, that he was killed.

“O’Rourke’s friends bore him about our streets in triumph yesterday afternoon in a coach drawn by themselves.

“On the arrival of the different parties in town, inflamed with liquor and ready for any disturbance, many affrays occurred. During the whole afternoon, large numbers of malcontents, principally Irishmen, were congregated in the vicinity of the Union House, and Armstrong’s, opposite the American Theatre. Several serious and disgraceful fights took place, in some of which the rascally mob beat and otherwise maltreated a number of innocent and unoffending individuals. A large number of arrests were made.

“The reports in town of the loss of lives, and of the results of the wild spirit of anarchy and confusion which existed in the afternoon, are so various, so contradictory, that we cannot comment upon them. The whole affair was disgraceful in the extreme.

“The Washington Guards were ordered out at eight o’clock last evening by the Mayor to quell any disturbance which might arise. As late as two o’clock this morning everything was comparatively quiet.”

Thus it would seem that the affair ended in a complete Irish row, in which the lawless habits of “the Knights of the Shillelagh” put all fair play at defiance. We hope we are not open to a charge of national prejudice, but would fairly put the question, “Would such ruffianism—and ruffianism is always cruel and cowardly—be possible among a people imbued with the fair-play practices and the principles inculcated by regulated pugilism?”

Some anxiety was caused in London by a rumour in a New York paper, that the Deaf’un had received his “quietus” not with “a bare bodkin” but an “Arkansas tooth-pick;” much relief therefore, was felt by them on finding from the Charleston papers that he was still in the land of the living, and had returned to New York; not finding his life safe among a set of men who considered a challenge to their “Champion” as an individual, a national insult, to be wiped out by assassination.

That he had returned in safety was shown by scattered notices in the New York papers, from which we gather that one O’Connell, who, like his namesake on this side the Atlantic, was “an out-and-out big potato,” had challenged the Deaf’un for 500 dollars and “the honour of ould Ireland,” to a fistic tourney. This Burke had accepted, and Elizabeth Town Point was named as the field of battle. A sheriff’s notice, in anticipation of another Irish riot, compelled a change of ground to Hart’s Island, which was reached by a steam excursion, and here the affair came off without interruption. What follows is from the New York Herald:—

“The ‘Prize Ring,’ as it is emphatically called, is not without its merits, and although we regret and detest these exhibitions—when as exhibitions merely—our duty as chroniclers of passing events compels us to make public what otherwise we should bury in oblivion. Among the ancients these spectacles were frequent, and cherished by the government of the people indulging in them; and it is yet doubtful whether they do not in some degree tend to benefit the community at large. There is a feeling of courage—of proud, manly self-dependence—accompanying the champions of the Ring, that otherwise would not be elicited. The manly stand-up fight is surely far preferable to the insidious knife—the ruffianly gang system—or the cowardly and brutal practice of biting, kicking, or gouging, now so prevalent. The ancient Romans conquered and civilised half the world, and it is to them we owe the gladiatorial spectacle of the Prize Ring—modified by modern civilisation, but yet retaining sufficient of its origin to portray the manners and habits of the people among whom it has taken root. The British people are particularly fond of this exhibition, and there are some good consequences attending it. The street broil or hasty quarrel is deprived of half its ferocity. Three or four or more do not fall upon and beat a single individual. None but gangs of ruffians can commit such deeds. The single man when struck down by his opponent is permitted to rise and put himself, as it were, in something like equilibrium with his opponent. Stamping upon a man when down—biting, kicking, and other such ‘courageous’ displays are entirely exploded; and when the party combating cries ‘hold, enough,’ no bowie-knife enters his vitals, or proves the superior courage of his opponent by depriving him of existence. With all its disadvantages, therefore, and demoralising tendency, as contended, and perhaps truly so, it may be doubted whether the spirit emanating from it may not be productive of benefit among the lower classes. The knock-down blow is surely preferable to private assassination, or even to the open taking of human life by means of deadly weapons. Quitting these reflections, let us give our account of the fight itself.

“At nine o’clock the steamboat left the ferry (Catharine Street), with about three hundred passengers, and those of a very select kind, owing principally, perhaps, to the high price demanded for tickets—three dollars, which speedily rose to four and five dollars, and even at that price could not be procured. The destination was Hart’s Island, where the passengers were landed and the preliminary measures to the ‘set-to’ adopted. A twenty-four feet ring, according to the articles of agreement, was formed, and an outside one to prevent any interruption to the pugilistic efforts of the combatants. The ring being completed, and the seconds proclaiming ‘all ready,’ the two champions made their appearance—O’Connell, as the challenger, threw his hat first in the ring, which was quickly answered by Burke; the men then peeled for the battle.

“On stripping, the great disparity between the two men was apparent. Burke presented an iron frame, in which all surperfluous flesh seemed excluded. His broad and extended chest, his outward turned knees, that take off from beauty to add so much to muscular power, his muscular and well-knit lower limbs left no doubt on the minds of the spectators that no common skill or bodily strength would be sufficient to overpower or vanquish the possessor. O’Connell stripped to greater advantage than was expected. His upper frame is large and muscular, but it wants compactness and tension. His sinews hang loose, and his frame is far from being well banded together. In his lower conformation this defect is still more striking; this is his weak point, and must ever incapacitate him from becoming a redoubtable competitor in the Prize Ring. ‘All ready’ being proclaimed by the respective seconds (Abm. Vanderzee and Alexander Hamilton officiating for O’Connell, and Hatfield and Summerdyke for Deaf Burke), the opponents previously shaking hands, put themselves in attitude for the onset.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The men came up, each equally confident. Some sparring took place which only tended to show in a more striking point the disparity of the pugilists. The quick eye of Burke immediately discovered that he had the game in his hands, and he accordingly forebore any active exertion, threw his body open, which O’Connell immediately caught at, and implanted two heavy blows—one immediately beneath the ribs, and the second on the loins of his adversary. Burke received this infliction without the slightest variation of muscle or feature—and in return put forth a feeler (left hand) which dropped O’Connell at his full length. Some of Burke’s friends cheered—this was instantly stopped by the umpires, who requested that, let the fight terminate how it might, no ebullition of the feelings of either party should be suffered to take place. All, upon this appeal, were immediately silent.

2.—Both men were equally confident. O’Connell smiled, as much as to say “I stoop to conquer.” Burke made play; O’Connell struck a well-meant left-handed compliment to Burke’s knowledge-box, which was prettily stopped. Burke returned with right, in part husbanding his strength; the blow told slightly on O’Connell’s bread-basket—a wrestle—O’Connell down. First blood was here claimed by each party. The umpires decided that both sported the claret simultaneously—thus deciding all wagers on this matter.

3.—Burke appeared brooding mischief. O’Connell struck a random blow and lost his guard, when Burke immediately put in his tremendous right-handed blow, which taking effect under the ear of O’Connell, floored him as if struck by lightning.

4.—Time being called, O’Connell courageously rose to the scratch, but had scarcely left his second’s knee, when he fell as if through weakness. The fight was here claimed by the friends of Burke; the umpires, however, decided “not lost,” and the fifth round commenced.

5.—O’Connell tried a new mode, and went boldly into his man. He succeeded in planting a pretty severe body-blow on Burke, closed for the wrestle, but was thrown—he fell slightly, however.

6.—Burke piped a trifle. O’Connell made a rush—got well in for the close, but the superior strength of Burke shook him off. O’Connell seemed spent, was entirely off his guard, and Burke could easily have concluded the fight by any blow he chose to have put in; but, seeing the disabled state of O’Connell, Burke unclosed his fist, and with the back of his open hand struck O’Connell in the breast, which dropped him as a man might be supposed to push down a child. A low exclamation of approbation, impossible to repress, ran through the spectators at the manliness of this conduct.

7.—O’Connell seemed to be gaining strength, and fought this round most manfully. It was evident, nevertheless, that his faulty method of delivering his blows could never win him the day. Three severe blows were delivered by Burke in succession, on the head, chest, and loins of O’Connell, who made a sort of headlong rush, closed with Burke, bore him towards the ropes, and was thrown heavily in the wrestle.

8.—Hatfield, the second of Burke, here said, “He’s finished, polish him off.” O’Connell came up staggering—Burke made a feint, and prepared to strike a finisher. From humanity, however, he did not deliver his blow—O’Connell closed—a short rally took place, and O’Connell was thrown.

9.—O’Connell showed some game, but it was evidently of an expiring effort. He faced his man, made a blow, which fell short, and was met by Burke with a terrible facer, which set the claret flowing in a rapid stream from O’Connell’s nostrils. All was over.

10.—Time was repeatedly called. O’Connell rose but could not stir a step towards his man. Burke said, “I wish to fight honourable—I will not strike him—does your man wish to fight any more?” O’Connell’s second immediately gave in the battle, and Burke was declared the conqueror.

A word or two respecting the rival combatants: O’Connell never was or can be capable of figuring with credit as a fighter. He wants bottom, activity, and science—three things which are indispensable in the formation of a boxer. From the third round he had not the slightest chance of winning—it was a doubloon to a shin-plaster, and no takers. The day was peculiarly propitious, and the company of a very respectable description. Those who conducted this affair deserve all praise. Not the slightest disturbance of any kind took place. It was what the Prize Ring ever ought to be—an exhibition of manly and courageous contest.”

We need add nothing to this “round, unvarnished tale,” written by a literary gentleman who had never before witnessed a prize-fight. In Burke, his Irish opponent found, notwithstanding his foul treatment at New Orleans, a brave and humane antagonist; and that, despite the contaminating effects of bad example, the Deaf’un preserved in the New World the high and generous qualities he exhibited in his own country. Cant, cruelty, and cowardice have crushed out the courageous confidence in the unarmed fist as the weapon in hand-to-hand encounters, and the American populace trust for victory to the bowie-knife and the revolver, when man opposes man to settle their personal differences “in a higher phase of civilisation.” (?)

As the patrons of the Ring are, such will its professors be, holds good as an axiom in pugilism as in every other science. A few unprejudiced and enlightened Americans, seeing the horrors and savagery of Irish-American rowdyism, entertained the milling missionary, and strove to propagate his principles, but were in a minute and powerless minority among a multitude of howling saints and savages—for extremes meet in this as in all other things. To these friends and sympathisers Burke bade an affectionate farewell, after a handsome benefit, and arrived at Liverpool on the 25th of June, 1838.

During the Deaf’un’s absence some pretentious “big ones” had been coming into prominent notice. Bendigo, Ben Caunt, and Brassey had become famous, and not a few of their several partisans thought either one or the other more than a match for the Deaf’un. It was whispered, too, and too truly, that his rupture had been aggravated by an accident, and that his habits in America had not been such as would improve his constitution or stamina. Indeed, some of those deepest in Ring mysteries declared his reappearance in the Ring more than questionable. The gallant fellow himself had no such misgivings, and lost no time in so telling his countrymen.

“THE CHAMPIONSHIP OF ENGLAND.

“To the Editor of ‘Bell’s Life in London.’

“Sir,—When I was in Yankeeshire I heard a great deal about ‘would-be champions’ challenging any man in England. ‘While the cat’s away the mice will play;’ and thus the little fry took advantage of my absence to bounce and crow like cocks in a gutter. I hastened back to take the shine out of those braggadocios; and to put their pretensions to the test, I beg to state that I am now ready to fight any man in England for from One Hundred to Five Hundred Pounds; and as my old friend Jem Ward has retired from the Ring, if he will add his Champion’s belt to the prize, and let the best man wear it, he will give new energies to the Ring, and, I trust, afford an opportunity for deciding the long-contested question, ‘Who is Champion of England?’ I bar neither country nor colour—age nor dimensions; and whether it be the Goliath Caunt, or his hardy antagonist Bendigo, or any other man who ever wore a head, I am his customer, and ‘no mistake.’ My money is ready at Jem Burn’s, the ‘Queen’s Head,’ Queen’s Head Court, Windmill Street, Haymarket, at a moment’s notice; but I will not consent to a less deposit that £25 at starting. If I find the race of old English boxers of the right kidney is extinct, I shall go back to America, where an honest man need never want ‘a friend or a bottle.’

“DEAF BURKE.

“Windmill Street, Haymarket, July 29, 1838.”

As we have already recorded in our memoir of Bendigo, the Nottingham hero lost no time in accepting this challenge, and stated he had placed £100 in the hands of Peter Crawley to make the match. Unfortunately for the Deaf’un’s reputation, he had, through his intimacy with Young Dutch Sam, become entangled in a vicious companionship, as the humble “pot-companion” and gladiatorial buffoon of a clique of dissolute young noblemen and swells, the last expiring parodists of the school of which “Corinthian Tom” and “Jerry Hawthorn” were the models. By these and their companions he was carried off to France, on the pretext of training and seconding Owen Swift in his second fight with Jack Adams, and much obloquy was cast on him unjustly, under a supposition that he had run away from his engagements. A “Paris Correspondent” transmitted the following:—

“Paris, June 14.—The Deaf’un arrived in this city on Sunday, under the Mentorship of Sancho Panza, from Seven Dials, a ‘buck’ of the first water. He met Swift on the Boulevard des Italiens, and was so affected at the interview with this interesting exile, that the water came from his eyes like the jet d’eau in the Temple Gardens. As the speediest mode of acquiring an acquaintance with the French language, he lives entirely on fricandeau de dictionnaire. He has already won the affections of a grisette by his very natural imitation of the statue of Cupid. He afterwards tried the Venus de Medici, but that was a decided failure. He has been favourably received by the patrons of British Sports in the French capital, but it is feared he cannot be presented at the Court of Louis Philippe, in consequence of his having neglected to present himself at the Drawing-room of our lovely young Queen. In a visit to the Jardin des Plantes, he thought he recognised a young brother, but on closer inspection he discovered it was only the chimpanzee. He appears to be regarded with as much curiosity in Paris as Soult was in London, and expected the old Marshal would have given him ‘a Wellington reception,’ but hitherto the gallant veteran has not recognised him as ‘a companion in arms.’ His presence has already had an influence on the fashions, and ‘pantalons à la Burke’ have made their appearance in the Palais Royal, while ‘gantelets à la Deaf’un’ are noted as a novelty in Le Courrier des Salons.”

We have already noticed in our memoir of Bendigo that the Deaf’un did not return from his continental trip until, after training Owen Swift, and seconding him on the 5th of September, 1838, he again sought the shores of England, lest he should receive the “polite attentions” of the French authorities for his share in that “scandal,” as the Paris correspondent of “My Grandmother” styled it. The staunchness of poor Burke’s “summer friends” was now tested. They had withdrawn the £100 placed in Jem Burn’s hands, but, after some negotiation, the match was made, Burke posting £100 to Bendigo’s £80, and on the 29th of February, 1839, the rivals met. The full details of the Deaf’un’s defeat may be read in pp. 16–22.

The reflection is here unavoidably thrust upon us, that the so-called “friends” of an athlete, if they by their own loose habits seduce him into similar irregularities, are his worst enemies. What is sport to them is ruin to him. Temperance, regularity of living, open air exercise, and severe attention to the wellbeing of every bodily function that goes to build up health—the mens sana in corpore sano—can never be neglected without ruinous consequences; and thus fell the brave and imprudent Deaf’un, the victim of the follies of those the world miscalled “his betters.” A few quatrains on his downfall shall find a place here.

THE LAMENT OF DEAF BURKE.

Well, ’tis strange, precious strange, arter what I have done,

That in my late battle I shouldn’t have won;

I vow and protest, on the word of a bruiser,

I scarce can persuade myself yet I’m the loser.

I have always so well in the Ring gone to work,

That my backers proclaimed me “inwincible Burke;”

And then for a lad of my courage and game

To be floored by a novice—by Jove! ’tis a shame.

I hang down my head, quite dismay’d and perplex’d.

And when folks ax me questions, of course, I am wex’d,

For, instead of consoling me under my loss,

They insiniwate plainly the thing was a cross.

They swear, for a man who has stood so much fight,

To be whopp’d in ten rounds was impossible quite:

That I couldn’t be he, it was plain to discern,

Wot floor’d Carter and Crawley, O’Connell and Byrne.

They vow of their bets upon me they’ve been robb’d,

That I show’d no good point, but stood still to be jobb’d,

That no punishment sharp was produced by my blows,

And Bendy did with me whatever he chose.

Hard words for the Deaf’un, and cruel the sting,

To one who ne’er acted amiss in the Ring—

To him who was always alive to a mill,

And in thirteen prize-battles was conqueror still.

I boldly appeal to my slanderers whether

I was ever the covey to show the white feather?

And Bendigo’s conduct I cannot think right,

When he stripp’d me of something that lost me the fight.

That he acted unfairly I do not advance—

He was perfectly right not to part with a chance;

Still I say, but for this, whosoever may scoff,

He would not have easily polished me off.

And may I again never put on a glove,

If once more I don’t fight him for money or love;

And my stick I will cut in the Prize Ring, by Jove!

Ere the belt shall be worn by a Nottingham cove.

And shall poor Deaf Burke be consign’d to the shade?

No, tho’ I’m defeated I am not dismay’d,
And in a fresh contest I’ll do what I can,
To take the conceit from this bounceable man.

When victory smiles on a pugilist’s front,

He has lots of supporters and plenty of blunt;

But if luck turns against him, my eyes! how they rave,

And stamp him a cross cove—a thundering knave!

Into me some choice worthies keep pitching it home,

For sporting the statutes of Greece and of Rome;

Is it fair, I would ax, to inflict this here slap,

Because I’m a sort of a classical chap?

And some swear ’tis time I was laid on the shelf,

For I grows ’ristocratic—too sweet on myself;
Now I wenture most humbly to make an appeal,
If I’m to be blam’d for behaving genteel?

In France and New York I have sported my tanners,

And no wonder a polish I have got on my manners;

Now, I begs to inquire whether winner or loser,

Must a man be a blackguard because he’s a bruiser?

No, to tip the purlite I will still do my best,

For everything wulgar I scorn and detest;
My pipe I’ve discarded like most other stars,
And now I smoke nowt but Hawanna cigars.

And I dare say some folks may consider it strange,

That I’m courting the Muses by way of a change,

And thus in Bell’s Life to my feelings give went,

In a copy of werses I’ve called “The Lament.”

Be this as it may, here I’m ready and willing
This Bendy again to encounter at milling,
And perhaps if I once get him into a line,

Tho’ the first chance was his’n, the next may be mine.

That “next chance,” as Edgar Poe’s raven said, “never, never, never more” came to the turn of the Deaf’un, so far as regarded a meeting with Bendy, although he issued sundry invitations and offers. In March, 1840, occurred the accident to Bendigo, narrated at page 25, which struck the Nottingham hero from the list of “wranglers” for the Championship, and hereupon Burke again came to the front with a challenge. This was quickly responded to by Nick Ward, the younger brother of the renowned Jem. The match was made for the modest sum of £50 a side, and the day fixed for Tuesday, the 22nd September, 1840. The battle, which took place at Lillingstone Level, Oxfordshire, will be found in detail in the Life of Nick Ward, Chapter V. of the present volume.

Poor Burke’s day was gone by; unconquered in heart, his impaired physical powers failed him, and he fell before youth, activity, skill, and length. As we have mentioned in our memoir of Nick Ward that the stakeholder received notice of action for the stakes, it is but just to give the following vindication of the Deaf’un’s conduct as reported in a contemporary journal:—

“The Deaf’un Himself Again!—The Deaf’un took a benefit at the Bloomsbury Assembly Rooms on Tuesday evening, and, notwithstanding his late defeat, found a goodly number of friends, and ‘a strong turn’ in the financial department. The sets-to, although many of them between commoners, were amusing and effective, and conducted with great spirit and vigour. Among the most popular was that between Owen Swift and Maley, in which the quickness and scientific deliveries of the former were happily illustrated. At the conclusion the Deaf’un mounted the stage to ‘wind-up,’ but unfortunately, Caunt having forfeited his promise to appear, he was only opposed to a new beginner called ‘The Cumberland Youth,’ whose inexperience left the star of the night nothing to do but flap him at pleasure. The Deaf’un, after smoothing down his bristles with his dexter digits, and clearing his throat by sundry ‘hems,’ delivered himself of the following oration, which we took down as nearly as could be verbatim. ’Gemmen—I have dis here to say. I’m werry sory as Caunt has not come to sets-to wid me according to his promises, for he gave me his words of honours as he would attend; but dats de way wid dese here mens—when dey gets to the top of de trees, dey do nothing to help a poor fellow as is down; but dey had better minds what dey are abouts, or they’ll be as bad as Jack Scroggins, and look for a tanners when they can’t find it. Gemmen—I mean to say as I do not thinks as I was fairly beat by Bendigo, and I am prouds to say as I am not widout friends what tink de same, and as are ready to back me for a cool hundreds against him, or Nick Wards, or Jem Bailey. Bendigo is wery bounceable now, as he says he has licked me; but I says he took an unfair advantage in regard of my belt; but dats neither one ting nor toder; and if he has friends, if he’s a man, he’ll give me anoder chance, and till he does, I shall always thinks as he has won de belts widout any right to it. I went to Sheffields and Nottinghams to make a match wid him, and now let him show equal pluck and come to London to make a match wid me—my pewters is always ready (applause). Dat’s all I’ve got to say. Gemmen, I thank my friends and patrons for coming here to-night (coughing); but I’ve got something here (pointing to his throat, and the poor fellow appeared overflowing with gratitude) which won’t let me say no mores.’—It is not very creditable to the élite of the Fancy to have abstained from setting-to for the unfortunate fellow; for, although his ignorance may have led him to assume too much, the motto of all professed pugilists should be ‘forget and forgive;’ and ‘if a man’s in distress, like a man to relieve him.’”

In the years 1841–2, the magistracy and police, stimulated into abnormal activity by a sort of clerical crusade against the Ring “and all its works,” set the powers of the law in motion against pugilists and their patrons, and “all persons aiding and abetting in riotous and tumultuous assemblages calculated to produce a breach of the peace,” by issuing warrants, holding them to bail, and indicting them at the quarter sessions of the county wherein the same took place. Among the zealots of this Puritanical campaign against the amusements and relaxations of the people, the Rev. Joshua Cautley, curate of Broughton, in Bedfordshire, distinguished himself with the fervour of Ralpho, the squire of Sir Hudibras; though he, fortunately, escaped the cudgellings, rotten eggs, and stocks, which in rougher times befell his prototype. In an evil hour the Deaf’un came in contact with this clerical suppressor of “anti-knife” congregations, under the serio-comic circumstances we are about to narrate.

On the 9th of February, 1841, at Holcut, in Bedfordshire, an orderly assemblage surrounded a well-arranged inner-and-outer ring, within the latter of which Ned Adams, of London, and Dick Cain, of Leicester, were contending. At a critical period of the battle, the curate of Broughton, the Rev. Joshua Cautley, who was not, as all the “rurals” surrounding the ring well knew, either a magistrate in the commission of the peace, or in any way legally authorised to interfere, appeared at the ring-side in an excess of peace-preserving furor, and not only attempted to take Adams into custody (without any warrant), but cut the ropes with a knife, and behaved otherwise in an outrageous manner. He was afterwards aided by a police constable (John M’Hugh), and by the arrival of the Rev. Edward Orlebar Smith, a Justice of the Peace for Bedfordshire, previous to whose appearance on the scene certain of the country people present had certainly ejected Parson Cautley from the ring. The Rev. Justice of the Peace, as it appears, then put his fellow clergyman and himself on the right side of the law by reading—at a distance, and amidst immense confusion and the continuance of the battle—the Riot Act. The result of all this was that the zealous Parson Cautley procured, upon affidavit sworn by himself, the constable, and the Rev. Mr. Smith, the indictment of thirteen persons (six of them being his own neighbours) at the ensuing Bedford Quarter Sessions. The pugilists indicted were James Burke, Owen Swift, Edward Adams, and Richard Cain, Thomas Brown (the respected landlord of the “Swan,” at Newport Pagnell, who was there in charge of his post-horses and four-in-hand), Messrs. Mark Cross, William Maley (a solicitor), Joseph Goodwin, George Durham, Edward Dawkes, James Morris the younger, Martin Hughes (who died during the proceedings), and Richard Walter Chetwynd, Viscount Chetwynd, Baron Rathdowne. The indictment charged, in its first count, “that they, the defendants aforesaid, on the 9th day of February, 1841, in the parish of Holcut, in the county of Bedford, did then and there, together with other evil-disposed persons, whose names are unknown to the jurors aforesaid, unlawfully, riotously, and tumultuously assault Edward Orlebar Smith, clerk, one of the Justices of the Peace for the said County, and John M’Hugh, one of the constables of the Peace for the said County, and, then and there, did, in contempt of our said Lady the Queen and her laws, to the great terror, alarm, and disturbance of all the liege subjects of our said Lady the Queen thereabouts inhabiting and residing and being, passing and repassing, to the great damage of the said Edward Orlebar Smith and John M’Hugh, and against the peace of our said Lady the Queen her crown and dignity.” The second count in this formidable document, repeating the names and verbiage, included the same charges against the defendants for riot and assault on the person of the Rev. Joshua Cautley. The third count varied by specifying James Burke as the assailant of the Rev. Edward Orlebar Smith (whom he never touched in any way). The 4th, 5th, 6th, and 7th counts merely varied in the names of the parties assaulted, by substituting “Smith” for “M’Hugh,” and “Cautley” for “Smith,” as the persons on whom “with force and arms,” the same defendants “did then and there beat, wound, and ill-treat, and do other wrong, to the great damage of the said E. O. Smith,” &c., &c., “and against the peace of our said Lady the Queen her crown and dignity.”

Any one not used to the formal wording of legal documents may well share the astonishment of the Deaf’un when this astounding rigmarole, being furnished to his legal advisers (Mr. Vincent Dowling and Mr. Serjeant Dowling), was read and explained to him. His truthful and indignant denials of all the serious delinquencies laid to his charge in this farrago of legal fictions were most amusing. Perhaps the way in which these were thrown into rhyme, by what old Jacob Tonson, the bookseller, used to call “a competent pen,” will convey some idea of the Deaf’un’s objections and denial of the charges:—

ADDRESS OF DEAF BURKE TO THE GRAND AND COMMON JURIES OF BEDFORD.

Pull’d up by beaks, before you here I shows,
For what offence, I’m blistered if I knows;
Fam’d thro’ the universe for feats of fists,
Before you stands Deaf Burke, the pugilists.

Yes, honest jurymen, with heart of steels,
I make with confidence my proud appeals,
My case upon its simple merits try—
Let me have justice, and no fears have I.

I ask of you as upright jurymen,

In what have I offended—where and when?

Why of the throng should Burke the scapegoat be

Or Reverend Cautley’s wrath descend on me?
As to the mill, I own that I was there—
All went on peaceably, and all was fair;

Arm’d with high courage, strong in heart and limbs,

The men were at the scratch in gallant trims.
And smiling confidence was on their brows,
When Parson Cautley first kick’d up a rows,
And by an effort, frivolous as weaks,
Back’d by a rural traps, and Smith the beaks,

Sought, and perhaps he deem’d that he was right,

To rush into the ring and stop the fight.

What if the Riot Act was read—Alas!
The Deaf’un couldn’t hear it if it was!
And as far as I’m concern’d it is a facts,
It might have been a sermon or “the Acts;”
But as to swearing, or a hint to drop,
Out of the ring I pitch’d him neck and crop,
Tho’ towards a parson I feel reverence due,

Josh Cautley states the thing that isn’t true.

But let that pass—the issue I’ll not shirks—
Convinc’d your fiat will acquit Deaf Burkes;
Proclaiming that from testimony strong,
The pugilist was right, the parson wrong.

I’ve studied, sirs, since my career began,
To prove myself through life an honest man—
Humble my origin, my lot obscure,
I never came the artful dodge, tho’ poor.
I ne’er gave way to lewdness, nor to lush,
Nor did an act for which I’ve cause to blush.
True, I ne’er figur’d as a man of letters,
But yet I know’d my duty to my betters.
And never deem’d, however mean my station,

Swearing and swaggering pleasant conversation;

Yet, I confess, I lov’d in boyhood prime,
To hear of boxing in the olden time;
Of feats perform’d by those heroic men—
Mendoza, Humphries, Johnson, and Big Ben,

Jem Belcher, Gregson, tough Tom Cribb, and Gully,

Whose hard-earn’d laurels time can never sully.

Fir’d by their deeds, I cried, “Who knows but Burke

May in the Prize Ring some day go to work,
And proud of pluck that never warm’d a curs,
Prove at the scratch an ugly customers?”
Ripe for a chance I fearlessly defied
The sturdiest bruisers by the waterside;
And for the love of glory, not of tin.
To many a hardy cove I’ve pitched it in.
But on my fistic feats I will not dwell,
What I have done let “Fistiana” tell.

*   *   *   *   *

These are my triumphs which I now record,
Tho’ floor’d by Cousens, Bendigo, and Ward;
And even with these I fearlessly declares,
I did my best, and acted on the squares;
And tho’ defeated on the field of fights,

I died true game, and show’d no feather whites.

Now, gentlemen, as I stand here before ye’s,

I’ve told a round and plain unvarnished storys—

I love fair English boxing as my life,
But dread the Arkansas blade and bowie-knife;
Those weapons deadly, cowardly, and keen,

Which in a Briton’s hand should ne’er be seen,

But which if beaks conspire the ring to crush
Will make the blood of many a Briton gush,
And driving manly fair play from our Isle,
Stamp us a nation of assassins vile!

Now, gentlemen, no longer I’ll intrudes,
But, as I’m bound in duty, will concludes;
And, as you seem all honest mens and true,
What you deem right I’m certains you will do.

On Monday, the 14th of March, the Deaf’un, who had been generously bailed by a couple of Bedford tradesmen, surrendered to his bail, as also did eleven others. The Rev. Mr. Cautley, Mr. Orlebar Smith, and “a cloud of witnesses,” policemen, and others. Tom Spring, in friendly consideration of the Deaf’un’s incapacity of hearing, stood by him as amicus curiæ, and kindly interpreted the proceedings. It should be stated that in his examination before Lord Charles F. Russell and the grand jurors, the Rev. Joshua had stated that “Burke had endeavoured to force him out of the ring, and had seized him by the leg to throw him over the ropes.” Of this the Deaf’un (who certainly was never in the ring at all) was nervously anxious to exculpate himself. What was his surprise then to learn that “no evidence would be offered on that point,” and that “the general charge implicated all present in the same guilt.” Eventually (Viscount Chetwynd having removed the trial of his indictment into the Court of Queen’s Bench, on the ground that he could not get an impartial trial in Bedfordshire) the trials were postponed, and the whole of the defendants were held to bail to appear at the summer assizes; to them a ruinous expense and miserable suspense, and the great satisfaction of their Christian prosecutors and the profit of sundry attorneys; and thus ended the first “field-day” of “the battle of Bedford.” Other separate indictments, however, were proceeded with, against Messrs. Brown, of the “Swan,” Newport Pagnell, George Durham, Edward Dawkes, and Mark Cross, for “refusing to assist the constable in the execution of his duty.” Mr. Brown, after evidence by M’Hugh, the Rev. Joshua Cautley, and Mr. Smith, that in reply to being so called upon, he replied (being seated on the box of his coach) “that he had to mind his horses,” was found guilty. The other defendants then, having pleaded “guilty,” were sentenced each to pay a fine of forty shillings, and costs, and to enter into recognisances themselves in £40, and two sureties in £20 each, “to be of good behaviour for one year.” The fines were paid, the sureties given, and the defendants liberated from that charge. In July the unlucky defendants again surrendered, when their trial was again postponed to await the result of the certiorari by which the aristocratic defendants (Viscount Chetwynd and Mr. Maley, the solicitor) had removed their cases to the Court of Queen’s Bench. These having failed, in the ensuing November, Burke and his fellow victims of the law’s delay were placed at the bar. In the interim we find in the Bedford Mercury:—

“Prize Fight and Lord Chetwynd.—Lord Charles Russell laid before the Court a statement showing the position of the prosecution against Burke and thirteen others, for a riot at a prize fight at Holcut, in this county, and did so to know whether the prosecution should be proceeded in. Already an expense of £50 had been incurred, and probably between £80 and £90, exclusive of witnesses, would be further required. By a writ of certiorari Lord Chetwynd had traversed the case to the Court of Queen’s Bench, to obtain the privilege of not pleading on the trial in the usual way by holding up his hand. The other parties accused had not been aware of the object of the course taken by Lord Chetwynd, and were in the same position as they were before traversing to the superior court. The county was at a great expense, and the defendants must have been at double the expense. His lordship also laid before the Court a correspondence between Lord Chetwynd and that gentleman, expressing his regret at what had occurred. Mr. Smith was not satisfied with the correspondence, and the opinion of the Court was that the prosecution should be continued, having begun it.

“From this we infer that the Rev. Mr. Smith is not satisfied with the apology tendered by Lord Chetwynd, and that to satisfy his feelings, the county and the defendants are to be involved in a still heavier outlay. To those who were in no respect consenting to Lord Chetwynd’s determination, this seems a measure of cruelty for which we were not prepared; but it would seem that after having already entered into recognisances to appear and take their trials, and having strictly and respectfully complied with that undertaking, from whence they were relieved by no act of their own, they are again called on to put in fresh bail in the Court of Queen’s Bench at Westminster, some of them living in distant parts of the kingdom. This may be necessary in form of law; but surely, even the Rev. Mr. Smith can have no wish to add to the hardships of the defendants, who were, and are still ready to submit to take their trials at the proper season.”

This wretched persecution thus dragged its weary length into the following year, 1842, when negotiations for a compromise having been made between the Crown solicitors and those of the defendants, Mr. Gurney, on the part of “Burke, Adams, Cain, and others,” said he was instructed to withdraw their plea of “not guilty,” and to accept a verdict for the Crown against his clients.

Mr. Andrews thereon, on the part of the magistrates, thought the defendants had pursued a very proper course, and the prosecution was withdrawn; so that this expensive performance of “Much Ado about Nothing,” ended by Messrs. Cautley and Smith “taking nothing by their motion,” the defendants being put to a heavy expense, and an outlay of some hundreds of pounds (raised by benefits and public subscriptions of the admirers of British boxing, and the sympathisers with the unfortunate victims of Puritanical persecution) to the profit of lawyers. At the opening of these assizes Baron Gurney made the following significant remark, with which we will conclude these instructive legal proceedings for the suppression of pugilistic encounters: “His lordship, in discharging the grand jury, said, that although the number of cases in the calendar was not greater than was usual at the spring assizes, yet he regretted to see that the character of many of the offences was of a most aggravated description, and that there was no less than six charges of maliciously cutting and wounding in the calendar. His lordship said that this offence of using deadly weapons in personal quarrels appeared to be very much on the increase, that it was a disgrace to the character of the country, and that it must be put down.”

In May, 1842, the Deaf’un was matched with the Tipton Slasher (William Perry), but at the fourth deposit, which was appointed to be made at Owen Swift’s on July 7th, when “Time” was called, and Burke’s “needful” ready, no one appeared on behalf of the Tipton, and Burke was thereon declared entitled to the forfeit of the £15 down. Johnny Broome, as the representative of Perry, afterwards made his appearance, but Burke’s friends declared the business closed, and refused to reopen the affair. And thus ended the Deaf’un’s last attempt to get paired with either of “the big ’uns,” who at this period preferred their questionable claims to the tarnished honours of the “Championship.”

“Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen.

Fallen from his high estate,”

poor Jem now became the plaything, but never the parasite, of a knot of men about town, supplementing their questionable patronage by giving lessons in boxing, and conducting the room at his early patron’s (Joe Parish, the waterman and pugilist) who, for many years after his removal from Strand Lane, kept the “Lion,” at the corner of Newcastle Street, Strand. The Deaf’un—and we met him often—was always respectable in appearance and respectful in manner, and out of his small means supported an aged mother and a humble home.

In his nightly adventures in the vicinity of the Haymarket, Burke was frequently brought in contact with a big outsider, Bob Castles, well known at the “playhouses” (not the theatres), in the vicinity of Leicester Square, at “Goodred’s Saloon,” Jack Rowbottom’s “Finish,” in James Street, The Elysium, Mother Emerson’s “The Waterford Arms,” and the numerous nighthouses that then infested and infected the purlieus of Piccadilly, and disgraced and degraded the very name of a sporting house. Bob was a great boaster, and on the strength of having stripped twice in the P.R. (once in August 20, 1827, when he beat Bill Bailey at Portsmouth Races, and again on April 2, 1828, with Paddy Flynn, at Colney Heath, when he got “the value of a bating”), he was a sort of “professional” guide to roysterers out on the spree, and a bully for those who might hire his services. Bob was, moreover, a great talker, and, to use a Pierce-Eganism, “flash as the knocker of Newgate.” This worthy never missed an opportunity of making the naturally good-natured Deaf’un the butt of his chaff, and even of many rough practical jokes. On one of these occasions the Deaf’un taking umbrage at what he supposed to be an interference with some of his “’ticular frien’s,” quietly warned “Mister Bobs” that if he didn’t mend his manners “he’d jest punch Mister Bobs’ pimples.” One word begetting another, and the Deaf’un, considering himself better at an argumentum ad hominem with the fist than a verbal disputation, dared Castles to the field; the latter ridiculed the idea, and several of those present agreeing that a good licking mutually administered might do good to both of them, a deposit was made to be increased to £50, and that the veterans should have the opportunity of displaying their courage and settling their difference of opinion, secundem artem, with Nature’s original weapons. To afford them an opportunity to prepare for their “trial by battle,” three weeks were allowed for training, and in the interim the wrathful heroes went under the necessary regimen and exercises, Burke at the “Five Bells,” Putney, Castles at the pleasant Hill of Richmond. Monday, June 13th, 1843, was the eventful day. Castles, as the deposits went on, found no difficulty in collecting his “coriander seed;” but the poor honest Deaf’un did not find his friends, however prompt to promise when under the influence of champagne, so ready when its effervescence had subsided to relieve the mortified feelings of their protégé by substantial support. Indeed, he might have miscarried at the time, for, as he told us, he found no end of difficulty “in raising his winds; all the good ones as used to do the liberals being gones.” At this juncture Young Dutch Sam kindly stepped in and posted the “possibles,” but at the expense of several town visits by the Deaf’un, which consumed hours that would have been more advantageously devoted to improving his bodily condition. In truth, Burke had outlived his fistic fame; and, although the hero of some twenty battles, it was considered that the steel had been taken out of him, and that his renewed appearance in the milling arena would be a mere impotent exhibition of departed powers. Despite of the difficulties he had to encounter, and the low estimate of his capabilities entertained by many, he sustained the character for hardihood, steadiness, and cunning tact that served him so well in days gone by. As to Castles, his height (nearly six feet) and superior activity were considered strong points in his favour.

At the last deposit it was agreed between Young Dutch Sam and Mr. Edward Lacey, the host of the “Garrick’s Head” tap—to whom the fortunes of Bob Castles had been entrusted—that a trip down the river was the most prudent mode of bringing matters to a conclusion, and for this purpose the “Nymph,” Woolwich steamer, was duly chartered, and directed to be moored off Waterloo Bridge on the morning of battle at eight o’clock. The “skipper” was punctual to his appointment, and soon after that hour the men and their partisans were safely embarked. Of the latter the muster was limited, but among them were a few “Corinthians,” whose appearance belied the conclusion that they had “risen with the lark,” although we opine they had not placed themselves in a position to render rising necessary. At a quarter after eight the craft was under weigh for London Bridge, whence, after a passing call, she proceeded to Blackwall, and there having taken in a few of “the right sort,” pursued her downward course. The Deaf’un was a little crusty on his supposed exclusion from a due share of the profits of the boat, but in this he was overruled. There was one point, however, upon which he was inexorable, namely, that, “as he was outs on a parties of pleasures,” he would “go the whole hogs,” and not stop short of Gravesend, where he expected to find Young Dutch Sam and some friends. He had no objection, however, having seen them, to “try backs, and fight on the roads homes, instead of dropping downs to the Lower Hopes,” the vicissitudes attending on the last trip to which locality was still fresh in his as well as our recollection. Accordingly, to Gravesend the “Nymph” pursued her voyage. Here Sam was found, but his state of health was such as to render his embarkation indiscreet. Little time was lost in “putting about,” and finally dropping anchor at Rainham Ferry, on the Essex shore, nearly opposite Erith, the belligerents and their followers were quickly landed, and the coast being clear, the ring was formed on a fine piece of turf behind the bank, a snug public-house affording the men a convenient resting-place till all was ready. Of betting on the voyage down we heard but little, and this at “evens,” the Deaf’un sporting his “last solitary shilling” on himself.

The Commissary having discharged his functions, aided by Tom Callas, and provided seats for the limited assemblage of spectators, the combatants were summoned to the scratch, and forth they came, nothing loth; Burke attended by Cullen and Jerry Donovan, and Castles by Tom Reidie and Fuller. On stripping, Burke looked as full in flesh and as prominent in muscle as when personating Hercules in his celebrated representation of the Grecian Statues. He stated he weighed 12st. 4lb., and stood 5ft. 8in. Castles was not so heavy, barely weighing 12st.; but he had the advantage in height, being 5ft. 11in; his length taking from his width, he looked thin, but he was evidently in good health. There was a speck in one of his eyes, but he said it did not interfere with his vision, so that there was no fear of his antagonist getting on his “blind side.” “Richard’s himselfs agains,” said the great disciple of Shakspeare, and at twenty minutes to two both men advanced, having previously tied their colours to the stakes (blue bird’s eye for the Deaf’un, and white bird’s eye for Castles), and tendering the hand of good fellowship, commenced

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Odds, 5 to 4 on the Deaf’un. A few leary dodges, each feeling for an opening, and the Deaf’un expanding his chest and stretching his pounders from the shoulders, as if to give them freedom and elasticity. Castles tried his left, but was stopped; he then kept feeling for his man, the Deaf’un waiting, and cautious; nearer and nearer till at last they got within distance, when wild and slight counter-hits were exchanged with the left, then a rush to in fighting; a few scrambling hits, but no mischief done, and the Deaf’un dropped on his knees. On rising, Castles showed a slight discolouration on the right cheek-bone.

2.—Castles manfully to his work; the Deaf’un quiet and waiting; Castles short with his left, and the Deaf’un on the alert; heavy counter-hitting with the left, and Burke popped in his favourite right-handed hit on the nut. More counter-hitting with the left; and in the close the Deaf’un was down, and got up blowing.

3.—Bob, on coming up, showed symptoms of having received nobbers on the forehead left and right, and the Deaf’un’s eyes twinkled as if they had been asked a question. Castles prompt to the call of “time,” and Burke steadily but slowly to him. The Deaf’un tried at the mark with his left, but it was a mere tap; Bob advanced, the Deaf’un retreating till they reached the corner, when Bob let fly his left, catching it severely in return. A determined rally followed, and heavy hits were exchanged left and right; the Deaf’un catching Castles a severe right-handed hit on the jaw. In the end, the Deaf’un fell on his knees outside the ropes. On getting on his “second’s” knees he pointed to his right arm, as if it had been shaken in the last round.

4.—Castles advanced; but the Deaf’un was in no hurry, and waited for him; Castles delivered his left on the Deafun’s sneezer, and got back; an exchange of heavy hits with the left, and Burke again down on his knees; he was evidently playing the cautious game.

5.—Burke’s frontispiece slightly disfigured, and a mouse under his left eye; Castles getting within distance let go his left, but the Deaf’un hit with him, and heavy slogging hits, left and right, followed; a break away, and again to business; when, after an interchange of hits, the Deaf’un was down, obviously stung to some purpose, and Castles displayed claret from his nose, and showed marks of heavy nobbing.

6.—Castles hit short with his left, but getting nearer, heavy counter-hits were exchanged, when Castles closed with the view to throwing; Burke attempted to get down, but Castles held him up by the neck by main strength for some time with both arms till he dropped.

7.—Castles again a little out of distance; the Deaf’un waiting, when counter-hits were exchanged, and Castles closing, caught his man on the hip and gave him a heavy fall, to the dismay of the Deaf’un’s backers.

8.—The Deaf’un came up slow, and suspicions were afloat that “a screw was loose,” in fact it was whispered that his rupture was down, and almost any odds were offered against him, one gentleman crying 100 to 1, and no takers; Castles strong on his legs and full of vigour. He was too cautious, however, and did not go in with sufficient determination; he hit short left and right; counter-hits with the left, and a lively rally, which ended in Burke going down, apparently weak.

9.—Burke came up blowing like a grampus, and again looking at his right arm as if something was the matter; he tried a poke at the body with his left, but did not get home; heavy counter-hits with the left, and some spirited in-fighting; punishing blows were exchanged, and in the close, Burke pursued his getting-down system.

10.—Castles came up with a tremendous bump over his left eye, which his seconds ascribed to a butt, and claimed, but the impression was that as Burke always dropped his head when he hit with his left, his head had accidentally come in contact with Castles’s forehead, but without any intention to butt, and the claim was not allowed. No sooner at the scratch, than Castles led off heavily with the left; sharp counter-hitting followed, and in the close, Burke down, Castles on him.

11.—Castles missed his left, and some severe in-fighting followed; the hits were quick and heavy; Castles tried for the fall, but Burke hung on him, and pulled him down.

12.—Castles popped in a tremendous pop with the left on the Deaf’un’s mug, and repeated the dose; the Deaf’un, not to be deterred, returned the compliment, and rattling hits followed; in the close the Deaf’un went down. Castles showed a gash on the brow, and was otherwise seriously damaged in the frontispiece, and the spirits of the Deaf’un’s friends were reviving.

13.—A magnificent rally, in which the exchange of hits left and right were really rapid; in the close, Burke got down; both were seriously contused, and their phisogs anything but free from blemish.

14.—Burke came up slow at the call of time; Castles to him, and led off with his left, but was stopped; good exchanges left and right; the Deaf’un looked groggy, but stood well up, and exchanged hits till he fell; Castles also fell, and was evidently feeling the effects of his quick and heavy fighting; both were seriously punished.

15.—Heavy exchanges left and right; and in the close, Burke down weak.

16.—Again did the men go to work with determination, although Burke was slow to the scratch; Burke delivered a heavy right-handed fling on Castles’s left ear, which was much swollen and discoloured, but on Castles attempting to close, he went down.

17.—Bob planted heavily with his left, but the Deaf’un stood it like a wood pavement, and dashed to a rally, in which heavy jobbing hits were exchanged; Castles grappled for the fall, but the Deaf’un, too leary, got down.

18.—Castles missed his left, and the Deaf’un rushing in with his head down, Castles caught it under his arm, and giving him a Cornish hug, threw and fell heavily on him.

19.—The Deaf’un slow and weak, and five to one offered on Castles, who although seriously punished came up strong on his legs, with nothing like flinching in his demeanour. Castles missed his left, but the Deaf’un met him with his left on the nozzle, and drew his cork; a sharp rally, in which pretty taps were exchanged; in the end, Burke dropped on his knees, but in the act of going down, he received a whack on the left brow from Castles’s right, which opened a seam, and brought the claret in a stream.

20.—Good stopping, when the men got to a rally, and hit followed hit left and right, till Burke fell on his knees. Castles had the bark stripped from his snuffler, and both displayed such marks of punishment as would have satisfied any ordinary appetite, and certainly proved that neither was deficient in thorough game.

21.—Burke’s left eye, which had received a second visitation, continued to bleed; Castles no sooner on his legs than to business, and delivered his left well on the Deaf’un’s nose, drawing his cork; this he repeated, when the Deaf’un rushed to a close, but Castles slipped aside, and the Deaf’un fell over on his head.

22.—Heavy exchanges left and right, the Deaf’un down.

23.—The Deaf’un’s right eyebrow following suit with his left, both cut, and his nose assisting to form a trio; heavy counter-hitting with the left, and pretty exchanges with the right; Castles down, bleeding from the nose.

24.—A terrific rally, in which the punishment was pretty much on a par; they both slogged away, till Burke dropped.

25.—Another severe round; Burke was not to be denied, and the hitting proved that each was determined to leave his mark, of which friendly attentions there were abundant proofs, as both bled profusely, and displayed a succession of severe contusions, while Castles’ left eye was fast closing, and the knuckles of his left hand were considerably puffed.

26.—Castles came up dripping claret from sundry springs: Burke, slow, waited his approach; Castles led off with his left, but was stopped; tried it again, and got home, when Burke rushed in with dire intent, but missed his blow, and Castles as he passed gave him a back-handed slap with his left; Burke down on his knees.

27.—Castles hit short, when Burke rushed in under his arm, and Castles, trying to grapple, fell over and beyond him.

28.—Castles, after a little dodging, planted his left; Burke countered, and caught him another round hit on the ear with his right; although Burke’s arm was said to be injured this did not seem to come from a disabled member, for it shook poor Castles’s dredging box most woefully; in a scrambling attempt at a close, Burke got down.

29.—Castles, bleeding copiously, but still determined, led off with his left, but Burke returned left and right; Castles, in getting away, fell, and the cheers of Burke’s friends gave him new life.

30.—It was now clear that Castles’ left hand was fast going, and from its swollen state it was plain that it was incapable of much execution; and the Deaf’un, who seemed rather to gain than to lose his strength, was the favourite at 6 to 4. The Deaf’un, in no hurry, waited for his antagonist’s approach; Castles let go his left, and the Deaf’un poked him in return, and after some good hitting, the Deaf’un got down.

31.—The Deaf’un still on the waiting suit; Castles not so quick; he found that his heavy slogging hits made no impression on the Deaf’un’s iron head; still, after a pause, he led off with his left, and after a spirited rally, the Deaf’un was down.

32.—The Deaf’un evidently tired, took his time in coming to the scratch, and quietly waited for the attack. Castles at last went to work, and heavy hits were exchanged, when in the close both were down, on Castles being lifted up, although dreadfully punished, he said “he felt strong,” and showed no disposition to cry “enough;” while Burke was equally dogged in his determination.

33.—A little artful dodging; Castles let go his left, but Burke ducked, and got away; Burke in turn rushed in, but Castles retreated; he then rattled to the charge, but the Deaf’un slipped down on one knee; Castles pointed at him with his finger, instead of hitting him as he might have done, and exclaimed, “that’s Nick Ward’s game, stand up and fight like a man;” Burke grinned, shook his bump of combativeness, and was carried to his corner.

34.—The Deaf’un extremely deliberate in his movements, and slow to the scratch. Castles not so quick as heretofore; after looking at each other and dodging, Castles shot out with his damaged left, but was stopped; a rally and counter-hits exchanged, when Burke again got down on his knees; Castles pointed at him derisively, but the Deaf’un “took a sight” with both hands, and flourished his digits; Castle walked to his corner, mortified at Burke’s dropping, while Burke was carried to his.

35.—Castles’ left hand getting worse, and he did not seem inclined to lead off so quickly as heretofore; the Deaf’un ogled the damaged fin with great satisfaction, and, after a short pause, led off with his left, and planting his blow got down on his knees; Castles looked “unutterable things,” and, after regarding him for a moment, gave him a contemptuous slap on the cheek, at which the Deaf’un smiled, as much as to admit he was playing “the artful dodger.”

36.—The Deaf’un a decided favourite, and 2 to 1 offered on him. He was clearly the stronger man, while his left hand was still sound and in working order; on getting up he waited quietly for the attack, looking slyly down at Castles’ fist; Castles offered to commence, but the Deaf’un retreated; a considerable pause, when Castles led off: the Deaf’un countered heavily, and after a sharp rally, in which some severe exchanges took place, the Deaf’un again got down, still playing the old soldier.

37 and last.—The Deaf’un pursued his waiting game, and was clearly gaining strength; Castles also paused and was in no hurry to begin; the Deaf’un rubbed his chest, and then his thatch with both hands, and grinned, as much as to say, “I’m in no hurry.” Castles tried a feint with his left, but if would not do; the Deaf’un was wide awake, and showed that he was determined not to throw a chance away. Castles tried his left at the body, but the blow was not effectual, at last he let go at the Deaf’un’s head, and a brisk rally followed, when the Deaf’un finished the round by giving Castles, for the first time, a heavy fall. This was the closing act of the drama. Castles found his opponent the stronger man, and, from the state of his left hand, feeling that he had not a chance, he prudently determined to give in at once, declaring that fortune was on the side of his opponent, and he had not the power to turn the scale. The Deaf’un immediately approached, they shook hands, and all was over in one hour and ten minutes.

Both men were immediately conducted to the contiguous public-house, where every attention was paid to them, and where their wounds were dressed, and their contusions reduced as much as possible. Poor Castles was heavily punished, his left eye in total eclipse; his face exhibited not a square inch without a mark, and a deep incision over the right eye showed the severity of the Deaf’un’s hitting. His left hand, too, had become perfectly useless; in truth a more perfect specimen of a courageous and undaunted submission to hard hitting we have never witnessed—the best evidence that if by nature timid, by force of mind he resisted all approach to the charge of cowardice, a species of valour even more creditable than that which mere instinct and the gift of creation has planted in the carcases of many animals. Burke had also what he called his “shares;” but with a hardier and more robust frame than Castles, as well as a head that might vie in quality with the rind of a cocoa-nut, his sufferings were not so severe. Yet we doubt whether in any of his former encounters his receipts were of so severe a character; he confessed he got much more than he expected, and was disagreeably surprised at finding “Mister Bobs so dangerous a customers.”

Castles lost this battle principally from his eagerness in the latter part of the fight, and a want of judgment in not hitting and getting away. He was too fast, while the Deaf’un cunningly waited and popped him as he came in, thus giving a sort of double impetus to his deliveries. Had Castles rattled in with more determination when Burke was amiss, about the eighth round, the issue might have been different. Burke felt his position, and had recourse to all the strategems of an old soldier, husbanding his strength, getting down, and never attempting to wrestle or unnecessarily exhaust his powers; by this means he preserved his physical energies, and made the best use of them at the proper time. Castles, on the contrary, was always first to the call of “time,” and till the last few rounds “made all the running,” thereby realising the fable of the hare and the tortoise. In trying to throw the Deaf’un, too, he diminished his powers; still, with all this, we are inclined to think, had his left hand not given way, a result almost inevitable from the frequent repetition of heavy hits on the Deaf’un’s granite nut, he would have come off victorious; as it is, with all his faults, he proved himself superior in pluck and moral courage to most of the modern men of his weight, and deserved the generous consideration of those who prize such qualities. The Deaf’un showed unflinching game throughout, and fighting up-hill as he did, with his right arm seriously, though not fatally damaged, he proved that “all was not lost that was in danger;” and that in confiding in his tact his admirers were not trusting to “a broken reed.”

The battle money was given to Burke at Young Dutch Sam’s, the “Old Drury Tavern,” Brydges Street.

The re-embarkation followed in good order, and all reached Waterloo Bridge at seven o’clock—the combatants proceeding under the care of their friends to their respective quarters. As an appropriate pendant to the prosaic version of this “crowning victory” we append

A TRIUMPHANT EPISTLE FROM DEAF BURKE TO BOB CASTLES.

My sarvice, friend Castles, once class’d with the nobs,

We’ve finished our fights, and we’ve settled the jobs;

I founds you a customers ugly and stout,

And I’m blest if my works wasn’t neatly cut out.

We’ve both of us passed, and no doubts on’t, our prime,

And good sarvice we’ve seen in the Rings in our time;

Fortune’s smiles and her frowns we’ve been destin’d to weather,

But ne’er, as I knows on, displayed the white feather.

Your friends chose to say I’d no relish for whopping,

And censure as currish my systems of dropping,

Declare by good men such a course was abhorr’d,

And a leafs I had prigg’d from the books of Nick Ward.

Now I humbly begs leave at sich nonsense to grin—

One objects I had, and that there was to win;

And who’er at my tictacs may fancy a fling,

Such dodging’s all fair by the Rules of the Ring.

On strengths and on plucks do men place sole reliance?

Is nothing allow’d for manoovers and science?

The systems of getting away would you fetter?

Why, Bobbys, my tulips, you knows a deal better?

Too fast with your rush you were constantly in,

Till I gladly observed you had damaged your fin;

Now, says I to my pals, you may alter your tones,

For I see clear as muds that the games is my owns.

And yet I received of hard hitting a gluts,
You pepper’d my pimples, and damag’d my nuts;
I never suppos’d you could come it so rough,

And well pleased was I when you sing’d out “enough!”

I’m sure you’ll allow, after triumphs achiev’d,

I wasn’t so stale as some folks has conceived;

Who swore that my powers pugilistics were spent,

And I couldn’t inflict in fresh butter a dent.

That I’ve not the same powers I’m free to deplore,

As when I floor’d Byrne and a great many more;

All out-and-out fancy boys, fearless and free,

Then the Deaf’un aspired to be top of the tree.

But lush and late hours, ’twould be folly to doubt,

For a time wore my frame and my energies out;

First Bendigo gave me a punishing dose,

And I then by Nick Ward was consign’d to repose.

Yet tho’ peaceful the course which for some time I shap’d,

I felt that my gas had not wholly escap’d;
My luck once again I was anxious to try,
And with a true trump to turn out for a shy.

The rest, Bobs, we knows, and I scorn all self praise,

And I’d troubles sufficient the needful to raise;

And, faith, I had almost despaired of a fight,

When Young Dutch Sams came forward, and made it all right.

Then we’ll meet at his cribs, Bobs, and go the whole hogs,

In despatching his malts, his Virginny, and grogs,

And as the pure drinkables mount to our brain,

In “luck to the Rings” the bright pewters we’ll drain.

And I’ll teach you to hact, both abroad and at home,

The statutes of Greece and the statutes of Rome!

I’ll teach you, Bob Castles, to understand traps,

And make you a classical sorts of a chaps.

And whether clean’d out or well breech’d with the stump,

In wars or in peaces you’ll find me a trump,

And whoever agin you foul slanders may hazard,

Shall have from this mauley a tap on the mazzard.

Then good-bye for the present—I wish you all mércies;

You see I’m no bad one at tagging of werses,
And ready at all times for going to vork,
I’m yours, without any more gammon,
Deaf Burke.

This was the last “flare-up” of the Deaf’un’s pugnacious spirit. Late hours and long fasts, alternated with creaming sillery, lobster-salads, devilled biscuits, ditto kidneys, and a deluge of meaner liquors, soon reduced poor Burke to a shadow of his former self, and he died of consumption on the 8th of January, 1845, in Francis Street, Waterloo Road. His good qualities were his own, his vices the grafting of his so-called “betters” in society.

[14] In Fistiana (edit. 1864), Burke’s fight with Fitzmaurice is set down as having taken place on June 9th, 1834; i.e. thirteen months after the Deaf’un’s fatal affair with Simon Byrne, and is so placed. It occurred five years earlier, in 1829, as above narrated.

[15] Omitted from the list of Lazarus’s fights in Fistiana, but inserted under Brown.

[16] Butting was not yet prohibited, and was frequently resorted to when a man wished to escape from the hug of a fibbing or wrestling adversary.—Ed. Pugilistica.

[17] This is also prohibited by modern rules.—Ed.

[18] This highly reprehensible system of carrying men up to the scratch was subsequently entirely done away with, as also the system of allowing minute time, another mischievous practice, which, by giving men more time, enabled them to recover sufficiently to stand and deliver blows long after their strength and stamina were exhausted. These alterations took place after the fatal fight between Owen Swift and Brighton Bill, and were attended with most beneficial results. Half-minute time only was allowed by the New Rules, and if a man did not walk to the scratch in eight seconds after time was called, he lost the fight.

CHAPTER IV.

WILLIAM PERRY (“THE TIPTON SLASHER”)
1835–1857.

Although this ungainly specimen of a boxing athlete first saw the light, in the year 1819, in the town of “the Black Country” from which his nom de guerre was derived, he came to London and worked in its neighbourhood at an early age; for, in the year 1835, he was well known in the neighbourhood of Battersea Fields and Chelsea as a “lumping lad” who, despite the drawback of “a K leg,” could hit, stop, and use his “fives” with formidable effect. In November of that year, we read in a sporting paper:

“The admirers of milling in the military village of Chelsea, where the ‘saloon of arms’ of Alec Reid is a centre of attraction, were all alive on Tuesday, from the arrangement of a ‘field day’ to decide the best-man question between two pugilistic heroes of the locality. These were Barney Dogherty, a sprig from the Emerald Isle, and Bill Perry, a young navvy, whose displays with his digits, if not quite scientific, are determined and dangerous. Perry was backed by a sporting butcher, Dogherty by a circle of his enthusiastic countrymen. In weight the Emeralder had the advantage of nearly a stone. Each man was waited on by a member of the P.R., and the regulations of the Ring carried out.

“The fixture was Wimbledon Common, whither miscellaneous groups were seen wending their way at an early hour; but the police scouts were wide-awake, and on reaching the intended scene of action it was ‘no go,’ and the disappointed crew looked as blue as their enemies. A move became inevitable, and new ground was taken opposite the ‘Ship’ at Mortlake. Here the men set to, but after seven rounds, all in favour of Perry, the lobsters were again on the scent, and another retreat was made towards Barnes Common. Here also it would not do—the pursuers were on the heels of the ‘flying dustmen,’ and a helter-skelter sort of march took place over Putney Bridge. Here a council of war was held, and it was at last agreed to march for Lechmere Common, close to the sporting grounds of the Baron de Berenger, in the King’s Road. Here all was right—a fresh ring was formed without interruption, and the sport was resumed and concluded.

“On squaring elbows there was a good deal of sparring, and Perry dodged left and right. After some heavy exchanges and a rally, Barney was down weak. The fight was prolonged for six rounds more, during which Perry had it all his own way, punishing Barney terrifically; still the poor fellow came up as game as a rhinoceros, and would not give in till his seconds, seeing he had not a chance, cried ‘enough,’ and his friends were all satisfied he had done his best to win.

“Dogherty turned out to be too stale for active operations; added to which he is slow and awkward in his style of setting to. Perry is a scientific hard hitter, but with such a man as Alec Reed, in his day, he would not have had a chance. Still, in the present state of the Fancy, he is not to be sneezed at. It was expected a second fight would have taken place between Middlesex Ben and the Winchester Pet, but the former was ‘shopped.’ Perry can be backed with anybody who may envy his honours, and the money will be ready at the ‘Lowndes Arms,’ King’s Road, on Tuesday evening, where Alec Reed gives sparring lectures for the benefit of the rising generation.”

Such is the account of “The Slasher’s” coup d’essai, after which he seems to have found no candidate for his favours for a twelvemonth, and to have worked his way towards his native place. Here his fame as a fistic practitioner was pretty generally acknowledged, and a party of Birmingham boxers, having among their number Ben Spilsbury (not Charley, who fought Johnny Broome), being in the town of Tipton exhibiting the art, young Perry put on the mufflers with that professional. Though the Tipton lad was not so clever as the Brum, he displayed such determination, and got so well “on” to his man, that an observation that, “if in earnest,” Mr. Ben would have to play second fiddle, led to an offer on the part of a Brum to post a “tenner” upon the experiment. “A friend to sport,” at the request of Perry, covered the two sovereigns deposited; and as the Christmas holidays were approaching, December 27th, 1836, was named as the day of battle. After taking some little liberties with the Tipton in the opening rounds, for which he occasionally caught a fearful right-handed visitation, and was rallied down, Spilsbury kept so completely à la distance as to deprive the contest of all interest, and finally, at the end of the 19th round, “cut it,” leaving “The Slasher” in possession of the field and the stakes.

WILLIAM PERRY (“The Tipton Slasher”)

After this defeat of Spilsbury, it would appear that the sobriquet of “The Tipton Slasher” had become the accepted title of William Perry, for in a local (Staffordshire) paper we find him so described, as being matched for £25 a side against one Jem Scunner, who is described as the “Gornel Champion,” a six-foot specimen, weighing 13st. odd, and therefore a fair opponent in height and weight for our hero. The report is especially meagre, merely informing us that “the battle commenced on Tuesday (Nov. 22, 1837), near Gornel, but was not decided until the following day.” The betting at setting to was 6 and 7 to 4 on the Gornel man. After a few rounds, however, the Gornelites claimed the fight for their man on the ground of a “foul,” but the referee would not allow it, and Scunner, by the advice of his friends, would not go on. A rush to the ring was made, and the referee retired. It was asserted that Perry fell without a blow. After some wrangling, the referee ordered that the fight should be renewed on the next day, at Kingswood, near Wolverhampton. There both men showed at the time appointed, and lost no time in getting to work. During the first four or five rounds the Gornel man rushed at the Tipton like a wild bull, but Perry waited for him, shifted cleverly on his crooked leg, and delivered straight blows and upper-cuts with such slashing effect that the Gornelites were utterly paralysed. From this time Scunner betook himself to out-fighting; but here he took nothing by the change, except prolonging the fight. At the end of one hour the Gornel Champion, having been hit down or thrown in five or six successive rounds, was finally floored in the 31st round, and deaf to the call of time. Tass Parker, of West Bromwich, and Preston, of Birmingham, seconded Perry; Surrender Lane and George Gallant, of Birmingham, waited on Scunner. The match exciting much interest in the Potteries, Perry, with Parker, became the “lions” of the neighbourhood; the Fountain Inn, at Tipton, the Slasher’s headquarters, being crowded by the Fancy of the Midlands at their benefit on the ensuing Monday.

The defeat of Jem Scunner, who had an immense, though undeserved, local reputation, in a period when the dearth of good big ’uns was remarkable, spread the fame of the prowess of the Slasher so widely that he was fain to wield the shovel in laborious obscurity, instead of flourishing his ponderous mauleys in the 24 foot. In the interval, “the Deaf’un” had returned from Yankeeland, and—despite his two successive defeats by Bendigo (Feb. 12, 1839) and by Nick Ward (Sept. 22, 1840)—owing to Bendigo’s accident, and Caunt’s announced absence in America, boldly claimed the Championship. Johnny Broome hereupon sought out the Slasher, and calling to his aid some patrons of the Rising Sun, he proposed a “trial by battle,” to settle the difference of opinion. Burke’s backers came to the scratch with their rhino, for a battle to come off in August, 1842, but at the fourth deposit Broome thought fit to absent himself upon the night of “posting the possibles” at Owen Swift’s, and the Slasher’s money down was confiscated to the extent of £15.

The Tipton, as we know, was a mere tool in this affair, as in other instances, of the over-cunning Johnny Broome, who, like most self-sufficient sharps, often “cut before the edge.” Johnny had other views of the “dark horse” which he flattered himself he had in his own stable, and, as he didn’t find the money, the poor Tipton suffered in reputation (as Johnny intended he should do) by this forfeit. The Editor of Bell’s Life, too honourable himself to suspect this double-dealing, observes: “Though Broome was certainly late, this insistance on forfeit seems very sharp practice; the more so as the same gentleman who backs Perry actually assisted Burke with his first deposit. The forfeit, however, has yet to be taken by Burke’s backers, as he has nothing to do with it beyond their approval, and we may yet find that the last and remaining deposits will be posted, and ‘the ball go on.’ We have since received a letter from the gentleman who put £4 of the first deposit down on behalf of Burke, when the match was made, stating that he will not consent to the forfeit being received, and expressing his desire that the match may proceed, as his only wish is to encourage the manly sports of the Ring.”

But Johnny was determined to be off with the match, as he had not found Brassey, of Bradford, so “tenderly led by the nose as asses are,” and he had now in view a grand coup de poing, to play off against the unquestionable “blaze of triumph” achieved by Ben Caunt in the circus and theatre line, by the introduction of what might be called the “illegitimate” drama in place of, and to the eclipse of, the exhibition of “legitimate” British boxing. In this fairly-planned vindication of the art from mere bulky pretenders, Johnny was certainly to be praised; but as his choice of a champion was “Hobson’s,” and limited to such an inferior tactician as the game, rough-and-ready Tipton Slasher—to oppose immense weight, superior length and activity, backed by a creditable reserve of courage and self-possession, and moderate skill in sparring—the enterprise was certainly ill-judged. Of its progress and issue we shall now have to treat.

In the year 1842, a sensation was created by the return of Ben Caunt to England, bringing with him a seven-foot specimen of humanity, of the name of Charles Freeman. There can be little doubt, from subsequent events, that Ben brought over his gigantic protégé purely as a showman’s speculation; and that Freeman, with his immense length, strength, and bulk, had as little pretensions or inclination to boxing as any non-combative member of the Peace Society could desire. Ben, however, seeing how “big things” carried it in Yankeeland—the country of “big things,” of which he, himself, was certainly one—imported the “American Atlas” as his sparring opponent; and if he might infer future success from their first few nights at the Queen’s Theatre, in Liverpool, when not a seat was to be had in a few minutes from the opening of the doors, the Lancashire people, at any rate, were willing to patronise the show.

Freeman, during several months, not only exhibited at the Queen’s Theatre, Lyceum, Olympic, Adelphi, Victoria, and other theatres, halls and assembly rooms, where a great feature of the entertainments was a caricature of boxing by the giant and Big Ben, but the non-sporting papers were flooded with ridiculous paragraphs, several of them offensively setting forth the wonderful powers and prowess of the American gladiator, and in some instances asserting the “scare” produced among the English prize-fighters by the advent of the New World Goliath. We need hardly say that Freeman himself was entirely innocent of this silly braggadocio, which emanated from the Barnum managers of these performances, and the speculators who at this time degraded the character of the decadent Ring, and prostituted its true aim—the encouragement of courage and skill—to their own profit and plunder. Johnny Broome, then in the full tide of his prosperity, called a meeting at his house, the “Rising Sun,” Air Street, Piccadilly, where, after the reading of some of these “puff paragraphs” about “Championships of England and the World” (Ben Caunt modestly claiming the first, and liberally presenting his prodigious pal with the other), it was proposed to bring these pretensions to a practical test by a challenge for £100 a side from “a novice,” to be hereafter named by Broome. On the following week, at the adjourned meeting, Tom Spring presented himself, on the part of Caunt, and stated the latter to be ready to make a deposit for Freeman. Spring further said that Freeman had not come to this country with any intention to fight; his pursuits were quite different; he, therefore, had challenged no man (this was so; but many of his placards contained a challenge to any and every man); nevertheless, he had determined not to refuse this challenge, and, therefore, his money was ready. Harry Broome, on the part of his brother Johnny, who was from home, covered the deposit, and the Thursday evening following was named for drawing up articles, at the “Castle,” for a further deposit, and for naming “the novice.” Freeman and Caunt were both present, and the crowd immense. The giant and his mentor, Ben Caunt, arrived late, owing to an accident on the rail near Weedon. Broome proposed to defer naming “the novice;” but this being insisted on, or a forfeit claimed, “William Perry, of Tipton,” was nominated as the “great unknown,” and the following articles “signed, sealed, and delivered”:—

“Articles of agreement entered into this 29th of September, 1842, at the Castle Tavern, Holborn, between Charles Freeman and William Perry of Tipton. The said Charles Freeman agrees to fight the said William Perry, a fair stand-up fight, in a four-and-twenty foot roped ring, half minute time, according to the New Rules, for £100 a side, on Tuesday, the 6th of December, half-way between Tipton and London. In pursuance of this agreement, £20 a side are now deposited in the hands of the stakeholder; a second deposit of £10 a side to be made on Thursday, the 6th of October, at Johnny Broome’s; a third deposit of £10 a side on Thursday, the 13th of October, at Johnny Walker’s; a fourth deposit of £10 a side on Thursday, the 20th of October, at Jem Burn’s; a fifth deposit of £10 a side on Thursday, the 27th of October, at Tom Spring’s; a sixth deposit of £10 a side on Thursday, the 3rd of November, at Johnny Broome’s; a seventh deposit of £10 a side on Thursday, the 10th of November, at Tom Spring’s; an eighth deposit of £10 a side on the 17th of November, also at Tom Spring’s; and the ninth and last deposit of £10 a side on Thursday, the 1st of December, at Johnny Broome’s. The said deposits to be made between the hours of 8 and 10 o’clock, p.m., or the party failing to forfeit the money down; a toss for choice of ground to take place on the night of the last deposit. The men to be in the ring between the hours of twelve and one o’clock, or the man absent to forfeit the whole of the stakes. Two umpires and a referee to be chosen on the ground, the decision of the latter in the event of dispute to be conclusive. In case of magisterial interference the referee, if chosen, to name the next time and place of meeting, or if the referee be not chosen then the stakeholder to name the next time and place if possible on the same day; but the money not to be given up until fairly won or lost by a fight; the winner to pay for the ropes and stakes. Should any money be given for the privilege of the fight taking place in any particular locality, such money, if agreed to be accepted, to be equally divided between the men.

“(Signed) “Charles Freeman.

“John Broome (for W. Perry).”

Offers were made to take two to one on the Yankee, but nothing more than six to four could be obtained. The match excited extraordinary interest, and set all the Americans in town on the qui vive. They viewed the success of Freeman as a result already almost attained.

After a round of “appearances,” “benefits,” “soirées,” “entertainments,” &c. to which the well-advertised fact of being “matched” lent additional attractions, both men went into training, Freeman at Frank Key’s, the “Duke of York,” Gannick Corner, near Barnet, and the Slasher in the first place at our friend Jemmy Parsons’s, at Hampton, and subsequently at Ould Tom Owen’s, at Northfleet, Kent. A contemporary paper thus announces the coming event on the previous Saturday:—

“Freeman has been assiduously attended by his friend Ben Caunt, and has been ranging up hill and down dale like the celebrated giant Gog, in his ‘seven-league boots,’ with staff in hand and followed by ‘a tail,’ which, from the length of his fork, generally keeps a respectful distance in his rear. Although his nob has been roofed with a shallow tile, to diminish the appearance of his steeple-like proportions, he still has the appearance of a walking monument, to the no small alarm of the squirrels in Squire Byng’s park, into whose dormitories he occasionally casts a squint of recognition. By his good humour and playfulness of disposition he has won all hearts, and has been a welcome guest on whatever premises he has cast anchor in his walks, which have seldom been less than twenty or thirty miles a day. He has been extremely attentive to his training, and has been much reduced in flesh, while his muscular developments stand forth with additional symmetry. On his arrival in this country he carried some twenty-three stone ‘good meat,’ but we doubt whether on Tuesday he will much exceed eighteen stone. His drawers and fighting shoes have been built with a due regard to ease and elegance, and the latter have been seasonably aired by being lent to a cat and kittens as temporary nurseries. He already sports his blue bird’s-eye fogle, and, without vaunt or unseemly bounce, seems to think his chances of success are planted on a good foundation.

“The Slasher has been under the care of Johnny Broome, whose brother is constantly with him, and was removed on Tuesday, for some reason not explained, from Hampton to Northfleet. We have not seen him, but he is described as in fine condition, and in high spirits. He will weigh, we hear, between thirteen and fourteen stone, stands six feet high, and is a well-proportioned, muscular fellow (always deducting the ‘baker-knee,’ which destroys the perpendicular of his pedestal). His flag of cream colour ground, with the union-jack in the centre, bearing the words ‘Old England,’ and the rose, the thistle, and the shamrock in the corner, the whole inclosed in a blue border, has been unfurled at Johnny Broome’s, and has found numerous supporters on the usual terms, ‘a sovereign or nothing.’ The betting within the last week has varied; in some places the Slasher has been taken for choice, in others Freeman has been the favourite at 5 to 4, at which price a good deal of business has been done. The final deposit was made at Johnny Broome’s, in Air Street, Piccadilly, on Thursday evening, in the presence of a goodly muster. Neither of the men was present. Betting was slack, 5 to 4 only being offered on Freeman; but after some breathing a ‘supposed green,’ offered 30 to 10 on the Giant, at which Johnny Broome snapped, as well as 20 to 10 immediately after from the same innocent, who said he had £50 to lay out and was satisfied with a small profit. This, however, did not advance Freeman much in the betting, for, after a good deal of ‘screwing,’ higher odds than 6 to 4, and this reluctantly, could not be obtained. In consequence of a private agreement between the backers of both men, the appointed toss for choice of ground did not take place.”

There had long been a complaint in the Fancy circles of the dearth of “great men;” if “great” be synonymous with “big,” then this was a “great fight.” How far it deserved that epithet the reader will shortly be able to decide. The Slasher had never been credited with scientific qualifications, and “the American Giant” was remarkable solely for his prodigious bulk and weight-lifting pretensions, never having fought a prize battle before. The match, we are inclined to think, arose rather from a desire to put the pretensions of “the Yankee critter” to the test than from any belief that a man could be found capable of successfully competing with such “a mountain of humanity;” the more especially as Ben Caunt, the Champion of England, had signified that he and Freeman were sworn friends, and were, therefore, unlikely to come in hostile collision. Johnny Broome was consulted as to whether he could find a man willing to try his hand with the Giant, and he at once answered in the affirmative, experience having afforded him opportunities of estimating the game and muscular qualities of the Slasher, who was perfectly willing to make the experiment. It was under these circumstances the challenge was given and accepted. This was the position in which matters stood when the match was made, and in due course the men went into training, each taking every pains to improve his stamina and physical qualities. We may here remark that, in the opinion of competent judges, the mere fact of Freeman being so much taller and heavier than his opponent was not regarded as an argument in favour of his real superiority. In truth, we have seen, and over and over again been led to believe, that a man standing six feet high, and weighing between twelve and thirteen stone, with muscular power and activity in proportion, is the beau ideal of manly perfection; and that anything beyond this is mere surplusage, seldom, if ever, of any real advantage, as has been remarked of most of the giants who have been exhibited as objects of curiosity. We must admit, however, that for his size, we never saw a man so symmetrical in all respects as Freeman; there was nothing unwieldy or awkward in his appearance. In point of muscular development and strength, too, we are persuaded there was not his equal, and in point of activity and lightness, and springiness of action, he was not less to be admired; in fact, his early career was in the equestrian school, where, among other feats, he rode two horses at once, at the same time balancing a man with his arms above his head as he galloped round the circus, added to which he was renowned for the number of somersaults he could throw in succession. In lifting weights, too, on more occasions than one, he has raised fifteen cwt. from the ground. With all these appliances, however, there yet might be a want of animal courage and natural powers of enduring punishment and fatigue; and in the absence of any criterion upon which an opinion on these latter points could be formed, considerable doubts were entertained of the probable issue of his battle with the Slasher, who was known to possess fearless intrepidity, great bodily strength, some science, and sufficient height and weight to entitle himself to be ranked among the most dangerous of our modern millers. Hence the betting, which seldom exceeded 5 to 4 in favour of Freeman, did not prove him to have inspired any extraordinary confidence in the minds of his friends, of whom, from his really unassuming conduct, civil deportment, and good temper, he had many.

We may here state that the wisdom of not ascribing too much merit to superior bulk derived confirmation from scientific calculations made by Mr. Hutchinson, a surgeon of eminence, who made some curious experiments by means of hydraulic and other instruments to ascertain the constitutional powers of human beings, founded on comparisons of the strength of their lungs, by respiration and inspiration, the state of their pulse, capacity of chest, height, weight, &c. Mr. Hutchinson submitted both Freeman and Perry to his tests, and the result of his observation was, that although Freeman’s admeasurement was extraordinary in every respect, yet, comparatively, when the dimensions of both men were taken into account, the balance of bodily power, strength, and endurance was in favour of Perry, who Mr. Hutchinson considered more calculated to sustain fatigue and punishment than his gigantic antagonist. Mr. Hutchinson, of course, admitted that the inference which he thus drew may be defeated by accidental or other causes; but looking to the mere animal qualities of the men, such was his conclusion. That his hypothesis was fairly tried cannot be asserted, for, as will be seen, both men left off, so far as we were capable of judging from the darkness which prevailed, pretty much on a par, whether as respects punishment or fatigue.

It will be borne in mind that at the making of the last deposit, the toss for choice of ground was dispensed with, Spring, on the part of Freeman, and Broome, on the part of Perry, having determined on the probable locality. It was felt desirable to preserve the secret as long as possible, and it was not till Monday that the direction was generally known, when a trip by the Eastern Counties Railway to the borders of Hertfordshire and Essex was announced, with an intimation that a simultaneous departure by the half-past nine o’clock train to Sawbridgeworth (about seven and twenty miles from London) would suit all purposes, and prevent any unnecessary bustle at the immediate scene of action. Notwithstanding the secrecy which had been observed, however, some few “go-carts” with their motley inmates were seen going down the road the night before, and thus a hint was given, of which the police took advantage; and hence, being on the alert, the attendance of a magistrate was obtained, and much trouble and inconvenience, as the sequel will show, were experienced. In the interim both men arrived in town at their respective head-quarters, Freeman at Tom Spring’s, and Perry at Johnny Broome’s, so as to be ready for their morning start, and both houses were crowded to excess.

With the dawn all were in motion, and by eight o’clock the London terminus of the chosen railway was besieged by visitors. Many of these brought drags, which were placed upon the trucks, while others trusted to the “chapter of accidents,” which proved to have a very wide range, for the means of conveyance. Among the first arrivals were the Tipton Slasher and his friends, who thus took time by the forelock, so as to be near the point of rendezvous in due season. This division agreed to alight at Harlow station, as the train did not pull up at Sawbridgeworth, which was, however, but two miles further, within convenient toddling distance, and thither all proceeded. On reaching the fixture a damper was thrown on the prospects of the travellers. The superintendent of police was found at his post. He had received orders from London to prevent hostilities, and to this was added the fact that Mr. Phillips, a Hertfordshire magistrate, was in readiness to “keep the peace.” In this unpleasant dilemma all waited till the arrival of the half-past nine o’clock train, in which came Freeman, Tom Spring, Caunt, and a vast accession of the Fancy. Fortunately there was a carriage and four horses waiting the arrival of Freeman, and after a short deliberation it was resolved to move on to Hatfield Heath, about four miles further, in the county of Essex, and the “office” being given, away all went in that direction—the great proportion on their ten toes, for conveyances were out of the question—and the roads being heavy the pilgrimage was far from agreeable, especially to “the London particulars,” who were unprepared for such a journey. For this unexpected tax upon their patience there was no remedy, and on they went till the desired goal was reached. On the road there were some few mishaps, but still all were cheered on by hope. The Commissary lost no time in examining the intended field of battle, which he found swampy, and far from desirable; but there was no help for it, and he was about to form a ring when a fresh alarm was given. The Sawbridgeworth police superintendent and Mr. Phillips, the magistrate, once more presented their ill-omened countenances, and plainly declared their determination to prevent the fight taking place either in Essex or Hertfordshire This was a poser. A council of war was held—suggestions of all sorts were offered, and a great deal of time was lost. Cambridgeshire, the adjoining county, was deemed too distant to be reached in time, and more especially by the pedestrians; and at last it was determined to “try back,” and return towards London; Broxbourne, on the borders of Middlesex and Essex, being agreed on as the point of re-assemblage.

This point settled, a general move took place towards the nearest stations—the toddlers to Sawbridgeworth, and the charioteers to Bishop Stortford, there to repack their nags and drags, while the beak and his co-partner, considering that a move had been made to get out of their bailiwick, also moved off. On reaching Bishop Stortford a fresh resolution was formed. “While the cat’s away the mice will play;” so, as the conservators of propriety were no longer present, it was urged that the ring might be formed in the place originally intended, half a mile from the Sawbridgeworth station, not far from the same field in which Turner beat Scroggins, in June, 1817, and scarcely more distant from the scene of Oliver’s conquest over Shelton, in 1820. No sooner said than done; and, in the absence of those who had promised to avoid the county of Hertford, at half-past two o’clock all agreed to drop down to the place from whence they came, with the exception of the Commissary, Freeman, and his friends, who took the main road in a carriage kindly yielded to them by the Right Rev. the Bishop of Bond Street, who also hospitably furnished their larders with a very welcome supply of roast fowls and other “combustibles,” of which their “inward men” stood beseechingly in need. In the interim the Slasher threw himself on a bed at Bishop Stortford, and all who had wisdom took some hasty refreshment. On again reaching Sawbridgeworth we were informed that the lists were formed, and a competent guide being found, all set out along the towing-path of the canal to a very eligible site, about half a mile off, on an elevated piece of ground admirably calculated for the purpose. The evening was now fast approaching, for it was nearly four o’clock, and it was hoped there would be still daylight sufficient to decide which was the better man. The privilege tickets were distributed, and in a short time everything was arranged for the commencement of hostilities.

All being in readiness, Freeman entered the ring in high spirits, attended by Caunt and King Dick, and was received with loud cheers. Rumours were now afloat that the Slasher did not mean to come, and sovereigns even were offered to be laid that there would be no fight. In the interim horsemen were sent off to Sawbridgeworth station to urge the approach of the missing man, who it was known had been left there in charge of Broome. Matters thus remained in doubt for some time, and great impatience began to be manifested, when it was announced, to the great joy of the spectators, that the Slasher was coming—and come at last he did, amidst the encouraging shouts of his friends. He lost no time in entering the ring, and was immediately met with a friendly shake of the mauley by Freeman. The Slasher was attended by Ben Terry and a provincial friend named Tom Parker. No time was now lost in “trimming” the men for battle, and their superfluous “feathers” were quickly removed. Both appeared in high spirits and eager for business. Umpires and a referee having been chosen, the ring was cleared out, and the “privileged” dropped contentedly on the damp earth, with such preservatives to their sitting places as circumstances would permit; but it must be acknowledged that these were far from satisfactory, owing to the difficulties to which the Commissary had been exposed in the various transfers of his materiel.

On being stripped and placed in juxtaposition, the towering height of Freeman presented a most formidable aspect, while the muscular development of every limb, and the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, gave him the appearance of herculean strength. His weight, without his clothes, we understood was but little above seventeen stone, for it was remarked that during the last week of his training he rather diminished than increased in bulk. Still, he was in high spirits, and moved about with elastic and graceful step. In the following July he would be 23 years of age. The Slasher also wore a cheerful smile on his mug, which betrayed the fact that he had already lost some of his head rails. From his hips up his bust displayed great muscular power, but being in-kneed, there was less of symmetry in his figure than in Freeman’s. On throwing himself into position, however, this was scarcely perceptible, and he may be described as a model of burly strength. He appeared to be, and said he was, in excellent condition, and, judging from his cheerful index, there was no want of self-confidence. His height six feet, his age twenty-three, and his weight 13st. 4lb.; but notwithstanding the fearful odds against him, he evidently regarded the coming struggle with gallant indifference. Of betting there was but little—5 to 3 was offered but not taken, and the only bet we heard laid was one of 6 to 4 on Freeman.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Precisely at seven minutes after four o’clock the men were conducted to the scratch, their fogles having been first tied to the corner stake, and having shaken hand with great good humour, the seconds retired to their corners. The towering height and gigantic proportions of Freeman led all to suppose that he would endeavour to fight down his opponent; but, as will be seen, this anticipation was not fulfilled. The Slasher stood on the defensive and Freeman broke ground, hitting out with his left; from this the Slasher retreated, when Freeman followed him quickly, popped in his left and right slightly, and the Slasher was down. Freeman laughing, and no mischief done.

2.—The Slasher again to the scratch, when Freeman led off left and right; the latter blow got well home, and dropped the Slasher. First knock-down blow for Freeman; but no damage done, as the Slasher received it when retreating.

3.—The Slasher made play, and tried his left on Freeman’s body, but was stopped. Freeman rushed to him, the Slasher retiring and hitting short and wild. Freeman popped in his left and right, caught the Slasher in his arms, and threw him with ease.

4.—The Slasher, on the defensive system, dodged a little, delivered his left on the ribs, in getting away he fell, and thus escaped Freeman’s return.

5.—Freeman hit out left and right, but the Slasher ducked his head and fell on his knees.

6.—The Slasher on the dodging system, stepped back; Freeman after him to the corner, where there was a wild rally, in which hits right and left were exchanged. The Slasher got within Freeman’s long arms, gave him a tidy smack with his right on the left eye, and got down. (First blood from Freeman’s brow, and the Tipton lads uproarious.)

7.—The Slasher, the first to fight, hit out left and right, but was stopped. Freeman slashed away left and right but without precision, and after some trifling deliveries the Slasher got down.

8.—The Slasher popped in his left on Freeman’s ribs, and got away; Freeman after him, when the Slasher closed. Freeman lifted him clean off the ground, but was unable to get his arm loose to fib, and after a short struggle the Slasher slipped from his grasp and got down.

9.—The Slasher again led off with his left at the body, and in getting away fell from accident or design. [Cries of “foul” and “foul” was claimed on the part of Freeman; but the referee did not feel himself justified in stopping the fight, and “time” was called.]

10.—The Slasher again tried the artful dodge, rushed in to hit with the left at the body; but Freeman seized him in his powerful feelers, held him up for a short time, and finding he could do nothing at in-fighting fell on him, but not so as to do him any mischief.

11.—The Slasher as lively as a grig popped in his left on Freeman’s arm and got away; Freeman followed, gave him one, two, left and right The Slasher broke from him, and delivered his right on his shoulder; then getting away, fell to avoid.

12.—The Slasher once more led off with his left, but was short. Freeman after him delivered left and right; the Slasher down.

13.—Freeman popped in his left, The Slasher retreated and fell.

14.—Freeman again planted his left slightly. The Slasher adhered to his retiring system. Freeman followed him to the ropes, and after a scrambling exchange of hits the Slasher got down. Freeman pointing at him derisively with his finger and laughing.

15.—Freeman hit left and right, and the Slasher rushed in and caught him round the body, to try for the fall; Freeman held him up completely off the ground by the neck, then chopped first with the left and then with the right; the Slasher hit up left and right, and caught Freeman on the mouth with his right; and after a short struggle was thrown, Freeman on him.

16.—The Slasher again tried his left at the body, but was short, the blow falling slightly on Freeman’s arm. Exchange of blows. Freeman with the left on the nob, and Slasher on the shoulder with the right, which sounded, but was of no effect. Slasher, in retreating, fell.

17.—Slasher came up on the defensive, but Freeman hit him down with his left.

18.—Slasher again popped his left at the body, but was hit down with a counter-hit from Freeman’s left. Freeman fell on him, and foul was claimed by Slasher’s party, but not acknowledged, as it was obvious the fall was accidental.

19.—Slasher hit Freeman on the shoulder with his right, and in return caught it left and right as he retreated. Slasher returned to the charge with his right, and fell.

20.—A wild exchange of blows, but not effective, and the Slasher slipped down in retreating.

21.—[Twenty-three minutes had now elapsed, no real damage done on either side, and both as fresh as when they commenced.] The Slasher popped in his left on the body, and stepped back; Freeman after him, hit left and right, and the Slasher fell.

22.—Freeman delivered left and right; the Slasher was short in his return, and again received two pops left and right, and fell.

23.—Freeman delivered left and right, and Slasher down.

24.—Freeman led off with his left. The Slasher popped in his left on the mark and tried to drop, but Freeman caught him round the neck and held him up some time, and then let him fall, tumbling over him. (Another claim of foul not allowed.)

25.—Freeman popped in his right on Slasher’s left eye; the Slasher countered on his shoulder, when Freeman caught him with his left, and the Slasher was down.

26.—Freeman again planted his left; and, on Slasher rushing in, caught him in his arms, held him for a second or two, and fell on him.

27.—Freeman popped in his left, and dropped his man with his right.

28.—The Slasher hit short with his left, and renewed the dodging system, playing round his man. Freeman tried to nail him, but he got away, hit out with his left at the body, and fell without a return. [Another claim of foul for Freeman, not admitted.]

29.—Slasher hit at the body with his left and broke away, Freeman after him, all for mischief, caught him on the hop, and hit him down with his right.

30.—The Slasher delivered his right on Freeman’s shoulder, broke away, and tried it with the left on the body, but was stopped. Freeman let go left and right, but the Slasher ducked his nob, escaped, and fell.

31.—The Slasher again in with his left on the ribs and away; Freeman after him, caught him on the pimple, and he fell.

32.—The Slasher hit short left and right, and was hit down with Freeman’s left.

33.—The Slasher pursued his left-handed game at the body, but, in getting away, was hit down with a touch from Freeman’s left.

34.—The Slasher missed left and right, caught it left and right, and was down.

35.—[It now became so dark that it was difficult to see what was doing in the ring, and the spectators came closer to the ropes. The partisans of the Slasher were extremely uproarious, and one of them especially was constantly interfering with the umpires, called “time” when it was not time, and was guilty of other most offensive and unfair conduct.] The Slasher, as usual, led off with his left at the body, but without effect, and in return was hit down.

36.—The Slasher hit short with his left, and was hit down by a counter from Freeman’s left as he was getting away.

37.—Slasher planted his favourite body blow with the left, but without producing any visible effect; Freeman did not seem to feel it, and he was again down.

38.—Trifling exchanges with the left, and the Slasher down.

39.—The Slasher rushed in to make another effort for the throw, but Freeman again seized him in his powerful grasp, fibbed, and fell with him, but not on him.

40, 41, 42, 43, 44.—Slasher down in every round, but apparently no mischief done, and as far as the glimpse of light left would permit, we could discover no distinct mark of punishment on either man.

45.—The Slasher delivered his left at the body and fell, as if from the force of his own blow. Freeman fell over him, but evidently with a desire to avoid falling on him. [Another appeal was made to the referee on the ground of the Slasher falling without a blow, but the referee declared it was impossible to form a correct opinion, and expressed a strong wish that the fight should either be drawn or adjourned, but to this neither party would accede.]

46, 47, and 48.—The Slasher down in each round, and Freeman manfully avoiding falling on him.

49.—The Slasher in with his left on the body, but as he attempted to retreat Freeman caught him in his arms, held him for some time, occasionally chopping, and at last fell forward on him, but too much over to produce any consequence.

50.—The Slasher showed some fatigue, but came up full of confidence. He delivered his left at the body, but did not get well home; Freeman caught him left and right, and he went down to avoid further mementoes.

To describe the remaining rounds would be an idle attempt, in fact it became so dark that the men were only visible from the light colour of their skins and drawers. The Slasher pursued his dodging, getting away, and falling system, occasionally making his left and right hits at the body and shoulder, and sometimes appearing to recoil from the effects of his own blows, but without producing any turn in his favour. Freeman hitting left and right, and now and then seizing his man, lifting him up, and flinging him down, but almost invariably avoiding falling on him; in one instance actually making an arch over his carcase, his head and legs on the ground, amidst the acclamations of the throng. In the last few rounds there was an evident attempt to draw Freeman into the Slasher’s corner, round which a desperate set of ruffians had collected, who, by the most offensive vociferations, endeavoured to intimidate and alarm him. He, however, kept his temper, and came up every round cool and collected, grumbling only at the Slasher not standing up to fight. In the 69th round the Slasher exclaimed, “I’ve got you now, old fellow!” but the words were scarcely out of his mouth when Freeman hit him down with his left. The darkness, combined with a fog, now became so intense that it was impossible to see what was doing from one side of the ring to the other. The referee declared his utter inability to form any judgment of the character of the fight, and, unable to get both umpires to agree on the expediency of putting an end to the battle, he jumped into the ring, and, getting between the men, declared he would not permit them to prolong the contest. At this moment both men were fresh and vigorous, and each seemed disinclined to leave his chance of victory in doubt, Slasher especially, who said he considered he was robbed of the fight, while Freeman laughed, and said, if they were permitted to proceed, the result would perhaps prove he was mistaken. The referee was, however, peremptory, and both men were taken from the ring after having fought seventy rounds in one hour and twenty-four minutes. They walked away as fresh as when they began, with a mutual desire that they might renew the combat the next day at twelve o’clock, at such place as the referee might appoint, to which the latter assented, as there did not appear to be anything in their appearance to justify a further delay in the gratification of their desires.

Remarks.—It is much to be regretted that this curious encounter was not brought to a more satisfactory conclusion, inasmuch as the merits of the men still remain undecided; and so evenly had their pretensions been balanced in the minds of their respective friends that each party declares, had time and circumstances permitted, their favourite must have been crowned with victory. How far these conclusions may be well or ill founded we will not pretend to say; but certainly we feel justified in giving to both men an equal proportion of praise, so far at least as their game qualities are concerned. It is true, we may be disposed to take exception to the “getting down” system which was adopted by the Slasher, but then it must be borne in mind he fought at fearful odds both as regards weight and length, and could never hope successfully to compete with such an antagonist unless by a degree of caution and cunning, which with a man of his own inches would have been unjustifiable and amounted to cowardice. There is no doubt that occasionally his dropping after delivering his blows had too much the appearance of being at variance with our notion of “a fair stand-up fight;” but then the ground was slippery, and he asserts that when he did fall it was from the recoil of his own blows or from his being unable to keep his feet in endeavouring to avoid the tremendous return which he had sufficient reason to expect. That this was provoking to Freeman we can well imagine; but, under all the circumstances, we do not think it detracts from the game qualities of the Slasher, who certainly came up from first to last undismayed, and with a manly determination to win if he could. Of his scientific qualifications we cannot say much. If he possessed any they were reserved for a future occasion. He never attempted to stop the blows which were showered on his canister, and throughout confined himself to attempts to disable Freeman by body blows from his left or round hits with his right. The former occasionally reached their destination with sounding effect, but we are inclined to believe they fell more frequently on Freeman’s arm, which was dropped to catch them, than upon his more vulnerable corpus. That some of them might have got home we are inclined to believe, but it was clear they did not produce any serious consequence, for on examining the Giant’s body subsequently we were surprised to find so few symptoms of forcible collision on his ribs, while we discovered sundry bruises on his fore and upper arm, which showed these had been exposed to heavy visitations, and no doubt stopped numerous kind intentions which, had they reached their destination, would have been far from agreeable. With the right the Slasher was unsuccessful, as it generally fell on Freeman’s left shoulder, and with the exception of the cut on the left eye, which gained first blood in the sixth round, this weapon did not produce much damage, for the only other punishment visible was a slight scratch and swelling on the under lip, which was produced by the upper cut in the fifteenth round. In his attempts to throw, the Slasher had not the most remote chance of success, for when the attempt was made Freeman lifted him completely off the ground and threw him as he pleased, occasionally going down with him, from overbalancing himself. Throughout the fight it struck us that the Slasher showed no symptoms of distress, except after the struggle in which he was suspended between heaven and earth for some time in Freeman’s grasp, and was then thrown, Freeman falling on him. With respect to Freeman, although a novice in the milling arena, it must be admitted that throughout he showed great coolness and presence of mind. He never lost his temper, and was only indignant that the Slasher would not stand up to receive his sledge-hammer compliments. It struck us, however, that with immense power he wanted judgment in its application. His left and right hits were straight and well directed, but he failed in countering with his left, for had he let fly at the same moment that the Slasher tried his left at the body, the consequences would no doubt have been serious. He too frequently suffered the Slasher to lead off and get away, so that in following, his blows did not tell with half the effect. Of this there was sufficient evidence in the little impression he made, there being no material damage discernible on the Slasher’s countenance beyond a slight cut on his left brow, and a few contusions which afterwards produced discolouration—a black eye included. We learn also that he received sundry raps on the head and neck, out of sight, which required the aid of leeches to allay inflammation. His left hand, too, was a good deal puffed. Freeman’s left thumb was also injured, and from the force of one blow was actually put out of joint; but the dislocation was reduced, and little harm arose from this. There is no doubt that many felt astonished, after witnessing so many apparently heavy deliveries followed by instant prostration, that more decisive consequences were not produced. It must be borne in mind, however, that Freeman hit against a yielding object, which of course offered little resistance, and fell from the slightest concussion. Had the Slasher hit with him, or stood firmly on his legs, the effect would have been different; and many of his hits were rather shoves or pokes, instead of coming well from the shoulder. The tumbling system of the Slasher cannot be pursued with impunity, and if it be clearly shown that he falls without a blow, there will be less hesitation in condemning him to defeat, as he must now perfectly understand the distinction between accident and design.

The sports thus most unsatisfactorily concluded, and the excitement which prevailed having subsided, those of the throng who remained to the last—for a great number had already taken their departure—began to speculate on the best mode of getting home. So intense was the darkness that it was almost impossible to distinguish your best friend, although close at your elbow; and the calls for Bill, Tom, and Harry resounded in all directions, with unsatisfactory responses of “Here; where are you?” and so forth. Then came inquiries as to the best mode of reaching the station. Some by guess, who thought they had marked the road they came, ventured to set out on their journey, and were soon heard floundering in the ditches or swamps into which they had wandered, and roaring lustily for relief. Others employed the yokels as guides, and thus they went, in connected chains, pursuing their devious paths. The Bishop of Bond Street, who had magnanimously resigned his carriage to Freeman, was foremost among the unfortunates, and went floundering on through mud and mire, but cheerfully submitting to all manner of casualties, till he reached the Sawbridgeworth station, where he was joined by hundreds of others, some of whom had got into the canal, others into dreary swamps, and all more or less miserable, but still happy in having escaped the perils to which they had been exposed. Complaints were loud and numerous; and verily some of our friends presented piteous specimens of human misery, with pretty certain prospects of future suffering from colds and other ills to which flesh is heir. A great number got off by the six o’clock train, but many had to remain for that which followed, and did not reach their destination till a late hour. There were but few carriages on the battle-field, and these were with difficulty piloted to the main road, and by that route either to the Harlow station or to the Metropolis. The Slasher with difficulty reached Sawbridgeworth, where he obtained requisite refreshment; and Freeman, equally fortunate, got to the Harlow station, and in a room of one of the attendants found “a good Samaritan,” who attended to all his wants. He was in good spirits, and but little the worse for wear. Caunt and Spring paid him every attention. The numerous assemblage here, half famished, had to send half a mile for the means of satisfying their appetites, and bread, cheese, and beer were in anxious requisition; to these a lucky contribution of a Yorkshire ham and sundry chickens, from the hamper of a swell drag, proved a most acceptable addition for a party of “the select.”

Before the departure of the train, the Slasher, accompanied by Johnny Broome, arrived at the station, and the proposed renewal of the battle on the ensuing day, at twelve o’clock, was discussed. Broome foresaw the difficulty in which he would be placed to afford due information of the whereabouts to some of the Slasher’s backers who had gone to London, and who were more desirous than ever of witnessing the termination of the contest. At his request, to which Spring did not object, it was settled that a meeting should take place the next day at four o’clock, at the house of the referee, to arrange this important point. The Slasher was unusually bounceable, and asked Spring if he was disposed to add a hundred to the stakes. A reply in the affirmative was instantly given, but the challenge evaporated, and nothing more was done. The arrival of the up-train put an end to discussion. All were soon embarked, and away they were whisked to Shoreditch. Freeman arrived at the “Castle” about half-past nine, where an immense crowd greeted his return; and the Slasher, in the same way, could scarcely obtain ingress to the domicile of Johnny Broome of which he is, just now, the “Rising Sun.”

The next day Spring attended, at the time appointed, at the place of rendezvous, but Broome did not make his appearance till an hour after. In the interim, with a view to give each man sufficient time to resuscitate his energies, the referee appointed the following Thursday, between twelve and one o’clock, for the renewal of the combat; the “whereabouts” to be communicated to the backers of each in time to enable them to reach their destination without inconvenience. On the next morning both men went back to their training quarters to prepare for the coming struggle. An earlier day could not have been named without interfering with the arrangements for the mill between Maley and M’Grath, which was fixed for the ensuing Tuesday between London and Manchester.

On Wednesday evening Freeman left London in company with Caunt, Spring, and his trainer, and put up at “The Bull” at Royston, his movements being kept a profound secret. Broome, for some reason, would not take his man to Royston, but preferred travelling, with a few friends only, by an early Eastern Counties train to Bishop Stortford, and thence posting to Littlebury, Essex, the appointed place for meeting, though it was privately arranged that Cambridgeshire should be the locus in quo the affair was to be finished off. That quietness, and therefore secrecy, was pretty well observed, we may note that on Wednesday night there were only eight strangers in Royston, and five only in Littlebury, including Dick Curtis. The Commissary, and his assistant, Broome, having given the “office” for Bishop Stortford, a goodly number of the London division came down by later trains, and the demand for drags, post-horses, or indeed anything on wheels or four legs, became astonishing. Broome, Slasher, and party arrived at Littlebury in a carriage with four posters in more than good time.

Meantime, Freeman and his friends remained quietly at Royston, and it was not until Thursday morning that the Commissary received a despatch, directing him to have the ring formed, before twelve o’clock, at Triplow Heath, Cambridgeshire, on the spot where Bungaree and Sambo Sutton last fought—eight miles from Littlebury and three from Royston—where, it was added, Freeman would be present at that hour. Word of these arrangements was to be sent to Broome. All this was strictly attended to, and the ring was accordingly formed without interruption. Thus all looked well; but just before twelve o’clock, up rode Mr. Metcalf, a neighbouring magistrate, who by “some chance” had got “a letter,” and who, quitting his “toast and ale,” thought it wise to interfere. He at once said the fight must not take place on that spot, and a courier was sent forward to apprise Freeman of the ominous interruption. Freeman had come in sight of the ring at the moment, and a general halt took place, a small cavalcade having been formed by a few of the right sort, who had posted by way of Ware and Buntingford to Royston, and a respectable troop of mounted yeomen. A consultation immediately took place, and Haydon Grange, within two miles of the spot, in the neighbouring county of Essex, over which Mr. Metcalf was said to have no jurisdiction, was selected. Thither the materiel was quickly transferred by the Commissary and his assistants, and by one o’clock all was again “in apple-pie order” on the top of a hill, and on a spot particularly eligible for the purpose. Care was taken to provide for the due direction of the Littlebury divison, and a gentleman provided with Spring’s stop-watch kindly remained on Triplow Heath to note the time of the Slasher’s arrival, to prevent any mistake as to the road he was to take. This gentleman remained till after one o’clock, but no Slasher appeared, although all those who had come by the same train trotted briskly forward to the new location. Other scouts were left, but it was nearly two o’clock before any tidings were heard of the absentee. The ring being perfect, all were impatiently deploring the loss of time, during which the fight might have been commenced, continued, and perhaps concluded. During this unfortunate lapse offers were again made to take 2 to 1 there would be “no fight,” and some who had passed Broome on the road reported that he had declared he did not intend to be in the ring till two o’clock. Spring claimed forfeit, on the plea that the Slasher was not at the place first appointed between twelve and one, according to articles; but the referee refused to admit this claim, on the ground that the ropes and stakes had been removed, and Freeman had not thrown his castor within them. Had it been otherwise he would have had no hesitation in agreeing that the claim would have been well founded. At last the agreeable intelligence was received that Broome had arrived, and he entered the ring out of breath, asserting that he had been detained for the want of post-horses, but that he was at Triplow Heath at seven minutes before one—a statement which the gentleman who remained on the Heath to meet him positively denied. He then said that he had only been told the place of fighting on the morning before. Still the Slasher did not appear; and two o’clock having arrived, Spring said he would only give five minutes more, and should then consider Freeman was entitled to the money if the Slasher did not arrive. Within the time specified Slasher was brought slowly to the field of battle, having, according to Broome’s account, taken from seven minutes to one to five minutes after two to come very little more than two miles. Cheerfulness succeeded wrangling, and all looked well for the gratification of the throng, who had come far and near to witness the battle. Umpires were chosen, privilege tickets distributed, the ring effectually cleared out, and Freeman threw his tile into the arena—an example which all anticipated the Slasher was about to follow—when to the dismay of everybody, in marched Captain Robinson, the superintendent of police, who had ridden a steeplechase across the country, attended by an orderly. This authority emphatically announced that he had warrants for the apprehension of both men, and would not permit the peace to be broken, adding it was not wise to attempt such amusements in a county in which the character of the new police for vigilance was at stake; but worse than all, to secure obedience to his behest, he called upon Tom Spring and Tom Oliver, in the name of her most gracious Majesty, to assist him in the discharge of his duty! This was indeed a settler; and to watch the physiognomies of the two Toms on finding themselves thus suddenly metamorphosed into constables would have given food for speculation to the most astute student of Lavater. “Blow my dickey!” exclaimed the Commissary, “so I’m to act as a special, am I?” “This bangs Bannagher!” said Spring, looking as black with his right eye as if he had knocked it against Caunt’s fist. Parley, however, was out of the question, for Captain Robinson said his own reputation as well as his appointment were at stake. A belief existing that Captain Robinson would be content with preserving the peace of his own county, Essex, a resolution was formed to try Cambridgeshire once more. “Bock agin, Sandy,” was the cry; and away went the pioneers of the Ring through the lower part of Royston, on the road towards Bedfordshire, where fresh ground was sought. But a new beak was started from his lair on the road, in the form of a Royston banker, who peremptorily said it should be “no go.” Some disposition arose to question this gentleman’s authority in Cambridgeshire; but all argument was at an end on the arrival of Captain Robinson with his assistants. He plainly told the assemblage that it was in vain for them to attempt getting the fight off in Hertfordshire, Essex, Cambridgeshire, or Bedfordshire, for he was empowered to act in all, and must stick by them till night if they remained. This was conclusive. “To the right about,” was the word, and away all returned to Royston. There was some talk of stopping all night, to fight the first thing in the morning, to which the Slasher said he was agreeable; but a gentle whisper having been given that if the belligerents stopped longer in that neighbourhood the warrants might be enforced against them, a general retreat was ordered, and away the Cockney division scampered—Broome, with the Slasher, back to Chesterford, from whence they had had their last relay of horses—and Spring, Freeman, and friends, by Buntingford to London. All were too late for the trains, and thus many remained on the road all night, while others did not reach “the village” till a late hour. Again were hundreds collected in front of Spring and Broome’s houses to know the result, among whom conflicting accounts were afloat till the authentic courier arrived and diffused fresh dissatisfaction.

The chances, changes, and fortunes of this incongruous match were thus sung in some contemporary verses, of sufficient merit to warrant their preservation.

THE UNFINISHED FIGHT OF THE AMERICAN GIANT
AND THE TIPTON SLASHER.

Freeman, of giant frame! to thee a welcome warm we gave,

When wafted to the British shores across the Atlantic wave;

In harmony we saw thee move with gallant champion Caunt,

As muscular as Hercules, and tall as John of Gaunt.

We hail’d thee of thy countrymen the model and the flower,

And modest was thy bearing, though possessed of giant power;

Against thee Slander never dar’d her poisoned tongue to wag,

And never was it thine to bounce, to bluster, or to brag.

You came not to our land the gauntlet down to fling.

Here to no conquest you aspired within our battle ring,

But ready to come forward still at Friendship’s special call,

To take a fragrant pipe of weed and cordial cup withal.

“But yet I love my native land, and scorn each action base,

And never Craven act of mine a Freeman shall disgrace;

Whoever dares me to the fight, by no proud threat’ning scar’d,

Will find me anxious still for peace, and yet for war prepared!”

“By Heavens!” cried Johnny Broome, “my pink, tho’ nothing you’re afraid of,

I have a Novice in the Ring who’ll try what stuff you’re made of;

Deposits shall be duly made, and matters go on snugly,

And there you’ll meet a customer as rum as he is ugly.

“One who professes bull-dog game I to the scratch will bring,

Welcome to whom is punishment as flowers in early spring;

One who in contest fierce and long, ‘Enough!’ has never cried,

But rushes forward to his man, and will not be denied.

“The same to him is Briton bold and Transatlantic foeman,

With courage at the sticking-place like ancient Greek or Roman;

Regardless still of body hits, or on the snout a smasher,

Bill Perry is the trump I mean, the slaughtering Tipton Slasher!”

“Bravo! bold Johnny,” Freeman cried, “then to your text be steady,

Fixed be the time, as well as place, and Freeman’s tin is ready;

Into condition get your friend as early as you can,

And trust me I will do my best to floor your Tipton man.”

The heroes trained as fine as stars, with gallantry untam’d,

And in December’s dreary month the day of fight was nam’d;

“Who heeds,” the Slasher cried, “dark days, cold blast, or storm?

We’ll have sufficient work cut out to keep our systems warm.

“Tho’ twixt the Giant and myself the difference is great,

I care not for his stature high, I care not for his weight,

Nor for his wondrous length of reach does Perry care a whit;

And where so huge a carcase shows, the easier ’tis to hit.”

Thus to Big Caunt the Giant cried, “My friend, ’tis time to trot,

But bear me witness ere we start, this fight I courted not;

My manly foe, I do not doubt, possesses thorough game.

But if he falls ’tis he alone and Johnny Broome to blame.

“Tho’ with your gallant countrymen peace was my only aim,

Boston, New York, and Washington my prowess can proclaim,

And never in my proud career white feather did I show;

Nor ever cut a friend in need, nor shrunk before a foe.”

December sixth in darkness broke, the dawn was chill and damp,

And numerous Fancy toddlers betimes were on the tramp;

Corinthian swells and commoners made simultaneous rush

To Sawbridgeworth, in Hertfordshire, through muck, and mire, and slush.

But how the beaks in wrath proclaim’d, amid the motley race,

That no prize fight or milling match should then and there take place;

And how the pugilists themselves looked very down and blank,

While the spectators made a move both retrograde and flank—

And how they managed after all to give the traps the slip,

And hastening back to Sawbridgeworth prepared at once to strip;

How seventy gallant rounds were fought ’till deepening shades of night

With its extinguisher forbade the finish of the fight—

And how the assembled multitude with sundry rueful shrugs,

Homeward retraced their weary way with disappointed mugs;

And how in Despond’s dismal slough a lot of worthies fell—

Next week the bard of “London Life” will accurately tell.

But tho’ no victory was achieved by well intended thumps,

Both men have proved undoubted game, and turn’d out genuine trumps;

And all uninjur’d and unscath’d in Tuesday’s battle fray,

Slasher and Freeman both survive to fight another day.

The referee having been called on to name the next time and place, the parties interested met at his house the next day (Friday). The Slasher was present, and expressed an anxious desire to have the fight over; he declared he had no wish to evade the meeting, and was quite ready to fight the following day (Saturday). To this Spring replied that as the Commissary had not yet returned to London with the ropes and stakes, and as his whereabouts might not be known in time, the proposal would not be accepted. The Tipton objected to a long delay, and as Bungaree the Australian and M’Ginty were to fight on the following Tuesday, it was suggested that both couples should be “asked out” at the same place and time. It was then found that the backers of Bungaree and his opponent had selected a locality where it would be most imprudent for such noticeable men as the Giant and Slasher to show themselves without certainty of interruption. The Bungaree division, however, proposed to alter their plans and effect an amalgamation, by jointly hiring two steamboats for the conveyance of the men and their friends to the field of battle—that the vessels should leave London Bridge on the Tuesday morning at eight o’clock, and proceeding down the river, pick up the “big’uns” at places appointed; and that, with the view of securing the absence of undesirable voyagers, two sets of tickets of contrasted colours should be issued by Spring and Broome only, no person to be admitted on board except those presenting the one for the downward the other the homeward voyage.

On the next day, Saturday, Freeman took a benefit, previously announced, at the Westminster Road Baths, the immense area of the “Mechanics’ Bath” being crowded to excess. That these affairs, of which there was too much at this period, were profitable speculations may be gathered from the fact that exclusive of free admission and tickets sold elsewhere, £178 was taken at the doors, although the performers were the humbler outsiders of the Ring, with the exception of Freeman (who showed, but did not set to, in view of the impending contest) and Caunt, whom Tom Spring kindly assisted by putting on the gloves with him. Although Big Ben showed some improvement, his style, as compared with the accomplished ex-champion of a long bygone day, could not fail to awaken unpleasant comparisons in the minds of such men as Mr. John Jackson, old Tom Cribb, and Thomas Belcher, all of whom were recognised at this gathering Freeman, who stripped, had not a bruise upon his body, and except a little swelling of the lip and an injury of the right thumb, bore no marks of the recent encounter.

On Tuesday, December 20th, 1842, at 8 a.m., we embarked on board the “Father Thames” steamer at the Old Swan Pier, London Bridge, Freeman having been put on board from a row-boat half an hour previously, while the vessel lay in midstream, and privately ensconced in the after-cabin, his immense stature being rightly considered as placing him in great peril of arrest if exposed to the public gaze. At Blackwall the Slasher came on board, looking rough and hardy in the sou’wester and blue frieze of a river pilot. The other combatant couple, M’Ginty the Scotchman, and Bungaree the Australian, had quietly embarked at London Bridge. The company on board, about four hundred in number, was truly representative of the Ring patrons of the day. A Scotch marquis, two or three scions of the peerage, a sprinkling of military men, a veteran “salt,” sundry hunting and university men, doctors, barristers, with some sporting clubbists from “the sweet shady side of Pall Mall” and the dingy smoking snuggery of the now resplendent “Limmer’s,” formed the “upper-crust.” The Church, of course, was not represented, unless we may enumerate the Right Rev. the Bishop of Bond Street in that category. That facetious worthy was indeed prominent, and, with the forethought gained by long experience, had brought on board a capacious hamper, accompanied by a handsome basket of white willow, which, to the delight of the Corinthians, who formed “the excursionists” thus “personally conducted,” disclosed at an after period a wealth of game-pie, pigeon-pie, chickens, ham, tongue, salad, and the various comestibles for which Fortnum and Mason are renowned. That the white willow basket was a worthy auxiliary of the big hamper “goes without saying.” “Schnapps,” in several square-shouldered and short-necked bottles and flasks, cognac, sherry, and a battalion of silver and gold-necked champagne, came forth at intervals in such succession as made us think that the Bishop had really the supernatural gift boasted by Glendower, “I can call spirits from the vasty deep,” and that “they do come when I do call them.” But we are anticipating. The “old familiar faces” of Ned Painter, from Norwich, Tom Spring, Peter Crawley, Oliver, and Burn were on deck, together with Adams, Johnny Walker, Langham, Orme, Parker, Johnny Broome and his brother Harry, Tom Maley, Jemmy Shaw, &c., &c.; while the “sporting publican” division was represented by Owen Swift, Jem Cross, Jack Gardiner, Jemmy Moore, “Stunning” Joe Banks, and a host of “hosts.” On her downward course the “Father Thames” was followed by several craft, and by the time she arrived at the Lower Hope Point, about six miles below Gravesend, there was quite a “mosquito fleet” in sight, not including a “tail” of Gravesend wherries which were permitted to hang on to her stern tow-rope.

When off Cliffe Marshes, the welcome sounds of “Ease her!” “Stop her!” “Easy astarn!” sounded from the bridge. All on deck were in a bustle of delight. The facetious Joe Banks, backed up by jolly Jem Burn, having, with impressive gravity, informed a group of listeners, the destination of the craft being as yet a secret, “that the swells below had arranged with the captain for a trip to the coast of France, as they were determined to have no more stoppages from beaks nor blues,” the horrid rumour ran from stem to stern; and not a few were sorely exercised in their minds as to how a limited knowledge of the French language, and a slender exchequer, would serve them in a trip to the Continent, much more bring them back again, should they miss the boat. Great, then, was the laughter at those who were beginning to believe in “the sell” when the paddles were backed, the chain-cable run out, and the smartest of the boatmen hooked their craft on to ropes hanging from the sponsons of the “Father Thames.” The ground was well chosen, under the lee of a high ridge of the river bank, in a level intersected by broad ditches, and approachable only by crossing a deep drain, bridged by a couple of stout scaffold planks, at each end of which was a cluster of ring-constables, who secured comparative safety to the single file of pilgrims, many of whom carried folding-seats from the steamer, forms, trestles, bundles of straw, baskets, and other conveniences, to say nothing of two enterprising Israelitish speculators, who, with dubious steps, staggered over the wooden bridge, amid the cheers and laughter of the admiring crowd, carrying a beer-barrel slung on a slight, springy pole. This bridge of Al Sirat passed, and “the land of promise” reached, the cheerful groups assembled round the outer rope, while the privilege-ticket holders, press-men, and officials, seated themselves on the stools aforesaid, or, with the best waterproof protection procurable, assumed recumbent positions on the damp and springy morass. The outer circle was soon after materially increased by a crowd of East Enders, conveyed by sundry steam-tugs, which, at a very low tariff, conveyed the multitude to the Kentish Champ de Mars.

And now the doughty champions hove in sight from a hovel where they had been ensconced. The American Ajax had for his armour-bearer Ben Caunt, and for his page King Dick, who certainly, in this instance, carried in his little noddle the larger portion of the scientific knowledge of the trio. The Slasher loomed large, enveloped in a long white frieze coat, his head surmounted by an Indian fur cap, with a ferocious wild-cat mask as a vizor, which he wore upon his forehead over his own hard, grinning physiognomy. Ben Terry and Harry Broome were his henchmen. On stripping it was evident that Freeman had increased in bulk by a stone and a half—18 stone 12 lbs. being the result told by the weighing-chair that morning. His confidence, too, seemed to have increased in a corresponding degree. The Slasher, on stripping, looked thinner, and certainly paler than when he last peeled in Cambridgeshire; but he had lost none of that careless, “dare-devil” expression for which his countenance is remarkable. A Scotch sportsman, and backer of M’Ginty, having accepted the onerous and difficult position of referee, the first battle was brought to the arbitrament of attack and defence.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—At thirteen minutes after twelve precisely the men were conducted to the scratch, shook hands, and threw themselves into position, the towering height and great bulk of Freeman presenting the same fearful odds we have before described. The Slasher dodged round his man, waiting for an opening, but he found the Giant ready to hit with him, and he had already felt the weight of his feelers with sufficient force to have the prudence of keeping at a distance. The Slasher tried his left and right, but was out of distance. The Giant followed him in his pirouettes, and at last, getting closer, hit out left and right; the former passed over the Slasher’s head, but the latter caught him slightly on the nut, and the Slasher went down.

2.—The Slasher again cautious and à la distance. Freeman followed his dodging manœuvres, and at last rushed in to hit, but the Slasher in getting away fell without being struck, and got up laughing.

3.—The Slasher got near to his man and let out with his left at the nob, but did not get home. Trifling exchanges with the left, the Slasher retreating, Freeman at him left and right, just reaching him, when the Slasher tumbled down. No mischief done.

4.—After renewed dodging the Slasher made himself up for mischief, feinted once or twice, and then hit out with his left. This brought the men to a rally, in which favours were exchanged, and the Slasher catching it on the nozzle showed first blood. After some wild fighting, in which hits were exchanged, the Slasher was down.

5.—Slasher cautious and getting away from the Giant; he at last steadied himself, and counter-hits with the left were exchanged. The Giant followed up his man to the corner, but missed both left and right, and Slasher got down.

6.—Counter-hits with the left, but no sting in them. The Giant hit out well with his right, but the Slasher dodged and got away. The Slasher was short with his left and right, and again got away. He returned to the charge, and caught Freeman slightly on the body with his left. Freeman returned the compliment on the temple, but it was more of a shove than a blow. Slasher hit short with his left, ducked, and got away laughing. The Giant steadied himself, waited for the attack, stopped the Slasher’s left, and caught him a stinger on the left ear with his right. The Slasher scrambled down in a sort of rally.

7.—The Slasher planted his right on the Giant’s shoulder, and got away; the Giant after him, and after exchanging left and right out of distance, the Slasher got down.

8.—Pretty exchanges left and right, and flesh marks left. The Slasher tried at the body with his left, stooped, and got away. The Giant pursued him, hitting wildly left and right. He at last caught the Tipton in his arms and chopped him on his head several times with his right, but without administering any serious punishment. The Slasher slipped down to avoid further hitting.

9.—The Slasher tried his left, was short, and got away. The Giant followed him as he dodged round the ring, but his blows did not reach their destination. After a wild scrambling rally the Slasher got down. There was a want of precision in Freeman’s deliveries which forbade the hope of execution.

10.—The Slasher dropped a heavy smack on the Giant’s ivories with his left, which, coming in contact with his teeth, inflicted a wound on his own finger, that bled profusely. He tried it again, but was short, as was the Giant in his attempt to return, and the Slasher fell on his knees.

11.—The Giant’s mouth showed the effect of the blow in the last round, his lips were swollen a little, and a tinge of blood was perceptible. The Slasher led off left and right; the former on the ribs, and the latter on the shoulder, and rushing in after a struggle, went down on his knees.

12.—The Slasher came up laughing, the Giant looking serious; counter-hits with the left. The Slasher dodged, and retreated towards the ropes; the Giant followed him impetuously, and missed his one two. The Slasher dropped, looked up, and laughed.

13.—The Slasher hit open handed, and retreated; he then tried to drop his left on the Giant’s dial, but his hand went over his shoulder; he then retreated, but finding the Giant rushing in for mischief, he dropped. [Cries of “foul,” but the umpires did not interfere.]

14.—The Slasher got home with his left, and dropped on the Giant’s jaw. The Giant returned the compliment on the cheek and ear, right and left, when the Slasher went down. It scarcely could be called a knock-down blow.

15.—The Slasher led off, and popped his left on the Giant’s mouth. The Giant after him, and caught him heavily with his right on the ear, which became seriously swollen. A rally, in which there were some heavy hits exchanged, and in the close the Slasher got down.

16.—The Slasher, as usual, commenced hitting out left and right, but did no execution, his blows being wide of their mark. Freeman to him left and right, but the deliveries were not effective. The Slasher down.

17.—Freeman popped a heavy smack with his right on the Slasher’s neck. The Slasher, stung, rushed in wildly. The Giant steadied himself, hit out well with his left, and the Slasher dropped.

18.—The Slasher made play left and right, was short, and went down. His second was observed rubbing his neck, and there was a little of the doldrum appearance in his phis.

19.—The Slasher hit short and only reached Freeman’s shoulder with his right. He then fought on the retreat to the corner, where he got down.

20.—The Slasher showed symptoms of blowing. He led off in his old wild way, evidently afraid of the return, and on the Giant lunging out right and left, he went down anyhow.

21.—Slasher short with his left, and caught it heavily from the Giant’s right on the ear; trifling exchanges, and the Slasher down.

22.—The Slasher again short in his deliveries. The Giant nailed him left and right, but not with much severity, then seized him in his arms and flung him down, walking contemptuously to his corner.

23, 24, 25, and 26.—Scrambling work, and Slasher down in every round.

27.—The injury to the Slasher’s left hand appeared to increase, but in this and the two following rounds no mischief was done, and he invariably dropped grinning.

28.—A wild blundering round, in which there was no precision on either side—the Slasher slipped down, but was up again and renewed the round. After a scrambling rally, the Slasher again got down, and slipped completely under the Giant’s fork, at whom he looked up and grinned.

29.—The Slasher hit short left and right, and threw himself down with a whop to avoid. Freeman laughed and shook his head, seeming to consider that it was intended to induce him to strike foul.

30.—The Slasher succeeded in planting a right-handed chopper on the Giant’s pimple, and got away. The Giant dashed after him, hitting left and right, and then endeavoured to seize him, but the Slasher slipped away and fell.

31, 32, 33, and 34.—The fighting wild and indecisive; in the last round, the Giant hit the Slasher down; but it struck us as rather a push than a blow.

35.—The Giant in left and right—the Slasher retreated—the Giant after him, but it was no go—he let fly right and left, and then went down. The ground now became extremely slippery for both men.

36.—Freeman led off, but was short and wild, and did not reach his man. Slasher popped in his right on the Giant’s shoulder, and in getting away went down.

37 and last.—Freeman ready, when the Slasher rushed to close quarters, struck him on the shoulder with his right, but, on the Giant attempting to return, he went down without a blow.

A call was made by the seconds of Freeman on the umpires, who disagreed, and on appealing to the referee he pronounced “foul;” and, no doubt, had a similar appeal been made to him before, he would have given a like decision.

The Giant was immediately proclaimed the winner, and was taken out of the ring after fighting thirty-nine minutes.

The Slasher came up again “fresh as paint,” and evidently but little injured by the contest. His left ear alone showed serious marks of punishment; it was much swollen and filled with coagulated blood. The finger of his left hand was likewise cut; but the contusions on his index were few and of trifling consequence. He seemed anxious to renew the contest, and denied that he had fallen purposely. The judgment had been pronounced, however, and there was no recalling it.

Johnny Broome was evidently mortified, and offered to put down a score for the Slasher to fight Ben Caunt, “then and there.” Spring said such a proposition savoured too much of passion and folly, but said Caunt was prepared to fight the Slasher or any man in England for from £100 to £500, and the money was always ready at his house.

Remarks.—This was altogether an unsatisfactory contest. The match was unequal, and the difference in the size of the men, Freeman having already shown no lack of personal bravery, left no room for speculation on the issue. Everybody foresaw that the Giant must be triumphant, notwithstanding he fought badly. In fact he did not hit at points, and missed most of his well-intentioned but ill-directed blows from the shifty character of his opponent, as well as from his own wild and uncertain mode of delivery. He hits round with his right, as the Slasher’s ear testified, and his left-handed deliveries are more like pokes than punishing hits. That he is a game man we have no doubt, but he is unwieldy, and possesses too much of “the milk of human kindness” ever to become a “star” in the Ring, even if his equal could be found. We are inclined to think, however, that this will have been his last appearance in the P.R., and should recommend him to choose some more suitable occupation—although as a sparrer, from his great size, he will always be an object of curiosity. The Slasher is a mere rough, who must be beaten by a well-scienced man. That he would have shown to more advantage with a man of his own pretensions and size we have no doubt; but with Freeman he felt he could not hope to win, and therefore became reckless and careless—seeking only how to escape those visitations which, had he made a “fair stand-up fight,” must have ended in more serious punishment. As it was, both escaped with comparatively trifling injuries, and remained to witness the subsequent fight. The contusions on the Slasher’s ear were reduced by a surgeon who was on board the steamer, and after a little ablution he was himself again, repeating that his going down without a blow was the effect of accident, and not of design—an assertion the truth of which few who saw the performance were disposed to admit.

The ring being cleared, and M’Ginty, the Scotchman, having defeated Bungaree (John Gorrick), the Australian, after a game battle of one hour and forty-seven minutes, the voyagers possessed of “return tickets” re-embarked on “Father Thames;” οι πολλος betaking themselves to their tugs, row-boats, and ten toes, as necessity might compel. Although it was dark ere the boat passed Blackwall, all were safely landed by seven p.m. at “Old Swan,” highly gratified with the good order preserved by the ring-constables, and the perfect arrangements of the managers for this great day’s “outing.”

As a compliment and a help to Dick Curtis, who, on the Tuesday, assiduously seconded both the Giant and Bungaree, his benefit was fixed for the following Thursday, at the Westminster Baths, which were crowded to excess by all classes, from the Corinthian to the costermonger. The crowd assembled was scarcely less numerous than at the Giant’s benefit, and the spirit in favour of boxing certainly more apparent. We were gratified to recognise Mr. Jackson, Tom Cribb, Tom Belcher, Tom Spring, Jem Burn, and most of the old originals. Freeman, the Slasher, and Bungaree showed, but M’Ginty was non inventus. Freeman and the Slasher scarcely displayed a scratch; but Bungaree showed a few marks of chasing and hammering on the mug, and his left hand was in a sling, the sinews of the knuckle having been divided. The setting-to was excellent and abundant, and included a long list of talented exhibitors. Among others, Johnny Broome and Johnny Hannan displayed great vigour and determination, and, after a matchless exhibition of talent, it would be difficult to say which “bore the bell.” Their exertions were rewarded by thunders of applause. Freeman and Caunt also elicited the warmest approbation, the Giant sparring with a freedom and ease that surprised many who were disinclined to believe in his improvement. The appearance of Tom Spring with the veteran Tom Belcher—who made his first appearance after a retirement of fourteen years from the sparring-schools—produced an enthusiastic sensation, and the set-to between these men afforded the greatest satisfaction. Belcher, by the beauty of his position, and quickness and neatness of his stops and hits, reminded us of what were indeed the palmy days of the Ring. Spring had the advantage in length and bulk of frame; still, the display was, upon the whole, a finished specimen of the science of self-defence. King Dick and Owen Swift, the retired champions of the light weights, wound up the sports, and were most favourably received.

Johnny Broome then mounted the stage, and announced that the Slasher would take a benefit in the same popular arena on Monday, January 2, at which Freeman and Caunt had kindly promised again to appear; and, by way of opening the New Tear, the Slasher would then be prepared to make a match with Caunt, at 13st. 4lb., for £100 a side. [This proposition had been previously made to Caunt, but he had declined.]

Tom Spring immediately mounted the stage, and said Johnny Broome well knew his challenge would not be accepted, as it was impossible for Caunt to reduce himself to the weight proposed. Caunt was ready to fight Slasher or any man in England, from £100 to £500, “catch weight;” but he (Tom Spring) knew too well the consequence of men reducing themselves below the natural standard to sanction such a proceeding. For himself, he could only say that he never fought 13st., and never barred weight, country, or colour, for he was satisfied 13st. was weight enough for anything living who meant fighting. He had stated Caunt’s terms, and if Slasher did not choose to accept them, there was no harm done.

Broome said he would not have made the proposition had not the Slasher told him that Caunt himself made the offer.

Thus ended this sensational burlesque on boxing. On the ensuing Tuesday the “Castle” was crowded to excess, on the occasion of the giving up of the stakes to the undoubted winner. Freeman, the Slasher, Caunt, Johnny Broome, Bungaree, cum multis aliis, were present. The Stakeholder, in rendering his due to the victor, observed that he should refrain from offering any comments on the character of the fight, but at the same time give Freeman every credit for his unassuming conduct since his arrival in this country, as well as for his strict observance in the ring of those principles of fair play which formed the groundwork of the rules of British boxing. He had never offered a challenge, but being challenged he could not with honour decline the invitation, but at the same time he entered the arena without the most remote hostility towards his opponent. He had come to this country on a friendly speculation in conjunction with Caunt, and he (the Stakeholder) believed the match had been made on the part of the Slasher rather to try the value of the weight of metal which Freeman carried when placed in competition with the old English breed, than from any anticipation that so small a craft could compete successfully with a vessel of such magnitude. The issue had shown that “the Giant” was too much for “the pigmy,” but as the experiment had been fairly tried, there was no ground for censure on either side. After some further remarks on the necessity of union among professional boxers themselves, a strict adherence to honesty and fair play, and a due sense of the necessity of propriety in their general demeanour, he handed the “flimsies” to Freeman.

Freeman immediately rose, and dusting the cobwebs from the ceiling with his “thatch,” expressed his deep sense of the kind and hospitable manner in which he had been received in this country. He confessed he touched English ground with different anticipations, but he was glad of the opportunity of acknowledging that in England neither country nor colour made any difference, and that all were alike sure of fair play. He came in company with Caunt rather to see England than for any other purpose, and being a little in the “glove fancy,” he thought he might bring it to account to pay expenses. He never entertained the idea of fighting, but being challenged, in justice to the United States, of which he was a native, he felt that he could not do less than stand by his flag when its character for courage was at stake. He should have great pride when he returned to Yankeeland in expressing his grateful feelings for the favours he had received, which were those rather to be expected by a brother than a stranger.[19]

An appeal was then made for the losing man, and a few pounds were realised, for which the Slasher returned thanks by giving his pimple an extra pull forwards.

“The British and American Flags,” with an ardent hope that they might never be unfurled but as the tokens of peace and union, was drunk with enthusiasm, and this was followed by the healths of Tom Cribb, Tom Spring, and Ben Caunt, the two past and present champions of England; to which was added the health of Johnny Broome, who denied that the imputations cast upon him of a disinclination to bring his man to “the scratch” had any foundation. He said he was already £115 out of pocket by the match, but that he believed the gentleman who had proposed the match would not suffer him to be the loser.

The year 1842 ended, and 1843 opened for the Slasher with a round of “benefits” in London, Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool, Dublin, &c., organised and engineered by the clever Johnny Broome, who showed his “golden belt” and intimated the immediate readiness of the Slasher to meet Caunt on “fair” terms, which, however, were, when they came to particulars, far from being “fair” in Big Ben’s estimation. A match with Wm. Renwick, of Liverpool, to fight for £50 on the 22nd of August, 1843, near Newcastle-upon-Tyne, ended in a severe disappointment, Renwick being arrested on the previous Saturday at his training quarters, when the whole of the stakes were down.

Perry lost no time in advertising his readiness for another customer, barring neither weight, country, nor colour, and Tass Parker, of West Bromwich, answered his cartel. Tass had just carried his fame to the summit by his defeat of Brassey of Bradford, after a game and scientific battle of 158 rounds, occupying two hours and fifty minutes, in August, 1841, and subsequently receiving £70 forfeit from Bendigo in June, 1842; the Nottingham champion being arrested at his brother’s instance, which the suspicious did not fail to attribute to Bendy “not fancying the job,” which was not the truth. Broome, who certainly was “nuts” on this match, went straight ahead, and Tass’s backers were equally fond, so that on Dec. 17th, the fight being fixed for Tuesday, Dec. 19th, 1843, we find the coming battle thus announced in Bell’s Life:—

“On Wednesday evening the ‘Rising Sun,’ in Air Street, was crowded to an overflow by patrons of the milling school, anxious to witness the completion of the stakes for the match between these men, which was duly accomplished according to articles. It was mutually agreed by the friends of both to ‘sport a toe on the water,’ according to modern usage, and the ‘Nymph’ Woolwich steamer has been chartered for the occasion. She will leave her moorings off Hungerford Market on Tuesday morning precisely at eight o’clock, drop down to London Bridge, and from thence ruffle the stream to Blackwall Pier, from whence she will make her final plunge towards the Nore, and we heartily wish her a pleasant and prosperous voyage. Tickets are on sale at Owen Swift’s, Johnny Broome’s, and Tom Spring’s, and we recommend an early application, as the number will necessarily be limited. Tass Parker has arrived in town, looking so ‘full of bloom’ that he has been backed at 6 to 4, and even 2 to 1. He certainly is quite up to the mark, and books winning as a point already gained. The Tipton Slasher has been finishing his training at Stockbridge, under the watchful eye of Levi Eckersley, who pronounces him right well, and fit for the battle-field. We had heard that the Slasher had hurt his right arm in setting-to with Harry Broome, at Bristol; but of this we have no personal knowledge, and learn that the blemish has been completely removed. Were it otherwise, we should scarcely anticipate that Johnny Broome, who says he has had to find almost all the money, would have gone on with the match, and he certainly speaks with great confidence. Parker has been visible at Owen Swift’s every evening since Wednesday, and the Tipton Slasher will be at Johnny Broome’s, Air Street, Piccadilly, to-morrow evening. That Parker is a most accomplished fighter none will doubt, but against this comes the rough and ready tact of the Slasher, who combines courage with superior weight. All we can hope is, that we shall have a fair and manly contest, and that the best man may win.”

How little these expectations were realised, and these good wishes availed in the event, may be read in the tale we shall now briefly deliver; for we consider that a detailed account of the shifty and contemptible farce performed by Parker, which occupied more than two columns of small print in Bell’s Life of December 24, 1843, would be mere waste of space in a work like the present. This is more especially the case when we find that the second and adjourned fight (which we shall give) was as wearisomely similar in character and incidents to the first.

Suffice it, then, to say, that the voyage per steamer was safely carried out, and that the attendance of amateurs and professionals was immense, notwithstanding the severity of the weather and the dreary and inhospitable character of the Dartford Marshes, whereon the ring was pitched. Peter Crawley having consented to preside as referee, the performance began. In the opening rounds Parker displayed his superior skill, both in getting on to his man and getting away; but the Tipton had certainly greatly improved under the skilful mentorship of the Broomes, and was no longer the mere hardy rough which many yet considered him. He every now and then waited for, timed, and neatly stopped his clever and crafty assailant, inflicting severe punishment with his right upon Parker, who, finding he could not get near enough to deliver without exposing himself to heavy returns, soon began to fight shy. Indeed, round after round, after getting in a blow, Parker resorted to the reprehensible dropping system, not only to avoid hitting, but also to provoke and irritate his less skilful adversary and thus tempt him to deliver a foul blow, or, at the worst, to bring the fight to a “tie,” “draw,” or “wrangle.” In this way sixty-seven rounds were fought, with no prospect of an approach to the decision of the battle. At this period—one hour and thirty-four minutes having been consumed—the Kentish constabulary made their appearance, and stopped the tedious exhibition. The company, of necessity, re-embarked, and the disappointed excursionists returned to the Metropolis.

At a meeting of the men and their backers, at Peter Crawley’s (the referee’s), to arrange when and how their interrupted encounter should be concluded, Johnny Broome, on the part of the Tipton, asked a postponement for three months, and produced the following medical certificate:—

“194, Blackfriars Road. Dec. 25, 1843.

“This certifies that we reduced a fracture of the fore-arm of William Perry on or about the 7th of November, and a fracture of the lower jaw on the evening of the 19th of December. These serious injuries will require a period of at least three months before he can be in a situation to fight again.

“CHARLES AND JOHN BRADY, Surgeons.”

Parker, after some protestation against so long a delay, was met by Broome consenting to name that day ten weeks for the renewal of hostilities. Parker insisting on eight weeks, Broome consented to “split the difference,” and, finally, that day nine weeks was agreed upon.

The adjourned battle was fixed for Tuesday, the 27th of February, 1844. Peter Crawley, who had been referee on the first occasion, declaring he had no further interest in the affair, left it to the parties themselves to settle their future proceedings. This was done by Jem Parker (Tass’s brother), on the part of his Birmingham backers, and Johnny Broome, on behalf of the Slasher. It was decided to engage a special train on the Brighton line (an experiment which had proved successful on some recent occasions). The tickets, at 10s. 6d. each, were secured under the guise of “an excursion;” the departure and return being arranged with the manager, so as not to interfere with the order and regularity of the traffic at the London Bridge terminus.

In consequence of the damage received by both men in their previous encounter, they were early sent into training, Tass Parker at Finchley, the Slasher near Tring, and, in point of condition, no two men could have been brought into better trim.

The time appointed for departure was nine o’clock, and before that hour the terminus-platform was crowded by persons of all classes, among whom we distinguished many members of the “upper ten thousand,” some of whom had travelled long distances to be witness of what they hoped would be a fair and manly mill. All were soon seated, and at a few minutes to ten the iron-horse puffed and panted his way out of the station, and after a single draw-up of a few minutes at Croydon, for the passing of a down train, disembarked its living freight at Horley (about twenty-five miles from London) at a little before eleven.

The excursionists, immediately on alighting, repaired to the “King’s Arms” inn, and about half a mile thence, across Horley Common, the Commissary obtained the use of a field, high and dry, and screened by a dense belt of evergreen trees from the view of travellers by road or by the Brighton line. The weather was delightful; but although there had been a sharp frost during the night, the genial influence of the sun had produced an unwelcome change in the roads and paths leading to the field of action, and as all had to find their way to the “fixture” upon their ten toes, the quagmire through which they had to wade, however agreeable it might be in softness to their corns, was anything but favourable to the polish on their trotter-cases, or pleasant to those who happened not to have the good fortune to be well shod. These little difficulties having been got over, the greatest good-humour prevailed, and all waited anxiously for the appearance of the men.

With a view to prevent the inconvenience of the slippery state of the sward, a quantity of sawdust was obtained, which was liberally spread at the corners chosen by the men for their resting places. For the accommodation of the members of the inner ring there was an ample supply of stools, benches, and trusses of straw; while a few waggons, after the fashion of times gone by, afforded comfortable standing-places for those who preferred the outer circle. The new plan of one person disposing of the tickets of privilege was on this occasion adopted by Tom Spring, who undertook subsequently to distribute the proceeds amongst those men who assisted in preserving order. The plan proved most effective, and it is but justice to state that all those who paid for the privilege of the inner ring were most pleasantly located, and were enabled to sit comfortably without the usual incursion of the “Vandals,” a result productive of the highest satisfaction. That the partisans of the men occasionally indulged in chaff we will not deny; but this, however unseemly, did not lead to any encroachment upon general good order, and in this respect the expressions of approval were general. Spring, Caunt, Crawley, Jem Burn, the Greeks (old and young), Barney Aaron, Young Reid, Bill Jones, cum multis aliis, assisted in this desirable plan, and kept the disorderlies in control.

Shortly before one o’clock, everything being in readiness, the men were brought to the field, Tass Parker attended by Fuller and Tom Reidie, and the Slasher by Bob Castles and a Nottingham amateur. The former sported a flag of blue, with a white spot, and the latter a stone colour, with a pink spot. On entering the ring, they shook hands with apparent good humour, and each retired to his corner to prepare. Then came the important question, the selection of umpires and a referee. With respect to the former no difficulty was felt, and an amateur for the Slasher, and Jack Hannan for Parker, were named. The choice of a referee, however, was not so easily adjusted, and nearly an hour was wasted in discussing the merits of various persons named by both parties, each on his own especial behalf objecting to those offered by his opponent. On the part of Parker it seemed to be determined to have only one of four persons, and to five or six named by the Slasher, some of whom were persons of the highest respectability, a decided objection was made. In this way time progressively, but unprofitably, advanced, and the greatest impatience was displayed. At length Johnny Broome, on behalf of the Slasher, said he was willing that each should select a referee, and that those two persons should decide by toss which was to act, but this met with as firm an opposition as anything by which it had been preceded. Johnny Broome then offered to adopt any gentleman who might be selected from the surrounding crowd, unknown to either party, but to this there was again a negative response, and still more time was lost, while the patience of the throng was put to the severest test from their inactivity and the chilling blast to which they were exposed. All this time the men remained wrapped in blankets at their respective corners. The Slasher now rose from his bottle-holder’s knee, and approaching Parker, offered to fight without a referee, the fight to be protracted until one or other gave in, but still the obstinacy of Parker’s friends was not to be overcome. Finally, after the expiration of an hour at least, the stakeholder, who was present, stepped into the arena, urged on by the repeated expressions of discontent from the surrounding multitude, and having recapitulated the various propositions which had been made, declared that, unless Tass Parker and his friends thought proper to agree either to toss for choice of referee or to fight without one, he should feel it his duty to give up the stakes to that man who was willing to abide by one or other of these propositions. The backer of Tass Parker, finding that he had no alternative, at last agreed that the men should fight without a referee; a resolution for which the subsequent conduct of his principal throughout the fight afforded a sufficient reason, for had any fair and honest referee been in office, there is no doubt that he must have lost the fight over and over again. The interference of the stakeholder was hailed with universal approbation, and the men forthwith proceeded to peel for action, while the “All out!” of the Commissary and the ring-keepers sent the stragglers to their posts.

The umpires having taken their seat close together, provided with a time-telling chronometer, and all being removed from the immediate vicinity of the ring—with the exception of one individual to take charge of the water, and other refreshments of each combatant—Johnny Broome for the Slasher, and Parker’s namesake for his protége (a most wholesome arrangement under the New Rules) business commenced.

Nothing but the force of habit could have made us write the words “The Fight” at the head of the extraordinary and disgraceful parody on a stand-up battle which we are now about to describe. It is, however, only proper to premise that the Slasher must be entirely exonerated from any personal share in this discreditable libel on the already falling P.R., and therefore “to put the saddle on the right horse,” we proceed to our account of

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The men came up with their hands in good position, and after manœuvring for a short time Parker let fly his left, which was cleverly stopped. This led to a rally, in which very trifling hits were exchanged left and right, but as they were out of distance no harm was done, with the exception of a slight discolouration on the Slasher’s right cheek. Parker, in getting away from the Slasher’s rush, fell on one knee.

2.—Parker again advanced bold as brass, looking all over confident, while the Slasher was not less prepared for action. After a few dodges, advancing and retreating, Parker popped in his left on the Slasher’s cheek. The Slasher fought wildly left and right, missing some of his hits, but planting his right heavily on the ribs under Parker’s left arm. Wild exchanges, when, as Parker was slipping on his knees, the Slasher caught his head under his arm, held it as if in a vice, and hung on him till he fell tumbling on him. The exchanges were trifling in their consequences, and a little flush on the skin was the only indication of punishment.

3.—Parker came up obviously undismayed by the result of the last struggle, and apparently resolved to do his best. He tried his left, which the Slasher neatly threw aside with his right. The Slasher then advanced, hitting left and right wildly, and Parker stepping back to avoid execution. Trifling exchanges with the left. Parker again away, and watching for an opening to advance; dodging left and right, but no hitting. Parker stole a march, popped his left in slightly on the Slasher’s mouth, and broke away, the Slasher wildly after him, hitting left and right, but Parker slipped down on his knees and evaded receiving, thus commencing his old system. On the Slasher being picked up, blood was visible from his domino case, and this event was declared in favour of Parker.

4.—Parker again prepared to lead off, advancing and retreating, finding the Slasher ready to hit or stop. At last he hit out with his left, which the Slasher stopped, and then rushing in left and right he administered a trifling upper cut with the latter. Parker retired to his corner, the Slasher after him. Parker, in ducking to avoid, slipped on his knees, but was up again in an instant and popped in his left. The Slasher hit out left and right without precision, and after a wild, scrambling rally, without mischief, Parker slipped down.

5.—Slasher first up to the scratch, waiting for the attack. Parker dodged with his left once or twice, but not within distance. At length he got closer to his man, popped in his left on the Slasher’s jaw, who countered slightly with the left, rushing after Parker, who retreated to the corner, where he slipped down to avoid, the Slasher dropping on his knees beside him.

6.—Both ready, but Parker afraid to approach his man. The Slasher hit out left and right, but was out of distance, and Parker broke away. Parker again dodging for an opening, and on getting close up to the work, left-handed counters were exchanged, but the impressions were trifling. A wild rally, in which the Slasher got a slap on the mug, and Parker a heavy hit on the ribs from the Slasher’s right. A scrambling exchange of hits left and right, when Parker slipped down. The hitting was wild, and anything but effective.

7.—The Slasher’s mug somewhat flushed, but anything but serious in its aspect. Parker feinted with his left and popped in a pretty crack with his right on the Slasher’s jaw, and then broke away. Dodging, but no hitting. The Slasher hit out left and right, but was short; Parker retreated to his corner; wild but ineffective exchanges left and right, and Parker dropped on his knees.

8.—Both at the scratch at the call of time. Parker tried his left, but was stopped; advancing and retreating. Parker endeavoured to steal a march, but was unable to get home, and the Slasher retired laughing. Parker again advanced, while the Slasher retreated; neither would go near enough to get to work. At last they got to a wild rally, missing their hits, and Parker retreating. Having reached Parker’s corner, the Slasher weaved left and right, but did not plant his intended compliments. Parker slipped down, the Slasher upon him. Parker’s right was puffed from the effect of one of his flying nobbers.

9.—Offers, but no blows. The Slasher tried his right at Parker’s nob, but was beautifully stopped, and Parker broke away. Parker advanced ready to hit with his left, when the Slasher rushed wildly to him, weaving left and right, catching Parker on the left ear with the latter. In the scramble which followed Parker slipped down, the Slasher upon him.

10.—Parker’s ear flushed, and his nose following suit in a slight degree. Parker advanced, but retreated the next moment, and the Slasher went to him. On getting to his corner there were slight exchanges with the left; the Slasher hit over Parker’s head with his right, and Parker dropped.

11.—Parker slow to the scratch, and on the Slasher advancing he retreated to the ropes. A wild exchange of hits with the left, when Parker again slipped down on his knees.

12.—No mischief done as yet, although Parker’s flesh under the arm indicated the visitations to which it had been subject. Attempts left and right, in which both missed their blows. Parker broke away, slipped on one knee, but jumped up again. Wild exchanges, Slasher trying his left and right. Parker, ducking to avoid the Slasher, retreated, but again rushed to the charge, weaving left and right, ultimately slipping on his knees, amidst the cries of “cur.”

13.—No sooner at the scratch than the Slasher advanced; Parker immediately retreated to the ropes, the Slasher after him; the Slasher hit out right and left, but Tass ducked under his arm, and escaped the intended compliments. Parker dropped on one knee, but again sprang up and caught the Slasher on the cheek with his left. Slasher missed his left and right, and Parker fell.

14.—Parker fought on the retreat: a wild scrambling rally to the corner, and the Slasher slipped down.

15.—Parker advanced and retreated, the Slasher after him, to his corner. Wild attempts at hitting left and right on the part of the Slasher, but he was out of distance, and missed. The Slasher then bored Parker down on the ropes, himself falling over outside the ring.

16.—Still no indications of serious mischief. The Slasher desirous of going to work, Parker retreating. The Slasher weaving left and right; an exchange of hits with the latter, and the Slasher again popped in his right on Parker’s ear, from whence blood was visible. The Slasher closed, forced Parker down on his knees, and fell on him.

17.—Parker on the retreat to his corner, the Slasher after him. Exchanges with the left and right, Parker getting prettily home with the former. A wild rally, both missing their blows, when Parker dropped.

18.—Slasher the first to the scratch, and full of fight; Parker retreated to his corner, the Slasher after him. Slasher hit out left and right, but without precision. Parker, on his guard, went down without attempting to hit.

19.—The Slasher, as usual, the first to obey the call of time. Parker tried his left, but was cleverly stopped. The Slasher then rattled to him; Parker evidently ready to drop, when the Slasher slipped and fell.

20.—Parker hugging his corner, when the Slasher rattled to him, but missed; wild hits left and right. Parker popped in his left and broke away. Slasher again to the charge, followed his man, caught him a heavy whack with his right on the jaw, from the effects of which Parker staggered and fell. The first knock-down blow for the Slasher.

21.—Tass’s left stopped, and the Slasher rushed in wildly left and right. In the exchanges the Slasher had it on the mouth, but again planted his right on his shifty opponent’s pimple, when he got down.

22.—The Slasher the favourite, and offers to back him at evens. The Slasher first on his pins. Parker retreated, the Tipton after him, hitting wildly left and right, when Parker dropped, but jumped up, hit out with his left, caught the Slasher slightly, and again fell, amid exclamations of disgust.

23.—Parker slow from his corner, the Slasher to him, when, after wild exchanges left and right, with no execution, Tass went down.

24.—Parker came up evidently a dastard in spirit, and upon the Slasher rushing to him he slipped down, amidst the cries of “cur!” and “coward!” Blood was now flowing freely from the knuckle of Parker’s left hand, which had in some of the previous rounds come in contact with the Slasher’s tooth. From this to the thirtieth round Parker pursued the same cowardly game of making a show as if he intended to fight, but the moment the Slasher went to him to hit left and right purposely dropping, and thereby avoiding the mischief which might be effected. The Slasher was greatly incensed, turned round as if appealing to the spectators, who shouted “cur!” and “coward!” with stentorian voices. The Slasher’s umpire repeatedly cried “foul,” and nothing could have been more decidedly opposed to every rule of fair play; but Hannan, Parker’s umpire, did not respond. He was silent, but it was not difficult to discover which way his feelings inclined. In the thirtieth round Parker, after retreating to his corner, endeavoured to get down to avoid one of the Slasher’s wild rushes. The Slasher endeavoured to hold him up, but in vain; down he went, and the Slasher dropped on him with his knees. Parker’s backer immediately claimed “foul” amidst the derision of all around him. It would be an insult to the understandings of our readers if we were to pursue our description of the 102 imaginary rounds which followed, during which Parker went down fifty times at least, the Slasher most forbearingly avoiding all temptations to strike or even to fall on him so as to afford pretence for a claim of “foul.” More than once Tass threw up his feet so as almost to kick at his man as he rolled or scrambled over him, after missing his one, two. It was in vain that the Slasher essayed to nail him left and right. He ducked and tumbled whenever there was the slightest chance of sustaining a hit, inducing universal marks of disgust at his cowardice, and the words “cur” and “coward” resounding from all quarters.

In the fifty-seventh round the Slasher was lucky enough to afford him another excuse for a fall, by giving him a home slap from the left on the mouth, and laying him prostrate, while he pointed at him with derision. The real motive for refusing to agree to the appointment of an impartial referee now admitted of no doubt. It had been foreseen that such a man would have long before this settled the point at issue by declaring the battle won over and over again by the Slasher. But even the absence of such a character did not serve the intended purpose. Hannan, who acted as umpire, declared his situation to be of a most unenviable description. He looked appealingly to all around him, and, satisfied that the conduct of Parker was at variance with every principle of honour and fair play, he repeatedly sent to warn him that if he persisted in the same atrocious cowardice he must agree with the repeated claims of his co-umpire, who in vain called for his honest and impartial judgment. The poor fellow actually trembled with vexation at the shouts of derision which were directed towards his man, and at length, in the 126th round, on Parker going down without the most remote shadow of a blow, unless the wind of the Slasher’s fist could deserve that character, he involuntarily exclaimed, in conjunction with his co-partner, and in accordance with the universal exclamations from every quarter of the ring, “foul!” This conduct on the part of Hannan elicited loud approbation, but in a moment he was surrounded by a knot of the most outrageous partisans of Parker, who threatened instant annihilation if he dared to repeat his just opinion. It was in vain we looked for the honest co-operation of the real members of the Ring to drive these ruffians from the arena—they ruled the roost with unblushing impudence, and treated those who cried shame on their conduct with insolence and contempt. At last a second appeal was made to Hannan, but he was dumb, and nothing but a renewal of the fight would satisfy his assailants, and renewed the disgraceful scene was, but with a perfect anticipation of what must be the ultimate result. Many gentlemen, old and sincere patrons of fair boxing matches, retired from the discreditable exhibition. The backer of Tass Parker asserted that he was so weak as to be incapable of keeping his legs, while every person who had the power of exercising the commonest judgment saw that when he thought proper he could stand as firmly on his pins as when he commenced. He had not, in fact, received a blow which could have, in the slightest degree, impaired his vigour, and were his heart in the right place, he was just as capable of continuing operations as at the commencement of the fight. Hannan having resumed his seat, but pale as ashes, and shaking like an aspen leaf, the farce was renewed, and for seven rounds more Parker got up but to fall in the same dastardly manner which had marked his career. In the 133rd round he made a show of fighting, and exchanges left and right took place. Parker then retreated towards the ropes, the Slasher after him. When the Slasher was about to commence his wild and indecisive deliveries left and right, Parker, finding he could not get away, for the last time dropped without a blow, and the shouts of “cur” and “coward” were renewed with additional indignation. This was too much for Hannan, and incapable longer of stultifying himself and the Ring, of which he had been, and is, a gallant member, he at once agreed with the umpire on the other side that Parker had fallen without a blow, and had thereby lost the fight. Thus ended this libel on the “manly sports of the Ring.” The roughs were taken by surprise, and were incapable of stemming the torrent of general indignation; but the weak and powerless Parker, in order to justify the false opinion expressed by his backer, jumped up with the vigour of a lion, and rushing to the corner where Johnny Broome stood, having possessed himself of the colours which had been tied round the stakes, tore his own colours from his hand, thereby proving that weakness was the least excuse which could be offered for his poltroonery. Everybody except the partisans of Parker was rejoiced at the termination of this most contemptible display, and heartily concurred in the propriety of Hannan’s conduct.

The battle, if it may be so called, admits of but few remarks. The Slasher fought with a wildness and want of precision which enabled Parker to protract the struggle almost indefinitely; for had he been lucky enough to give him one or two stingers, his heart, which was not bigger than a pea, would have forced him at once to shut up; but by his contemptible shifting and dropping he escaped the visitation, and thus owed the confirmation of his defeat to his own pusillanimity. It is stated that the injury to Parker’s right hand early in the fight had disabled that limb, and that he acted under an impression that as there was no referee he had a right to protract the battle by any device, till one or other was incapable of obeying the call of time—that is to say, that every principle which renders boxing praiseworthy should be abandoned, and its worse enemies gratified. In other words, that he might exercise a treacherous strike and drop from the return. Such an argument would not be recognised by the veriest tyro in the P.R. The Slasher, also, complained of his right arm being injured, from having come in contact with Parker’s nob early in the contest, but he certainly brought it into use notwithstanding this injury.

All being over, the crowd returned to the train, stopping at the “King’s Arms” to partake of such refreshment as that hostelrie afforded, which, from long privation, became most acceptable. Parker went through the farce of going to bed, but soon afterwards joined his co-travellers in the train, and all were quickly wafted to the London Bridge terminus once more, from whence they took their departure to their respective quarters. The Slasher scarcely bore a mark of punishment, and on arriving at Johnny Broome’s was hailed with general acclamations. Some of Parker’s friends expressing doubts of his qualities, he announced that he was ready to make a fresh match for £200 a side with his opponent.

On the following Wednesday the stakeholder, notwithstanding a notice of action from Parker’s backers, gave up the stakes (£200) to Johnny Broome, under a guarantee, and of course all bets went with the battle-money. We shall pass over the cloud of correspondence, challenges, and counter-challenges which ensued, to come to the renewed match, which, after innumerable delays, was finally made in the early months of 1846.

On the 4th of August, 1846, Parker for the third and last time entered the ring with “the Tipton,” assuring his somewhat sceptical friends that he had “screwed his courage to the sticking place” and determined to do or die. As the Slasher was now viewed by many as the “coming champion” the final contest between him and his scientific but soft-hearted opponent will be read with interest.

Lindrick Common, Nottinghamshire, eight miles from Sheffield, was the scene of action, the ropes and stakes being furnished by the Manchester Commissary. The attendance of the “upper crust” was by no means numerous, but there was a tidy sprinkling of Yorkshire sportsmen of the north-country Fancy, and a perfect crowd of swarthy miners and pitmen from the neighbouring districts as far as Chesterfield and Derby. An excellent ring was formed, and, as the writer can testify, a degree of order observed which might well shame the “roughs” nearer home. At half-past eleven o’clock the men entered the ring, Reid, of Sheffield, and Nobby Clarke waiting on the Slasher, Jem Parker and Cottrell, of Birmingham, seconding Tass. The betting was tolerably brisk at five to four on Parker, whose friends seemed to be in the ascendant, and certainly better “breeched” than those from “the Potteries.” After nearly an hour’s delay, owing to objections to several parties named as referee—the representative of Bell’s Life positively declining—Squire Edison accepted the office amidst acclamations, and the men faced each other for

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The attitude of Parker, his left well up in a line with his left foot, and his right fore-arm slightly bent, and below the level of his left elbow, was graceful and attractive; he stood firm, yet springy, poised lightly on his forward foot, and was equally prepared for advance or retreat. His condition appeared first-rate, and his weight, 11st. 6lb., seemed well distributed for activity and powerful effort; his countenance was smiling and confident, and his age (33 years) sat lightly upon him. His massive and ungainly antagonist offered a striking contrast; brown, burly, and, as Paddy would say, “big for his size,” he grinned grotesquely at his slighter rival, nor was the oddity of his mirthful mug by any means lessened by the fact of his front railings having been displaced in bygone battles. He, too, was hard, and had evidently been brought, by severe training, into as good condition as we have ever seen him on former occasions. From the waist to the shoulders he was a model for a gladiator, but we doubt if the artist or the sculptor would feel inclined to copy his capital or his pedestals, inasmuch as the first is, despite a comic expression of good-humour, as odd a conglomeration of features as Gillray or Cruikshank would desire to pencil; while the latter more resemble the letter K than the parallel supports which society has agreed to term symmetrical. His weight was 13st. 4lb.; his age twenty-seven, having been born in 1819, although the displacement of his grinders gave him a more antique aspect. Little time was lost in sparring, for the Slasher, his left presented and his right kept close to the mark, walked in upon his man, grinning mischief. Tass let go his left, but was stopped rather neatly; he broke ground and retreated, but the Slasher, working round, forced him into his corner, where several sharp and rapid exchanges took place, Parker twice popping in his left, but ineffectively, and the Slasher countering, in one instance with a heavy hit on Tass’s chest. After a little manœuvring, the Tipton, resolved to force the fighting, stepped gradually in, Tass retreating, and endeavouring to plant his favourite job; it was no go; taught by previous experience, the Tipton would not make play until his opponent let loose, and then, with more tact than we have hitherto seen him display, he countered with his left, and bringing up his right, caught Tass a sounder on the ribs. Toss leaped back, but renewed the hitting merrily, getting down at close quarters to avoid a return of the Tipton’s right.

2.—Tass, serious, looked as if measuring his work; the Tipton grinning. Fast fighting for big’uns seemed the order of the day. Tass got in on the Slasher’s mouth, who followed him fiercely, screwing himself up for mischief. Tass fought beautifully, but there seemed little sting in his deliveries; there was some excellent mutual stopping, which elicited applause, especially for the Slasher, of whom it was least expected. Tass again got in one on the Tipton’s chest, who returned it with his right, and Tass went to earth, half with his own consent.

3.—The Slasher came up on the grin, and walked into his opponent without delay. Parker again fought well, though both were over fast. Merry work, but little harm done, till Tass sent his right, straight as an arrow, on the Tipton’s left jaw, and down went his house, Parker also falling from his own blow. An uproarious chevy; first knock-down for Parker.

4.—Parker came up cautious, with an ugly cut over the right eyebrow. First blood for the Slasher. A short round; the Tipton again drove Tass before him to his corner, where he got down to avoid.

5.—As before, the Slasher seemed to have made up his mind there should be no idling; no sooner at the scratch than he was at work. Tass popped at him, but was short, and the Tipton missed his counter-hit. The Slasher laughed, and tried it again, but was stopped. A little rally at the ropes, and Parker, after an exchange or two, dropped on his knees.

6.—Tass manœuvring, Tipton fighting, but not getting home. Tipton’s seconds advised him to wait for Tass’s play; he did so, and was rewarded by success. He met Parker, as he jumped in, with the left, and bringing up his right gave him a ribber that laid him on the earth, half doubled up.

7.—Slasher too fast, his opponent too slow. A short specimen of “You run away, and see if I don’t come after you.” At length Tass popped in a blow on Slasher’s shoulder, who closed. A brief struggle followed; the Tipton got the crook with his crooked leg, and threw Tass, falling with his broad base on his antagonist’s victualling store. It was a burster (two to one on the Slasher).

8.—A short bout of hitting, stopping, and feinting. Tipton let fly, Tass slipped away and got down cunning.

9.—Slasher’s left neatly stopped, and Parker’s return parried. Parker flared up for a moment, and got in one, two, but produced no impression on his man, who went in laughing. Tass tried to evade him, but the Slasher closed; both down after a struggle, during which Tass’s hand was seen across the Tipton man’s face, and a cry of “foul” was raised. Some confusion; Slasher appealed to the referee, charging Parker with the unmanly act of biting him in a previous round, when he was in the act of throwing him, and in this round of an attempt to injure his eye. The referee ordered the men to proceed.

10.—Tass came up with a large black patch on his sinister eyebrow, and his most prominent feature somewhat damaged. Tipton eagerly after him, but Tass was too shifty to be immediately had; he gave the Slasher two pops; the latter, however, was with him, and ultimately hit him down.

11.—Tass held his arms almost at full extent, and manœuvred round his man; the Slasher, more cautious, faced him steadily. At length the men got nearer, exchanged blows, and Tass fell to finish the round.

12.—So soon as up the Tipton went in, but Tass declined the compliment, and avoiding his one, two, which were wasted on thin air, got down anyhow.

13.—Half a minute’s posturing. Tass plunged in with his left, but was short; tried his right, but was stopped. The Slasher got close, Tass was unable to hit him off, and he delivered a half-arm pounder with his right. Tass fell because this time he could not help it.

14.—Tass played with his man; he seemed more than half tired of his job. The Tipton leary, and not to be drawn by feints. Slasher went in, and down tumbled Tass, amidst shouts of disapprobation.

15.—Parker came up slowly; good stops on both sides; Tipton, quitting the defensive, rattled in; Tass rallied sharply, but in the end received an ugly upper-cut on the dial, and fell.

16.—Tass somewhat disfigured, while the Tipton’s ugly mug seemed altogether unaltered. After some slight exchanges Tass dropped.

17.—Parker’s tactics seemed at fault; he sparred a few seconds, but on the Slasher stepping in, found his way to the ground rather equivocally.

18.—Tass flared up momentarily. He tried it on with both hands in succession. Tipton cleverly foiled him; indeed, Tass did not get near enough to his man to do work. Tipton returned. The old game was played—Tass selected his mother earth.

19.—Tass’s left again short; he was too fond of long bowls. A close, and Tass got down as well as he could.

20.—Parker made play, and getting a little nearer, dropped his bunch of fives on the Tipton’s mouth; tried it again, but fell short, and got a left-handed nobber in return that floored him neatly.

21.—Both Tass’s hands seemed to have lost their cunning. His heart was not big enough to carry him in, nor, when there by accident, to allow him to stand a rally. He fought badly and out of distance, and at length scrambled down to avoid the resolute charge of the Slasher, who gave him a nasty one on the side of the nut as he was on his journey to earth.

22.—Perry drove his man all across the ring. Some pretty exchanges. Parker got home on Tipton’s dial, who missed the return. A short, irregular rally. Tass again got in once or twice, but they seemed mere taps. At length the Slasher, who had been screwing himself up, sent out his left straight as an arrow at his opponent’s head. The concussion was like the kick of a coach-horse, took effect at the base of Parker’s left nostril, and he fell as if shot. “It’s all over,” was the cry; and the Tipton remained for some time in the middle of the ring to favour the company with a few polka steps, for which his swing leg was peculiarly adapted.

23 and last.—Tass, to the astonishment of all, came up at the call of time, but it was evident the last hit had been a settler and had sent his faculties all abroad. Although he assumed an attitude, he stared perplexedly at his opponent, and swerved from the perpendicular as he broke ground. The Tipton surveyed him a moment before he stepped forward, but no sooner did Tass perceive his approach, than, either from bewilderment or a faint heart, he fell forward on both knees, and thence on his hands. The Slasher turned appealingly to the umpires and referee, without having even offered to strike. The case was clear; and amid the shouts of the multitude the Slasher was greeted as the conqueror. Time, twenty-seven minutes.

Remarks.—The Slasher fought better than we have seen him on any previous occasion; his confidence and condition—of which latter absurd rumours were afloat—were on a par with his coolness and courage. To the former he added tact in waiting for his opponent’s delivery of a blow, and a skill in counter-hitting for which we did not give him credit; this, added to his physical superiority in weight and thews, left his lighter and more active opponent almost without a chance, and the contest was reduced to a mere question of time, the ultimate result being scarcely within the scope of doubt. Of the defeated man we can only say that although he fought three or four rounds in a spirited—nay, an almost desperate manner, his conduct in the vast majority so much savoured of Falstaff’s “better part of valour,” that his claim to the character of a game man still remains unproven, while his attribute of skill, so loudly vaunted by his infatuated admirers, has suffered considerably by this exhibition; this, however, may partly be owing to the improvement in his antagonist’s tactics which, by frustrating his earlier efforts, so disheartened him that he never showed to less advantage. The question of superiority can no longer be mooted; Tass’s quickness and skill have lost their striking advantage, while the Slasher’s strength and pluck, on this occasion seconded by a respectable amount of science, have by no means fallen off. Tass’s friends attribute his defeat to his having had two ribs broken in the seventh round, from the Slasher falling heavily on him, and he certainly remained under the surgeon’s hands, who confirmed the aforesaid fracture.

After the above battle, the Tipton Slasher issued a challenge to Caunt to fight for £100 a side; this Caunt declined to do, and staked £500 in the hands of the editor of Bell’s Life, declaring, at the same time, his willingness to fight the Slasher for £500, but for no smaller sum. Much angry correspondence passed between them, which is utterly unworthy of preservation; and in the latter part of 1846 Johnny Broome presented a belt to the Slasher, whereon Caunt lowered his terms to £200, with a stipulation that if that condition was not accepted within a month, his retirement from the Ring was absolute. This, however, was not suitable to Broome and Co., though the Slasher was ready and willing.[20]

We may hear note, retrospectively, that in December, 1844, yet another “big ’un” had made his debut in the P.R., who, in a future chapter, will figure among the numerous candidates for the much-wrangled Championship. This was Tom Paddock, who, in the month of December, beat Elijah Parsons, at Sutton Coldfield. Following this, he twice defeated Nobby Clarke, a chicken-hearted but scientific 12-stone man, in January, 1846, and in April, 1847. Paddock’s next venture was with the renowned Bendigo, with whom he lost the battle by a foul blow, June 5, 1850.

In September, 1849, the Tipton, having forfeited to Con Parker, on account of ill-health, was challenged thereafter by Tom Paddock, soon after the latter had lost what many thought to be a winning fight with Bendigo. In this affair, by some shuffling on the part of Perry’s money-finders, a curious “draw” was manipulated, neither of the parties being ready to go on at the fourth deposit, on August 22nd, 1850, taking back their stakes by mutual consent. The Slasher, finding other and more reliable friends, renewed the articles, and on December 17th, 1850, the rivals at last came together, face to face, in the ring. The Tipton trained for this encounter under Levi Eckersley, near Liverpool, while Paddock had his advice and exercise with Bob Fuller and Jem Turner, than whom two better trainers did not exist.

On the Monday previous, the Slasher arrived at Tom Spring’s, and Paddock set up his rest at Jem Burn’s, where they were surrounded by admiring coteries. The betting was 6 to 4 on the Slasher, whose superior weight and experience gave him that advantage in the odds.

All requisite arrangements for the meeting had been undertaken by Spring and Burn, and after sundry cogitations they decided on an excursion-train on the South Western Railway. Half-past nine on Tuesday morning was the time named for departure, and long before that hour arrived, the platform at Waterloo displayed a goodly muster of folks “wot love a mill,” including many old stagers, “swells,” and patrons of all degrees. The professors were also numerous in their attendance, and included twenty men who had been selected to preserve order. We could not but remark, however, the absence of that quaint fun and humour which, in the days of Josh Hudson, Jack Scroggins, Young Dutch Sam, and Frosty-faced Fogo, flung an air of good-humoured frolic on such assemblages, affording scenes for the pencil of George Cruikshank, and food for the pen-and-ink sketches of the Ring-historians of the day. To the question “Whither are we bound?” no response was given. The captain started with sealed orders, and had a sort of roving commission as to the place at which he should cast anchor. Suffice it to say, the pace was first-rate and there was but one stoppage till Bishopstoke was reached. The men were in separate carriages, and there was a wide contrast in their bearing, Paddock being all mercurial and double jolly, and the Slasher as solid and steady as Cardinal Wiseman on a fast-day.

It was intended to turn off on the Salisbury line and bring up at Dean, on the borders of Wilts. The Hampshire police, however, were on the alert, with an assurance that the Wiltshire folks were equally wide-awake, and determined to spoil sport. Information to this extent was quickly conveyed to the managers, and, after a short consultation, “bock agen” was the order of the day. Various places were mentioned as likely to afford a quiet and welcome reception, and the first attempt was made between Andover and Winchfield, but no sooner was the ring pitched than the Hampshire blues once more hove in sight, and the jaded travellers had again to enter the carriages. Thus was time wasted, and the hour of three arrived before the caravan again got under way. It was then agreed to go to Woking Common, and many bets were offered that the contest would not come off that day. A strong desire, however, was expressed that it should be settled, and about half-past three a stoppage was made between a couple of high embankments, which, on being scaled, exposed to view a remote corner of Woking Common. The land of promise thus reached, the office was given, for the last time, to disembark. A site for a ring was quickly discovered, and although not a very desirable spot, still, it was the only one to be had, and no time was lost in forming the magic square. A limited outer ring was also formed, and tickets, at 5s. each, distributed to those who sought the privilege of a close proximity to the scene of action, the produce being afterwards equally divided among the ringkeepers. It was now four o’clock, and the day fast waning; in fact, it was difficult to distinguish the faces of persons from one side of the ring to the other; but a clear moon hung out its lamp, and promised a continuance of light. All being in readiness, Paddock flung his castor into the ring, following it himself amidst loud cheers. He was attended by Jack Hannan and Bob Fuller. The Slasher, who was not long after him, was waited on by Nobby Clarke and Jem Molyneux. Paddock looked fresh, laughing, and apparently confident; while the Slasher was cool, quiet, and smiling. After a great deal of difficulty as to the selection of a referee, both parties agreed upon Ned Donnelly. Jem Burn addressed this functionary on the part of Paddock, and said all he wanted was a fair and manly fight, and that there should be no captious objections to any accidental occurrence. He wished the merits of the men might be fairly tested, and only desired that the best man might win. The men now prepared for action, and at thirty minutes past four, the rising moon looking modest from the east, and the last rays of the setting sun painting the western horizon, the gladiators appeared at the scratch, and commenced

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The men having chosen their corners, fortune enabled the Slasher to place his back to the rising moon, so that his toothless mug was in shade. His herculean frame was, however, sufficiently visible, and his easy confidence and quiet deportment increased the confidence of his friends, and led all who scanned his proportions to consider him perfectly competent to hit down a hippopotamus; or, like the Greek boxer of old, floor a cantankerous bull, even without the assistance of the cestus. Paddock, although when opposed to Bendigo he appeared of the burly breed, loomed small in contrast with the Slasher. The disparity in their size was obvious, and as he jumped about seeking an opening, a veteran ring-goer exclaimed, “It’s any odds against the young’un, he’s got his master before him now.” In fact, the very style of holding up his hands, and the yokel-like feints (completely out of distance) with which he commenced, showed he was puzzled how to begin the job he had so confidently undertaken; presently he determined to chance it, and jumped in. Fortune favours the bold, and he gave the Slasher a clout on the jaw-bone with his left, the Tipton hitting in return on his shoulder or breast, and driving him back. The Slasher stepped in; Paddock retreated before him to his corner, hitting up again, but the Tipton stopped him. A smart exchange took place, and Paddock slipped down to get out of mischief.

2.—Paddock began by trying his left twice, and barely reaching the Slasher, who dealt him a body blow with the right. Some heavy hits in weaving style, and a half-round body blow or two followed, the sound rather than the effect of the hitting being perceptible. The Tipton closed with Paddock, who struggled for a moment, and was then thrown on his back, the Tipton lending him thirteen stone additional to hasten his fall.

3.—Two to one on the Tipton. The Slasher missed Paddock two or three times, owing to his active, jumping away; still he steadily pursued him. Paddock tried both hands, but had the worst of the exchanges; still there was no harm done. Paddock made a lunge with the right, but Tipton met him a smasher, and hit him down, almost falling over him. First knock-down for the Slasher.

4.—It was now stated that Paddock had dislocated his shoulder; it was no doubt injured, but not out of joint. He tried his left in a flurried manner, but the Tipton feinted with the left, drove him back, and Paddock fell to avoid.

5.—The Tipton went to work quickly, but steadily; he caught Paddock on the body with the right, and on the left cheek heavily with the left, as he was jumping round, and down went Paddock among the bottles in his own corner.

6.—Tipton gave Paddock no rest or time for reflection, but pelted away. Paddock skipped about, and escaped against the ropes; from his corner, hit up, catching the Tipton on the side of the neck slightly, and dropped on one knee. The Tipton might have given him a finisher, but did not avail himself of the chance, threw up his hands and walked away.

7.—Paddock hit Tipton sharply with the left on the forehead as he came in. Tipton missed his right, but caught Paddock a nasty “polthogue” on the nob as he was going back. Paddock fell on the ropes but was not down. The Tipton dropped his hands and came away from him, disdaining to hit him in that position. “Bravo, Tipton!”

8.—As before; Tipton making the play and forcing his man, who could not make head against the attack, and jumped about like “a parched pea.” Paddock fell at Tipton’s feet, who, the friends of Paddock declared, tried to tread on him, and appealed accordingly. It was a “forlorn hope,” and the referee said “he saw nothing foul.”

9.—Paddock jumped up as usual, just reaching Tipton’s chin, for which he was punished with a sounding ribber. Tipton stepped in, and down dropped Master Paddock.

10.—Exchanges, but no effects visible, except a little blood from Paddock’s cheek. First blood for Tipton. The Tipton hit out right and left, and caught the Redditch man on the nob and body, who staggered half-way across the ring, and fell.

11.—Tipton once again on Paddock’s body. Paddock fell in the bustle without a hit.

12.—Paddock shifting and retreating. A slight exchange, and Paddock fell to avoid.

13.—Tipton forced Paddock into his corner, but before he could do any mischief Paddock fell. A claim of “foul,” but not acknowledged.

14.—Tipton just touched Paddock with his left, who kept slipping back. Tipton followed him, and he dropped. Another appeal that Paddock fell without a blow, but the Tipton party waived the objection.

15.—Paddock hit the Tipton, then slipped half down, jumped up again, and resumed the fight. Tipton went to work, and hit him down in the short rally.

16, 17, 18, and 19.—As like each other as peas. Slasher made at Paddock, who wouldn’t stand his charge, and fell to avoid. Appeals. “We don’t want to win by a foul,” said the Tiptonians.

20.—Paddock’s right arm hung as if disabled, but he brought it into play when action commenced. The Tipton drove him to the ropes, and hit him down.

21.—Paddock, in jumping away, caught his right heel against the centre stake, and stumbled down, but jumped up again. Seeing Tipton close on to him, however, he dropped on to his knees.

22.—As the moon got higher, the light improved. The Tipton, in bustling Paddock, got a body hit, which he retorted with a heavy right-hander on Paddock’s smelling organ, and down he went quite bothered.

23.—Paddock came up with his face painted carmine colour, and was no sooner at the scratch than he was down. Another appeal.

24.—Wild exchanges. Paddock on the shift. The Tipton gave Paddock a topper on the head, high up, when he fell, and Tipton over him.

25.—A slight rally in Paddock’s corner. Paddock rushed at Tipton, who made an awkward step back. Paddock pushed rather than struck at him with the left, and forced the Tipton over. (Cheers for Paddock.)

26.—It was all U.P. Tipton went in with both hands, and Paddock fell without a blow. Appeal repeated.

27 and last.—The odds were the Great Glass-case of ’51 against a cucumber-frame. The Tipton gave Master Paddock a pelt on the head, and began punching at him among his bottles and traps at the corner stake. Paddock dropped, and the Tipton, fearing to give a chance away, was about to return to his own corner, as he had several times done when up jumped the Redditch man, and rushing at the Slasher, lent him such a dig just at the back of the left ear, with his right, that down tumbled Tipton, half with astonishment, half with the blow, and, as Paddy would say, “the third half of him fell just because it was not used to stand upright.” A more palpable “foul” was never seen. The spectators jumped from their seats, and all sorts of people got into the ring. The Tipton walked towards the referee for his decision, and that functionary pronounced it “foul;” and so ended the great little fight for the Championship, in forty-two minutes, the dial showing twelve minutes after five.

Remarks.—A Scotch proverb declares—

“It’s muckle cry, and little woo,

As the de’il said, when he clipt the soo;”

and this exhibition was certainly a complete “pig-shearing” excursion. The Slasher was not only in splendid condition, but his method of fighting, long arms, and great experience, made it no match. True, he was not to blame that it was so bad a fight, for as one man can take a horse to water, but twenty can’t make him drink, so let a man be ever so willing to make a merry mill of it, he can’t do so, if his opponent won’t have it. As to Paddock, he was so manifestly over-matched, and over-rated, that he had not the shadow of a chance; and the rush that proved perilous to Bendigo—old, stale, under 12 stone, and a practiser of retreating tactics—was not only useless against the bulky, firm-standing Slasher, but was certain destruction to the assailant, from the Tipton’s tact at countering, his superior strength, and immense weight. In fact, it was “a horse to a hen” on all points.

The return to the carriages was as speedy as circumstances and awkward clayey drains and ditches would permit, but all were safely seated, the agreeable whistle of departure sounded, and the whole party delivered at the Nine Elms terminus by six o’clock; the Slasher, merry as a grig, and loudly cheered, while Paddock complained of severe injury to his shoulder, which, if serious, was certainly aggravated by his last effort to do unlawful execution. The Tipton was received at the “Castle” with a flourish of “See the conquering hero comes!” while Paddock quietly returned to the “Queen’s Head,” where he received surgical attendance; and it was officially reported that he “had injured the bone of his shoulder, and that a sling must be worn as a safeguard against the consequences of moving the joint.”

Once more the Slasher laid claim to the Championship, and requested that Bendigo would, “according to agreement (?)” hand over the belt which he had so long held, or, if he declined doing so, the Tipton “would be proud to give him the chance of retaining it, by meeting him for any sum he might like to name.” The Tipton further announced his readiness “to make a match with any man in the world from £200 to £500 a side.”

A fortnight after the annonce, a letter appeared from Bendigo, stating that he would fight for £500 a side, but so far as the belt was concerned, it had been presented to him as a gift or testimonial, and was his own property. This vaunt was quickly replied to by the Tipton, who at once sent £50 to the Editor of Bell’s Life, “to make a match on Bendy’s own terms,” whereupon the latter backed out, and never after appeared as a candidate for fistic honours.

Finding that high prices would not command the market, the Tipton issued another challenge to fight any man for £100 or £200, but for several months this lay unaccepted. At length, at the latter end of May, 1851, his former patron and backer, Johnny Broome, appeared in print, accepting the Slasher’s gage on the part of “an unknown;” Johnny’s favourite mode of exciting public curiosity in matchmaking. Spring,[21] on this occasion, acted as Perry’s best friend, and declared his readiness to “go on” upon the name of “the unknown” being declared. What was the surprise of the “knowing ones” when Johnny declared his brother Harry to be the “veiled prophet,” on whose future championship he would wager £200, while Harry, who was present, stepped smilingly forward and modestly declared his candidature. The Tipton “grinned horribly a ghastly smile,” and could hardly be persuaded as he “saw Young Harry with his beaver up,” gallantly and coolly affirming his readiness to second his brother’s words by deeds. The Tipton, as Michaelmas day (September 29) was named as “no quarter-day,” at once went into training at Hoylake, in Cheshire, under the care of Jem Wharton and Jem Ward. How they met, and how the Slasher lost the fight, without a scratch, by his own clumsy precipitancy, must be read in the Life and Career of Harry Broome, in a future chapter of this volume.

Broome, on the giving up of the stakes, professing his readiness to maintain his title against all comers, accepted the offer of the Tipton to settle the vexata quæstio by another meeting, and articles were drawn up, and deposits to the amount of £25 made good, when Harry forfeited, on the plea that he had a match on (it came to nothing) with Aaron Jones, and had also accepted an engagement with Paddock. Curiously enough, the Slasher, who now dubbed himself “Champion,” afterwards signed articles with both these men, who both forfeited to him; Aaron Jones to the tune of £70, in July, 1856, and Paddock (whom he had formerly beaten), to the amount of £80, in October following.

Perry, who had been twenty-one years before the public, now became a publican and vendor of eatables and drinkables in a canvas caravansery at races, fairs, and all sorts of rural gatherings in the Black Country.

All this time the star of a 10st. 10lb. champion had been rapidly rising on the pugilistic world. Tom Sayers, having polished off the middle-weights, had been playing havoc among the “big ’un’s;” in 1856 defeating Harry Poulson (who had once beaten Paddock), and, in 1857, Aaron Jones fell beneath his conquering arm.

Six years had elapsed when “The Old Tipton,” as he was now popularly designated, was dared to the field by this new David. Right cheerfully did the old “Philistine man of might”—for the Tipton never lacked personal courage—respond to the “little ’un’s” crow. How the oft-repeated error of “trusting the issue of battle to waning age,” was again exemplified on the 16th of June, 1857, at the Isle of Grain, when the once formidable Slasher was conquered in the contest for £400 and the Champion’s belt by the marvellous little miller, Tom Sayers, may be read by those who are curious in minute details, in the life of that phenomenal pugilist, in Chapter XI. of this volume. This was the closing scene of the Tipton’s long and chequered career. He retired, defeated but not dishonoured, to his native county and early associates. In his latter days the Tipton is said to have never refused “a drink for the good of the house,” said house being his own special “tap.” Death finally overtook him, rather suddenly, at his home, near Wolverhampton, on January 18, 1881, in his sixty-first year.

[19] From this period Freeman returned to his theatrical and professional circus exhibitions, in which his gigantic size attracted the popular wonderment. He was a careless, good-natured fellow; and it was stated by the medical officers of Winchester Hospital, where the emaciated giant died of consumption on the 18th of October, 1845, that he had within him the fatal seeds of pulmonary disease from his first period of manhood. His end was of necessity accelerated by repeated colds, caught in the light attire of fleshings and spangles, in which he exhibited in draughty canvas erections, and crowded theatres and booths. This last remark is drawn from us by a senseless paragraph, in which a Hampshire penny-a-liner endeavoured to “improve the occasion” by suggesting that the early death of the good-natured, soft-headed acrobat was due to the dreadful injuries “he must necessarily have received in his terrible combat with the formidable bruiser known as the Tipton Slasher—injuries which from the tremendous stature of the combatants, must have been beyond ordinary calculation.” To this it may fairly be replied that the few fatal results on record from battles between big men is actually phenomenal—Andrew M’Kay (June, 1830) and Simon Byrne (May, 1833) being the only two on record; the others resulting from contests between middle or light weights, and several of these regrettable fatalities being proved by subsequent surgical examination to have resulted from accident, excitement, or apoplexy, induced by violent exertion.

[20] Not to complicate this confusion of “claimants” for the belt, we may here state that while Caunt, Bendigo, the Deaf’un, and the Tipton were playing duettos, trios, and quartettes, as leading performers in the discordant overture to the farce of “Who’s the Champion?” there was no lack of accompanying instrumentalists, each blowing his own trumpet of defiance, and thumping the big drum of “benefit” bounce. At the end of 1845, Caunt introduced a new candidate in the person of a formidable black, standing a trifle over six feet, and weighing hard upon 13st., who, rather curiously, dubbed himself William Perry! This mysterious “darkey” displayed such remarkable talent with the gloves, and was, in many respects, a man of such superior address and conversation, that he might well have been expected to turn out more than a second Molyneux. As, however, the proof of all pudding, whether black or white, is in the eating, an opponent was sought for the American importation. Bill Burton, of Leicester, a much smaller man, standing five feet nine, and weighing 11st. 10lb., was selected. Burton’s credentials were good; he had defeated Angelo, of Windsor, in May, 1845—a game contest of seventy-four rounds—and had been previously victor in many unrecorded affairs. The meeting took place on the 20th January, 1846. The Black more than justified the anticipations of his backers. He defeated Burton with the greatest ease in fifteen rounds, the Leicester man’s friends humanely throwing up the sponge at the end of twenty-four minutes of a hopeless, one-sided contest. This was the first and last appearance of the so-called William Perry in the English P.R. He proved to be connected with a gang of forgers of American bank-notes, and having been previously imprisoned more than once, he was now transported to the Antipodes, being provided with passage to Australia at Government expense, where, it would appear, he became a ticket-of-leave man, as he is recorded as having defeated Hough, the “Champion of Australia,” at Cumming’s Point, Sydney, in December, 1849. In the last-named year (1849) another “big ’un” came out, but quietly went in again. This was Con (Cornelius) Parker, standing six feet, and weighing 12st. 10lb.; his first victory was over Jem Bailey (Irish), in the Essex Marshes, February 13th, 1849. He then received forfeit from the Tipton in the same year; but, on November 26th, also in 1849, he had his “championship” pretensions ignominiously snuffed out at Frimley, in Surrey, by Tass Parker, who somewhat retrieved the disgrace of his double defeat by the Tipton, by triumphantly thrashing Mister Con, who ended the battle by a “foul.” Con then emigrated to America, where he died rather suddenly, on the 2nd December, 1854, at Buffalo, U.S. Soon after Tass took the money for this victory, his friends injudiciously claimed for him the title of “Champion,” but Tass wisely declined, in a letter, such a prominent position.

[21] Spring, after a short illness, died on August 20th, 1851, while this match was in progress. (See vol. ii. chapter 1.)

CHAPTER V.

NICHOLAS (NICK) WARD.
1835–1841.

The claim of Nick Ward to a chapter in a History of the Ring is, though certainly slender, of a twofold character. In the first place, as another and more recently fallen warrior was described as “the nephew of his uncle,” so Nick Ward may be signalised as “the brother of Jem;” the second, and more cogent, reason is the high flight of his ambition, and the consequent eminence of his adversaries, he having beaten Deaf Burke, and, by a fluke, won a fight for the Championship with the modern “Big Ben.” These things premised, we proceed to a brief sketch of his quasi-pugilistic performances.

Nick Ward was born on an ominous day, the 1st of April, in the year 1811, in St. George’s-in-the-East, London; and on February 24th, 1835, having previously acquired a reputation in the sparring-schools of the Metropolis, he stripped at Moulsey Hurst, to face John Lockyer, of Cranbrook, a yokel bruiser of about 12st., whose only scored victory was a win with one Bridger, of Maidstone, in February, 1833. Jack Lockyer (named “Harry,” in Fistiana, under Ward) was a mere chopping-block in the skilful hands of Nick, his longer-reached and more artistic antagonist; and being “satisfied” at the end of 18 rounds, gave no criterion by which to judge of Young Nick’s game or endurance. It was pretty evident, however, that his brother and friends were not much taken with this initiative display of his qualities, for the next match looked out for Master Nick was with a 11st. man, Jem Wharton (afterwards celebrated as “Young Molyneaux,” and “the Morocco Prince”[22] ) for £15 a side. The deposits were made good, and the day, May 12th, 1835, fixed Nick Ward’s backer having won the toss for choice of place (within thirty miles of London) named the well-known Moulsey Hurst as the champ clos of combat.

On the appointed Tuesday, the patrons of the fistic art were on the qui vive to witness the tourney between “the brother of the Champion” and the aspiring “Young Molyneaux”—a worthy, albeit a miniature, counterpart of the dusky gladiator of the same name, who, in times gone by, twice fell beneath the all-conquering arm of Cribb, as may be read by those who are curious in the first volume of this work.

Nick went into training at Norwood, putting up at the “Rose and Crown,” our old friend Ned Neale’s hostelrie, and, as we thought, making himself rather more of a public character in the neighbourhood than was either prudent or desirable. Nevertheless, all looked, thus far, promising. Of betting there was little or none; for such was the confidence in favour of Ward, that three to one was offered, but no takers—a circumstance attributable to his superiority in science, length, and weight (for he weighed 12st. 10lb., while the Black was more than a stone under that standard, as well as being much shorter). It was still thought there would be excellent sport afforded, and there were those who, although not disposed to risk their rhino, yet entertained “a shrewd suspicion” that the Black would win. The necessary preparations were made for conveying the men to the scene of action on Tuesday morning; but, unluckily, on the evening before a “stopper” was placed upon Ward, who was apprehended (on the authority of a warrant issued by the magistrates at Union Hall), and taken before Mr. Ellyard, a local magistrate at Norwood, by whom he was held to bail to keep the peace towards all his Majesty’s subjects in general, and the Black Prince in particular. The unpleasant intelligence was soon conveyed to town, and produced no small panic in the minds of those to whose knowledge it came; but a vast number remained in ignorance of the fact till the next day, when too late to save them the expense and trouble of a long trot. The road to Hampton on Tuesday presented the customary bustle, and it was not till the throng congregated in hundreds in view of the Hurst, that the rumours with which they were assailed on the road were confirmed. Great indignation was, of course, expressed, and various speculations were afloat as to the author of the mischief; some attributing the step to Jem Burn or his party, and others to the malice of some secret enemy of the sports of the Ring. There was, however, no help for it, and as it was found that orders were also given to prevent “any breach of the peace” on Moulsey Hurst, it was resolved to seek consolation in a minor mill, which was yet to the good, in a meadow about two miles from Hampton, whither the ropes and stakes were conveyed, followed by a countless succession of go-carts, and vehicles of a more aristocratic description, which joined in the motley cavalcade.

This “little go” we may note in a parenthesis. It was between Evans (nicknamed “the Pumpborer”), and an aspirant who contented himself with the title of “Jack January’s brother.” These “obscurities” having punished each other for seventy minutes, Evans was hailed the victor.

We ought to state that Wharton was driven on to the ground in style, looking bright as “Day and Martin’s Japan,” and jauntily tossed his hat into the ring, his “soul in arms and eager for the fray.” This was, however, a mere matter of form, as “magisterial interference” having placed his antagonist out of harm’s way, no forfeit could be claimed. The mischance, of course, excited much speculation among the disappointed, as to the author of the interruption, some attributing it to the friends of the Black, and others to the partisans of Ward; while a third party laid the blame, and not without fair ground of suspicion, to some dog in the manger, who, disliking the sports of the Ring himself, determined to deprive others of a pleasure in which he did not choose to participate. There was nothing in the character of the match to warrant a belief that the backers of either man had a sufficient motive for declining the contest. The stakes were trifling, and made up by subscription, so that the loss in this way could not have been worth consideration. The expenses of training had already been incurred, handkerchiefs bought, and vehicles to take the men to the ground engaged. Both men were in first-rate condition, and both, notwithstanding the disparity in their size, equally confident, and more especially Wharton, who booked winning, and nothing else; and then, as to the betting, there were no bets made which could have influenced any of the contracting parties to contrive a “draw.” The real cause of the fiasco, which was never clearly made out, may be surmised, when read by the knowledge acquired by subsequent events; and, without much damage to young Nick’s reputation, we may conclude that he had “no stomach for the fight,” and was secretly glad that the affair had a bloodless termination by “magisterial interference,” and his being formally bound over, for a whole twelvemonth, “to keep the peace towards all her Majesty’s subjects.”

From this time (May, 1835), Nick merely exhibited with the gloves, in “brother Jem’s” saloon, or at other “assaults of arms,” for benefits, &c., though his name appears as “challenged by Burke, Hampson, Brassey, Fisher, Bailey, and other “big ’uns.”

On the 24th May, 1836, Bendigo beat Brassey at Sheffield, and three days afterwards, on Friday, the 27th, Jem Ward, Brother Nick, Jem Burn, Bendy, and an aristocratic assemblage of “swells,” were at Tottenham, where, at a private farm, there was some “cocking.” The facetious Sambo Sutton, too, was among the company; and as a sequel to the sports of the pit, at a merry meeting at mine host Harry Milbourne’s, there was some lively chaff about the late “black job;” the said chaff being specially promoted by Jem Burn, who was retorted upon (he being the patron of “Young Molyneaux,” and now of the eccentric “Sambo”) as a dealer in sable specimens of humanity. Some reflections on Nick’s pluck being of a very “pale complexion,” led to an offer to match him against Burn’s latest “new black,” and on Massa Sambo enthusiastically declaring how delighted he would be “jest to hab a roun’ or two,” Nick “screwed his courage to the sticking-place,” and a “purse” being at once subscribed, “a field near Finchley” was offered by a sporting gentleman present, and off the whole party started. At this time Sambo was only known, beyond some sparring capabilities, to be a merry mountebank of the original Ethiopian order, and is described in a contemporary paper as having “a head like a cow-cabbage, a mouth laughing all across his face, and possesing an extraordinary faculty of standing upon his flat head, with his flatter feet flourishing in the air, dancing and singing for an hour together, and varying the fun by drinking miscellaneous liquors in that uncomfortable position.” To these accomplishments, says the writer, “he adds great bodily strength, long arms, and such a gluttonous appetite for ‘towelling’ that nobody can give him enough with the gloves.” The affair was really got up as an experiment to try Nick’s mettle, and such was the consequence drawn from his “blood and breeding,” that two and three to one on him were offered, but no takers.

The fight did not take place until seven in the evening, when the real P.C. ropes and stakes were got down from town, and pitched in an excellent spot, hidden from the North Road, Finchley, by a rising ground. Jack Adams and Fitzmaurice waited on Ward, Byng Stocks and Jack Clarke on Sambo.

For the first ten rounds Nick took the lead in good style, nobbing his man neatly, stopping his attempts at returning, and gaining first blood in the third round. Sambo also made some very clever stops, and now and then got home a sort of swinger on Nick’s ribs; nevertheless, he was down anyhow at the end of each round. Still, he rolled about like an india-rubber tombola, and when he did get in a “little ’un” the “big ’un” seemed to jump away, and fight very shy till he could himself “get on” again. Ward came up, once or twice, “blowing” in a manner that did not indicate first-rate condition. In the eleventh round, Sambo being pretty considerably cut about the head, Adams called on Nick to “go in and finish him;” Nick tried to obey orders. He caught the Nigger a slashing hit on the head, which Sambo took kindly, merely shaking it; and, darting in, he drew Ward’s cork from his smelling-bottle so suddenly that a gush of claret followed; Nick made an involuntary backward step, and Sambo bustled him down. The “clerks of St. Nicholas” looked blank.

Ward came up slowly for round 12, when Sambo went in furiously. Ward met him a hot ’un on the nob; but the darkey would not be denied, and in a wild sort of rally Sambo caught Master Nick such an awful chop on the smeller, as they were both going down, that Ward was under, by his own consent, and the tap again copiously turned on. This was enough. Nick declared he would “have no more of it.” Remonstrance was useless: “he would fight no longer,” and the sponge was thrown up. Sambo, shaking his head like a black and red rag-mop, cut a “break-down” caper, and sang a song of triumph which defied the art of stenography, while Ward hurried off, amidst the laughter and cheering of the assembly, like a “trundle-tailed cur,” declaring, “it was no use, he was not cut out for a fighting man!” an assertion, in the words of the old song, “Which nobody can deny, deny, Which nobody can deny.”

After this public manifestation that whatever “devil” there may be in “Old Nick” his young namesake was endowed with none of that fiery quality, “the Champion’s brother” confined himself to “attitude,” the horse-hair pads, and, in the words of pugilistic M.C.’s., to “walking round and showing his muscle.” Meantime the “cow-cabbage hero” kept continually challenging him to another bout “in the reg’lar ring,” while starring it on sparring tours at Cambridge, Oxford, and elsewhere—for Sambo was an immense favourite among the “’Varsity men.” At last the smoke kindled into a flame, and out came Nick, with a declaration that he would “no longer stand this black buffoon’s bounce.” Articles were accordingly signed, a match made for £50 a side, and the stakes deposited in the hands of old Tom Cribb. Tuesday, the 27th March, 1838, was named as the day, half-way between Birmingham and London as the place of battle; for though the deposits were made in town it was not a metropolitan match. Nick Ward’s money was found by brother Jem and certain Liverpool supporters; while the funds for Sambo were readily raised, principally by some Oxford friends. Ward went into training at Crosby, near Liverpool, under the immediate eye of his brother and Peter Taylor. Sambo did his breathings and gymnastics at a village near Oxford city. Both men were reported to be in tip-top condition, and eager for the fray—Nick to refurbish his tarnished reputation, and rub off the stain of pusillanimity, and Sambo, as he said, “’cos him like to hab anoder slap at Massa Ward, him so clebber at get away—but p’raps not dis time;” and he shook his woolly nob like a black Burleigh. It was the desire of the London division that, under the shadow of the untoward result of the encounter between Owen Swift and Brighton Bill (March 13th, 1838), a postponement of the meeting should take place; but time would not permit, in those days of slow communication, to have a conference on the subject, so matters took their course. Ward, having won the toss, named Bicester, in Oxfordshire (the recent scene of the defeat of Byng Stocks, of Westminster, by Hammer Lane, of Birmingham), a town distinguished for the jovial character and sporting propensities of its inhabitants. Thither were the ropes and stakes sent. The Commissary being laid up with the gout, and unable to accompany them, Jack Clarke was deputed to officiate, he being on the spot, and acting as trainer to Massa Sambo. As we feel best satisfied when we write from personal observation, we may note that on Monday afternoon we found ourselves comfortably seated in a room at the “King’s Arms,” Bicester, a house distinguished for solid customers, and them boasting a host of high sporting quality. There was no bustle in the town, which at that time was quiet as a Quakers’ meeting; none of the “old familiar faces” were visible. The London Fancy—and we think they were right—had determined that all matches should be postponed for a certain period. Hence, not a single familiar phiz graced the scene. It is true the town was enlivened by the presence of Sir Henry Peyton, with his spicy four-in-hand, and there, too, was Lord Chetwynd, on his cover-hack; but we could not help thinking, as his lordship gave us a sly nod of recognition, that there was a curious expression in his jolly face, as he made us aware that there had been “magisterial business” at the Town Hall, as a sort of reason why we saw him there. This was soon confirmed by a sporting friend, whom we fearlessly set down as that lusus naturæ, “an honest lawyer.” He told us, with regret, that “the Philistines were abroad,” and that the Home Office, urged on by the twaddle of “My Grandmother” (the Morning Herald), and the goody-goody papers, with the awful denunciations of the supineness or complicity of the magistracy of Cambridgeshire and Herts in the melancholy affair of Swift and Phelps, had sent down warnings and counsels for extra vigilance to the police and magistracy of Oxford and Bucks. That “all this was sooth” we had afterwards reason to find. Sambo, we learned, had been at Lainton, about two miles from the town, but, as a measure of precaution, he was moved from a public to a private house, and in the domicile of an honest yeoman met with that kindly hospitality by which this class of our countrymen was characterised. Here he was thought perfectly safe, and all that was now wanting was the arrival of Jem Ward, or some emissary from him, to agree upon some less dangerous point of meeting. It was understood that Ward had been advised to stop short of Bicester, but it was fully expected that he would appear at head-quarters to settle upon preliminaries. Every avenue was watched, yet up to nine o’clock no tidings of him were heard, and although the country was scoured over a circuit of three-and-twenty miles, after nine o’clock, in search of him, and every village visited, his presence could not be discovered, for the best of all reasons, that he had stopped short at Banbury, and did not come forward till the morning, nor send any person forward to announce his proximity. This was more than mortifying, for it was soon seen that the magistrates of Buckinghamshire became more active, and a constable was despatched by the venerable and amatory Sir John Chetwood, with a warrant for the apprehension of Sambo, which was backed by an Oxfordshire magistrate. The constable thus entrusted was more than usually active in his vocation, and endeavoured, by every means in his power, to ferret out his sable prey: an activity, no doubt, very praiseworthy, but which led him into an adventure far from agreeable, and certainly likely to remain impressed on his memory. While grunting about, like a boar looking for a pig-nut, he met with a wag who informed him, on a solemn promise of secresy, that Sambo was stowed away in a badger-box, which he knew to be placed in an enclosed paddock behind the house of the honest lawyer to whom we have already alluded, and whose zoological collection was known, far and near, as being of an extensive and curious description. “A nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse,” so Mister Constable, cock-sure of having marked down his game, silently stole into the paddock, where stood the long badger-box, of which he determined, from that instant, never to lose sight until its occupant should disclose himself. Night was fast approaching, but it was clear and fine, so, after duly reconnoitring, the “copper” cautiously approached the box, and, tapping on the lid, in soothing terms invited Mister Sutton to come out and surrender, as he was “wanted,” or else, badger or no badger, he must be “drawn.” As Sambo was about two miles off he made no answer, so the invitation was repeated in more peremptory tones, but with no more success. “Bobby” became irate at what he considered nigger obstinacy, so he turned the button and thrust his hand into the sacking, and so into the round hole at the top, with the view of lifting the lid. Rash experiment! the lawful tenant—a badger, not of African, but of British breed—was “at home,” but not to Home Office visitors. Without growl, bark, or other warning, the sharp-toothed “varmint” revenged the violation of his sanctum by seizing the digits of the assailant of his castle, and nearly severing the top joints of at least three of his fingers. The luckless constable raised so loud an exclamation that forth rushed a favourite old retriever hight “Nelson,” who gave tongue so loudly that, though “his bark was worse than his bite,” it was lucky he was on the chain, or, perchance, the seat of the rural’s inexpressibles might have been absent without leave before he succeeded in clearing the low wall into the high road, whence he lost no time in making his way to the village surgery, and thence, his dexter fin, as the police-reporters say, “enveloped in surgical bandages,” he hastened to “report” himself and his adventure to his superior officers. The mischievous author of the hoax did not fail to spread the story of the success of his severe practical joke, and for some time it was dangerous, but not uncommon, for labourers and impertinent boys to address the query to the Buckinghamshire constables of “Who drew the badger?” without receiving a civil or satisfactory answer.

On Tuesday morning Sambo was still at the house of his friend, few knowing his whereabouts; when it transpired that every route from Bicester into Northamptonshire was closely watched to prevent the escape of Sambo, or the approach of Ward. It was therefore determined to cover his retreat by a “ruse,” which was thus arranged. A countryman was engaged by a bribe to allow his face to be blacked with cart-grease and soot, his neck encircled by Sambo’s colours (white with a blue border), wrapped in a white box-cloth driving coat, and sent off towards Oxford at as good a pace as a pair of posters could carry him. But alas! great conceptions often meet with untoward interruptions. One of the Buckinghamshire “badger-drawers” discovered from a chawbacon lout the exact hiding place of the sable-fox, and carried the intelligence to Sir John Chetwood; then returning, with the baronet close at his heels, he boldly knocked at the door of the house, which was opened by a servantgirl. Demanding to see her master, and the wench stoutly refusing him admittance, he gallantly pulled out a pistol, and presenting it, marched on in triumph. Walking into the back-parlour, “from information he had received,” he at once recognised the real Sambo, and, producing his warrant, made a quiet capture of his prisoner. At this moment Lord Chetwynd, with attendants, rode up and joined Sir John Chetwood, so that “the majesty of the law” was fully represented at the capture of his Sable Highness. On reaching the front of the house, however, Sambo made a cunning and bold attempt at an escape from his “buckra” enemies. In vain; he was quickly overtaken and secured, and forthwith conveyed to Buckingham. Our friend the “honest lawyer” was not far off. He went back to Bicester, took a postchaise and pair, enlisted a friend and “householder,” and without hesitation followed the captive “Black Prince,” put in the required sureties, and restored him to freedom. Meantime the first news was received of Ward, that he and his friends were at Middleton, a village three miles off, and were awaiting Sambo’s arrival. It was now too late. A Mercury was despatched to Nick and Co., advising him to make himself scarce, as he too might be “wanted;” a hint which was in season, for, in an hour after, Lord Chetwynd and company were on the road to Middleton, where they arrived in time to find that the bird had flown. Ward, his brother, and friends, of course returned to Liverpool, and Sambo, though “bound over,” was at liberty to dance, sing, tumble, spar, and “jump Jem Crow,” a free man in all things but a “free fight.”

Another twelvemonth of rustication ended in a match with Jem Bailey, a 12 stone Irishman (not “Bailey of Bristol”), and the fight was fixed for January 14th, 1839, the stake £25 a side. This went off in a forfeit by Bailey, as did another match made by Ward himself. In October, however, after some clever and vicious “gloving,” and a very strong expression of opinion by Bailey of Nick’s mode of “cutting” it when “tackled,” two spirited gents, in the habit of frequenting Alec Reid’s sparring-room, Frith Street, Soho, expressed a willingness to back Bailey for £25 against Ward, who immediately found backers to that amount among some amateurs in the art of self-defence, at Owen Swift’s, in Tichborne Street. As the match was only made about a week before the day fixed—October 18th, 1839—there was not much time allowed for training. Ward went to Acton for two or three days, but Bailey, we are informed, did not employ his leisure hours quite so profitably as many considered he ought to have done under the circumstances.

On the Thursday the whole of the stakes were deposited in the hands of Owen Swift, at the “Coach and Horses,” Frith Street, Soho, in the presence of a numerous assemblage of the Fancy, when a long discussion ensued respecting the place where the fight should come off. On the part of Ward it was contended that “down the river,” would be preferable to any other place, inasmuch as they were the less likely to be interfered with in that quarter than if they went out of town per railroad, as the partisans of Bailey wished. It was, however, decided that Ditton Marsh should be visited, and the majority of those who were in the secret repaired to the Southampton terminus at Nine Elms, by nine o’clock on the following morning (Friday), while some who possessed fast “tits” preferred the road. The Fancy having comfortably seated themselves in the train, in the full expectation of not meeting with any annoyance by the presence of a “beak,” were not a little flabbergasted by observing Mr. Hedger and several other magistrates of Surrey enter one of the first-class carriages.

“What could they do there at that early hour?” was the very natural inquiry, which query was not satisfactorily solved till the gentlemen in Her Majesty’s commission took their departure at Kingston, where it appears their presence was necessary at the Sessions. Never did the lovers of boxing part company with their travelling companions with a greater degree of satisfaction than they did with their worships. Ditton Station having been announced by the attendants of the railway, the train was nearly cleared of its passengers, and the veteran Commissary and his coadjutor, Little Jack, were not long in fixing the stakes and ropes at the further end of the common, on the left of the station. Some delay, however, ensued in consequence of the articles not stating that the men were to fight in accordance with the new rules of the P.R., and the circumstance of several parties refusing to take office under the old regulations. Alec Reid, who wished the fight to proceed in accordance with the articles, at length gave way, and it was agreed the new, and certainly more manly and humane laws, should be adopted. All the necessary preliminaries were then adjusted, and the men entered the ring.

Previous to the commencement of hostilities a good deal of betting took place at 6 to 4 on Ward, and Bailey accepted those odds with an eagerness which showed he had great confidence in himself.

Bailey, a native of the Emerald Isle, in height 5 feet 11 inches, weighing 12 st. 2 lb., aged 28, was well known in the neighbourhood of Norwich, where they thought him good enough to match him against the renowned Brassey, of Bradford, on two occasions, on both of which he was, of course, thrashed.

King Dick and Harry Holt, the “Cicero” of the Fancy, attended on Ward; the Essex Youth and a gallant son of Mars waited on Bailey. All being in readiness, the men peeled, and at twenty minutes past ten commenced

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Neither, from the circumstances above stated, looked quite up to the mark as regards condition, but a smile of confidence played on the features of both. Ward’s attitude was easier and more scientific than Bailey’s, who stood in a straggling and ungainly manner. They kept at a respectful distance from each other for some time, when Ward let fly with his left, and caught his man on the top of the head; an exchange of blows ensued, when they broke away from each other. Bailey, however, soon made play, and in the close Ward went down.

2.—No damage done. Bailey came up smiling to the scratch. He tried it on with his right, but the hit was too round to take much effect on Ward’s side; the latter then went to work, but neither in their exchanges did any mischief. In the close Bailey tried for the cross-buttock, but he slipped and fell.

3.—Both quickly resumed business, and as quickly closed, when some fibbing ensued, which Bailey had the best of, and both went down together. [Loud shouts for Bailey, from whose mouth, however, a little claret appeared.]

4.—The smile on Bailey’s mug soon disappeared on Ward popping in his left on the nob sharply, and another on the sinister ogle. In the close Bailey was under.

5.—Bailey made play, but received a clean counter-hit just above his right peeper, which evidently severed one of the small veins, for the crimson stream spurted forth in profusion; Bailey then closed on his opponent, who went down.

6.—The left hand of Ward was evidently damaged from coming in contact with the knowledge box of Bailey, who made play with his right, but was admirably stopped; a close, Bailey bored to the ropes, when Ward tried the upper-cut, but missed his man, who dropped down at the corner.

7.—Bailey came up smiling, and a good fighting round took place in favour of Ward, who again went down at the close to avoid any punishment he might receive at infighting.

8.—After some sparring Ward shot out his left bang on the mug of Bailey, and kept countering him till they closed, when Nick cut work for a time by going down. [Much dissatisfaction was expressed at Ward’s conduct in dropping.]

9.—The frontispiece of Bailey exhibited marks of severe punishment, and in addition to other hits, his left cheek-bone had received a nasty one, still he came up to his man courageously, and in trying it on with his right received a counter-hit, which however, missed the intended spot, and fell on the shoulder; a close, when Nick released himself in the usual way by going down.

10.—Ward again at work with his left, which slightly fell on the nob; a close, and before Bailey could get a good hit at him, Nick dropped.

11.—Bailey made play, but missed his antagonist, and in a scramble Ward fell.

12.—The expressions of disapprobation at Ward’s continually going down were now so general that Ward smilingly exclaimed on coming up to the scratch “Bailey, don’t find fault; why should you?” Ward tried his left, but was stopped; he then put in his right, which slightly took effect on the nob; a rally, when Ward dropped on his knees, and Bailey was very near hitting him in that position.

13.—Ward put in a chin-chopper; a rally to the ropes, and both down together, if anything, Ward under.

14.—The left hand of Ward quickly visited the headpiece of Bailey, who rushed in, but it was “no go,” for his man went down as formerly.

15.—Ward led off, but missed the intended visitation, when Bailey went in, and for once succeeded in giving Nick the upper cut, which made a slight incision over the eyebrow.

16.—Bailey again felt Ward’s left on the canister, and the latter got away without a return, and was quickly down.

At this point, twenty-five minutes having elapsed, a policeman well mounted was seen in the distance, and the combatants had the office to “cut,” which they quickly did. The man in blue on arriving at the ring pulled out his “toasting fork,” and requested an old farmer, named Weston (who was also mounted, and had previously appeared to take extreme interest in the battle), to point out the fighting men. The jesuitical veteran, with evident pleasure, was about doing so, but both men escaped unperceived to a barn opposite. As the policeman expressed his determination to follow the parties, and prevent hostilities, a council of war was held, and it was decided that the train should be again had recourse to, and Woking Common the place of rendezvous. The Woking station was reached a little after one, and in less than half an hour the stakes were fixed in a retired spot at the end of the lane across the Common.

Here seventeen more rounds were fought in about thirty minutes, when the same style of fighting ensued as that above described, Ward, however, not going down quite so frequently as heretofore. Bailey received additional pepper on his mug, while Ward scarcely exhibited any marks of punishment. Many of the rounds were remarkable for their non-effect on either side, and their scrambling struggles were more like those of two big boys at school than men in the P.R. In the 12th round Bailey had the best of it, but “bad was the best.”

A dispute arose in the 15th round, Bailey having slipped down without a blow, but the fight was ordered to be proceeded with. In the next bout, after a short rally, Ward dropped to avoid in-fighting, when Bailey certainly struck Nick on the ribs while he was on his knees. The referee, however, gave a contrary opinion, and the men came to the scratch for the 17th time at this place, and the 33rd in the whole. They soon went to work, and immediately after closing Ward went down, when Bailey, it was said, again struck him foul.

The referee was once more appealed to, who decided that Bailey, although evidently accidentally, had hit his man when down. Ward immediately proceeded to the corner to untie the colours, which was resisted by Bailey, who “pitched into him,” and bored him with his neck against the ropes. They were soon separated, and Ward left the ring with his friends, Bailey reluctantly following.

The fight, Bell’s Life remarks, did not in any way come up to the expectations of those who had travelled so far to witness it. Bailey is as game a man as ever entered the ring, but he has very little knowledge of the art, and as for countering, it appears such an idea never entered his head. His position is also bad, being too wide and straggling. Ward is a scientific boxer, but he wants determination and the heart to go in and punish his opponent when an opportunity presents itself, many of which Bailey gave him, but they were not taken advantage of. We heard him declare that he had received orders to fight cautiously, but his frequent “dropping” at close quarters cannot, notwithstanding his instructions, be considered commendable. Had the fight been continued, we have no doubt Bailey must have been defeated, although his courage might have protracted the battle for a much longer time, for in each succeeding round he was receiving punishment without returning it with any visible effect. Ward’s left hand was puffed, which, with the exception of the slight cut over the eye, was all the injury he appeared to have met with, while the frontispiece of his opponent was very much disfigured by the continual jobs from Ward’s left hand.

The majority of the spectators left Woking by the three o’clock train, and were conveyed to town, a distance of 33 miles, in about two minutes over the hour.

This affair was followed by another match, and a deposit of £10; but at the second deposit at Peter Crawley’s, on the 14th January, 1840, Ward was announced as “too unwell to fight,” and the stakes down were handed over to Bailey, at Mrs. Owen’s, Belgrave Mews, on the succeeding Tuesday; Bailey on the occasion proposing a match with Deaf Burke, which “ended in smoke.”

In May, Nick Ward was matched for £50 with Brassey, of Bradford, but this also went off in a refusal on the part of Brassey’s friends to allow their man to fight for less than £100.

At length, in July, the long-talked-of tourney between Nick and the Deaf’un took shape and substance, and £50 were down, to be made £100, for the men to meet on the 22nd of September, 1840, over 50 and under 100 miles from London. To that day we shall, therefore, come, without further preface.

“Thayre you air agin,” as Paddy said to the pig in his potato-trench—and sure enough “thayre we were, body and bones,” on Tuesday, September 22nd, in the self-same field, on the borders of Oxfordshire, in which Isaac Dobell (lately defunct) whacked his friend Bailey the butcher, on the 7th of April, 1828; and we can only regret that in modern times we have not had more frequent opportunities of witnessing those manly demonstrations of “fair play” which the sports of the Ring are so admirably calculated to afford. But how did you get there? Why, to tell the truth, as far as we were personally concerned, with tolerable ease—although not without incurring divers dangers by “flood and field”—bekase the Commissary had kindly engaged us a postchaise; and we regret that many of our friends were not equally fortunate. To be plain—the fight was fixed to come off within sixty, and above fifty miles from London, on the Liverpool line, and hence the Deaf’un, who won the toss for choice of ground, named Wolverton, the first “grubbing bazaar” on the Birmingham railway (about fifty-one miles from the Euston Square station), as the point of rendezvous. Thither, on the day before, the Commissary and his deputy (Tom Oliver and Jack Clarke) repaired with their materiel, and it was ascertained that “the Deaf’un and Co.” had taken up their quarters at the “Bull,” at Stony Stratford, while “Nick Ward and Co.” were domiciled in a village not far distant.

The morning broke most inauspiciously, and heavy showers damped the ardour of many a boxing patron, who, instead of advancing to Buckinghamshire, quietly sojourned in Bedfordshire. Still, there was a fair “turn out” of spicy dare-devils, who were not to be scared by trifles from their favourite pastime, hence the morning trains took down a moderate sprinkling of “the right sort.” On reaching Wolverton, however, great was their dismay at finding that there were but two postchaises at that station—both of which had been pre-engaged—and that of other vehicles there was a similar scarcity. Scouts were sent to Stony Stratford, but in vain; for the few that were there had already been secured by the early birds, and thus “a pilgrimage through the Slough of Despond” stared them in the face. Poor Stony Stratford is, alas! not what it was before railroads were in fashion. It is reduced to a mere sleepy, out-of-the-way village, instead of being as, in our time, a centre of bustle and prosperity: indeed, in recent memory it was the high and popular road to Birmingham, distinguished by the number of mails and stage-coaches which “changed” there, and the continuous demand for post-horses. Alas! “The Cock,” the sign of its principal inn, has ceased to “crow,” and the host, like Dennis Bulgruddery, often calls in vain upon his ostler Dan, to know “if he sees a customer coming that way?” Happily, Tuesday’s call enabled Dan to respond—not that there was a customer coming, but many, and thus the ordinary gloom of every-day melancholy was roused into cheerfulness and hope. All the nags were soon engaged, and “the Cock” without and “the cocks” within chuckled with satisfaction. The “Bull,” at which the Burkites were assembled, also became rampant, and “sich a gittin up stairs” had not been witnessed for months.

As the day advanced the bells of the parish church rang a merry peal, “set a-going,” as the facetious Jem Burn said, “in honour of the occasion;” but, as we afterwards learnt, with the double intent of announcing a couple of village weddings. By a singular combination, the face of the clock of the said parish church, in gilt letters, forewarned the travellers of the fact that it was either the handiwork of “T. Oliver and J. Clarke” or had been erected or repaired during the official service of churchwardens bearing those popular names; a fact which produced on the “dials” of the venerable Commissary and his deputy, as they waited for orders, a grin of scarcely repressible self-sufficiency. The “office” was duly given as to “the where,” and away went the Commissary and his pioneers to Deanshanger, about four miles distant, in the county of Bucks, followed by a goodly multitude, horse and foot, embracing a large proportion of British yeomen, to whom the dripping weather gave a timely relief from the labours of the field. On reaching Deanshanger, however, the fact of a couple of mounted “rural blues” being abroad rendered it prudent to move on, and hence the arena was finally formed at Lillingstone Level, on the estate of Colonel Delappe, on the borders of Oxfordshire; the journey to which locality, “through the woods and through the woods,” was trying alike to man and horse. In truth, a more heathenish road never was travelled since the times of the Druids; nor ever did the modern invention of springs undergo a more severe ordeal, while the be-bogged pedestrian railed with bitter inveteracy against the railroads which had subjected them to such unforeseen difficulties, by causing a dearth of the ordinary modes of “civilised conveyance.” However, “barring all pother,” we at length reached our final destination, and there found the lists in fitting preparation.

It was now nearly one o’clock, and all was completed; but, as might have been said to the mob who surrounded Tyburn tree, awaiting the arrival of Jack Sheppard, “there’s no fun till the principals arrive,” so here there was no fun till Ward presented his agreeable mug. It is true that the Deaf’un shied his castor into the ring before one, and claimed forfeit in consequence of the absence of “Young” not “Old Nick;” but as the appointed ground had been changed, and Ward and his friends had to scramble through the bogs with the assistance only of a one-horse cart, sufficient excuse was afforded for his absence, and the claim was premature.

At last the signal of approach was given, and hailed with satisfaction. At a quarter past one Ward was on the ground, and the Deaf’un, who had retired to his drag, was handed forth amidst loud cheers.

Now came “the tug of war.” The belligerents entered the ring in high spirits, the Deaf’un attended by Harry Preston and Sutton, the pedestrian; Nick Ward by Dick Curtis and Levi Eckersley. They shook hands with mutual good will, and having tied their fogles to the stake (blue and white spot for Nick, and fancy white and green for Burke), they tossed for choice of corners, which was won by the Deaf’un. Each immediately proceeded to his toilette, and, “in the wringing off of a door-knocker,” was prepared for action. This was at twenty-five minutes to two, and as the rain had ceased, a “comfortable mill” was anticipated by a vast multitude, horse and foot, which surrounded the magic circle, and which was every moment swelling from fresh arrivals through cross-country paths.

On presenting themselves at the scratch the fronts of the heroes were duly scanned and criticised. Burke, for an old ’un, who had contended in seventeen prize battles, of which he had won fifteen and lost but two, looked remarkably well. His condition was quite up to the mark, and easy confidence sat proudly on his veteran phiz. His ample muscle was finely developed, and his weight was close upon 12st. 4lb. His nether extremities were clothed in a pair of drawers, composed of green and white, the combined remnants of bygone uniforms in which he had figured as the victor. Nick Ward was also in beautiful condition, and, in appearance, was all his friends could desire. His weight was about 12st. 10lb., and he had the advantage in height and length, as well as youth and freshness, over his opponent. Burke was born in December, 1809, and Ward in April, 1813, so that there was nearly four years’ difference between them. Previous to setting-to the current odds were 6 and 7 to 4 on Ward; but 2 to 1 had been laid, and his friends booked success as certain.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The Deaf’un came up smiling, and Ward quiet, but serious. After a good deal of dodging, in which neither seemed inclined to commence, Nick tried his left, but was neatly stopped. Burke had evidently made up his mind to the “waiting game,” foreseeing that if he “led off,” the long left-handed prop of Nick, which was always ready, would be inconvenient to his frontispiece. Ward seemed as little inclined to go to close quarters, but again tried his left, which was again stopped. In the third attempt he touched the Deaf’un slightly on the cheek. Again did the Deaf’un stop the left, and Ward, putting his hands down, looked as if he would if he could, while the Deaf’un, following his example, grinned and exclaimed “It won’t do, Nick.” Into position again, but Nick extremely cautious, and evidently not desirous of close quarters. Burke beckoned him to come, but the hint was more civil than welcome. Nick let fly with his left, but the Deaf’un caught it on his elbow. More hitting and stopping, when Nick crept in and let fly with his left, but was admirably countered. Nick’s knuckles, however, reached home first, and a slight tinge of blood was visible on the Deaf’un’s left cheek (first blood for Ward). The mark of the counter-hit of Burke also became apparent on Nick’s left cheek, and this was “trick and tie.” Again did they counter-hit with the left, and the Deaf’un showed blood from his mouth. Ward put his hands down again, and they looked at each other with patience. Burke clearly determined not to play Nick’s game, but to wait for his onslaught. Nick recommenced his manœuvring, but found the Deaf’un so well covered that he dared not try it, and he dodged about as before, trying the patience of the spectators, who repeatedly cried, “Go in and fight” Out went his left, but Burke stopped it neatly. Nick drew back, and the Deaf’un amused the folks with a few of his “hankey pankey” antics, and shaking his head, exclaimed, “’Twon’t do dis time, Nicks.” Long sparring; Nick hit short, and the Deaf’un popped his thumb to his nose. Curtis called on Nick to shoot with his left, but it was no go, and the Deaf’un, who can hear when he likes, cried out, “You knows all about it betters as we can tell you.” The Deaf’un stole a march and popped in his left on Nick’s cheek (cries of “Bravo, Deaf’un!” from his friends). Long pauses and mutual stopping. (Twenty-three minutes had expired, but no mischief done; Jem Burn called for a pillow, and Tommy Roundhead told the Deaf’un he had ordered a leg of mutton to be ready by eleven at night.) Nick at last nailed the Deaf’un on the jaw with his left and got away (cheers for Nick). A jackdaw, which flew close over the ring several times, now relieved the monotony of the sport, but on seeing his big brother, Molyneux, he cut it. Mutual stopping and waiting, but no business done. The Deaf’un put in his right on the body, and at last they got to a rally; heavy hits were exchanged, and the Deaf’un closed for in-fighting; but Nick fell, the Deaf’un on him. (This round lasted thirty-seven minutes, and excited general displeasure, from its want of animation.)

2.—Both men showed marks of pepper from the close contact in the last round. Burke bled from the mouth, and Ward a little from the ear; but there was no real mischief done. Again did Burke wait and Ward stand off, still disinclined for close quarters. “Why don’t you go and fight?” resounded from all sides. “I’m ready,” cried the Deaf’un; “why don’t he come?” Fifty minutes had elapsed. The men approached and retreated several times, till at length heavy counters with the left were exchanged, and away; more dodging. The Deaf’un crept in and caught Ward under the left arm with his right; had it been over the shoulder and reached the ear, it would have told tales. Jem Ward exclaimed, “The day’s long enough, take your time, Nick.” “Ay,” cried the Deaf’un, “it will be long enough for me to lick him, and you afterwards.” Nick now got closer, counter-hits were tried, but stopped; each brought up his right at the jaw and closed, and the Deaf’un was disposed to continue his work, but Ward fell on his knees. The round lasted twenty minutes, and fifty-seven minutes had passed away.

3.—Again was the long and tedious system of waiting adopted. Each dropped his hands, and Nick scratched his head, and rubbed his breast, but did anything but go in to fight, although Dick Curtis assured him the Deaf’un would “stand it” The Deaf’un laughed and shook his head, tried his right, but was short; in a second attempt he was more successful, and caught Ward on the jaw, just under the old cheek hit. Ward looked serious. At last Ward rushed in left and right; blows were exchanged, but the round was closed by Ward getting down. He was clearly playing the safe game of caution, and had no desire to throw a chance away. One hour and forty-three minutes had elapsed.

4.—Cries to Ward of “Go in,” but he was deaf to the incitement, and “bided his time;” finally he stole upon the Deaf’un, hit left and right, and for a moment there was some tidy in-fighting, and a few exchanges; in the close the Deaf’un was down. Nick, we thought, hit open-handed. On the Deaf’un rising his “bellows heaved,” and it was clear this long sparring delay was searching his wind, while his damaged right leg seemed to get weak from long standing.

5.—The Deaf’un let fly with his right and caught Ward on the shoulder—well meant, but too low. Counter-hits with the left, when Ward planted three left-handed hits in succession on Burke’s nob. Burke slightly countered, but was getting slow, and bled from the mouth and nose. Ward improved his advantage and again popped in his left three or four times. The Deaf’un went wildly to work, but was short with his right, and his counter-hits with the left did not get well home. In a scrambling close Ward was down, and Burke was evidently distressed and not firm on his pins (4 to 1 offered on Ward).

6.—Ward, seeing the condition of his man, determined to improve his advantage—popped in a left-hander on the Deaf’un’s eyebrow, which he cut; a rally followed, and good hits were exchanged; in the close Ward down. A blow from Ward’s right, below Burke’s waistband, excited some discontent, but it was not objected to by the umpire.

7.—Burke stopped Nick’s left, and planted his right counter-hits with the left, and a smart rally. Nick hit with his hand open, but the returns were rapid, and in the close Ward went down.

8.—Both showed punishment, but the Deaf’un had the balance against him and his left eye was swollen. A spirited rally, although wild; the Deaf’un was slow and short with his right. In the close Ward fell on his hands and knees. He still continued to play the careful game.

9.—Burke steadied himself, stopped Nick’s left with great precision, popping in his right heavily on Ward’s body. Nick popped in his left and got to a close; the Deaf’un fibbed, but Ward soon got down, the Deaf’un falling by his side.

10.—The Deaf’un hit short with his right, but Nick planted his left, when the Deaf’un bored in and fell on his knees—Ward withholding an intended blow in time.

11.—(Two hours had now elapsed.) Nick hit short with his left, and the Deaf’un nodded. Counter-hits on the masticators. The Deaf’un planted his right on Nick’s nose, and drew claret. Nick made play with his left, and the Deaf’un fell on his knees. The visit to Nick’s smelling organ seemed anything but acceptable.

12.—Ward’s proboscis bleeding; but he seemed not to have lost his spirits, and let fly his left, which Burke stopped. Heavy counter-hits with the left, and the Deaf’un delivered a good body-blow with his right; Nick in with his left, and went down. It was now thought to be anybody’s fight, and the odds were reduced to 6 to 4 on Ward; but still it was apparent that the Deaf’un was distressed, while Ward was fresh, and careful of his corpus.

13.—Nick led off with his left, and followed the Deaf’un to his corner. The Deaf’un stood on the defensive, but received two or three heavy hits right and left. In the close he fell under the ropes, and Nick also went down.

14.—Nick saw his man was abroad, and the moment he was up set to work left and right. The Deaf’un fought boldly, but was slow, and had the worst of the punishment; still he made some good round hits, and Ward was down.

15.—Nick went to work left and right; the Deaf’un became groggy, and fought wildly, missing several blows. Both down, Ward under.

16.—Nick now saw it was all in his favour: he hit as he pleased left and right; the Deaf’un, all abroad, hit wildly. In the close Ward down, and the Deaf’un on him, weak.

17.—The Deaf’un came up quite groggy, when Ward went to work left and right, having it all his own way; he drove Burke against the ropes, upon which he threw him on his back, and, while in that position, hit him heavily with his right till he fell over; cries of “foul!” here burst from the Deaf’un’s friends, in which others joined, and a general rush was made to the ring, overturning all those who sat close to it, including ourselves. The umpires disagreed, of course, but not being close to the referee, had to go round to him: pending this, Nick Ward stood up in the ring, while the Deaf’un was picked up and seated on Sutton’s knee. At last the referee was reached, and on being appealed to, pronounced, as he was justified in doing, “fair.” It was said “time” was then called, although, from our position, involved in a crush, we did not hear it. The hat was immediately thrown up, and the battle was claimed for Ward. (We ought to state that during the last four or five rounds there was a tremendous fall of hail and rain.)

Subsequent to the termination of the 17th round, and previous to the referee giving his judgment, it was stated that while Deaf Burke was seated on his second’s knee Nick Ward went up to him and struck him twice or thrice in the face, and also struck Preston, and subsequently there was a battle raging between him and Preston, and then between Preston and Jem Ward, close to the referee. We have been further informed that if “time” was called, Burke refused to prolong the fight, alleging that Ward had struck him “foul” while on his second’s knee, and before the decision on the previous question had been given. With respect to all this, we confess we are unable to give an opinion; because we saw no part of it, being glad to escape from the overwhelming mass by which we were overborne. Our impression at the time was that the decision of the referee was conclusive, and that Burke was unable to come again, although, from the time occupied in the discussion, it is not improbable he might have recovered his wind and have once more met his man; still, in our opinion, with very little chance of turning the scale in his favour; but there is no calculating on the chapter of accidents. Ward walked from the ring in full vigour, and was seen walking about little the worse for wear, beyond the closure of his left eye, and we believe he would have seconded Corbett in the next fight had it been permitted. The Deaf’un was conducted to his carriage, and, like Ward, on recovering his wind was not materially damaged. He contended he was entitled to the stakes from Ward’s alleged foul conduct. Ward was so elated that he boldly challenged the winner of the coming great fight between Caunt and Brassey for £100—a challenge in which his brother Jem heartily joined.

Remarks.—We must say that in this battle Burke exceeded our expectations—his condition was far superior to that in which he fought Bendigo, and his style of fighting was excellent. He no longer gave his head as heretofore, but got it well out of mischief, and stopped beautifully, until exhausted by the protracted character of Ward’s tactics, and the failure of his knee, on which he could not be persuaded to wear a cap, when he became slow, and was fatally exposed to Ward’s rapid and severe deliveries with his left. He fought manfully, and with no more than proper caution, and had Ward been disposed, would have joined issue in the first round. Ward, however, evidently fought to orders; both he and his friends knew that while Burke’s vigour was undiminished close contact was dangerous; and Ward has a very strong antipathy to punishment which can be avoided. This he showed, not only from his so long stopping out, but by his getting down at the end of the early rounds. The moment he saw he had got the Deaf’un safe, he threw off all reserve, and his youth, quickness, and vigour enabled him to gain an easy victory, which the increasing slowness and wildness of the Deaf’un rendered more certain. Of his courage, however, we cannot say much—he wants “that within which passeth show,” and will never make “a kill-devil.”

The very next day the following notice was served upon the stakeholder:—

“I do hereby give you notice not to deliver up the stakes to the opposite party in the fight between me and Nick Ward, as I hereby claim the same from having received foul blows from my opponent, Nick Ward, while on my second’s knee, and before ‘Time’ was called. One of the umpires bears evidence that the last statement is correct, as a friend of the other umpire (Nick Ward’s) had taken away the only watch used for time-keeping, while he and my second, Harry Preston, were appealing to the referee with respect to a prior foul blow. My reason for entering the protest is in order that a meeting may be obtained with the referee and an appointed number of friends of each party, so that a proper and just arbitration may be obtained. I shall be prepared at that meeting to produce affidavits in confirmation of what I assert. My backers hold you liable for the amount of the stakes.

“24th September, 1849. “(Signed) JAMES BURKE.”

To this is added the following certificate from Burke’s umpire:—

“Nick Ward and Burke.—I hereby declare that no ‘Time’ was called after the appeal to the referee.”

Thus it would seem that this affair came to a wrangle, one of the misfortunes which arise from the headstrong folly with which the surrounding spectators rush to the ring the moment a dispute arises. Had they kept their places, nothing could have been more simple than the issue. The umpires disagreeing, the referee would at once have said “fair” or “foul;” and in the former, as decidedly must have been the case in this instance, “time” would have been called, and the men would have fought on, or he who refused to walk to the scratch would have lost the battle. But now comes a new position, all owing to the irregularity described, and of which we are persuaded neither the umpires nor referee had any knowledge whatever, except from hearsay. The obtrusion of any person within the ring, or close to the ring, until the fight shall have been fairly decided, is obviously wrong, and its mischief is here clearly demonstrated. The matter was now hedged round with difficulty, the decision of which could only be given by the appointed referee, and as he could not see the act complained of, his judgment was founded on the evidence submitted to him.

This decision quickly came, and was in favour of Ward, to whom the stakes were duly paid over.

Ward was now at the top of the tree, and confidence in his powers seemed to have come with victory. After sundry cartels and haggling about preliminaries, Caunt having defeated Brassey in October, Nick challenged Caunt for the honour of the title of “Champion.” Ben responded, nothing loth, and the subjoined articles were formulated by “the high contracting plenipotentaries”:—

“Articles of Agreement entered into this 8th day of December, 1840, between Benjamin Caunt and Nicholas Ward—The said Ben Caunt agrees to fight the said Nick Ward, a fair stand-up fight, in a four-and-twenty foot roped ring, half minute time, within sixty miles of London, on Tuesday, the 2nd of February, 1841, for £100 a side, according to the provisions of the new rules. In pursuance of this agreement, £20 a side are now deposited; a second deposit of £10 a side to be made on Thursday, the 17th of December, at Young Dutch Sam’s; a third deposit of £10 a side on Monday, the 21st of December, at Peter Crawley’s; a fourth deposit of £10 a side, on Thursday, the 31st of December, at Jem Ward’s, Liverpool; a fifth deposit of £10 a side, on Friday, the 8th of January, 1841, at Owen Swift’s; a sixth deposit of £10 a side, on Thursday, the 14th of January, at Young Dutch Sam’s; a seventh deposit of £10 a side, on Monday, the 18th of January, at Peter Crawley’s; and the eighth and last deposit of £10 a side, on Thursday, the 28th of January, at the same house: the said deposits to be made between the hours of eight and ten in the evening, or the party failing to forfeit the money down. The choice of place to be decided at the last deposit by toss. The men to be in the ring between the hours of twelve and one o’clock, or the party absent to forfeit the battle-money, unless an earlier hour shall be mutually agreed upon at the last deposit, to which hour the same forfeiture shall be applicable. Two umpires and a referee to be chosen on the ground; in case of dispute the decision of the latter to be conclusive. Should magisterial interference take place, the stakeholder to name the next time and place of meeting, if possible on the same day. The use of resin or other powder to the hands during the battle to be considered foul, and the money not to be given up till fairly won or lost by a fight.

“Signed—for Caunt—Peter Crawley.

“Do., for Ward—Samuel Evans.”

On the 23rd of February, then, this anxiously anticipated meeting took place, but resulted in a manner anything but satisfactory to the admirers of manly pugilism.

On the match being made, the men were quickly in training, Caunt under the wing of Peter Crawley, at Hatfield, near Barnet, and Nick Ward under the able supervision of Peter Taylor, near Liverpool. In point of condition there was no fault to be found; both were perfectly up to the mark, and in all respects judiciously prepared for their coming struggle.

According to the articles it was provided that the combat should take place within 60 miles of London. The choice of place was to be decided by toss, and this was won by the backer of Caunt, who named the vicinity of the Andover Road Station, on the Southampton Railway, as the place of meeting; thus imposing upon Nick Ward and his friends the necessity of coming a distance of upwards of 270 miles, after the Saturday morning, on which day only they could receive notice of the fixture. This circumstance produced a good deal of sore feeling among the Ward-ites, and on the morning of battle led to some angry expressions. We certainly think that the laws of “give and take” should have been observed in this instance, and that it was anything but considerate to have imposed so long a journey upon an honourable opponent. We believe that the selection rather arose from a desire to give “a turn” to the folks of Hampshire, than from any wish to take an unfair advantage of Ward. How this love of the “Hampshire hogs” was returned the vicissitudes hereafter described will show.

On the Sunday, Caunt and Hammer Lane, who were to exhibit in the same ring, arrived at the “Vine,” at Stockbridge, about ten miles from the Winchester Station, where they were joined by a select circle of their backers and friends, and on the day following Nick Ward and Sullivan (the opponent of Hammer Lane) reached the Andover Road Station, accompanied by Jem Ward, Peter Taylor, and other friends and admirers, to the great comfort of the railway officials, who obtained on that and the succeeding day a profitable accession of passengers. The owners of the houses of entertainment in the neighbourhood were not less delighted, but many, from the want of accommodation, proceeded to Winchester, where their patronage was equally acceptable. On Monday evening it was ascertained beyond a doubt that the “Hampshire hogs” were as stubborn as some of their namesakes in other counties, and the hostility of the beaks to the manly demonstrations of fair play in the Prize Ring was grunted forth by sundry official leaders of the rural police, by whom, however, it is due to say, every courtesy consistent with their situation was displayed. This fact created additional unpopularity towards the original author of the disappointment, who was not less mortified than his grumbling opponents. There was no help for it, however, and in the evening it was agreed that both parties should meet the next morning at the village of Sutton, about four miles from the station, there to determine on the line of march. The Caunt-ites having ascertained that the affair might come off without interruption in the county of Wilts, proposed an adjournment in that direction; but as this step would have carried the Ward-ites some 14 or 15 miles beyond the stipulated distance of 60 miles from London, they peremptorily refused to budge an inch across the limit laid down in the articles, and the road back towards London was the only direction in which they would consent to proceed. This was the state of things on Monday evening, and on Tuesday morning, at half-past ten, the village of Sutton displayed a dense congregation of all classes, from the high-titled nob to the wooden-soled chawbacon. Carriages of all sorts, from Winchester, Andover, Stockbridge, Odiham, and all the surrounding post-towns, as well as from London and elsewhere, were huddled together in tangled confusion, anxiously waiting to receive the authorised “office” as to the road they should take. Among these the Commissary, in a light chaise cart, with the indispensable materiel of his calling, occupied a prominent position, while the belligerents in their respective drags patiently waited the order for advance. Amidst the turmoil, the superintendent and the inspectors of the rural police, attended by a number of constables, some on horseback and some in chaise carts, were preparing to do their duty, and to see the expectant multitude fairly out of their jurisdiction.

A council of war having been held at the head inn, Crookham Common, on the borders of Berkshire, and within three and a half miles of Newbury, was finally agreed upon as the scene of action, a distance of upwards of sixteen miles, through a country not very agreeably distinguished by a succession of steep hills, the ascent and descent of which tended not a little to retard the speed of the travellers, and still more to try the mettle of the nags upon whom this additional labour was imposed, while hundreds of the ten-toed amateurs were altogether thrown out of the sport. At Whitchurch the inhabitants were rather astonished at the sudden incursion of the cavalcade. Here there was a general halt for refreshment for man and beast, and, most ominously, the carriage in which Hammer Lane was placed broke down; an unfortunate fracture which was imitated by many other vehicles, which, for this particular occasion, had been drawn from a retirement that previous wear and tear had led their owners to consider perpetual. After a short time “forward” was again the order of the day, and King’s Clere was reached in due course. Here was another halt, indispensable to men and cattle, and many of the jaded horses were for a time placed in stables, while the bonifaces received ample proofs of the beneficial effects resulting to the human appetite when whetted against the rough edge of a hard frost and a bracing atmosphere. It was now ascertained that the “land of promise” was within three miles of the village, and the Commissary was sent forward to make the necessary preparations for action, while the horses of the police, sharing the fate of their companions, were so knocked up that their masters determined to perform the rest of their journey to the verge of the county on foot, heartily sick of the ungracious office assigned them. In half an hour the general body made their final move, and, crossing the river Enborne, at last made their exit from the inhospitable county of Hants, and luckily sustained no further impediment. They reached the battle-field on Crookham Common about half-past three, quickly forming a spacious circle round the ring, which had been admirably prepared by the commissariat department. The ground was thinly covered with snow, and was as hard as adamant from the intensity of the frost, while a cutting breeze from the east, sweeping over the elevation on which the common is placed, left little ground of regret among those whose customary visits to their barbers had been neglected from the rapidity of their morning movements, as they were shaved free of cost. The assemblage, if not as numerous as might have been anticipated had not the move taken place, was in the honest sense of the word respectable, and many persons of bonâ fide distinction, both as to rank and station in society, studded the lively circle.

The umpires having been chosen, the difficulty of selecting a referee was presented in the same unpleasant aspect as in the then recent fight between Hannan and Broome,[23] but was at length got over, after a considerable argumentation, in the selection of a gentleman who, if not professionally engaged in the business of the Ring, was fully competent to decide any dispute which might arise, and who certainly discharged the duties of his unpleasant office with becoming firmness and determination, and, we must add, with perfect impartiality.

All being now prepared for combat, the men entered the ring, greeted by the cheers of their friends. Caunt came forward, attended by Tass Parker and Johnny Broome, all sporting their “yellow men,” while Nick Ward made his bow under the friendly introduction of Dick Curtis and Harry Holt, each of whom displayed a fogle of blue and white spots. The men instantly advanced, and shook hands with apparent good-humour, Ward looked rather serious, while Caunt exhibited a nonchalance and gaiety which proved that he regarded the coming engagement with anything but personal apprehension. The betting round the ring at this moment was 5 to 4 on Caunt, with ready takers; and the preliminaries having been fully adjusted, the joust commenced.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—On getting into position, the scientific manner in which Ward presented himself, with his arms well up, prepared to stop with his right and shoot with his left, gave evident tokens of his being an accomplished member of the scientific school. Caunt also held his arms well up, but with a degree of awkwardness anything but calculated to lead the spectators to assume that he had taken his degree as a “Master of Arts.” He had evidently made up his mind to lose no time in commencing operations; he advanced upon his man, while Ward stepped back; Caunt, after a flourish or two of his mawleys, let fly with his left, but was stopped; Ward in return popped in his left and right slightly, and after a wild rally, in which neither hit with precision, and in which some slight returns were made, Ward’s left creating a blushing tinge on the big’un’s cheek, they closed, when Ward dropped, evidently disinclined to luxuriate in the embrace of his opponent.

2.—Again the big ’un came up ripe for mischief, and made play left and right, but was neatly stopped; Ward then popped in his left, catching his antagonist on the nose; both then fought merrily left and right, but there a want of precision in Ward’s deliveries, his left passing the head of Caunt like “the idle wind,” and from the slippery state of the ground it was obvious that neither could obtain firm footing. Nick, however, contrived to plant two or three left-handed pops, and the round concluded by both slipping down. (Loud and encouraging shouts for Ward, whose friends seemed to deem it necessary to cheer him on to hopes of victory.)

3.—Ward came up steady, prepared for the stop or the shoot. He waited for the attack, which was soon commenced by Caunt with vigorous but wild determination. He stopped left and right, but in his returns was short, his visitations not reaching their intended point of contact. Both in fact missed their blows, and no real mischief was done. Caunt rushed to a close, but Ward, still resolved to foil the grappling propensity of his opponent, slipped down.

4.—Caunt came up resolved to do, but wild and awkward in his mode of attack. Nick waited for him, his left ready to pop. Caunt hit out with his left, but missed, and Nick in the return was out of distance. Counter-hitting with the left. Both stopped intended visitations. Heavy exchanges left and right, in which Caunt caught a stinger on the forehead and the nose, from the former of which blood was drawn, and declared for Ward amidst deafening shouts and exclamations of “It’s all your own!” A wild rally followed, in which Caunt caught Ward a crack on the nob with his right. In the close Caunt caught Ward in his arms, but he again went down.

5.—Caunt tried a feint to draw his man, but Nick was too leary. He preserved his own position, evidently determined to nail his man with the left on coming in. Caunt, impatient, hit out wildly left and right, Nick broke ground and got away. On again getting to work Nick planted his left on Caunt’s eye, slight exchanges followed, but no serious impression was made, and Ward’s left passed over Caunt’s shoulder. In Caunt’s deliveries there was neither force nor accuracy. Ward getting nearer his man succeeded in planting a rap on his proboscis. Caunt instantly seized him in his arms and was about to fib, when Ward endeavoured to get down, but the big ’un held him too firmly, and fell heavily upon him.

6.—On coming up Caunt exhibited symptoms of visitations to his nose and eye, as well as to his forehead, but still no material damage had been effected. Ward led off with his left, but the hit was short, and was attended with little effect. Caunt again closed, determined to give his man the benefit of a Nottinghamshire hug, but Ward frustrated his intention by dropping on his knees. At the moment Caunt, determined to give him a compliment as he fell, let fly his right, which did not reach its destination (Ward’s lug) till Ward’s knees had actually reached the ground. (There was an immediate cry of “foul!” and the partisans of Ward, as well as his second, rushed to the referee to claim the battle. This was decidedly in opposition to the new rules, which prescribe that all such appeals shall be made to the umpires, and by them to the referee, and that no other person whatever shall presume to interfere. Amidst the turmoil and confusion of intimidation the referee remained silent until the umpires declared they disagreed, and when the question was then put to him deliberately pronounced “fair,” believing, as he said he did, that the blow was unintentional, and had commenced its flight before Ward was actually on the ground. All cavil was now at an end, and the fight proceeded; the friends of Caunt earnestly entreating that he would be cautious of what he was about, and be particularly careful in avoiding the repetition of the blow, which the falling system of Ward might unintentionally lead him to administer.)

7.—Caunt came up as fresh as a sucking bull, and pregnant with deeds of mischief. Ward waited for him steadily, and let fly his left, catching Caunt slightly on the mug. Caunt hit wildly left and right, but missed; he then closed, again catching Ward in his forceps. Ward, however, renewed his dropping system, and slipped from between his arms on his knees, his hands up. While in this position, evidently down, Caunt instantaneously drew back his right hand, and hit him twice on the side of the head. The shout of “Foul!” was immediately renewed with redoubled ardour, and a simultaneous appeal was again made to the referee by some dozen persons who crowded round him, all vociferously demanding confirmation of their own impressions. This indecorous and disgraceful dictation was again manfully resisted by the referee, who, waiting with firmness till calmness was restored, listened to the appeal from the proper authorities, and pronounced the last blows to be “foul;” observing that Ward was clearly down upon both knees when the blows were delivered. Shouts of congratulation forthwith hailed Ward as the conqueror; a result which filled him with delight: and he quitted the ring with joyous satisfaction, scarcely exhibiting a mark of the conflict in which he had been engaged. Indeed of punishment he did not afford a specimen worth mentioning. The fight lasted but twelve minutes, and terminated at three minutes after four o’clock.

The backer of Caunt was naturally irritated at this disappointment of his hopes, and, sustained by the authority of an old ring-goer, contended that the decision of the referee, however honourably given, was in opposition to the rules of the Ring, for that by those rules it was provided, that it was necessary a man should have his hand on the ground, as well as both knees, before a blow given could be pronounced foul; and in this persuasion he said he should give notice to the stakeholder not to part with the stakes or the bets till the point was deliberately settled. The referee said he had given his decision with perfect impartiality, and he believed with perfect justice. In confirmation of which he turned to a copy of Fistiana, which he had in his possession, and quoted from thence (page 29) the 7th at Broughton’s Rules, which provides, “That no person is to hit his adversary when he is down, or seize him by the ham, the breeches, or any part below the waist; a man on his knees to be reckoned down.” He then quoted the 14th of the New Rules of the Ring (page 65), which provides, in the same spirit, “That a blow struck when a man is thrown, or down, shall be deemed foul. That a man with one hand and one knee on the ground, or with both knees on the ground, shall be deemed down; and a blow given in either of these positions shall be considered foul; providing always, that when in such position, the man so down shall not strike, or attempt to strike.” The articles having been framed according to the New Rules, this reference must be conclusive. It was contended, that in the battle between Tom Belcher and Dutch Sam, the Pugilistic Club had decided that a blow given when a man was on his knees, with both hands up, was not foul; but, as there was no written record of this decision, and as it is opposed both to Broughton’s Rules and the New Rules, the argument can have no weight, and the stakes, however easily and unsatisfactorily won, were of right given to Ward.

Remarks.—Ward, in purchasing this almost bloodless victory, did not add much to his reputation. That he was entitled to the reward of conquest cannot be denied; but the opportunities of testing his improved qualities and courage were so limited, that it would be worse than hypocrisy to say he offered any peculiar claims to high praise. That he is more scientific than his opponent cannot be doubted; but it must be admitted that on comparing his tactics with the steady and cutting precision of his brother Jem, he has yet much to learn. Many of his blows were short, while others, well-intentioned, missed their aim—a circumstance probably to be ascribed to the slippery state of the ground, and the unsteady manœuvres of his opponent. Whether, if the fight had been prolonged, he would have improved upon acquaintance, we cannot foresee. Regarding his courage, no particular exception can be taken, for although going down or trying to go down in every round is unsightly in the eyes of the spectators, and has the semblance of being opposed to the commonplace notions of a fair stand-up fight, yet, according to the 12th of the New Rules, it will be seen that such an expedient is allowable; that rule provides “that it shall be a fair stand-up fight; and if either man shall wilfully throw himself down without receiving a blow, he shall be deemed to have lost the battle: but this rule shall not apply to a man who in a close slips down from the grasp of his opponent to avoid punishment.” Here blows had been exchanged, and Ward obviously slipped down to avoid the punishment which Caunt had determined to administer. Moreover, it was to avoid the hugging end being borne on to the ropes which Ward evaded by slipping from the intended embrace. With regard to Caunt, we attribute the loss of the battle to his uncontrollable impetuosity. That he would have been defeated in fair fight by his accomplished antagonist is by no means a settled point, for although he showed marks of tapping, he was quite as fresh and vigorous as when he commenced, and was quite as likely to win in the last as he was in the first round. He has still, however, much to learn; he wants steadiness and precision, and the wildness with which he hits defeats his own object. In the use of his left, as well as in stopping, he has certainly improved, and we think, as his experience increases, he may become a greater adept in the art. He must learn to curb his impetuosity, and preserve that presence of mind the absence of which so speedily led to the downfall of his hopes in this case. So persuaded was he that he could have won, that immediately after judgment had been given against him, he declared he would make a fresh match, and post the whole hundred of his own money. It is singular that in his fights with Bendigo and Brassey he seldom lost a due command over his temper, although both these men pursued the same course of getting down as Ward. With regard to Brassey, his gift of punishment is far more severe than that of Ward, as the evidence of Caunt’s carved frontispiece on the former occasion sufficiently testified.

Here, once again, we will ask the reader to take our arm and stroll away from plain prose into the pleasant path of poetry, by presenting him with a Chant of the Ring about—

NICK WARD AND CAUNT.

Hurrah for the Ring and the bunch of fives!
Like a giant refreshed the Ring revives,
It awakens again to vigorous life
To scare the assassin and crush the knife;

Then welcome to earth as the flowers in spring

Be the glory renew’d of the Boxing Ring,
And over each British boxer brave,
Long may the banner of fair play wave.

Let Puritans sour in accents shrill
Rave against Fistiana still,
And owl-faced beaks shake the nob and vow
To their fiat stern the Ring shall bow;
Let lobsters raw with their truncheons roar
“Disperse” to the pugilistic corps—

The pinks of the Prize Ring, in freedom nurs’d

Shall tell them undaunted to do their worst—

Shall proclaim to the traps ’tis weak and vain

To seek the brave boxer to restrain;
And better ’twould be by far to grab
Those who settle disputes by a mortal stab:
By Heaven, ’tis sufficient to make us blush
For those who are seeking fair play to crush,
To extinguish courage, and skill, and game,

And in letters of blood stamp England’s shame.

Keen is the morning, the glittering snow
Mantles the hills and the vales below,
The landscape around is bleak and bare,
Chill’d by the nipping and frosty air;
The north-east cold over land and sea
Is whistling a sharp, shrill melody;
But the sun is up, and the morning bright,
So hasten, brave boys, to the field of fight.

This day will decide whether Caunt or Nick
In the shape of conquest shall do the trick—
This day shall to Fancy lads declare
Which hero the Champion’s belt shall wear—
Whether Ben, the athletic, of giant limb,
Shall yield to young Ward, or Nick to him,
And after contention fierce and tough
Which combatant first shall sing “enough.”

From slumber rouse, let no time be lost,

Forward for Stockbridge through snow and frost,

Near which, when with creature comfort warmed,

Shall the stakes be pitch’d and the ring be form’d.

Strong was the muster upon that day
Of plebeians low and Corinthians gay,
But the beaks for Hants had in anger vow’d
No mill in their county should be allow’d.

Looks of despair the Fancy put on,
And determin’d to make a move to Sutton,
And thither hasten’d the fistic ranks,
With policemen hanging upon their flanks;
Then Captain Robbins, with gaze intense,
Cried, “Gentlemen, meaning no offence,
You mustn’t attempt, or I’m a liar,
To settle your matters in this here shire.”

Now suppose the Fancy, each peril pass’d,
As Crookham Common arriv’d at last,
Prepar’d for superior milling works
Without meddling traps in the shire of Berks:
Suppose the men in position plac’d.
With arms well up and with muscle brac’d,
Each champion seeming resolved to win,
For the love of glory, as well as tin!

But, ah! it is useless to recite
The details of this brief and no-go fight,
What pepper Nick dealt on the giant’s mug,
And how Caunt return’d with a Russian hug;
How Nick, though on serious mischief bent,
Dropp’d down to steer clear of punishment;
And how big Caunt, though in tip-top plight,
Hit his foe on his knees and lost the fight.

Yet hurrah for the Ring and the bunch of fives!

Like a giant refresh’d the Ring revives,
It awakens again to vigorous life
To scare the assassin and crush the knife:

Then welcome to earth as the flowers in spring

Be the glory renew’d of the Fighting Ring,
And over each British boxer brave
Long may the banner of fair play wave.

On the Thursday evening of the ensuing week, on the occasion of the giving up of the stakes, which took place at Young Dutch Sam’s, in Vinegar Yard, Drury Lane, Big Ben and his friends were “all there,” and a “motion for a new trial” was made and agreed to on both sides. The articles, which were settled in the following week, will be found in a former page of this volume, in the Memoir of Caunt, who “reversed the former verdict” on the 11th of May, 1841, at Long Marsden, in thirty-five rounds, occupying forty-seven minutes.

This was Nick’s “Waterloo,” and his last appearance on any field. He became a publican, first in Liverpool, and then in London, and on the 17th of February, 1850, departed this life, at the “King’s Head,” Compton Street, Soho, the victim of a pulmonary attack.

[22] A detailed biography of this remarkable boxer will be found in the Author’s “Recollections of the Ring,” vol. i. “Pencilling,” III.

[23] See Recollections of the Ring and Pencillings of Pugilists. No. IX. Johnny Broome.

CHAPTER VI.

NATHANIEL LANGHAM.
1843–1857.

“Take him for all in all,” the subject of this chapter, as a middle-weight, was “a man” of whom might be safely said “we shall not look upon his like again.” He was of the weight so often described by the “old school” as the “unlucky 11 stone; too heavy for the light, and too light for the heavy ones.” Yet at that weight it is indisputable that the finest specimens of skill, strength, and activity have been developed, where courage and endurance have been duly combined, “to give the world assurance of a man.”

Nathaniel Langham was born in May, 1820, at Hinckley in Leicestershire; his height 5 feet 10 inches, and weight, as already stated, 11 stone. Nat’s earlier years were passed as a country labourer’s are usually. In his boyish days he worked in the fields, and as soon as he was fitted, made his way into Leicester, where he was engaged by a tradesman, as he himself has told us, to “deliver goods with a horse and cart.” While in this town he attained, in the years 1841–1843, an insight into the more scientific manœuvres of the art pugilistic, for which he had a natural taste and instinctive aptitude, being much praised by Dick Cain, who often encouraged him to “put on the mittens” with rural roughs who might fancy their fistic abilities, and who gave Nat the best of tactical advice and instruction. Notwithstanding this episode of town life, it is certain that in February, 1843, Langham was again at his native village of Hinckley, for in Bell’s Life of February 12th we find the following paragraph, recording the first Ring fight of our hero:—

NAT LANGHAM.

From a Painting by Williams.

“A fight came off on Thursday last, near Hinckley, Leicestershire, between Nathaniel Langham, of Hinckley, and William Ellis, of Sabcote (an adjacent village), for £5 a side. The men were of pretty equal proportions, each standing a little under six feet, but, if anything, Ellis is the larger man; he is an old fighter, and was considered by his backers (though they must now be convinced to the contrary) invincible. Langham, too, has appeared in the Ring before, and distinguished himself as a man of no small talent as regards his milling capabilities. The fight took place about eleven o’clock, when both men went to work hard and fast, Langham hitting well at his man, and getting his blows home. Ellis was unable to hit his antagonist with effect, and at the expiration of the eighth round showed his sense by giving in, having his peepers most effectually darkened, his lips cut, and other very visible marks of heavy and frequent visitations from Langham’s skilfully directed ‘fives.’”

Nat after this took his way to the great mart for all rising talent, the Metropolis, landing at Ben Caunt’s early in 1844. On the 7th of May in that year Langham found himself one of a pugilistic party, headed by Ben Caunt, on board of the “Nymph” steamer, outward bound in search of a convenient battle-field for the settlement of the “difference of opinion” between Joe Bostock (a former opponent of Johnny Broome) and Turner, the “Wychwood Forester.” This affair disposed of, by Bostock winning in thirty-four minutes, a purse was collected for “an afterpiece.” Thereupon Tom Lowe, a stalwart coal-whipper of some repute as conqueror in various bye-battles, and who afterwards beat Hurley at 12 stone, presented himself. Nat proposed to answer the challenger, and “Big Ben” gave his approval of the experiment. D’Orsay Turner, and Mike Driscoll seconded Langham, Jack Cullen and Ned Adams picking up Lowe. The battle was a curious, scrambling affair, according to the meagre paragraph which is afforded to it in Bell’s Life. In fact, it is within our knowledge that the reporter on this occasion had left the ring and gone aboard the steamer before it was known that a second fight was arranged. In the 43rd round, when Lowe was said to have “the best of the battle” (?) we are told, “On getting up from his corner Lowe, much to the surprise of most parties, went up to his adversary, and shaking hands with him, declined fighting any more; Langham was of course proclaimed the victor, after fighting 50 minutes.” We suspect the verbal amateur reporter of this affair did not know so much about Nat Langham’s capabilities as Mr. Lowe had found out during the 50 minutes he had faced him. At any rate, Caunt was so satisfied with his “novice’s” display that he offered to back him for £25 against any man of his weight. Langham also put forth a challenge to fight Joe Bostock, the conqueror in this day’s battle, “for £25, to meet within six weeks of signing articles;” but Johnny Broome, who was behind Bostock, and than whom in his day there was no better judge, having availed himself of an opportunity of trying Nat with the gloves, would not have the engagement at any price, and so the affair came to nought. A clear twelvemonth now elapsed before Nat could meet with a customer, although we find him offering himself as a candidate for pugilistic honours at 11 stone, and give 7lb., for £25; money ready at “The Lion,” at Hinckley, or the “Coach and Horses,” St. Martin’s Lane.

In the month of June, 1845, Langham being then under the wing of Ben Caunt, an outsider presented himself at the Champion’s hostelrie, and in the course of conversation announced himself as “Doctor” Campbell; he was soon recognised as the successful opponent of Ben Hart, in a punishing fight of seventy-one rounds, which took place on the 3rd of November, 1842, in the Kentish marshes. A bout with the gloves with “brother Bob” (certainly no great “trial-horse”) was followed by the “Doctor,” who weighed close on 12 stone, declaring himself to be “in want of a job,” whereon Nat suggested to his patron Ben that he thought he could accommodate the “Doctor” by giving him a few pounds’ weight and a beating. Ben, who was ever close-fisted, offered to put down a “fiver” for Nat; and, as the “Doctor’s” friends were not flush of money, that modest sum remained without increase until the 12th of June, when Big Ben, as M.C., taking advantage of the hiring of a steamer for a more important “excursion,” shipped his man Nat, and conveyed him to the battle-field at Rainham Ferry, at which place “Doctor” Campbell and friends were in waiting. No contemporary report of the rounds is extant, but we know from eye-witnesses that Nat, though with small preparation, in the short space of thirty-five minutes so used his left “pickaxe”—as it was afterwards expressively termed by no less a master of arts than Tom Sayers himself—that the “Doctor” was completely “physicked.” In the 27th round he “retired from professional practice,” entirely disabled, and declined further contest, and never again showed within the ropes of the P.R.

Dan Hagerty, who had beaten Bill Amos, Jack Johnston, and subsequently the hard-hitting Aby Durell, was challenged by Nat for £25 a side; but Dan’s backers, after some conference, thought it best to leave the Leicester man alone, and a sov. down was forfeited.

Nat now retired into country quarters, and we next hear of him as matched with a boxer of great local renown, hight George Gutteridge, of Bourne, in Lincolnshire. Gutteridge, who was born in 1823, stood 5 feet 9 inches, and weighed 11 stone 7 lbs., began his rising career in April, 1845, by beating, in 23 sharp rounds, George Graham (known as the “Potter”); this he followed in June, 1846, by defeating Macdonald, of Derby (the conqueror of Jem Bailey and several others), in a slashing fight of thirty-five minutes, in which 31 rattling rounds were contested. About this time we saw Gutteridge in London, at Caunt’s, and a more likely young fellow for wear and tear, his pluck being undoubted, we have seldom seen. His skill as a fighter, like all rural champions, was, of course, ridiculously overrated; and when Ben pointed him out to us as “that’s the chap that’s matched against Langham, what do you think of him?” there was a sort of hesitancy in the Champion’s tone, that expressed anxious doubt for the safety of the “quarter of a hundred,” besides “training ex’s,” which he had invested on the “wager of battle.” Caunt having received £7 from Gutteridge’s friends, for the right of naming the place of meeting, Mr. Banton’s, New Inn, at Bourne, South Lincolnshire, was named as the rendezvous, and thither on the overnight of the battle, Tuesday, June 9th, 1846, Caunt, with Langham and friends, repaired. At 8 a.m. the men went to scale, Langham drawing 11 stone, Gutteridge 11 stone 8 lbs. Langham looked thin but hard, as if somewhat overtrained. Gutteridge showed wonderfully strong, though a trifle fleshy. An excellent ring was formed at South Farm Pastures, about three miles from Bourne, and around it was grouped a large attendance of the gentry, yeomen, farmers, and labourers, with a sprinkling of sporting men from Leicestershire and the Midlands. The order, good-temper, and we might say decorum of the assembly, and the conduct of the spectators throughout the fight, were an example to such gatherings which we despair in these days to see imitated, either down rail or river. Langham had for his seconds Dan Bufton and John Gill; Gutteridge was excited on by Homer Howden and his former antagonist “Potter George” (Graham). The colours, a canary yellow for Langham, and a blue and white spot for Gutteridge, being tied to the stakes, the men shook hands cheerfully, and the battle began, the current odds being 6 and 7 to 4 on Gutteridge.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The attitude of Nat was by far the more artistic, though that of the Lincolnshire man was by no means awkward or constrained; yet he held his arms too close and across to deliver at a well-judged distance; accordingly, after a little sparring just to feel his way, Nat popped in a couple of such sharp facers, jumping back from the return, that the question of “first blood” was settled almost in the first hit, the crimson fluid trickling from Gutteridge’s left optic. The Lincoln man, who was evidently no flincher, went in ding-dong, Langham retreating perforce from his determined rush, but delivering two or three cutting left-handers on his assailant’s frontispiece before he went down at the ropes on the saving suit.

2.—Nat came up cool as a cucumber, with no visible marks of hitting save a red bump on his left cheek-bone, and a slight flush of colour which rather improved his complexion. Gutteridge, on the contrary, had a gaping cut over the right eye, a prominent blue mouse under the left optic, and his teeth were tinged from his cut lip. He rattled in undismayed, but got little by the motion, the balance of the exchanges being all in favour of Leicester. In a close, however, he gripped Master Nat, and embracing him, showed his superior strength by forcing him down and falling on him heavily. (Cheering for Gutteridge.)

3.—Nat dodging in, and then retreating, to get his man to follow. Gutteridge, by advice of his seconds, refusing to do so, Nat woke him up by twice visiting his left eye clean over his guard, whereupon Gutteridge, stung by these long shots, rushed to close quarters, and after taking a prop or two fought Nat down in his own corner. (The Lincoln man’s friends in high glee.)

4 to 10.—Langham seemed steady and cool, and none the worse for Mr. Gutteridge’s lunges, and the rapid rallies which followed at close quarters. Not so Gutteridge, whose portrait was gradually painted in crimson by a master-hand. Though there was active fighting on both sides, there was a somewhat tedious similarity in the rounds, Langham improving his lead in every bout, and Gutteridge failing in most cases, in clenching his adversary for the throw.

From the 11th to the 50th round Gutteridge showed himself dangerous, and with unflinching game every now and then raised the hopes of his partisans by remaining on his legs after severe exchanges of blows, then walking to his corner to seat himself on his second’s knee, while Nat, husbanding his strength, was tenderly carried, often sedan fashion, by his careful attendants to his appointed resting-place.

In the 51st round, to the surprise of all, Langham seemed to recover second wind; perceiving the shaky state of his brave opponent, he assumed the offensive, and delivered half a dozen hits left and right at arm’s length, the last of which sent down Gutteridge in his corner all of a heap; the first fair knock down. From this point the rounds became short, poor Gutteridge gradually losing almost every glimpse of daylight, coming up round after round until the 93rd, when, perceiving the last chance of his man had vanished, Hodgkiss threw up the sponge in Gutteridge’s corner in token of defeat, and Nat was hailed the victor of the day, after a severe contest of one hour and twenty-five minutes of active and actual fighting; Langham’s superiority as a boxer being evident from first to last.

At the giving up of the stakes at Caunt’s on the following Thursday, Angelo, of Windsor, was backed against Langham for £50 a side, but the match went off, Gutteridge’s backer posting a small deposit for a second encounter, which was covered on the part of Langham, who afterwards received forfeit, the Lincolnshire friends of the former considering the first judgment of the referee not likely to be reversed on a new trial.

William Sparkes, a hardy Australian, having fought his way to fame at the Antipodes, and made the voyage to the Old Country, in further search of “the bubble reputation,” was introduced in the early part of 1847 to the London Ring, under the patronage of Johnny Broome, and that ’cute observer at once commended him to his Corinthian visitors, as “just the sort of man to polish off Master Nat,” who, in the estimate of Johnny, “was dangerously clever, but had no constitution.” Sparkes, at this time, was certainly a fine, hardy specimen of a “corn-stalk” as could be seen in a summer’s day. Twenty-six years of age, firmly put together, round-limbed, muscular, and active, and not only bringing with him a belt as a pugilist, but also a trophy won by his fleetness of foot as a pedestrian “champion,” he was certainly a “representative man,” so far as Australian prowess was in question. With him, then, Langham was matched, as champion of the honour of the Old Country, for £50 a side, and Tuesday, May 4th, 1847, was fixed for the final settlement of the question.

On that day, at an early hour, the “Nymph” being chartered for the voyage, the party embarked from the now-abolished Hungerford Market Pier, and thence dropped down to Blackwall, where, on the Brunswick Pier, a goodly muster of the Fancy had assembled, and where, also, a coal-tug or two, laden with “Cheapside” customers, were in waiting to follow in the wake of the Fancy “flag-ship.” From some petty jealousy, into the cause of which we do not care to inquire, Tom Spring, Peter Crawley, and a group of Corinthians here shipped themselves on board the regular Gravesend passenger-boat, instead of taking tickets by the chartered “Fancy” craft. Johnny Broome, who was in command, suppressed any mortification he might have felt, but did not the less determine to balance accounts with the Separatists, as the sequel will show. The “Nymph” cast off from the Blackwall Pier, and led the way towards Charlton, where Langham was taken on board, having been trained by Robinson (“Caunt’s Pet”), near Dartford; the Australian had already been shipped at Hungerford. While we lay-to off Charlton Pier, the Gravesend boat, with the two crowded tugs in attendance, pursued their downward course. Soon after, as the “Nymph,” at half-speed, was nearing Erith, Johnny Broome called “a council of war,” wherein he announced his resolution to disappoint those who had shown such a want of that unanimity which we had so often publicly advocated on these occasions. He proposed that we should “about ship,” and make a return voyage, leaving the “secessionists,” including the “tuggites” and the Gravesend passengers, to the enjoyment of their excursion, without the prospect of seeing the day’s mill, from the appointed and legitimate mode of being present at which they had thus wilfully disentitled themselves. His arguments were unanswerable. The bow of the “Nymph” was quickly put up stream, the tide was flowing, and back we went; indeed, almost before the downward voyagers were aware of our change of course, we were steaming through the Pool, and thence pursued our way, never stopping until Nine Elms Pier was reached. There the men and their friends disembarked, and, availing themselves of a train by the South Western Railway, proceeded to Woking Common. On arriving, the Commissary and assistants quickly prepared a ring, on the ground where Barnash and Martin fought a fortnight previous; and in half an hour, the party having refreshed themselves meantime at a neighbouring hostelrie, a select party of about one hundred spectators surrounded the roped enclosure, heartily laughing at “the sell” practised upon the “Secesh,” who had cut themselves off by their own want of esprit du corps from witnessing the fight. Among the disappointed were some “knowing ones,” who, in those days of “pigeon expresses,” had carried down their feathered messengers, with the view of conveying to their London confederates the first news of the battle and its result.

At half-past two o’clock the combatants entered the lists; Langham esquired by D’Orsay Turner and Barnash, Sparkes seconded by Sam Simmonds (of Birmingham) and Joe Rowe. The “sestette” shook hands in a friendly manner, and the men proceeded to their toilettes, while umpires and a referee were chosen. All preliminaries being adjusted, and the colours (white with a scarlet border for Sparkes, and a blue birdseye for Langham) knotted to the stake, the men toed the scratch for

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—On throwing themselves into position, the advantage on the part of Langham as to height and length was obvious to all, while the brawny frame of the Australian showed him to be the more powerful of the two. He stood with his left arm straight out from the shoulder, with his right hand well up, his body being inclined backwards in an extraordinary manner. Langham threw his arms about quickly, as if to put the Australian off his guard, but in vain. At length Langham led off with his right, which was twice cleverly stopped. Sparkes made play, catching Langham slightly on the side of the jaw with his left. Langham again tried his left, but was again stopped. In another attempt he was more successful, and caught the Australian on the nose slightly. Sparkes closed, delivered two good body blows, and both were down. (The opinion round the ring was that the Australian was far from being the “novice” that he was anticipated to be.)

2.—Langham led off at the nose with his left, and got on smartly. Sparkes returned heavily with his right on the body and side of the head with his left, knocking Langham off his legs. (First knock-down for Sparkes, amidst some astonishment.)

3.—Langham immediately led off, getting slightly home on the body. Sparkes dashed in, hit up on the forehead, then fibbed his man in the ribs with the right, and Langham got down.

4.—Langham made play and worked in at his man, who got cleverly away. Sparkes then went to him, delivered his favourite body blow, Langham staggered back against the ropes, and got down.

5.—No hesitation on either side; Sparkes stopped two well-intended compliments from his adversary’s left. Counter-hits exchanged, Sparkes getting it on the nose twice, but without impression. Langham slipped down.

6.—Sparkes tried his left and right, but was short in both attempts. Langham jobbed him in the left cheek heavily, and got down in the half-arm hitting, evidently not anxious to test the strength of his adversary in a close.

7.—Langham led off with his left, but Sparkes met him with a heavy hit on the body, and Langham went down.

8.—Langham again tried to lead off, but the Australian was as quick as himself, countered him in the forehead, Langham getting in sharply, at a well-judged distance, on his adversary’s nose, from which he displaced the bark, and drew first blood. Sparkes delivered his right heavily on the ribs, knocking Langham down for the second time.

9.—Langham first to fight, catching Sparkes on the side of his nose, Sparkes returning heavily on the chest and ribs with both hands, and Langham down.

10.—The men rushed together, and after a slight exchange of hits, Langham slipped down.

11.—Langham commenced by delivering his left heavily on Sparkes’s left eye. Sparkes caught him on the forehead with his left, on the body with his right, and Langham got down.

12.—Langham delivered on the left cheek, received a slight body blow, and got down. Sparkes by far the stronger man.

13.—Good body blows were exchanged. Langham then planted upon his adversary’s nose with his left; Sparkes let fly at the body, and Langham was again down.

14 and 15.—Sparkes forced the fighting, but Langham jobbed him heavily as he came in. Sparkes delivered very slightly on the ribs, and Langham got down leary. [The fighting was extremely quick, no round having lasted half a minute. Fourteen minutes had now elapsed.]

16.—Langham got well in on the side of the head with his left twice as Sparkes tried to bore in. Counter-hits exchanged, Sparkes napping it on the nose, and Langham on the body. The latter then slipped down.

17.—Good counter-hits and a sharp rally; a close, in which Langham fibbed his man in the head, and after a short struggle both were down, Sparkes this time under.

18.—Sparkes led off, getting in one on the ribs with his right, and his left on the forehead, but too short to be effective. Langham seemed to have got the measure of his man; he jobbed him heavily in the left eye and on the cheek, and got down.

19 to 21.—Similar to the last. Rapid fighting, Sparkes occasionally putting in a body blow, Langham jobbing him severely in the head, and getting down in the close.

22.—Langham led off with his left, catching the Australian heavily on the side of his head; Sparkes returned on the nose, but not heavily. Langham then planted his left severely on Sparkes’s right cheek, drawing the claret. Sparkes closed, threw his man, and fell over him.

23.—Langham tried to open with sparring on the defensive, but Sparkes forced the fighting. Heavy exchanges left and right, those of Langham drawing more blood from Sparkes’s cheek and eye, Sparkes still fighting at the body. Langham eventually got down.

24 to 32.—Langham took the lead in these rounds, Sparkes hitting with less precision; Nat repeatedly jobbed his man heavily in the face, but Sparkes was thorough game, and would not be denied; he occasionally put in a body blow which sounded all over the ring; Sparkes’s left eye was fast closing, and his right cheek showed marks of punishment. In the 32nd round, in a rally, Langham caught the Australian a severe blow with his right on the left ear, from which the blood was quickly seen to flow. Langham showed no marks beyond a slight swelling on his forehead, and a redness about his ribs. So quick was the fighting that only 32 minutes had been occupied up to the close of this round.

33.—Sparkes changed his style a little and hit higher, declining to be drawn on. He sent his right well home on Langham’s jaw; Langham returned with his left on the left eye-brow, which he cut. Sparkes then got in his right on Langham’s left eye, on which he raised a slight mouse. Langham got down in an attempt by Sparkes to close.

34 and 35.—Langham met his man as he came in with well-directed jobs, the Australian still fighting at the body. In the latter round he closed, and threw Langham, falling on him.

36.—Counter-hits; Langham catching his adversary heavily on the left ear, again drawing blood. Sparkes rushed in, delivered his favourite body blow, and again knocked Nat clean off his legs.

37.—Langham came up slow, the last hit had evidently shaken him. Sparkes rushed at him to follow up his advantage, but Langham stopped him right and left, got away, and ultimately slipped down.

38.—Langham, still keeping away, propped the Australian as he came in, and got down.

39.—Langham had not yet recovered himself from the visitation in the 36th round, but Sparkes could not get the lead, as his man not only stopped cleverly, but got away immediately he went to him, and eventually slipped down.

From this to the 58th round the same style of fighting was continued; the men commenced work immediately on arriving at the scratch. Sparkes’s body blows came in occasionally with great force, but some were stopped by Langham very prettily, and the latter recovering his strength, he jobbed his man severely in the head. Sparkes’s right eye was following suit with his left, which was quite closed, and blood was drawn every round from his ear or cheek. The rounds were almost invariably finished by Langham going down to avoid the struggle and throw. In the 50th round, after a few rattling exchanges, Sparkes, for the fourth time, sent his man to grass, with a heavy right-handed hit in the ribs.

59 to 61.—Langham propped his man heavily as he attempted to come in. Sparkes, however, fought with unflinching courage, and would not retreat, and often bored Nat down.

62.—Langham got home on Sparkes’s neck, Sparkes returned on the ribs. A close followed, in which Langham was down, with Sparkes on him. Sparkes unfortunately had his right arm under his man, who fell heavily on it, and, as it afterwards appeared, broke the bone of his forearm. On coming up for the 63rd round, Sparkes held his right arm up, but was quickly compelled to drop it, from the pain he suffered. Langham went in and milled away until the Australian went down. From this to the 67th and last round Sparkes came up bravely, keeping his right arm close to his side, and attempted to plant upon his man with his left; it was of course in vain. Langham was too good a strategist to be planted on, and working in with both hands upon the game fellow in each round, punishing him until he went down. He was repeatedly asked by his seconds to give in, but in vain; his game was such that he almost disdained to sit on his second’s knee until the call of time. At length, in the 67th round, Johnny Broome entered the ring and threw up his hat in token of defeat, after a contest of 68 minutes, and even then it was with the greatest difficulty that Sparkes’s seconds could prevent his rising and rushing at his man to have another “shy.” A gamer or more fearless boxer never entered the Ring.

Remarks.—Langham in this contest confirmed the opinion we entertained of his former fight with Gutteridge. He is a clever, scientific fighter, good on his legs, and a heavy hitter; and although the practice of getting down is anything but commendable, still, with a determined adversary, possessing superior bodily powers, every allowance must be made for the caution of a wily general. He evidently saw that to struggle with such a man as Sparkes would be attended with no advantage to himself, and he therefore determined not to throw a chance away. His superior length, and his quickness in meeting the Australian hero as he came in, in a great measure protected his mug from damage; but the fact of his leaving the ring with scarcely a scratch was mainly to be attributed to the style of Sparkes, who, when he fought at the head, invariably hit too high to do damage. Sparkes proved himself one of the gamest fellows that ever pulled off a shirt; he is a hard hitter, and stops with great neatness; but in Langham he contended with an adversary who had the advantage of him in every respect except in strength and courage (the latter attribute was not, however, wanting in either man). Notwithstanding the severe punishment he received about the head, however, he came up as strong on his legs at the end as at the commencement of the fight, and in almost every round declined all assistance of his seconds to carry him to his corner. Had it not been for the accident to his arm in the 65th round, the contest would, no doubt, have lasted longer, possibly with a different result. As to style, however, Langham was the superior fighter. The affair concluded, all returned to town per train, and “The Nymph,” in attendance at Nine Elms, conveyed her cargo to the port whence they embarked. The battle money was given to Langham at Ben Caunt’s. This is the first time that Sparkes was beaten, having fought in and out of the ring in N.S.W. with several men. His last four adversaries were Chas. Wooten, of Nottingham (N.S.W.), for £25 a side; Joe Marshall, of the same place, for £50 a side; Bill Davis, of Liverpool (N.S.W.), for £100 a side (after the conquest of whom he received his belt); and “Tom the brewer,” for £100 a side.

The stakes were presented to Langham at Ben Caunt’s, when a collection was made for the losing man. This was considerably augmented on the Friday week following at a benefit given to Sparkes at Johnny Broome’s. Of course the “tuggites,” and some of those thrown out by Johnny’s strategic movement on the previous Tuesday, were loud in their denunciations of his “shameful conduct,” as it was termed. At these Johnny laughed, while the sporting Press reminded them that “they had only themselves to blame for their disappointment.”

Nat’s victory over Sparkes was certainly calculated to place him in the very front rank of middle-weight boxers, and from this time until the beginning of the year ’51 he was “laid up in lavender,” until after all sorts of negotiations, and breaks-off with all sorts of men, some too heavy, and others thinking themselves too light, unless Nat (who had never much to get off in the way of flesh) could consent to reduce himself, Harry Orme, though more than half a stone heavier, was proposed. Orme’s defeat of Aaron Jones, in December, 1849, had proved him a strong, resolute, and formidable, if not a scientific boxer, and his friends, thinking his chance a good one, entered into articles for £50 a side, the battle to be decided on the 6th of May, 1851. On this occasion Nat was doomed to experience his first and only defeat, after a contest which Bell’s Life characterises as “one of the gamest battles the annals of the Ring can boast;” the details of which will be found in the ensuing chapter in the Life of Harry Orme.

Langham, who was always a well-conducted, steady fellow, now went into business as a publican at the Ram Inn, Bridge Street, Cambridge, where he won “golden opinions from all sorts of men,” securing the patronage of many University undergrads, and for two years none cared to dispute his title as “Champion of the Middle-weights,” a distinction a quarter of a century ago fully recognised at a period when the heavy weights had certainly sadly degenerated, though the time had yet to come in which “the Championship of England” should be held by a boxer under 11 stone!

So highly were Langham’s capabilities in his contest with Orme esteemed by all who witnessed that gallant fight, that his name was continually to the fore, not only in Cambridge, but among the Corinthians who held their conversaziones at Jem Burn’s, at the “Rising Sun;” at Owen Swift’s “Horseshoe;” at Limmer’s Hotel, and “The Corner;” while among the knowing ones who frequented Ben Caunt’s “Coach and Horses,” at Peter Crawley’s “Duke’s Head,” and places further east, all were of opinion that “Clever Nat” was not to be beaten by any man who had not a great pull in respect of weight.

There was, however, a sporting-house, unnamed by us as yet, situated in a street off the once-famed Seven Dials, where lived an ex-pugilist (recently deceased) who was unquestionably as good a judge of the merits of a fighting man as ever lived. This was Alec Keene, of the “Three Tuns,” Moor Street, Soho; and there were not a few Corinthians who often threaded their way through the intricacies of Soho to have a palaver with Alec Keene, and learn his straight opinion as to the chances of the competitors in some coming fight, or as to the advisability of backing this or the other candidate for a match. Among these we remember “young” Sir Robert Peel, his gallant brother William (both of them splendid boxers), Lord Ongley, Lord Drumlanrig, Sir Edward Kent, Colonel Higgins, Lord Winchilsea, cum multis aliis.

Now, among the special pets of Alec foremost stood Tom Sayers, whose merits Keene was the first among the professionals to fully perceive and boldly declare; and he never ceased to use his influence in finding him backers, in which he was zealously seconded by Harry Brunton.[24]

After Tom had beaten Jack Martin, in the January of 1853, both he and his friend Alec (who acted as his second on that occasion) were confident that the championship of the middle-weights was well within his reach, notwithstanding the admitted excellence of Nat Langham. Consequently, after many discussions and conferences, the money was made all right, and a challenge was issued from Moor Street, in which Tom announced his readiness to meet the redoubtable Nat on his own terms. There was some laughing in Air Street at Tom’s audacity, and in St. Martin’s Lane, although in the city on the Cam lots of “collegians” were ready to find a bit of Nat’s money. It was soon ascertained, however, when Langham had accepted the challenge, and a match had been made to fight for the sum named, on the 18th of October, 1853, that although Langham was the favourite, his adherents had only to offer the slightest shade of odds in Tichborne Street or Soho to be at once accommodated to any amount they desired.

Both men went into active training at an early period. Nat, whose long rest had rendered him somewhat rusty, retired to country quarters, under the care of Jemmy Welsh, who had to give him a full dose of work to bring him, without any loss of power, within the stipulated 11st., though at this period Nat’s fighting weight was only two or three pounds in excess of that point. However, his training went smoothly on, without a break or a hitch of any kind, and, as will be seen presently, he was brought to the post in prime fettle. Tom, on the other hand, who had, as usual, gone down to the neighbourhood of Brighton—his mentor and attendant being the celebrated pedestrian, Bob Fuller—encountered quite a series of mischances. He first caught a severe cold, almost deserving to be called an influenza, which stopped him in his work. This was followed by an ugly breaking out on his face and chin, which certainly did not indicate that his blood was in its ordinary healthful condition. No difficulties of this kind dismayed either Tom or his backers, and, consequently, Bell’s Life on the 16th of October was enabled to announce that both men were well and full of confidence. In consequence of the day fixed for the fight being the opening day of the Warwick Meeting, there had been an endeavour to alter the day to the Monday previous, but as this was the settling-day for the Cesarewitch, the alteration would have been no improvement, if, indeed, not rather the reverse, as backers and bookmakers would both be compelled to show at Tattersall’s—the lucky backer of Haco to receive, and the unfortunate followers of the ill-fated Nabob (who was second that year in both the great handicaps to the turned loose youngsters, Haco and Little David) to part with what had so nearly brought them safe home.

On another account it was fortunate that the fixture remained unchanged, for on Monday the rain came down in an almost ceaseless downpour from morning till night, and the Corinthians and professionals who assembled at Caunt’s and Alec Keene’s in the evening, to obtain their tickets for the excursion, and the straight tip as to the time and place of departure, prognosticated somewhat gloomily as to the weather possibilities of the morrow.

Fortunately, these prophecies were falsified by the event, and shortly before eight o’clock, as hansom after hansom dashed up to the Eastern Counties Railway Station, in Shoreditch—the directors had not yet become sufficiently aristocratic to call it the Great Eastern Station, Bishopsgate, nor had they attained their grand terminus at Liverpool Street—their occupants shook hands heartily with the first acquaintance they encountered, and congratulated themselves on the bright October sun, which was making even the dingy East End look moderately cheerful. At half-past eight the train started, and after a pleasant journey of about three hours, past Cambridge, Ely, and Mildenhall, pulled up at Lakenheath, in Suffolk, and the living cargo, which numbered not less than four hundred, among whom were most of the Corinthian supporters of the Ring, who had come down under the special care of Jem Burn, invaded and overran the little station.

For the benefit of those who slumbered too long to refresh the inner man satisfactorily before leaving, a copious breakfast had been provided by Mr. Moore, of the “Old Rum Puncheon,” Moorfields, who, we are happy to say, still survives in this year of grace, 1881, the hale and hearty host of the “Royal Standard” at Walthamstow. Ample justice being done to this repast, we found that Tom Oliver, assisted by Tom Callas, had decided on the spot for the ring, in a field about two hundred yards from the stopping-place. While the stakes and ropes were being placed in situ, Dan Dismore attended to the sale of inner ring tickets; and the character of the gathering may be inferred from the fact that about one in five of the travellers elected to become purchasers of “privilege” cards. The men having made their toilets, Sayers, just at half-past twelve, shied his castor into the ring, following it himself, with his seconds, Alec Keene and Bob Fuller. Tom received a loud and hearty greeting from his partisans; and this had hardly died away when the cheers were renewed as Nat Langham entered, attended by the accomplished Jemmy Welsh and Jerry Noon, who was equally clever as a second when—as upon this occasion he did—he could refrain from those eccentric performances for which he was notorious, and which, however amusing they might be to the spectators, were anything but useful to his principal. On this particular day Jerry was on his good behaviour, and did not once attempt to raise a laugh until the fight was over. Immediately on entering the ring Tom and Nat, who were “old pals,” shook hands with great cordiality, evoking the cheers of the onlookers, who were delighted at this proof that the combatants were actuated only by the desire to win fame and reputation, and, in fact, realised the description of the prizefighter by the poet:—

Who are sworn friends to one another,
And first shake hands before they box;
Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness of a brother.

This episode completed, the referee and umpires having taken their places, the seconds retired to their corners, and all was attention as the men approached each other and began

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—On toeing the scratch the knowing ones eagerly scanned the appearance and condition of the men, in order, if possible, to gain thus some indication of the possible issue of the combat, and a few bets were made at 6 to 4 on Langham. There was a wide contrast between the men, both in appearance and condition; Langham was long and lathy; his frame was evidently that of a man who had seen severe work, and—to all appearance—not likely to last through the wear and tear of long-continued exertion. There was a smile of good-humoured confidence on his mug, however, that showed how little he feared the result of the coming combat, while his condition was simply perfect, and reflected the highest credit on his trainer. Sayers, on the other hand, although he looked—as of old—broad, strong, and burly, was clearly overburdened with flesh—the 5lb. he scaled above his accustomed 10st. 7lb. being palpably all to the bad. The breaking out on his chin and face, already alluded to, certainly did not give one the idea of his being in a perfect state of health, and it may well be that to the fact of his not being in his best form may be attributed an anxious look about his eyes, so different to the gay, laughing confidence he exhibited in his other fights. Both men, on taking up position, stood with their legs too wide apart; their guards were neither easy nor graceful, nor was there anything strikingly artistic in their attitudes. They began with a good deal of sparring, and, at length, Langham let go his left, but did not get quite home. Caution was again the order of the day, until Langham once more got within distance, and tried his left a second time, just reaching Tom’s chest. Sayers now tried to draw his man, but Langham was not to be had. Sayers, therefore, approached him, when Langham popped in his left on the cheek, and then the same hand on the nose, and got away. Sayers soon followed him up, and Nat, as he retreated, again sent out his left on the cheek. More sparring now took place, and, at length, counter-hits were exchanged, Nat catching Tom on the chin and drawing first blood from a pimple below his mouth. Sayers now bored in, and caught Nat a nasty one on the forehead, from the effects of which Langham went to grass. (First knock-down blow for Sayers.) Little merit, however, could be attached to it, as the ground was in such a state from the previous day’s rain as to render it difficult for Nat to keep his legs, and the hit rather helped him to grass than fairly sent him there. Having now had an opportunity of judging and comparing the men, the betting settled down to 5 to 4 on Nat, the odds being principally due to Tom’s obviously bad condition, and to the fact that, having lost the toss for choice of corners, he had to fight with the sun in his eyes.

2.—In this round Nat commenced the saving game, which he persisted in throughout the fight, and after planting a tap on the mouth, and receiving on the forehead, slipped down.

3.—Both men ready to the call of time, and Langham led off, but the blow fell short on Tom’s chest. A second attempt was more successful, as he got home a heavy spank on Tom’s snout, from which the ruby was instantly visible. Left-handed counter-hits followed, each getting it slightly on the cheek, and Nat, in getting back again slipped down.

4.—On getting within distance both went to work. Tom made his left on Nat’s cheek, and his right rather heavily on his ribs. Heavy counter-hits followed, in favour of Nat, whose length here gave him the advantage. Tom napped it again severely on the smeller, just between the eyes, and returned on Nat’s side of his head and his short ribs, the latter a sounding right-hander. Langham now retreated, and, as Tom followed him up, pinked him twice in succession with effect on the nozzle, drawing more claret. Sayers returned slightly on the ribs, and again was met by Nat on the mouth and left eye. Sayers continued to persevere, occasionally getting in a little one on Nat’s ribs, but Nat in this round appeared to have it his own way; he propped his man repeatedly on the nose and mouth, and then on the dexter eye. Again and again did Sayers go to it, but Nat jobbed him with it severely on the old spot, and at length finished the round by going down, Sayers walking away, his face brightly crimsoned by Nat’s handiwork.

5.—Nat, on getting his man, let go with his left with great quickness on Tom’s nose, completely over his guard. Sayers then went to in-fighting, and got home his left on the side of Nat’s knowledge-box, and, after a slight rally, both went down. A claim of foul was made, that Sayers had hit Nat while down, but it was not allowed, the men being on the ropes when the blow was delivered.

6.—Tom came up grinning, but his mug was in anything but grinning order. Langham, as usual, led off, but Tom jumped away. Tom now feinted, let go his left on Nat’s jaw, and then repeated the dose without return. Some rattling exchanges followed in favour of Sayers, and in the end Langham fell.

7.—Langham attempted to plant his left, but was out of distance. Two more efforts were frustrated by Tom jumping away. Nat was not to be denied; he went in, and some rattling exchanges took place in favour of Sayers, who got home on Nat’s cheek and ribs with severity, and received one or two on the kissing organ, from which more pink was drawn, and Langham in getting back fell.

8.—Langham dodged his man, and again popped in his left with great quickness over his guard, turning on the tap. Sayers returned slightly on the cheek, and, on trying to improve upon this, was countered heavily on the mouth. This led to some rapid exchanges in favour of Sayers, who got home heavily on the ribs and jaw, and received on the nasal promontory. The round finished by Langham going to earth apparently weak.

9.—Sayers came up with a visible puffiness under both eyes. Langham, as usual, led off on Tom’s mouth. Sayers returned left and right on the canister and ribs, received another little one on the nose, and then lunged out with his right a sounding spank in the side. Langham retreated, and was followed up by Tom, who caught him on the mouth with his left, and Nat, after an ineffectual attempt to return, fell.

10.—Langham stepped back to draw his man, who came for it, and again napped an awkward one on the snout. Sayers tried a return, but was short, and got another smack on the nose for his pains. Counter-hits followed, Nat getting it rather heavily on the left eye, and Tom on the nose. Nat, after placing a little one on the nose, fell on his south pole.

11.—Langham opened the pleadings by another well-delivered spank on the proboscis, from his left, over Tom’s guard. It was wonderful to see how completely Sayers’s index seemed to be within reach of Nat’s straight-darting deliveries. Left-handed exchanges followed, but Sayers appeared to hit short. Langham delivered again with severity on the bridge of the nose, when Sayers made a one, two (the left on the side of the head, and his right on the ribs), and Langham got down on the saving suit.

12.—A pause now took place, and some mutual feinting and dodging, it being “bellows to mend” on each side. Nat at length tried his left, which was prettily stopped. Sayers now went in, made his left and right on the nose and ribs, but not heavily. Langham retaliated on the nose, which led to some slight exchanges, and a close, at the end of which both fell, Langham under.

13.—Sayers attempted to take the lead, but was propped heavily on the snuff-box. He, however, got in his right with severity on the ribs, and then his left on Nat’s cheek. Nat’s returns were rendered abortive by the activity of Tom, who again visited his ribs heavily with his right, and Langham fell, Tom falling over him.

14.—Langham resumed his lead, and got well on to Tom’s damaged nose and mouth. Sayers’s nose and cheeks puffing visibly, to the great danger of his clear sight for attack or defence. Tom countered him heavily on cheek and ribs, and Langham fell, Tom on him.

15.—Sayers went to his man, planted his left on the side of Nat’s brain-pan. Langham returned on the neck with his right, a round hit, and fell in getting away.

16.—Nat sent in his left, over Tom’s guard, upon his nose heavily, and again turned on the main. Good counters followed, Nat on the nose, and Tom on the neck heavily. Exchanges, in which Tom got on to Nat’s left cheek, and Langham got down, Sayers falling over him.

17.—Langham was short in two attempts with his left, and a third was stopped, when Sayers dashed out his left, getting home on the ribs. Langham returned with good effect on the nose, and both fell.

18.—Long sparring until Nat let fly his left on the old spot. Tom made his right on the ribs, but again got a nasty crack on the side of his cranium, and Langham got down.

19.—Nat was again short in his lead. Tom was more successful, got home his right on the ribs, and Nat was again down.

20.—This was a good round on both sides. After a little sparring Langham tried his left, but Tom jumped well away. In a second attempt Nat got slightly home on the chest, and then on the nose. Sayers countered him on the mouth, and then some exchanges took place, in which Nat hit the straightest, Tom’s blows appearing to be open-handed. Sayers now went in, but got it heavily on the nose from Nat, who fought on the retreat. Tom followed him up, got well home on the jaw, and then on the nose and left eye, knocking Langham clean off his legs. (A fair knock-down blow.)

21.—Tho last blow delivered by Sayers was evidently a stinger, as Nat’s left peeper and nose showed the effects of it. Tom immediately led off, got in his left and right on the nose and ribs without a return, and then, closing, threw Langham a back-fall, and fell heavily on him. (5 to 4 offered by an enthusiastic backer of Tom’s.)

22.—Hitting over Tom’s guard Nat got well on Tom’s nose, but Sayers returning heavily on the mouth, Nat got back, and fell.

23.—Odds of 5 to 4 on Sayers were now freely offered all round the ring, and he certainly seemed to have much the best of it, was full of confidence, and at once opened proceedings by sending in his left heavily on Nat’s ivory-box. The latter tried to get away, but Tom followed him up closely and again landed on the mouth, avoiding the return. Severe counter-hitting followed, in which Sayers again got on to Nat’s mouth, but received on the smeller, and then Langham went to the earth in a decided state of weakness.

24.—Sayers, attempting to force the fighting all he could, again led off on Nat’s left cheek, and Nat retaliated on the nose heavily. Tom retreated, and, on going to it again, popped in his right on Nat’s commissariat department. He tried a repetition of this, but napped it severely on the nose for his pains. After some sparring Tom reached Nat’s ribs, and the latter, reaching his own corner, got down.

25.—Sayers, first to begin, delivered a little one on Nat’s nose, but the blow wanted steam. Nat retreated, and as Tom followed him, Nat jobbed him on the nozzle, again disturbing the cochineal; and on receiving a little one on the chin Nat dropped.

26.—Nat began the attack by a successful endeavour to resume his lead. He got home heavily on Tom’s left cheek, which led to exchanges in favour of Nat, who repeatedly met Tom in the middle of the head. Tom got in one or two on the ribs and chest, and one on Nat’s left peeper, but not heavily. Nat returned on the face, and in retreating slipped down.

27.—Langham again made play on Tom’s nose, the cork being drawn. He got in a little one on the ribs in return, and Nat fell, Sayers on him.

28.—On coming up Nat led off, but misjudged his distance and was short, the blow falling on Tom’s cheek. Tom sent out his left, but got a very heavy one on his mouth in return. Some heavy exchanges followed, in which Tom got well home on Nat’s cheek, from the effect of which Nat fell.

29.—One hour had now elapsed, and still there was no decided lead. Langham was again short in his opening deliveries, and Sayers, after returning on the left cheek, closed and threw his man, falling heavily on him.

30.—Nat’s left once more fell short of its destination, when Tom let out his left and caught him on the mouth; Langham returned quickly on the nose, from which once more the ruby trickled. Slight exchanges followed, and Langham fell evidently weak.

31.—Sayers led off, caught Nat a heavy cross hit with his left over the left peeper, inflicting a deep cut and drawing the carmine; he in return had his cork drawn by Nat’s left. Some exchanges followed, in the course of which Tom again opened the cut over Nat’s left ogle by a heavy hit from his left, and Nat fell.

32.—Another good round. Nat’s left peeper looked the worse for wear, but he came gamely up, and as Tom led off he countered him on the nose. Some exchanges followed in favour of Sayers, who got well on Nat’s left cheek, and received a return on the cheek-bone. They now got to work in earnest, and some ding-dong fighting took place, as if both thought this the turning point of the battle. Each got it heavily on the frontispiece, Sayers re-opening the cut over Nat’s left eye, and receiving one or two awkward reminders on the cheek and nose. A break away followed, and then Langham again went up to his man, who met him on the left eye another heavy spank. Nat returned on the nozzle, and immediately afterwards received another reminder on the sinister peeper, and fell. This was a capital fighting round, exhibiting the determined resolve of both men.

33.—Sayers led off, got home slightly on the throat, and received a heavy one from Nat’s left on the right cheek. Excellent counter-hits followed, Tom on the cheek and Nat on the right peeper, and Nat then got down.

34.—Long sparring, Langham evidently wanting wind, and Tom not much better. At last Nat went to work, got well on Tom’s damaged nose with his left, and stopped Tom’s return. Sayers tried again, and succeeded in reaching Nat’s throat, when the latter again fell.

35.—Another fighting round. Good counter-hits, each receiving on the left eye. A break away and more counter-hitting, Sayers on the left peeper, and Nat well on the nose. Langham now lunged out his right with great force, but, luckily for Tom, the blow missed its destination, and Nat, overreaching himself, fell.

36.—Nat, on coming up, showed his left peeper in deep mourning, and nearly closed; he was evidently weak, and the friends of Sayers were up in the stirrups. Sayers feinted, and let out his left, which reached the damaged optic, re-opening the former wound. Langham was short in his return. Sayers twice got home his left on the throat, but was stopped in the third attempt; he afterwards succeeded in reaching Nat’s left cheek, and the latter, after an ineffectual attempt to return, got down.

37.—In spite of the punishment he had received in the previous round, Langham was first up, and he sent out his left, but Tom jumped quickly away, returned heavily on the forehead and ribs, and then fell.

38.—Some ineffectual countering, after which Sayers got nearer, and put in a little one on the left eye. Nat retreated, and on being followed by Tom, who delivered straight on the mouth, got down weak.

39.—There could be no question as to the gallantry with which both men were fighting, and although appearances were in favour of Sayers, there were not wanting those who saw the danger lying before him, and among these must assuredly be numbered Nat’s clever seconds, under whose directions and advice Langham now seemed to devote himself to land just one blow on Tom’s swollen nose, or on one of his puffy eyes, and then to get down with as little punishment and as little exertion as possible; for it was impossible to conceal Nat’s weakness, and it was decidedly a moot point whether he would be able to hold out until Tom could be forced to “put up the shutters.” Nat tried to lead off, but was stopped. Sayers attempted to return, but Nat sent out his left very straight on the left eye, and on Sayers again coming on, he delivered the same hand on Tom’s damaged smeller, and drew more claret. Tom made his left slightly on the cheek, and Nat at once went to grass.

40.—Tom let go his left, got slightly home on the chest, and Nat, after returning with his left on the forehead, fell.

41.—Sayers tried to take the lead, but Nat jumped quickly away; Sayers followed him up, when Nat met him with a sharp tap on the left eye, and then another left-hander on the cheek. Sayers persevered until he got home his right on Nat’s ribs, when the latter again got down.

42.—Nat led off, caught Tom heavily on the left cheek and then on the brow. He tried to repeat the visitation, when Tom caught him sharply over the right peeper, drawing blood, and Nat got down. Nat’s length and cleverness were conspicuous in his left-hand deliveries.

43.—Sayers rushed in, but Nat countered him on the left peeper. Sayers got in his right heavily on the bread-basket, and Nat fell.

44.—After a little sparring, the men got close together, and some sharp counter-hits were exchanged, Tom getting well on to Nat’s damaged left peeper, and receiving on the right cheek. Nat now attempted another delivery, but overreached himself and fell.

45.—The temporary revival of Langham’s strength seemed at an end. Sayers let go his left, got home on the cheek, and Nat, who was decidedly in “Queer Street,” again went down sick and weak.

46.—Nothing done. Nat got down as soon and as easily as he could manage it.

47.—Sayers led off, and caught Nat over the left ogle; this led to some counter-hits, in which Langham got home heavily on Tom’s right peeper, which was now pretty nearly closed from the repeated hits on the nose and its exposure to the bright rays of the sun. Langham received a little one on the left cheek in return, and fell.

48.—Tom led off, but was countered by Nat on the left eye. In a second attempt Nat stopped him, and then popped him heavily on the nose, drawing more of the ruby. Nat succeeded in planting another heavily on the left peeper, and Tom fell for the first time for many rounds.

49.—Things looked by no means so cheerful for Sayers’ backers, for although he was by far the stronger man on his pins, he now came up bleeding from both eyes, his seconds having been compelled to lance them while he was in his corner to prevent his going blind. He dashed in, aware that although much the stronger man on his legs, he must be in total darkness if he did not finish his man soon. Slight exchanges took place, Tom getting it on both eyes slightly, and returning, but without effect, on Nat’s mouth, and in the end Sayers was first down.

50.—Sayers once more dashed in but was met by Nat on the left peeper. Tom returned slightly on the body, and Langham again went to grass, apparently weak.

51.—Tom rushed in, delivered his left heavily on the conk, and then his right on the ribs without a return, and Nat dropped.

52.—Tom again went to work, caught Langham on the side of his nut; Nat returned on the left peeper, and then slipped down.

53.—Tom led off, got home on Langham’s left eye, but the blow lacked force, and Nat fell, Sayers falling over him.

54.—Sayers stepped in with his left, but was short; he tried it again, catching Nat on the waistband. Langham attempted a return, but Sayers jumped away. Nat again lunged out, but, overreaching himself, fell.

55.—Nat seemed to shake himself together, went up to his man, led off with his left on the right cheek, and got away. Sayers followed him up, when some sharp exchanges took place, Nat reaching Tom’s damaged snout, and once more turning on the tap. Tom returned the compliment on the left cheek, and Langham fell weak, Tom falling over him, not much better off.

56.—It was now clear that Tom’s peepers had not many minutes to remain open, and he therefore at once led off, but was out of distance; in a second attempt he caught Nat over the left peeper, but received another hot one on the nose in return. He would not be shaken off, however; he followed Nat and let fly his left on the jaw. Sharp counter-hits followed, Sayers on the mouth and nose, and Nat on the right ogle, and Langham fell.

57.—Tom at once rushed in, but was stopped. His next effort reached Nat’s mouth, and the latter got down.

58.—Both were nearly pumped out, and it was evident that a chance hit might finish Langham, while Sayers, if he could not deliver that hit, must soon “cut it.” The men let fly simultaneously, each getting it on the frontispiece. A break away followed, after which Tom reached Nat’s left eye, but not effectively. A close, in which Tom caught his man with his right as he went down, and then fell on him.

59.—Langham went to his man, delivered his left heavily on the nose, and received a little one on the jaw. He then rushed at Sayers, who stepped back, and Nat, missing his mark, fell.

60.—Sayers’s fate was sealed; like Jack Broughton in the memorable account of Captain Godfrey,[25] he might have exclaimed, “I can’t see my man; I’m blind, not beat. Only let me see my man and he shall not gain the day yet!” Tom rushed in open-handed. Nat stepped on one side, met him as he came on the left peeper, and then beside the nose. Tom persevered, but Langham easily avoided him, and then propped him in the mouth heavily. Tom continued to bore in, and got in a round hit on the side of Nat’s head, whereon Nat returned with his left just behind Tom’s ear, and both fell. Sayers evidently all abroad.

61 and last.—It was beyond a doubt now that Sayers could not see what he was doing or where he was going, and there were loud cries from his backers of “take him away,” which Alec Keene was anxious to do; but Tom, full of pluck as ever, resolutely refused to give in, and swinging his arms, walked deliberately to the scratch. He lunged out, but could not judge his distance, and Nat, waiting for him coolly until he came again, hit him heavily on the right eye. Poor Tom struck out wildly and altogether at random, and Nat getting out of his way delivered a heavy left-hander on the left eye, which put up the other shutter, and he rather fell than was knocked down. On being helped to his corner, despite his entreaties, Alec Keene, seeing there was no hope, threw up the sponge, and Langham was proclaimed the victor in this truly gallant struggle, after a contest that had been protracted for two hours and two minutes. Immediately the fiat had been pronounced in his favour, Nat walked across the ring to shake hands with his defeated opponent, who shed bitter tears of disappointment and humiliation, while Nat, seeming to acquire fresh strength from the consciousness of victory, contrived to leap over the ropes, although five minutes before he could hardly stand on his legs.

Remarks.—Nothing could possibly be farther from our thoughts or wishes than any attempt to detract from the gallant achievements of Nat Langham in thus maintaining his title as middle-weight champion, and also earning a lasting fame as the only man who ever licked Tom Sayers. Still, in fairness to the beaten man, it must be remembered that Sayers was at that time by no means either so good a boxer nor so strong a man as he became a few years later, when he defeated one big man after another. Moreover, his defeat was palpably owing to his want of condition, in consequence of which his face puffed up and his eyes closed with far less punishment than he could otherwise have taken scatheless. But when all allowances have been made, the fact remains, that the gallant Nat did defeat the otherwise invincible Tom, and thus worthily dosed a pugilistic career, which, like Sayers’s, had only once been clouded by defeat. Nothing could be more deserving of the highest praise and warmest admiration than the cool courage and calculating generalship with which, when he found that the superior strength of his adversary was likely to prove too much for him, he at once adopted the only system of tactics likely to serve him, and deliberately set to work to avert defeat by blinding his opponent. How skilfully he carried this plan into effect we have seen, and it is interesting to remember that Sayers never forgot the lesson he had received, but himself put it into practical effect on the occasion of his fight with Heenan.

Sayers’s gallant stand was duly appreciated by his friends, and upwards of fifty pounds were collected for him in the train during the homeward journey. Immediately he had recovered his eyesight Tom challenged Langham to another trial of skill, but Nat announced his retirement from the Ring; and, further, his opening of the “Cambrian Stores,” Castle Street, Leicester Square, where he decorated a showy lamp, bearing his name and the inscription, “Champion of the Middle-weights.” At this period our hero developed into a publican; for your successful pugilist is a publican in chrysalis, so sure as a caddis shall become a May-fly in due season. Sayers, however, had also become the landlord of the “Bricklayers’ Arms,” in his favourite locality of Camden Town, and demurred to Nat’s lamp and inscription. “Here am I,” said he, “ready for all comers, Nat Langham included. He has been beaten by Harry Orme, who has retired, and I have been beaten by him. As I do not believe myself conquered on my merits, but by inferior condition, I claim the Championship of the Middle-weights.”

The introduction of Harry Orme’s name is irrelevant, as Orme, Aaron Jones (12 stone), Tom Paddock (12 stone), Harry Broome (12 stone), claimed and fought for the actual and unlimited “Championship,” during the interregnum closed by Tom Sayers’s successive disposal of Aaron Jones, Bill Perry (the Tipton Slasher), 13 stone, Bill Benjamin (Bainge), 12 stone, and Tom Paddock. Quitting this point, however, Nat’s reply was conclusive. He had espoused the niece of Ben Caunt, had settled down, and did not see why he should risk all these “hostages given to fortune,” by trusting what Captain Godfrey calls in his sketch of Broughton, “a battle to a waning age.” Langham’s health, too, never robust, was by no means A 1, and he prudently preferred leaving off a winner, as disposing of such a boxer as Tom Sayers was by no means what betting men would call a “safe thing.” He, therefore, in a brief epistle declined Tom’s cartel, and told him he might paint his lamp at the “Bricklayers’ Arms” in any way he chose; meantime that he, Langham, had won the title of Middle-weight Champion and meant to wear it, and certainly should not transfer it from Castle Street to Camden Town; and there the controversy closed.

We should here close the history of Nat Langham’s career in the P.R. but for the regrettable incident of his rescinding his commendable resolution of retirement four years later, in 1857, in the September of which year, owing to some domestic jars with his relative and neighbour, “Big Ben,” the ill-assorted pair met in battle array to decide their fistic merits, also who should forfeit a stake of £100 to the other, and to settle a family feud in which the public could not feel the slightest possible interest. How they did not achieve either of these three results will be found fully set forth in our account of their drawn-battle, in the Life of Caunt, in Chapter II. of the present volume.

Langham, in his later years, was host of the “Mitre” tavern in St. Martin’s Lane, and died at the “Cambrian,” Castle Street, Leicester Square, September 1st, 1871.

[24] Harry Brunton still flourishes (June, 1881), it cannot be said in a “green old age,” at the “Nag’s Head,” Wood Green, a handy house of call in the Green Lanes, near the Alexandra Palace.

[25] See Pugilistica, vol. i., p. 28.

CHAPTER VII.

HARRY ORME.
1849–1853.

The brown-skinned, hardy, game, and resolute boxer, whose name heads this somewhat brief biography, demands a niche in our gallery of prize pugilists who have aspired to the Championship, were it only for the obstinately contested battles in which he was engaged on each of the four occasions in which he made a public appearance in the twenty-four foot enclosure. In the short period between December, 1849, and April, 1853, Harry advanced from the position of a “novice” to that of a candidate, and a very dangerous one, for the Championship of England; reckoning among those who succumbed to his prowess, Aaron Jones (twice), the accomplished Nat Langham—the only conqueror of Tom Sayers—and closing his career by one of the most memorable battles of modern times, in which he fell before the conquering arm of Harry Broome.

Harry Orme was by birth a Londoner, having first seen daylight at Old Ford, near Bow, in the month of May, 1826; in which year, also, were born his antagonist, Harry Broome, and the yet more renowned Tom Sayers, doubtless under the influence of some pugilistic planet. Harry, who “came of decent people,” was introduced to the London Ring with less preliminary paragraphing than usual; he was an East-Ender by birth, parentage, and associations, and an East-Ender he remained to the end of his career.

It so happened that in the year 1849, Jem Burn, the Mæcenas of millers, had among his visitors at the “Queen’s Head” a powerful big one, hight Aaron Jones, of Shrewsbury, 20 years of age, weighing 11st. 4lb., standing 5ft. 10½in. in his stocking-feet, who had friends among the “proud Salopians,” who were anxious to get on a match with any “trial horse” Jem might select for their promising novice. Jones had passed a favourable “competitive examination” in the sparring schools, and Jem had declared, with a qualifying if, that “If there was the right stuff in him he was big enough and clever enough for anything then on the list.” The “sages of the East” were of opinion that they had a novice as good as he of the West, so Harry, after taking stock of his opponent in futuro at a sparring soirée in Windmill Street, returned to his friends at the “Blue Anchor,” and “reported progress.” The result was favourable to a venture of the East against the West, the Orientals already well knowing that their man would take a great deal of beating to turn him from brown to blue. Articles were accordingly formulated at Mr. Hunter’s, “Weavers’ Arms,” Kingsland Road, with deposits at “Jolly Jem’s,” for a fight to come off on the 18th December, 1849, each man not to exceed 11st. 4lb. on the day before the fight. Frimley Green, Surrey, was duly reached per train on the day appointed, and at a quarter to one, in a drizzle of cold rain, the men entered the ring. The “Shrewsbury Youth” was waited on by Jack Hannan and Bob Fuller, the pedestrian; Orme by two well-known East End professionals, Joe Rowe and John Hazeltine. Umpires and a referee were quickly agreed upon; and the colours, a blue birdseye for Orme, and a fancy orange, shot with green, with a blue border, for Jones, being knotted to the stake, the men and their seconds crossed hands, and the principal performers stood up for

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Considering that the men were novices, there was a good deal of money laid out on the mill, Jones being made the favourite at 5 and 6 to 4—chiefly from having the wealthier backers. He certainly, though young and light downwards, was lathy, long, and muscular, and looked dangerously like a fighter; while Orme, compact, well knit, and determined, seemed, with his mahogany frontispiece and walnut-brown skin, more like a gipsy than ever. Orme squared his elbows in the old-fashioned style that was called “navigatorish;” while Jones, though awkward and nervous, showed the superior school in which he had graduated. The Young One tried his left, but Orme jumped away, going bang against one of the stakes. The men crept close again, each sparring in what was meant to be a finished style, till Jones let fly with his left, but almost out of distance, so that he barely reached his man. After feeling his way again, Jones let go, but was stopped neatly, and in the exchanges that followed Orme threw in his right heavily on Jones’s left cheek. There was weight in this blow; the Young One shook his head as if puzzled, then went in resolutely. Orme missed his one, two. A rally followed, during which Jones hit Orme in the mouth, and received on the right eye in return. Both rolled down. In this, his very first round within the ropes, it was seen that Orme’s favourite weapon was his right, and that he was a heavy hitter.

2 to 6.—These rounds were much alike, and although there were some sharp exchanges all through them, they were tedious. Novices are generally in one extreme or the other; they either rush at their opponents as if fights were to be won in a gallop, or else are ambitious to show how scientific they are, and so spar and manœuvre without any definite end in view. The fighting took place chiefly in Orme’s corner, the length of arm possessed by Jones forcing his opponent to retreat; here they manœuvred and jumped in and out, till at last they got close, and then staggering counter-hits would be exchanged. The closes were scrambling affairs, and generally ended in the men rolling down together.

HARRY ORME.

7.—Another tedious example of ring manœuvring, without the skill which makes such fiddling, squaring, advancing, retreating, feinting, and shifting tolerable. Both novices, however, were actuated by a desire not to throw a chance away; but on a wet December day a little less generalship and busier work would have suited the spectators. The round lasted 27 minutes, but tedious as it was, it was wound up by a slashing rally, in which the big ones hit with all their steam. Jones drew first blood in profusion from Orme’s nose and mouth, while Harry delivered his right with tremendous force on Jones’s left ribs and left eye, badly marking the one and almost entirely closing the other.

8.—Both slow in answering the call of time; more than a minute elapsed before they appeared at the scratch, the heavy hitting in the last round having told its tale. Orme, instead of going in and taking advantage of his weight and power of arm, stood out and retreated, by advice of his friends. The round lasted 17 minutes, and at last was closed by another desperate rally, Jones improving in his style, and using both hands well, but the returns of Orme were heaviest and most effective. Jones threw Orme cleverly in the close.

9.—Jones jobbed Orme on the nose, and then on the cheek, but the blows, although well from the shoulder, left no mark. Orme seemed remarkably slow in showing contusions, while Jones was already much disfigured. Jones forced Orme towards his corner; Orme rushed forward as Jones retreated in turn; he let go both left and right viciously, but was short. Jones lunged out desperately with his right, and nailing Orme on the side of the head, knocked him clean down in the middle of the ring. (Cheers for the Shrewsbury Youth. First knock-down for Jones.)

10.—Orme came up smiling, and as Jones made himself up for following his supposed advantage, surprised him by dashing in and planting his left a smasher on the nose. A pounding rally followed, in which some heavy counter-hitting took place, each man standing well to his gun, until Jones fell under the ropes.

For the next fifteen rounds the fighting grew quicker, the sparring less tedious, and the rallies more frequent. Jones, taking a leaf out of his opponent’s book, planted several slashing hits with his right on the side of Orme’s head, but being the taller man, he frequently hit too high, and his hand, rather than Orme’s hard skull, suffered. The East-Ender took his punishment patiently, and was with Jones in nearly all his attempts, with heavy right-handers on the left ribs, which gradually impaired the force of Jones’s hitting, and when they got closer still, his ponderous right fell on his cheek-bone or temple, till Jones was nearly blinded. The Shrewsbury man, however, was yet as strong as Orme, and was the better wrestler, for he threw his adversary in several of these rounds. Towards the 25th round, however, the repeated right-handers of Orme began to tell their tale, and Jones grew slower and weaker. In the last-mentioned round Orme led off, and hit Jones sharply in the head, repeating the dose without a return. Jones attempted to force a rally, but Orme got down more cleverly than heretofore. Jones fought with great fairness, and was much applauded.

26.—Orme showed few marks of punishment, and was sent up by his seconds very clean, while Jones grew more disfigured each round. The men fought somewhat wildly, but managed to exchange some stinging counters, which led to a close; but Jones was now unable to throw his opponent, and both were down.

27 to 35.—(Two hours and twenty-nine minutes had elapsed, and no odds were obtainable; indeed, it was yet on the cards for either to win.) Burn called to his man, Jones, to come away from Orme’s corner, and let the East-Ender come to him. Jones, who was evidently distressed, did so, and the same style of fighting was pursued. Jones fell from weakness in the 32nd round, which Orme noting, he forced the fighting again, and, in the 35th round delivered several of his slogging hits at close quarters with such staggering effect that Jones, whose returns were slight, dropped in the rally.

36.—The last two or three rounds had told their tale, and it was evident that Jones’s chance was fading. (3 to 1 offered on Orme without takers.) Jones came up as game as a man could be, and still tried to look cheerful; but his knees were tottery, and he was plainly “going.” Orme went to him, forced another rally, and, after one or two heavy hits, dropped him with a right-hander. (“Take him away.”)

37 and 38.—In each of these rounds Jones came to the scratch, and made one or two futile attempts to stop his adversary’s rush, dropping on his knee on receiving a hit from Orme.

39.—Orme paused, as if hesitating to strike his opponent, who was quite at his mercy. Jones made a peck at him, and received a touch on the old spot in the ribs. It was but a push, yet it sent him to grass sideways.

40.—Loud cries of “Take him away!” Jones faced his opponent for the fortieth time, but he was all abroad. Orme gradually forced him back into his corner, and harmlessly sent him down, when Hannan threw up the sponge in token of Jones’s defeat.

The fight lasted two hours and forty-five minutes, including several tedious rounds, and much useless breaking ground, advancing, and retreating. It was, nevertheless, a truly hard fight, and the two powerful boxers who made their début on this occasion inflicted severe mutual punishment. It was manifest, early in the battle, that Orme was the more lasting of the two, and much the heavier hitter. It seemed, also, that Jones had commenced his career too early.

Each man proved himself thorough game, and possessed of undoubted stamina. Orme, in beating a man taller, longer in the reach, a shade heavier, and much the favourite in the betting, had done all expected of him, and his friends resolved on quietly biding their time, and—when that time did come—on playing for a good stake. Their confidence in their champion was shown by the character of the next antagonist selected for him being no other than Nat Langham, whose fame already stood high among the few who had an opportunity of judging of his merits.

Orme’s coup d’essai having proved eminently satisfactory, and Master Nat having been waiting in vain for a suitable customer from the day when he defeated Sparkes the Australian, as related in the previous chapter, a match was proposed for £50 a side, to be decided on the 6th day of May, 1851. A trip down the river being agreed on, “The Queen of the Thames” was the vessel engaged, and the oft-described voyage having been effected at two o’clock, the ring was pitched by Ould Tom Oliver, Tom Callas, and assistants. At three Orme tossed in his cap, and Langham followed his example. The usual ridiculous haggling with regard to a referee ensued, during which we adjourned to another part of the marsh, where a merry little mill between an Israelite and a son of Ishmael, in the person of a gipsy lad, which had been arranged for decision on this occasion, came off. The Hebrew was worsted after a stubborn resistance. This settled, we returned to the legitimate roped quadrangle called “the ring” because it is not round. Here, after positively refusing an arbitration which carries with its exercise nought but unpleasantness, a veteran Ring-goer (Old Tom Oliver), with the snows of sixty winters on his head, accepted the office. At fifteen minutes past four the men were escorted to the scratch. Orme was esquired by Jemmy Welsh and Jack Grant; Langham by D’Orsay Turner and Johnny Hannan. The men, at scale, were stated to be respectively 11st. 5lb. and 11st. 2lb.; but upon this point we have our doubts, Orme appearing upon every point far the heavier man. Orme had trained upon the Chatham hills, and was as tough-looking a dark grained bit of stuff as ever was selected by shipwright of that famed dockyard locality. Langham took his breathings on Newmarket Heath, and was as fine as any thoroughbred fresh from its gallops. The betting was now even, Langham for choice. After waiting a few minutes for a hailstorm, which, according to the precedent of this “merry month,” will have its way, at a quarter past four the men stood up for

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Orme stood firmly, with his elbows rather high, his fists level and almost square, and his heavy, thick, round arms in anything but an elegant position; yet he loomed big, massive, and formidable, and his deep chest, matted with coarse black hair, and complexion of the deepest gipsy brown, gave an impression of hardihood and enduring strength. Langham was fine and fair in skin, clean built, with handsome shoulders and biceps, good length of reach and active pins. His attitude was artistic; the left well up and forward, the right playing easily across the mark, covering the short ribs, and ready for stop or delivery. Orme seemed a little flurried and worked forward, Langham shifting and retreating before him, coolly and collectedly. Orme let go his left, which Langham stopped, and caught Orme sharply on the cheekbone; Langham followed Orme on the bustle, and reached him slightly with the right, when Orme ducked his head, turned clean round, and rose up outside the ropes (laughter). Langham beckoned Orme, who came inside, nodding his head and smiling. Langham, cautious and steady, would not lead off. Orme tried to make his left, but was stopped, and following it immediately with his right was out of distance; Langham hit Orme sharply with the left in a quick exchange, drawing “first blood” from his mouth and nose. The men got at it, and fighting was the order of the round, Orme giving Langham a heavy body hit, but catching pepper about the frontispiece. Both down, Langham first, but with the best of the hitting.

2.—Nat retreating, measuring Orme with his left, till the latter let fly; pretty counter-hits with the left, Orme home on Langham’s cheek, Langham on Orme’s nasal organ, from which more of the ruby distilled. Some exchanges of no great moment, Langham slipping down from his own hit.

3.—Orme stopped Langham’s left neatly (applause); counters with left, Langham’s straightest, but did not seem much to mark Orme’s cast-iron nob. Orme bored in, pegging away; Langham propped him, but dropped when forced to the ropes.

4.—Orme made several feints, Langham shifted and laughed; Langham tried to draw his man, but the latter, advised by Welsh, pointed to the scratch. Langham tried his left, but Orme was with him, and, after some heavy weaving work, Langham fell because it suited him.

5.—Sparring; Langham cautious but lively. Orme had found that he got pepper whenever he attempted to lead off, and he paused awhile. There was some little chaff about each man having something in his hands, and they were shown to be empty. The mill recommenced by Langham rattling in one, two, catching Orme on the nose and ribs; in the scramble Langham was down.

6.—Nat visited Orme’s left eye a stinger, raising a “mouse.” Orme rushed in and delivered with tremendous half-arm energy; Langham fought up and was bored down.

7.—Orme rolled in, letting go both hands; Nat nobbed him, but Orme forced the fun, and ran Langham to earth.

8.—Orme had got terribly disfigured by Langham’s retreating shots, but they did not seem to impair his strength or resolution; he hit Langham heavily on the ribs in the rally, but got one, straight as an arrow, in the nose from Langham’s left; it was a smasher, and was followed by a lunge from the right, as he was already on the stagger, and down he went on his south pole. (First knock-down far Langham. Great cheering.)

9.—Orme came up more steady than was expected; he hemmed and coughed several times, as if troubled in the throat, but played about, waiting for Langham to begin. Langham led off, and made his left, but Orme dashed in desperately, and both were down in the rally. (6 to 4 on Langham.)

10.—Langham propped Orme on the nose; Orme hit rather out of distance, and Langham slipped down.

11.—Rapid exchanges. Langham made his straight left sharply on Orme’s right eye, raising a “mouse” to match the left. Orme got Langham in his arms, and, after a brief struggle, held him by the crook, forced him over, and threw him from his hip on his neck and head, lending his whole weight to the impetus of his fall. Langham, apparently stupefied, was picked up, all abroad, by Jem Turner and Hannan. (Cries of “It’s all over!”)

12.—Langham came up loose in the knees and puzzled, but he had not lost his style. Orme could not get on to him, and he fell on the saving suit.

13.—(“Time.”) Langham fought prettily on the defensive, but was in evident distress; indeed, he never entirely shook off effects of the throw in the previous round throughout the fight. Orme hit him in the body, but he was getting down when he received the blow.

14, 15, 16.—Langham still merely defensive but the last a good fighting round.

17 to 20.—Heavy work; both rather wild. Langham generally finished the rounds by getting to grass. (Offers of 3 to 2 on Orme.)

21.—Punishing exchanges. Nat getting steadier; Orme gave way a little after a job or two from Langham’s left. Langham followed him. After some hard fighting Orme threw Langham.

22.—(A claim on account of Orme having some substance in his hand; it was disproved.) Ding-dong work, and Langham down in the hitting.

23.—Orme pursued Langham, determined not to allow him to recover his wind; hard, but rather wild hitting, during which Orme getting close, sent Langham down.

24.—Nat missed his left, Orme stepping back; Orme put out his tongue. Exchanges, and Langham fell.

25.—Langham hit Orme several times as he came in, but could not stop himself from being bored down.

26.—Langham tried his left twice, but was not near enough to his man. Orme let go his left, and Langham dropped. (An appeal from Orme on the plea that Langham dropped without a blow.)

27.—Heavy counters; Orme on Langham’s jowl; Langham on Orme’s eye, which was nearly shut up. A rattling round. Nat got on Orme’s best eye (the right), then on his note. Orme hammered away, but was short of distance, except when in-fighting; a close, and Langham under. (One hour.)

28, 29.—Exchanges; Langham precise, and timing his hits, got Orme to a standstill. When Orme came on again Langham fell. (Another claim.)

30, 31.—As before, Langham slipped down in the hitting. (A claim each round for Orme.)

32.—Orme wild and rushing; Langham steadied himself, and propped him severely. Langham fell at the ropes, Orme over him.

33, 34.—Langham delivered and fell from his own blows.

35.—Hard hitting; Orme would not be denied; Langham got down at the ropes, and Orme, bending his knee, tried to drop on him. (An appeal from Langham’s party, but overruled.)

36 to 40.—Nat nailed Orme dexterously, swelling his lips till he resembled the portrait of the elder Molyneaux. In the 40th round he got him to a standstill for a few seconds. (“Where’s your 2 to 1 now?”) Langham fought cunningly, and got through the ropes, down.

41.—Orme’s eye closed; he rushed at Langham, who dropped, and Orme was again charged with trying to “knee” him.

42.—Exchanges; Langham made his left prettily, but Orme gave him such a sneezer that he dropped.

43.—Langham game and clever, but weak. (80 minutes had elapsed.) In the struggle at the close Langham was undermost; a nasty back fall.

44.—Some sharp work, the men falling from their own hits, reaching the ground at the same time.

45 to 60.—It was wonderful to see how, round after round, such fighting could be kept up, Langham still holding the palm for generalship, straight hitting, and precision, but wanting strength from repeated falls. In the 60th round he fell weak. In the 64th, both men were again down in the hitting. From the 65th to the 100th round, time after time, did the men come up with fluctuating chances, the changes every three or four rounds being truly surprising. First Langham got so shaky that every round seemed his last; then Orme got such straight props from the shoulder, in return for his attempts to “go in and finish,” that it seemed a pity both could not win; several times he stood still, puzzled, but scorned to go down, while Langham could not get up steam enough to seize the advantage and secure victory. Orme was twice appealed against, on the ground that he lifted his foot when Langham was down. We do not think he either knew or intended to do what he did. Langham, too, was appealed against for going down, but the veteran referee would not have the battle snatched from such good men by a quibble. In the 100th round, 2 hours and 34 minutes having expired, Orme, on being carried to his corner, communicated to his seconds that he would fight no more; when the practised eye of Welsh perceiving that Langham’s head had dropped on Turner’s shoulder, he revived his man by the information that his opponent had “cut it.” Orme went up, but was not allowed to have it for asking. Langham showed, and pecked away like a game cock, though there was no power in his blows.

102 to 108.—Short rounds, as they well might be. Langham got a turn in his favour, for he hit Orme in the last-mentioned round, and his head dropped when picked up.

109.—Orme recovered quicker than could be expected, and again perceived that his opponent’s plight was no better than his own: he staggered in, punched away, and Langham fell.

110 to 113.—Orme very much abroad, but still the stronger. Langham fell in the 113th round on the ropes, and Orme upon him.

114, 115.—Both game as pebbles; Orme quite foggy in the optics; Langham staggering, and instinctively putting out his left for a pushing hit. (“Take them both away,” said a bystander. Orme shook his head, and Langham tried to muster the ghost of a smile.) The seconds went close to their men. “It’s all right,” said poor Langham to Jem Turner. If he thought so no one else did. After a slight pop with his left, Orme pushed Langham down, and fell over him.

116.—Orme on his knees, and Langham down anyhow, in a weak rally.

117th and last.—Langham sent out his left; Orme stepped back; Langham again hit out. He evidently did not perceive what was before him, and coming forward, from his own blow, fell on both knees and his hands. His seconds ran up to him, but it was all over. Orme stood in his corner for a few seconds, when time was called, to which the Leicester man was yet deaf, walked slowly across the ring, and taking the hand of his brave, fallen adversary, tried to muster an expression of admiration at his bravery. The sponge had before gone up from Langham’s corner, and thus, at the close of two hours and forty-six minutes, was brought to a decision one of the gamest battles the modern annals of the Ring can boast.

The shades of evening were closing in as the voyagers got on board their respective steamers, many more, as is usual on such occasions, extending their patronage to the “men’s” peculiar boat on the upward voyage than came down by that conveyance; for the very obvious reason that as the voyage both ways was paid at starting, the disagreeable ceremony of paying would be insisted on, while having once got down by a Gravesender, tug, or other cheap conveyance, the homeward-bound voyage could be effected gratis. It was nearly midnight when the “Queen of the Thames,” working against tide and a head wind, reached London Bridge; the voyage being shortened by many an anecdote of brave battles in bygone days, with which all agreed the present mill might well bear a comparison.

Orme now rested for a year upon his well-earned laurels, when once again Aaron Jones, who during the interval of two years had, so rumour averred, wonderfully developed and immensely improved in the art, sought to reverse the verdict given against him in December, 1849. Aaron had, moreover, in the interim fought Bob Wade (the Dover Champion), a 12st. man, whom he defeated at Edenbridge, Kent, in one hour, in which forty-three punishing rounds were contested.

Monday, May 10th, 1852, was the fixture, instead of the customary Tuesday; the moving reason thereto being that the Turfites, among whom were Jones’s prominent patrons, might attend another “ring” at Newmarket on the latter day. On Jones’s improvement the Sporting Oracle thus delivered itself: “When Jones first contended with Orme he was a youth of eighteen, weighing 11st. 2lbs., and too young to bear the wear and tear of a long encounter. He has now increased in height and weight, stands 6 feet in height, and will draw a trifle over 12st., besides having materially improved in the pugilistic art.” At the last deposit of £10 a side, making up the stakes to £200, which took place on Tuesday last at Mr. Prior’s, “Nag’s Head,” South Audley Street, Jones had the call in the betting, his friends being West-enders and ready to back their own “stable.” As the rendezvous was in the vicinity of Newmarket, and a trip per Eastern Counties rail the mode of reaching the field of arms, we were glad, on presenting ourselves at the Shoreditch terminus at eight o’clock, to see at “the meet,” not only a large number of the Corinthian patrons of the Ring, whose faces we have for some time missed from such gatherings, but many of the ex-professors of the art—Owen Swift, Adams, Jem Burn, Shaw, Dan Pinxton, Jemmy Gardner, Alec Keene, Harry Milbourn, &c., &c. At a little before eight Jones arrived at the station, accompanied by the lively Bob Fuller and Alec Keene; the former being his trainer and the twain his selected seconds for the fistic duello. Jones looked remarkably bright and well, indeed, as Bob expressed it, he was “as fit as a fiddle,” and “would take a great deal of beating.” Orme did not put in an appearance at Shoreditch, but it was quickly made known that he had departed overnight for the neighbourhood of Newmarket, where he was awaiting the arrival of the “London particulars.” At a few minutes past eight the whistle sounded, and off we went, understanding that Chesterford, where we were told Orme awaited us, was our calling-place, and thence we should be conveyed to Mildenhall. This was a judicious ruse, but, as we shall presently see, failed in the trial. On arriving at Chesterford, however, our steam-steed merely took a drink of water, and sped on its way to Six Mile Bottom, on the Newmarket line. We must confess that we were a little staggered, knowing what we did of the Cambridge authorities, that the “managers” should have chosen their ground within that shire, and we argued that as one of the men had been training near the racing metropolis the watchful blues had doubtless an eye upon his movements.

On mentioning our misgivings, however, to some of the parties concerned, and expressing our surprise that so hazardous an attempt should be made, we were assured that it was all right, that there were no magistrates within call, and that the fight was certain to be settled without interruption. While waiting for the arrival of Orme, our fears for the result were verified to the fullest extent by the appearance of a body of Cambridge police, both horse and foot, evidently determined to spoil sport. It was now determined to go on to Newmarket at once to fetch Orme, who had prudently retreated into the town on finding that the enemy was in the field. At Newmarket it was stated that he had chartered a fly, and was about to proceed across country to Mildenhall. A despatch was instantly sent to recall him, and, after a delay of about half an hour, he made his appearance, looking big, brown, hardy, and confident. He immediately took his place in the train, and an inhabitant of the district having intimated that he knew a spot where there was no chance of interruption, consented to act as pilot, the train was once more put in motion, and taking its course up the old Newmarket line, which was at that time closed for general traffic, was brought to a standstill by the side of a field at Bourne Bridge, a place rendered memorable as the scene of the first contest between Mr. Gully and Gregson, in days long vanished, passed away. Here a debarkation was effected, and when all the voyageurs by train were collected there were certainly not more than two hundred persons present. These, by the time the ropes and stakes were pitched, were increased by the arrival of some dozen equestrians from Cambridge and Newmarket, anxious, no doubt, to enjoy a treat so seldom witnessed by the inhabitants of those celebrated universities for the education of man and horse; but, as will be shortly seen, their arrival on horseback defeated the object they had in view, as it served to put the blues upon the scent, and enabled them, before much business had been got through, again to put in their unwelcome appearance, and once more to send the “peace breakers” to the right about.

On the recommendation of “the pilot” the business of constructing the arena was set about with unusual celerity by young Fred Oliver and the veteran Tom Callas, under the superintendence of the ancient Commissary himself, and by a few minutes past one o’clock all was in readiness. A capital outer ring was formed, round which the “cheapsiders” took their stations, while comfortable straw hassocks were provided for the tenants of the inner circle who chose to pay the price demanded by those who had been so thoughtful as to provide such luxuries. Jem Burn, whose hind feet and legs were not sufficiently under his command to enable him to take up a position so close to mother-earth, was accommodated with a chair, around which were grouped several of his ancient patrons, and all appeared now to be satisfied that at length fortune was favourable, and that the mill would be brought to a conclusion without let or hindrance. Umpires and a referee were quickly chosen, and the men at once proceeded to their toilettes, Jones, as we have already stated, being waited on by Bob Fuller and Alec Keene, while Orme had for valets Jemmy Welsh and a “Jolly Butcher” from Southwark. On stripping, Jones confirmed the opinion we had formed in the morning, that he was as “fine as a star,” and as fit as Fuller could make him. Orme, on denuding himself of his outer rind, looked big enough and strong enough for anything. His skin, of a nut-brown tint, gave him altogether an appearance of hardihood which lead a spectator to infer that he was an adversary by no means to be sneezed at, even by those who considered themselves his superiors in the fistic art. It was clear, nevertheless, that he had not devoted quite as much time to his preparation as the nature of the encounter he had undertaken would have justified. There were indications of loose flesh about his ribs and chest which might have been well dispensed with. On inquiring his weight we were informed that he was about 11st. 8lb., being just 4lb. more than when he encountered Langham. Notwithstanding this exuberance of meat he looked remarkably well, was extremely confident, and “eager for th’ affray.” All being at length in readiness, the colours (blue for Orme, and yellow with blue border for Jones) were nailed to the mast—we mean, tied to the stake. Orme laid his adversary a bet of £25 to £20, which was duly posted. The men and their seconds shook hands—silence was proclaimed—“Time” was called (half-past one)—the seconds retired to their corners, and left the men at the scratch to commence

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—On throwing themselves into attitude, which, as the dandies say, “is everything,” there was no very great display of artistic skill on either side. If anything, Jones’s position was the more graceful of the two; still he left his ribs totally unprotected, and held his hands much too far from his body to please our mind. Orme, on the contrary, held his arms, which loomed large and ponderous, closer to his corpus. He stood almost square, his thick, muscular legs seeming well calculated to support his enormous round shoulders, which resembled those of a miniature Atlas. Jones, after a dodge or two, feinted with his left, but Orme grinned and stepped back; Jones followed him up, when Orme stopped his further progress with a prop from his right on the side of the head. Counter-hits with the left followed without any mischief. Orme then swung round his right as if it was a sledgehammer, and caught Jones with tremendous force on the ribs under the left arm, in the region of the heart, where he left most unmistakable imprints of his knuckles, which never disappeared during the remainder of the battle. Jones returned slightly on the right ear, which led to a rally, in which Orme had the best of the hitting, again delivering a rib-bender with his right, removing the bark from Jones’s smeller, and drawing first blood with his left. A close, in which Orme held his man tight, and fibbed him on the nose and forehead until both were down in Jones’s corner.

2.—Jones led off with his left, reaching Orme’s cheek, and cleverly stopping the return. Counter-hits followed, Jones drawing claret from Orme’s mouth, catching it in return heavily on the cheek and chin. Some slogging hits were exchanged without any regard to science, and Jones at length slipped down.

3.—Jones again led off with his left, but was very wild in his deliveries, which passed over Orme’s shoulder. Had he been more precise his blows would have told a tale, for Orme appeared to think that “stopping” was quite beneath him. Orme went in, pegged away left and right on the left eye and ribs, and Jones fell.

4.—Jones on coming up displayed the marks of Orme’s handiwork in the last round in the shape of a mouse on his left eye. He appeared loth to come out of his corner, whereupon Orme went to him. Jones retreated as far as he could, and delivered his left as Orme came in. Orme “stopped the blow” with his left cheek, returned the compliment with interest by two heavy cracks on Jones’s injured peeper and his forehead, when Jones got down.

5.—Orme commenced business by rushing in and planting his left and right heavily on Jones’s mouth and nose, drawing more claret. Jones returned slightly on the left cheek and slipped down just as Orme was about to effect a delivery. He looked up as if anticipating a foul, but Orme restrained himself, grinned, shook his head, patted Jones on the back of his poll, and walked to his corner.

6.—Jones led off with his left, catching Orme on the potato-trap. Orme countered him on the nose heavily, stepped back again, went in, repeated the dose on Jones’s nose and his left eye, and the latter was again down.

7.—Jones came up much flushed, bleeding from the nose and left eye. His forehead was swelled, and altogether it was evident that Orme’s visitations had not been without their effect. The only mark Orme showed was a swelling under his left eye. Orme led off, caught Jones another rattler on the damaged ogle, drawing more of the ruby. Jones wild, dashed in, planted a heavy blow on Orme’s left cheek, and fell on his latter end from the force of his own blow.

8.—Jones stopped Orme’s left neatly, and tried a return which was short. A rally followed, in which Jones’s deliveries were mostly thrown away, inasmuch as they passed over Orme’s shoulder. Orme, whose punches, although very round, in general got home, again planted on Jones’s left eye and nose. At length Jones got one on Orme’s left peeper, drawing blood, and then slipped down.

9.—Jones came up bleeding, and looking much the worse for wear, while Orme was all confidence. Jones led off with his left, got home slightly on Orme’s smeller, when suddenly was heard the unwelcome watchword of “Police”—and sure enough, on looking round we perceived a detachment of neatly attired Cambridge “Peelers” making their way to the field of action. A cry of sauve qui peut was instantly raised, and the ground was cleared in a trice, every one making for the train and jumping into the first carriage that he could find open. It was soon discovered, however, that the object of the “powers that be” was not to apprehend any of the wrongdoers, but merely to prevent a breach of the peace in the county of Cambridge.

A council of war was called; the referee, whose duty it was to name the next time and place, if possible on the same day, suggested that there was yet time to go to Mildenhall, where he knew the matter could be concluded in peace. The officials, however, connected with the railway, said that, inasmuch as the train would have to return up the old Newmarket line, and then go round by Cambridge, where it would be detained so as not to interfere with the general traffic, it was very probable that Mildenhall could not be reached in time to finish the business in hand before dark. It was then hinted by “the pilot” that the affair might be completed in the neighbourhood of Newmarket, that town being in the county of Suffolk, and out of the jurisdiction of the Cambridgeshire authorities. The plan appeared feasible, and “bock agin” to Newmarket was the order of the day. The pilot conducted the Commissary and assistants to a likely piece of turf behind the plantation of firs at the top of the training-ground, not much more than a mile from the town, and here a second ring was formed with all due diligence, and here, of course, the crowd of spectators was largely increased by detachments of lovers of the sport from the town itself and the surrounding districts. At twenty-two minutes after three, all being for the second time in readiness, in the midst of a shower of rain, round nine was resumed.

THE FIGHT RESUMED.

Round 9 continued.—On the men throwing off their blankets both looked rather the worse for wear, Jones having a most unmistakable black eye, and the bark being off his frontispiece in several places. The marks also of Orme’s hammerings on his ribs were very apparent. Orme displayed a slight swelling and discolouration under his left eye, and an enlargement of his upper lip. Both seemed fresher from the rest they had taken, and appeared anxious now to finish the fight out of hand. Jones led off twice, but was short. Orme then delivered a spank on his left eye. Jones returned rather heavily on the nose and slipped down.

10.—Orme led off, planted his right again heavily on the ribs. Jones, after one or two wild plunges over his adversary’s shoulder, succeeded in reaching his damaged cheek, and slipped down.

11.—Jones again led off twice with his left, but in both instances the blows fell short; Orme then went to his man, slight taps were exchanged, after which Orme popped in a nasty one on the nose, and slipped down.

12.—Orme rushed in to fight, but Jones stepped back, caught him heavily on the left ear and left eye, drawing claret from the latter; Orme tried to return, but Jones got down cunning.

13.—Orme on coming to the scratch showed that Jones’s last two hits had not been without their effect; his left ogle began to show symptoms of shutting up shop, while his left ear was considerably discoloured. Jones led off, delivered his left and right on Orme’s injured optic and his ear, stopped Orme’s returns cleverly, and slipped down.

14.—Orme rushed in in a determined manner, but was again stopped. Jones stepped back, delivered his right on Orme’s left ear heavily; Orme would not be stalled off, but again bored in, when Jones slipped down.

15.—Jones led off, but the blow passed harmless over Orme’s head; good counter-hits followed, Orme delivering on Jones’s nose, and receiving a heavy visitation on his right peeper. Jones then received a one-two on the nose and ribs, when both got down together, and, after a slight scramble, were down side by side.

16.—Jones was again short in his deliveries, when Orme closed, and both were again down, no mischief being done.

17.—Both rattled in to their work, and some sharp exchanges took place, in which Jack was as good as his master. Orme then caught Jones round the neck, fibbed him heavily in the mouth and nose, and after a short struggle threw him heavily, and fell upon him.

18.—Jones, led off, his arm passing over his adversary’s head. He was more lucky in a second attempt, reaching Orme’s left ogle heavily. Some rattling exchanges followed, left and right, Jones catching it on the ribs and left eye, while he got home heavily on Orme’s ear, mouth, and left cheek. Orme bored in, planted his one-two on Jones’s nose and mouth, and was trying to improve his advantage when Jones slipped down cunning.

19.—Jones first to fight, Orme appearing to blow from want of condition. Jones got home again on the left ear and nose; Orme returned slightly, but his hits now appeared to lack steam. Jones in this round rattled away in style, had all the best of the hitting, but in the end Orme counterbalanced these advantages by closing and throwing him a cross buttock, and falling heavily on him.

20.—Jones led off, but was met by Orme with a sharp counter-hit, each reached his adversary’s left eye, after which Jones immediately got down. He had evidently been much shaken by the fall in the previous round.

21.—Orme attempted to take the lead, but was short; Jones delivered a heavy right-hander on the left ear; counter-hits followed, Orme reaching Jones’s left eye heavily, and received on the nose. Jones finished the round by delivering a spank on Orme’s right eye and getting down.

22.—Jones came up, bleeding from his left eye. Orme opened the ball by repeating the dose on the same optic, and drawing a fresh supply of the ruby. He attempted to do ditto ditto, but was cleverly stopped by Jones. Counter-hits followed, Orme succeeding in again planting upon the nearly closed eye of his adversary, who delivered on the left cheek and left ear and then got down.

23.—Jones attempted to take the lead, but was wofully short. Orme went to him, delivered his left and right heavily, received a slight tap in return, and Jones fell.

It was now forty minutes past three, and before time could be called for the next round, “police!” was again the cry of the multitude—a cry which, as at the first ring, proved to be only too true. Several individuals, clad in blue array, connected with the Suffolk constabulary, forced their way to the arena, and ordered the combatants to desist in the Queen’s name. A fly was close to the spot, and in this both men and their seconds quickly ensconced themselves. The stakes were once more drawn, and all repaired to the railway station, to once more ponder upon the reverses of a day which had dawned with every prospect of a successful expedition. The backers of the men applied to the referee to know his decision, and that functionary, after considering the circumstances of the case, decided that there must be another meeting, and, having taken council with the pilot, the excursionists once more re-entered the train, the pilot and a backer of Orme taking their station on the tender, the former undertaking to direct the engine driver to a spot where it was thought a satisfactory last act might be appended to the two which had already been performed. The train once more flew past Six Mile Bottom, where the blue-coated fraternity were still observable on the qui vive, to prevent a second invasion of their bailiwick. The old Newmarket line was a second time traversed for some miles, and at length the pilot gave orders to “heave to” at a field of clover, about two miles on the Newmarket side of Chesterford. And now comes the unpleasant part of our narrative. On the referee leaving the train, he was asked by some of Jones’s backers why the train had stopped, as they understood he had decided that the fight was to be postponed until another day. The referee stated that he had given no decision of the kind; the articles specified that in case of magisterial interference the referee was to name the next time and place, if possible on the same day. He had named a place (having directed the engine driver under the orders of “the pilot” to go where there was a probability of a satisfactory conclusion); that place had been reached, there was plenty of daylight, he saw no excuse for postponing the battle to a future day, and he had no alternative but to order the men to fight. Jones’s friends replied that Orme’s principal backer had told them when the police arrived at the second ring that there would be no more fight that day, but that he should take his man back to London at once. They had therefore given Jones oranges to eat, and brandy-and-water to drink, and had, moreover, been smoking in the same carriage with him. The referee stated that this, if it was the case, was highly reprehensible on their part; Orme’s backers had no power to decide whether the fight was to be resumed or not; that was discretionary on his (the referee’s) part. He had stated to one or two of Jones’s friends what his intentions were, and if there had been any doubt upon the point, the least that could have been done by his seconds and attendants would have been to ask the question before they allowed their man to commit the excesses they alluded to. It was then urged by Jones’s backers that it would be a cruel thing to order the men to fight again after being twice stripped and twice disturbed. The referee said that might or might not be the case; his duty, according to the articles, was imperative. The men must fight, unless they chose mutually to agree to a postponement, when of course he could have no objection. Orme and his friends would not hear of an adjournment, and wished to have the matter decided at once. Jones’s backers then became very excited, and one of them applied language to the referee which was utterly unjustifiable, and that gentleman said he would have nothing more to do with the matter, and that he would resign his office as referee. After a lengthened argument pro and con, however, the referee, seeing that if he resigned his office the friends of Jones would attain the object they evidently had in view—namely, to save any bets they might have upon the fight, by refusing to agree to any other referee, and thus procuring an adjournment—consented to leave the railway carriage into which he had retired. He was again begged by Jones’s friends to adjourn the fight, but again repeated his decision that they must make another attempt on that day to bring the affair to an issue. Jones and Co. appeared still reluctant to renew the encounter, whereupon the referee stated that he would give them half an hour, and if Jones was not in the ring ready to fight by that time he would award the stakes to Orme. Orme went to the ring, which had already been formed, whither he was followed, after a short delay, by Jones and his seconds. Jones, whose left eye was completely closed, and who showed other symptoms of severe chastisement, pulled off his trousers and coat, and was about to denude himself of his other clothing, when suddenly he appeared to change his mind; he whispered to one of his seconds that it was “No use his fighting any more, as he was sure to be licked.” He then resumed his extra toggery and went to the referee, to whom he stated that he would not fight again unless another referee was chosen, as he had resigned his office. The referee replied that his resignation was only threatened, and was not consummated, inasmuch as it had not been accepted by the parties concerned, who had asked him (after he had said that he would resign) to adjourn the fight to another day, and had thus acknowledged his authority. He was not disposed now to give up that authority, and thus deprive Orme of any chance he might have of finishing the battle that night. He did not consider that either man was licked, or that there was any great advantage on either side in point of punishment; there were still two hours of daylight. As he had said before, he could see no ground for a postponement, and fight they must, or he would certainly award the battle in favour of Orme. Jones still persisted in his refusal to fight, and at length left the ring, repeating the observation, that if he fought again he knew he should be licked. He did not leave the arena, however, without hearing sundry complimentary speeches from the spectators upon the courage (?) he displayed in refusing to finish the battle in a manly, upright manner, and without resorting to any petty subterfuges to obtain an adjournment. Amongst others who commented in strong terms upon his behaviour was Jemmy Massey, who was backing him, and who has shown himself a pretty good judge of the quantity of punishment a man can take without being licked; Jemmy strongly advised Jones to at once leave the ring, acknowledge that he was afraid of Orme, and thus end the matter. The referee waited the promised half-hour, at the end of which time, finding that Jones still declined the contest, he awarded the victory to Orme, to whom he at once handed the sum of £45, being the bet of £25 to £20 which had been laid prior to the commencement of the fight. The battle lasted 15 minutes at Bourne Bridge, and 18 minutes at Newmarket—total 33 minutes.

Remarks.—Few remarks are called for upon the style displayed by either of the combatants in this most unsatisfactory affair. Orme displayed all that fearless determination to do or die which has characterised his former encounters, but we could not perceive any improvement in his scientific acquirements since his battle with Nat Langham last year. His principal notion of stopping seemed to be with his head, which consequently received many sharp visitations from Jones’s wild deliveries, which a very little care would have enabled him entirely to escape. The art of getting away seemed to be one to the study of which he has paid very little attention. His game evidently is “nothing venture, nothing gain,” and he acted up to this to the fullest extent. Notwithstanding his want of skilful direction of his undoubted powers, Orme is a dangerous customer to any one at all near his weight. He is a very hard hitter, an extremely powerful and determined man, of indomitable courage, and, although his powers as a receiver were not severely tested on the present occasion, still, it is known that in his fight with Langham he showed that his qualities as a glutton are of the highest order. He is, moreover, possessed of an excellent temper, which enables him to control himself under circumstances which are calculated sometimes to “ruffle the feathers” of the coolest combatant. As to Jones, in whom we were taught to expect a most wonderful alteration for the better, we can only say that our expectations were grievously disappointed. He certainly did stop Orme’s swinging right-handers occasionally, but his returns, which from the opening afforded to him might have enabled him to punish his daring adversary’s temerity in a most signal manner, were mostly thrown to the winds. The tremendous blow he received on the ribs in the very first round appeared to take a good deal of the fight out of him, and it was with extreme caution that he trusted himself within reach of Orme’s pile-driving visitations. In the first ring, indeed, after the first round, he did little but receive what Orme could give, and on arriving at the second arena, previous to recommencing operations, it appeared to us that there was some little difficulty on the part of his seconds in persuading him that there was a chance left for him to snatch the laurel of victory from his more hardy opponent. When he did begin, however, he proved that he could fight very well if he chose, and that what he might lack in strength could be fully counterbalanced by steadiness; for whenever he collected himself and made up his mind to be with his man, the hits were pretty equally balanced, both as regarded their severity and their number. The fall which he received in the second act, to which was superadded the weight of Orme’s carcase, however, seemed again to take a good deal of fight out of him, and it was pretty evident to all, that although Orme was not likely to gain a victory without receiving a very considerable amount of punishment, still, barring an accident, victory must ultimately be his. The conduct of Jones at the third ring proved either that his heart was composed of a softer material than is necessary to render a man a successful bruiser, or that he acted under advice which, however well intended, was certainly as ill-timed as it was injudicious. We know that his seconds did all they could to endeavour to persuade him to fight, but finding that he was obviously disinclined, they, like clever counsellors, did their best for their client in trying to convert a bad cause into a good one, and obtain an adjournment to a future day; but, as has already been seen, the fiat had gone forth. Their man had but to choose one of two alternatives—viz., to fight or lose the battle, and he, doubtless feeling assured in his own mind that the latter course would be the safer, declined to have any more, withdrew from the ring, leaving behind him a reputation little creditable to him as a man of courage, and little calculated to raise him in the opinion of those Corinthians who were prepared to witness a manly struggle for pre-eminence, without any of those paltry shifts and subterfuge which appear now to be almost necessary concomitants of every encounter.

As was to be expected, the stakeholder received a legal notice from the backers of Jones, not to part with their portion of the money deposited. Nevertheless, on the Monday following, that gentleman handed over the £200 to Orme, pursuant to the decision of the referee. The stakeholder, in giving the money to Orme, animadverted severely on the conduct of the backers of Jones, which he characterised as unsportsmanlike and ill-judged. Such conduct was calculated to lower the already fallen fortunes of the P.R., and unless measures were taken to make an example of persons who could so far forget themselves, he feared that gentlemen would in future be deterred from putting down money to back men, from the fear that the backers of the opposing party would, if they found their man was getting the worst of it, take every unfair means in their power to prevent a manly and upright termination to the contest. On the present occasion two of Jones’s friends and supporters (whom he named) had, but whether with Jones’s consent he was unable to say, served him (the stakeholder) with a legal notice not to part with the money they had placed in his hands. Not feeling disposed to permit Orme to be thus deprived of a sum to which he had fairly entitled himself, he communicated the fact to the gentleman who staked the greater part of his money, and that gentle- and Orme executed a bond of indemnity to hold him (the stakeholder) harmless, in case Messrs. Ledger and Prior should take any further steps. The law expenses attending this bond of indemnity amounted to nearly £6. This sum would have to be paid by Orme, and it would make a considerable reduction in the amount of his winnings, which were already sufficiently circumscribed by the expenses incurred for training, paying his seconds, &c., &c. He felt assured that all persons who were disposed to look at the result of the contest in a proper light would agree with the referee in the decision he had given, and in this opinion he was upheld by remarks which had come to his ears, which had been made on the ground, by persons who had lost their money by backing Jones, many of whom said that the referee could not do otherwise than he had done. It was not necessary to trouble the company with any further remarks; they would form their own estimate of the proceedings of Jones and Co.; and in conclusion he was sure they would cordially agree with him in wishing that when Orme was again matched he would be more lucky in the choice of an opponent. It was certain that whenever he did fight again he would do his best to win, and it would be from no lack of determination on his part if he lost. The stakeholder then handed to Orme the £200, minus £5 17s. 4d., the amount of the lawyer’s bill for preparing the bond of indemnity.

Orme expressed his thanks to the stakeholder for his determination in giving up the money. He said it was usual, when the winning man received the reward of his victory, to present the loser with something as a compensation for his disappointment. It had been his intention to act up to the custom on the present occasion, and give Jones a £5 note, if his (Jones’s) backers had not acted in such an unsportsmanlike manner. They had, however, put him to an expense of nearly £6, and this so reduced his winnings that he really could not afford to give anything. He was sorry for this, on Jones’s account, as he did not believe that he had any hand in the legal proceedings. Although he could not himself afford to do anything for Jones, however, he would make a collection among his friends.

Orme’s determination to give nothing to Jones was applauded by the parties present, who expressed their opinion that this was the true method of punishing him for any countenance he might have given to the dealing with the lawyers which had been commenced by his friends. Orme then went round the room, and made a collection for Jones. This he handed over to Jones, who immediately rose and thanked the company. He assured them that he had nothing to do with the notice served upon the stakeholder, and all he could say was, he hoped when he fought again he should get a better character from the Press than he had received on the present occasion. He was no coward, and he trusted that the day would come when he might be able to prove himself as game a man as Orme. As to the amount subscribed for him, he thought he could not do better than hand it over to the stakeholder, to be appropriated towards Spring’s monument. Jones’s speech was much applauded, and he sat down amidst considerable cheering, and the remainder of the evening passed off harmoniously.

Orme’s second victory over Aaron Jones, who, as must not be forgotten, was at this period (1852–3) looked upon by the Broomes and many good judges as the “coming man” for the championship in futuro, marked him out as a boxer who in time to come must “give away weight,” and who was not to be tackled by any middle-weight; for the phenomenon of a ten-and-a-half stone Champion had not yet presented itself to men’s eyes, or to their minds as a possibility or even a probability. At this juncture the Champion’s title had passed into the hands of Harry Broome, in consequence of his very debatable conquest of the “Old Tipton” (through a foul blow), on the 27th of September, 1851, at Mildenhall, Suffolk. From that time Harry Broome had worn the title undisputed (Aaron Jones being of the Broome party), but now the East End friends of Orme thought they perceived their Champion within a “measurable distance” of the Championship. Accordingly Harry Orme, with laudable ambition, picked up the gauntlet thrown down by the Champion, the “other Harry,” and agreeing to the amount of stake, £500, articles were drawn, and the 23rd of March, 1853, fixed for its decision; owing, however, to that being the day of the Newmarket Handicap, a supplemental agreement was signed, postponing the battle to Monday, 18th of April. We need not here recapitulate the circumstances of the battle, seeing that they are minutely detailed in the Memoir of Harry Broome, Chapter IX. of this volume.

With this “glorious defeat,” more honourable to the loser than many victories, we close the Ring career of the brave, honest, and straightforward Harry Orme. We shall conclude our Ring memoirs of this courageous champion by a few words of quotation from a contemporary account of this final fight: “Orme is a remarkably quiet, civil fellow, and is much respected by his friends at the East End, and, indeed, by all who intimately know him. He is a man who never talks about fighting, except in the briefest terms, and then only when he means business. We do not ever recollect hearing from his lips, either at home or in public, any of that slang or loose talk which many of his brother professionals consider witty, or smart, and laughter-provoking. In fact, Harry Orme is singularly modest, and not only avoids boasting, but is always ready to concede credit to his opponent, and leave to others the praising of himself.”

Harry Orme was for many years known as the landlord of the “Jane Shore,” in Shoreditch. He died on the 9th of June, 1864, in his 41st year, and rests beneath a neat memorial in Abney Cemetery.

[26]

“Rari quippe boni: numero vix sunt totidem, quot

Thebarum portæ, vel divitis ostia Nili.”—Juvenal, Sat.

CHAPTER VIII.

TOM PADDOCK.
1844–1860.

In the little world as in the great, “history never tires of repeating itself,” according to the Napoleonic axiom; and so in the period in which the rustic, ruddy, round-boned, pugnacious Tom Paddock flourished his fists, the interregnum of the Ring exhibited a parallel to our ancient Heptarchy, the combats of which were compared by David Hume, the historian, to “the battles of the kites and the crows.” Big Ben Caunt, the crafty Bendigo (William Thompson, of Nottingham), Tom Paddock (of Redditch), Con Parker (for a few months), the Tipton Slasher (William Perry), and, finally, Harry Orme and Harry Broome, bandied and buffeted about the title of “Champion of England,” until the scarcity of “good men” reminded us of the lines of Juvenal:—

“Good men are scarce, indeed so thinly sown,

They thrive but ill, nor do they last when grown;

And should we count them, and our store compile,

Yet Thebes more gates could show, more mouths the Nile.[26]

and so went on the “confusion in the camp” until little Tom Sayers came, and, by disposing of Perry and Paddock, united England in one “Championship of all the weights.”

Paddock’s claims to a niche in our gallery of celebrities are indisputable, as it was his lot to encounter almost every big man of repute in his day. He fought, as we shall see, Nobby Clarke (twice), Bendigo, Harry Poulson (three times), Aaron Jones (twice), Harry Broome, the Tipton Slasher, Tom Sayers, and Sam Hurst. With this anticipation of his career we will proceed to a more detailed account of the doings of the “Redditch needlepointer” than has been hitherto given; merely noting that this nickname, which we many times heard from his intimates and other provincials, seemed rather derived from the staple trade of Paddock’s native town than from any employment at “needlemaking” by the burly Tom himself, who was but slightly polished up from a rough and ready rustic chawbacon by his fourteen years of incidental town life.

Tom’s birth dated from 1824, and his pursuits, as we have intimated, were those of a farmer’s boy; indeed, Tom might have lived and died unknown, and taken his long nap in a nameless grave—

“Beneath those ragged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep”—

had not his good, or evil, fortune led him to “seek the bubble reputation” in the roped lists of the Prize Ring.

On the third day of the last month of the year 1844, a battle was fought between a brace of rustics, which soon after introduced yet another “Champion” candidate. The day above-named was a bustling one for the Fancy of the Hardware Town, there being no less than four fights on the far-famed battle-ground of Sutton Coldfield. The first of these, between William Shakespeare (of Brierly Hill) and Tom Jenkins (of Dudley)—in which the namesake and possible kinsman of that other “Warwickshire lad,” renowned for all time, got an exemplary thrashing in about half an hour—concerns us no farther than that the said Jenkins, in January of the same year, had beaten Elijah Parsons, of whom we shall hear more presently.

TOM PADDOCK.

From a Photograph by Watkins.

Shakespeare and his conqueror having quitted the stage by the early hour of half-past eleven, and the Birmingham Commissary having rearranged his “properties,” the spectators resumed their seats for the second performance, in which the principal actors were our hero, announced as “Young Tom Paddock, of Redditch,” and his opponent, “Old Elijah Parsons, of Tambourne,” a village near Dudley. Parsons, who stood six feet and weighed 13st., was liberally backed by his local friends, he having in his younger days (he was then thirty) won some very hard battles. Paddock, who weighed a pound or two under 12st., and was in his twentieth year, had already stripped on one occasion in the P.R., when, at Mapleborough Green, he defeated Fred Pearce, of Cheltenham, for a purse, after Sam Simmonds, of Birmingham, had defeated Tom the Greek, on January 29, 1844. The country folk seemed to fancy “Old Elijah,” who for a fortnight had been under the care and tuition of Nobby Clarke, who, on this occasion also acted as his second, assisted by Bob Rowley. Ben Terry had trained Paddock for the same short period, and now seconded him with Jem Hodgkiss. Parsons, who was in attire and staidness of demeanour a counterpart of a field-preacher, sported a white ground kerchief with a small yellow spot, Paddock the orthodox blue birdseye. Some time was lost, through local jealousy, in selecting a referee; but that and every other necessary preliminary settled, at half-past 12 o’clock the business began.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—As the men stood up Parsons looked big, bony, and formidable, Paddock round, rosy-red, and blooming with rude health. After a little rustic dodging and sparring, both went in right and left. Paddock succeeded in planting the first hit, a slashing left-hander on the Old’un’s mouth. Parsons missed a heavy hit, his right going over Paddock’s shoulder, who nailed him with a one, two. Parsons, evidently not knowing what to make of it, turned half-round and went from his man. Paddock followed him, and, hitting up, caught him a tidy smack with the left; Parsons, swinging completely round, made a good hit on the side of Paddock’s head, when they closed, and both fell. (5 and 6 to 4 offered on Paddock.)

2.—Parsons came to the scratch looking serious, with his right eye already damaged and a bleeding cut on the left cheek-bone. (First blood claimed for the Young’un.) Parsons rushed in, chopping away with both hands, but with little effect. Paddock propped him, but was first down. (Cries of “2 to 1 on Redditch!”)

3.—Parsons’s right eye showing symptoms of closing. Exchanges, Paddock nailing Parsons with his right on the damaged cheek, and Elijah retaliating on his opponent’s ribs. Both men pegged away at give and take; in the close, Parsons bored Paddock down.

4.—Parsons tried to force the fight, but napped it severely; Paddock fought on the retreat and got down in the close, laughing.

5.—Paddock sent in a staggering hit on Parsons’ left ear, but the Old’un stood it bravely, and grasped his opponent, but he could not hold him to fib, and Paddock slipped through his hands cleverly.

6.—After a few seconds of sparring, Paddock shot out his left, reaching Parsons’s damaged ogle, and then got in one on the mouth. Parsons rushed in for a close, but again Paddock faced him and got down.

7.—The Old’un again led off, both hitting away with mutual good will, a close, and Paddock under.

8.—Ding-dong work so soon as the men were at the scratch, Parsons bleeding freely, while Paddock as yet had scarcely a mark.

9.—Paddock dropped his left again on Parsons’s mug, and his right on the body, and fell. (Cries of “Stand up and fight like a man, you have got it all your own way.”)

10.—Paddock again shot out his left on Parsons’s cheek, which was assuming a sorry appearance. Parsons closed, in-fighting, and Paddock down.

11.—Paddock again made his left and right on Parsons’s dial, nevertheless, the Old’un did not flinch, but fought his man to the ropes, where Paddock fell.

12 to 17 were similar to the preceding, in favour of Paddock; still Parsons was game, and did all he could to turn the tide in his favour, but it was useless, his day had gone by.

18.—This was a slashing round, and the best in the fight, Parsons making his right tell on Paddock’s ribs, but caught it awfully on his damaged mouth from Paddock’s left. A close, good in-fighting, and both fell together.

19 and 20.—Parsons closed and bored his man to the ropes, where Paddock fell.

21.—Parsons at the scratch, game, but it was no go. Paddock again shot out his left on the dial, and made an upper cut with his right. Parsons closed, a struggle for the throw, and both fell, Paddock under.

22.—Parsons first at the scratch, with his left eye nearly closed and bleeding freely. (Cries of “Take him away.”) Parsons closed, both hitting away; at last Paddock got down.

23rd and last.—Paddock went to his man, hit out left and right, and caught Parsons a tremendous smack over the left eye; it was a stunner. A close followed, Paddock getting his right arm round Parsons’s neck, hitting up with severity; the punishment was severe. Both men struggled, and fell together. Parsons was taken to his corner in an exhausted condition. His seconds, perceiving it was useless to prolong the contest, threw up the sponge, and Paddock was hailed as the winner. The fight lasted twenty-two minutes. Another instance of the folly of backing an Ould’un against Young’un.

Remarks.—This was, certainly, a promising début; for though “Old Elijah” was too stale to contend with such an impetuous, hard-hitting, and resolute youngster as the “Redditch needle-grinder,” he certainly tested the Young’un’s game, who showed he was “all there,” if he did not possess the higher attainments of a scientific boxer.

As a proof that the Brums at this time kept the game alive, we may mention that another pair, Blackman and Chadwick, not choosing to lose time, actually made an extempore ring, and got off a hard fight of forty-three rounds in fifty-six minutes, in which Blackman was the victor, while Shakespeare and Jenkins, and Paddock and Parsons were settling their differences. Of course as, unlike Sir Boyle Roche’s bird, we could not be in two places at once, we saw nothing of this; but we did see the fourth fight, between Frazer Brown, of Walsall, who fought George Giles, a West Bromwich youth, for a purse, which, after an hour’s hard work, to the damage of both, but with no advantage to either, was divided, and so ended a full day’s sport.

In the month of September, 1844, a fine, fresh young fellow, aged 22, standing 6 feet, and weighing 12st. 6lbs., came up to London, and displayed such capabilities with the mittens that Johnny Broome at once “spotted” him for a competitor for the yet-untried Bob Caunt, younger brother to the Champion, Ben, who was just then being “trotted out” by the St. Martin’s Lane coterie. The new-comer, whose pals had denominated him, on account of his smartness and good looks, “Nobby” Clarke, was articled with “brother Bob” for £25 a side, and on the 22nd of October, 1844, he gave his opponent such a skilful thrashing in seven rounds, occupying the brief space of a quarter of an hour, that his friends, too hastily judging from this very short spin, announced the “Nobby One” as ready for any 12st. man for £50. Our hero, who was on the look-out for active service, replied to the challenge, and on the 27th of January, 1846, they met at Coleshill Castle, near West Bromwich; the battle exciting great interest in Birmingham and the Midlands. “Nobby” Clarke was seconded by the Tipton Slasher and Tass Parker; Tom Paddock by Hodgkiss and Sam Hurst. Clarke was in splendid condition, and in looks fully justified the 6 and 7 to 4 laid on him by the Brums. At a few minutes after eleven, the men stood up and began

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Clarke, who was a model of symmetry, had a noticeable superiority in length and reach over the round and ruddy Redditch man, who, however, not only seemed undismayed, but lost no time in sparring, and rattled in right and left. The “Nobby One” stopped him neatly and retreated; then let go his left at Paddock’s head, but did not seem to leave a mark. Paddock bored in, but Clarke caught him in his arms, and both were down, Paddock under.

2.—Clarke sparred and broke ground; as Paddock came on, hitting out viciously, Clarke caught him an ugly crack on the cheek-bone, and also one in the mouth. (“First blood” for Clarke.) Paddock would not be denied, and there were some ding-dong exchanges, in which Paddock got in a smasher on Clarke’s eyebrow, making a cut, which balanced the account; in the embrace which followed Paddock was undermost.

3.—A rattling rally, in which Paddock showed most determination, the “Nobby One” breaking away twice during the hitting; but coming again to close quarters there were some sharp deliveries on both sides, and Paddock was first down.

4.—Paddock made play, but Clarke avoided him, popping in one or two hits cleverly. Paddock persevered, and after an exchange or two, Clarke got the Redditch man undermost.

5.—Clarke nailed Paddock left and right, but Tom bored in, caught Clarke a rib-roaster with the right; the “Nobby One” at the ropes made an attempt to butt, and then got down. Cries of “Foul.” A number of people forced themselves into the ring, declaring a “foul.” The referee called on the men to “go on.”

6.—After some confusion the ring was cleared. Clarke had still, in appearance, the best of the hitting, Paddock’s cheek looking like a scored beefsteak. A merry bout, but Clarke would not get near enough; and, at last, as he launched out his right and closed, Paddock slipped down laughing. The ground was a perfect quagmire, and foothold very uncertain.

7, 8, 9.—Paddock first to fight in these rounds. Clarke considerably shy in the rallies, and getting down amidst some disapprobation.

10, 11, 12.—Paddock’s style a little improving. He, however, did not shine at out-fighting, “Nobby” getting on prettily now and again, but never following up an advantage. In the last-named round Paddock was hit down in a scramble.

13.—Clarke began with more confidence, and nailed Paddock sharply twice in the head. Tom got in on Clarke’s ribs, a sounding thwack, and down went “Nobby,” to finish the round. (Applause for Paddock.)

14.—Clarke shy and sparring, Paddock on to him, when “Nobby” threw Tom a back-fall in the close.

15.—Exchanges; Paddock missed both hands; Clarke caught him heavily in the mouth, and Paddock was under in the throw.

16 to 21.—Paddock, game as a pebble, went in, and though “Nobby” met him in the head, he never failed to get home on the body. Clarke clever at stopping and saving his head, but shifty and shy. (5 and 6 to 4 on Paddock.)

22.—Clarke standing out and retreating on the saving suit; Paddock, resolute and determined, forcing the fighting. Clarke but little marked, except the cut over the eye in the second round though his left side showed some red bumps from Paddock’s right-hand body-blows, while Paddock was bleeding from half a dozen cuts on the cheek, nose, lips, and forehead. Still he was gay, and driving “Nobby” into his own corner, the latter dropped to avoid. (Hisses.)

23 to 30.—Similar in character, Clarke going down almost every round.

31.—Clarke, urged on by the Tipton, went in to fight and got the best of several exchanges, nearly closing his opponent’s left eye. Paddock got in a hit on “Nobby’s” neck, from which he turned round, and as Paddock was repeating his blow fell.

32.—This ought to have been the last round. Clarke caught Paddock on the forehead, jumped back, ran away, and as Paddock threw out his left fell without a blow. (Great confusion, the ring broken in, and a minute or two expired before the referee’s decision could be obtained, who gave Clarke the “benefit of the doubt,” from the slipperiness of the ground.)

33–40.—Paddock, despite the punishment he appeared to have received, was little the worse in wind or strength, while in pluck he was the very reverse of his clever antagonist. “Nobby” sparred cleverly, but was evidently afraid of his man, and when they got close and a half-arm hit was got in by Paddock, he was always a consenting party to going down; in fact, he was “on the go” before the blow reached him.

41.—Another wrangle; “Nobby” getting down questionably after getting in a left-hander. (Hisses.)

42.—Great wrangling and confusion. Paddock standing in the middle of the ring protesting, and calling on “Nobby” to come on, which he did after a minute or so of disputation. Paddock went at him, and “Nobby” slipped down. It was announced that Clarke would “fight no more.” Paddock again “orating;” the referee handed over the watch to a friend, called “Time!” and declared Paddock to be the winner. The Tipton created some amusement by his denunciations of the “Nobby One’s” cowardice, and was with difficulty prevented from striking the man he had just been seconding; politely addressing him as a “robber,” “cur,” “thief,” &c. with a variety of expletives which we decline to report, and ending by declaring he would “pay no bets on such a rank cross.” He had, however, to do so, as well as many others, and the stakes went to Paddock, as of right they were due.

Remarks.—There was nothing so worthy of note in this battle as the utter unreliability of mere sparring skill when pitted against a fair amount of boxing acquirements, backed with those indispensable qualities, courage and endurance. Clarke had weight, length, skill, and, if properly applied, superior strength on his side; nevertheless, the Redditch man, by mere resolution and never losing trust in himself, literally frightened his opponent out of his victory. Paddock, though inferior to the “Nobby One,” displayed great improvement on his previous performance, and we did not hesitate to predict for him a successful career, provided that he possessed temper, discretion, and teachability, which, for some time, he certainly did not. Strength, pluck, stamina, and fearless courage he had; the regulating and guiding qualities he had not.

Paddock having failed in meeting with a customer after his defeat of Clarke, did not again appear within the ropes in 1846; but, on the 27th of December in that year, the clever “Nobby One” having somewhat wiped off the stain of cowardice which had attached to his name, by a triumphant defeat of a 12st. 7lbs. man of the name of Jordan, calling himself “the Welsh Champion”—his friends took “heart of grace,” and again offered to back their man for £50 a side against our hero. The second trial took place on the 6th of April, 1847, at Stony Stratford. We shall not inflict upon the reader a full report of this battle. It was, with little variation in its incidents, a mere replica of the first, except that it lasted seven minutes less—48 minutes—and the close of the 35th round brought Tom’s labours to a victorious conclusion. In the first few rounds Clarke, as on the former occasion, took a triumphant lead; but his game and hardy opponent stuck to him so determinedly, and, when he did get on, so completely—as his half-reconciled and again-deluded friend the Tipton said—“Knocked all the fight out of him,” that the result was merely a question of minutes more or less; the fight being finally declared to Paddock from a “foul” by the miscalled “Nobby One.”

In our Life of Bendigo (ante page 37), we have fully narrated the circumstances under which Paddock, as “Johnny Broome’s Unknown,” took up the gauntlet thrown down by Bendigo for £200 and the Championship; and how Paddock, after what appeared a winning fight, threw away his advantages, and lost the battle by losing his temper—striking his shifty opponent a “foul” blow. This took place on the 5th of June, 1850, and as the Tipton had already pledged himself to fight the winner (Bendigo having announced his retirement from the Ring), the Slasher, then and there, challenged him for £350, which was afterwards reduced to £200 a side. This came to nothing, for on the 22nd of August, 1850, both parties failed in their deposits, and the money down was drawn. A new match was then entered into for £100 a side, and on this occasion, as the battle ended in a draw, we shall merely refer the reader to the Life of Perry (see ante page 157), where, also, will be found the account of his defeat by the Slasher, at Woking, December 17th, 1850, again from the delivery of a “foul” blow.

These defeats, greatly due to obstinate violence and ungovernable temper, seem to have induced some rash challenges to Paddock. In March, 1851, Jack Grant was hastily matched with Paddock for £100, and £5 deposited; but at the next meeting Grant’s backers took second thoughts, and Tom pocketed the £5, as one of the “little fishes,” which are proverbially “sweet.” In June, at an evening at Jem Burn’s, Con Parker (who at that time kept the “Grapes,” in Aylesbury Street, Clerkenwell) proposed a battle for £50 a side, to come off July 24th; but on the following Wednesday Master Con’s courage, like Bob Acres’s, “oozed out at his fingers’ ends,” and Paddock pocketed this affront also, and a “fiver.”

Harry Poulson, of Nottingham, a sturdy, game, and resolute man, a trifle over 12st, was now thought good enough to dispute superiority with Paddock, and on the 23rd of September, 1851, the men met at Sedgebrook, near Grantham, for the small stake of £25 a side. This battle, which was lost by Paddock, after a desperate fight of 71 rounds, occupying 95 minutes, will be found under Poulson, in the Appendix to Period VII.

Paddock, who was under a passing cloud, seemed now to be shut out from the front rank, Harry Broome having attained the honours of the belt by beating the Slasher, on the 29th September, 1851. (See Life of Broome, post.) He was, in fact, at this time under articles with his former antagonist, Poulson, for a second trial, and the day fixed for December 16th, 1851. This proved an unfortunate affair for both parties. They met at Cross End, near Belper, Derbyshire, and the deposits being entirely carried out in Nottingham, no reporter from the London Press was on the ground, nor were any of the known patrons of the Ring present. The battle was gallantly contested, and Paddock, avoiding a fault conspicuous on a former occasion, had been most assiduous in his training. As usual, in gatherings where the roughs are predominant as partisans, there was a tedious waste of time in the appointment of a referee: any person of respectability who might have been present being either objected to, or himself objecting to take the thankless and often perilous office. The fight began at a little before one, Paddock gaining “first blood” and “first knock down,” by a delivery on Poulson’s left eye. After the first six rounds, Paddock forced the fighting, and had it nearly all his own way, Poulson’s want of condition telling against him. Eighty-six rounds were fought in 95 minutes, when Paddock was declared the winner amidst the plaudits of his friends.

Poulson was severely punished about the body. Paddock by no means escaped unscathed. Had the fight been conducted in a quiet manner, it would have been an affair which would not have discredited the older days of the Ring; but we regret to say the worst part of our tale remains to be told. The magistrates of Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, and Leicestershire, aware that the fight was likely to come off in one of those counties, had for some days previously been on the look-out to ascertain the place of meeting, but had been put on the wrong scent; consequently, at the commencement of the battle, no efficient force was in attendance to prevent it. After the fight had continued some time, however, Messrs. John and Jedediah Strutt, with Captain Hopkins and another Derbyshire magistrate, arrived, and proceeded to dissolve the assemblage, with no other assistance than that of William Wragg, chief constable of Belper, to enforce their commands. The mob, however, refused to allow interference, when Mr. Jedediah Strutt rode up to the crowd, and ordered them to disperse. Paddock seem inclined to give over, but was told that if he did he would lose the money. The men, therefore, continued fighting, whereupon Mr. Jedediah Strutt attempted to force his way into the ring, for the purpose of reading the Riot Act, and Wragg, single-handed, endeavoured to clear a passage for him. A cry was raised of “Keep them out,” and about fifty roughs pounced upon the superintendent, and beat him savagely with sticks. The injured man was conveyed to Belper, where Mr. Allen and Mr. Lomas, surgeons, by skilful attendance, restored him to consciousness. The fight being concluded, the men set off for Derby, to which place Captain Hopkins had galloped off for assistance, and having obtained the co-operation of the borough-force, he met the combatants as they entered Derby, in different conveyances, with the intention of proceeding by train to Nottingham. Paddock and his second were taken out of a cab, and Poulson was apprehended amidst his friends in a “drag.” When taken, one of Paddock’s first observations was that “If he had won the toss for the choice of place, he would have chosen any place rather than that confounded county;” that he was sorry “the p’liceman was hurt; and he would have given over when the magistrates ordered them to disperse, but he was told that if he did he would lose the money; and, as he had been served so once before, he determined to go on with the fight.”

In this disgraceful riot and violence, we are happy to say, the men and their immediate seconds and backers took no part, as the subjoined letter from an eye-witness fully shows:—

“To the Editor of ‘Bell’s Life in London.’

“Derby, December 24th, 1851.

“Mr. Editor.—Believing that a few words on the outrages committed at Paddock and Poulson’s fight may not be out of place, I send you the following: At the close of your Pedestrian Intelligence last week you gave some excellent advice to all connected with manly sports, and expressed a hope that those who by their ruffianly conduct thus disgrace the Ring, may receive their full deserts at the hands of the law. Were I the judge to try them, I would transport the whole; indeed, their conduct furnishes the opponents of prize-fighting with weightier arguments than could be found elsewhere. If pugilism, they may say, encourages fair play, and insists on equal strife, how comes it that one man shall be set upon by fifty of its supporters, and ill treated until it is doubtful whether he be dead or alive? But now let me say a word upon the state of the law in general, and the conduct of its instruments in this particular case. The same journal that reports the disturbance at the fight, details also the particulars of a murderous affray among the ‘navvies’ of the South Wales line; and, did we but alter the names of the places and persons, the whole of the latter skirmish might very well pass for a massacre among Malays or cannibals; stabbing, burning, maiming, and bruising—a dozen nearly dead, perhaps quite so, by this time. Yet I will venture to predict that the perpetrator of these villanies will reap no heavier punishment than would a poor fellow, professed boxer or not, who may have chanced in fair and honourable fight—such a thing occurring, perhaps, once out of a couple of thousand times—to have caused the death of his antagonist. Such being the case—the law looking with equal eyes at a butchery that would disgrace the Caffres, and a combat conducted with all possible fairness—men have no reason to choose the latter mode of settling their quarrels, but may as well, they think, adopt the method which inflicts the greatest injury on their enemies. Where men get two or three months for ‘knifing’ an opponent, and others get imprisoned for a twelvemonth for seconding or being present at a prize fight—although no harm may be done beyond the breach of our Sovereign Lady’s peace—it does not require a prophet or a Solomon to tell us to what state of things such a course must lead among the lower orders of people. And now I must ask, in the name of common sense, what the magistrates who interfered at Paddock’s fight expected? I would as lieve venture among a pack of wolves, as go single-handed to thwart a mob of midland counties roughs. Had the officer died, his death would have been owing to sheer foolhardiness, or the obstinacy of those who urged him on. I have seen hundreds of men, more than once, quietly disperse at the order of a magistrate, though he was quite alone, unsupported by even a single officer. So it ought to be, so I hope it will be, and so it must be, if pugilists hope that the next generation may know anything of their doings, except by tradition. Allow me to add that none but the ‘roughs’ took part in the brutal assault on the constable, Wragg. Yours, &c.,

“LYDON.”

The upshot of this regretable riot was that Paddock and Poulson, being by law responsible as “principals,” were sentenced each, in March, 1852, to ten months’ imprisonment with hard labour.

Paddock’s forced seclusion in Derby Gaol, although it appears to have had a favourable effect on his violence of temper, did not diminish his readiness to play the “rubber game” with Poulson; inasmuch as we find him articled to meet his old antagonist on the 14th of February, 1854, to try a final appeal, with £200 deposited to abide the issue.

Paddock at once went into assiduous training in company with Tom Sayers, at Mr. Patton’s, mine host of the “Old Hat,” Ealing; and Poulson did the same at the Neptune Inn, Hove, near Brighton, under the guidance of Jerry Noon; it being thought advisable to fix his training quarters far from the too friendly visits of his Nottingham admirers. Poulson was, on this occasion, backed from Caunt’s, Paddock from Alec Keene’s. As this battle was arranged for the London district, a trip per Eastern Counties rail was agreed on. By the time named, half-past eight, the crowd in the neighbourhood of the Shoreditch station gave evidence that something unusual was on the tapis, hundreds of East-Enders surrounding the terminus to catch a glimpse of the heroes of the day. The first to show was Harry Poulson, who entered the station accompanied by Jerry Noon, Callaghan, of Derby, and a dozen of Nottingham friends; he looked hard as nails, bright-eyed, smiling, and confident, and in rare preservation for an old’un, 37 summers having shone on his nob. He was soon followed by the Redditch champion, attended by Tom Sayers, Alec Keene, and Mr. Hibburd (one of his principal backers). Both men now began to distribute their colours to the voyagers on the platform, and, from the numerous handkerchiefs of both designs which were seen knotted round the throttles of the ticket-holders, the sale must have been satisfactory. At a quarter before nine the bell rang for the start, and although the town air was foggy, no sooner were we well on our way than the sun of St. Valentine shone out brilliantly, the hoar-frost deposited overnight vanished, and the pairing birds chirruped their courting notes from every hedge and thicket. The commissariat, under the care of Dan Pinkstone, occupying a saloon carriage, was first-class, as in an after-part of the day we had occasion to prove. The train sped merrily; and at a quarter-past eleven o’clock all disembarked, in high spirits, at the appointed station, Mildenhall, where the veteran Commissary and Tom Callas formed the lists in double-quick time, and the men soon after made their appearance. Poulson was attended by Jemmy Welsh and Jerry Noon, and Paddock esquired by Jemmy Massey and Jack Macdonald, to our thinking the best of all seconds of the present day. On shaking hands Paddock offered to back himself for “an even tenner,” which Poulson accepted; but the backers of Paddock in this “the rubber game” stood out for odds, and so little business was done. At length, umpires and a referee being chosen, at half-past twelve the rival pugs, stood up for

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—On the men throwing themselves into attitude their appearance was carefully scanned; the enormous development of muscle on Poulson’s arms and his blade-bones excited astonishment among the Londoners, who now saw him stripped for the first time. Still they were confident in the man of their adoption, for Paddock was indeed in robust health, and appeared to have so much the superiority in length and height that they now laid evens on him. No time was lost in sparring or in striking attitudes; Poulson at once dashed in, made his right on Tom’s ribs, and directly after on his mouth. Paddock was with him, and a shower of half-arm hits followed, each getting pepper on the left side of the nut until both were down.

2.—Poulson went to work without delay, and began by pounding away with his right; Tom did not flinch, though he got it on the nose heavily, and then on his potato trap, from which the first vintage of the season was instantly perceived. (First blood for Poulson, amid cheers from the Nottingham lads.) Paddock slipped down.

3.—Paddock, first to the scratch, led off with his left and gave Harry a tremendous crack on the forehead, Poulson returning almost a counter-hit on Tom’s left cheek. This led to a slogging rally, in which Poulson again visited Paddock’s cheek, while the latter tapped the claret from Harry’s left eyebrow, and Poulson fell.

4.—Paddock again led off, and just reached Poulson’s right eye, Poulson was with him, and some sharp counters took place, Paddock catching it on the nozzle from Poulson’s left, while Tom retorted with a swinging crack on Poulson’s left ear. They now broke away, but soon returned to work; Paddock let fly right and left viciously at Harry’s frontispiece, when Poulson countered him steadily on the snout and forehead. Poulson was first on the ground.

5.—Paddock again opened the ball with a sharp rap on Harry’s cheek, but the latter retorted with such a sounding rib-bender that it was heard all round the ring. Soon after Tom landed a little one on Poulson’s right brow, cutting it, and producing the crimson. Both now banged away at close quarters, and in the end both came down.

6.—Both sparred for wind; indeed, the fighting had been very fast; some random shots were exchanged, the men closed, and rolled down together.

7.—Paddock let go his left, but it went clean over Poulson’s cranium. A second shot reached his forehead, but for this Tom caught a smasher on the mouth, that drew the Oporto copiously, and seemed for a second or two to puzzle Tom seriously. However, he went in, and more yard-arm to yard-arm cannonading followed; no quarter was given or asked for, but at the end of the ding-dong Paddock was down with the worst of the hitting.

8.—Paddock came up crimson as the “Red Lion,” at Brentford, but he led off without delay, and they were soon at infighting; Paddock got on his knees in the scrimmage, and Poulson dealt him a “hot one” on his snuff-box. A claim of “foul” from Paddock’s friends, but disallowed. Poulson’s blow could not be withheld, as it was delivered simultaneously with Paddock’s knees reaching the ground.

9.—Paddock, twice foiled in leading off, went in furiously, reaching Harry’s nose, and removing the bark, but getting a Roland for his Oliver in a smasher on his own olfactory organ that sadly spoilt its symmetry. Hitting right and left, and no stopping on either side, until Paddock went down in the exchanges.

10.—Both were distilling the crimson from their left eyes; Paddock led off with the left, and got again heavily countered in the face. Poulson slipped and dropped on one knee; Paddock might have hit him, but he withheld his hand, and walked to his corner amidst applause.

11.—Poulson dashed in, delivering his right heavily on the side of Tom’s nut, but the blow seemed open-handed. A merry rally ensued, in which some sharp, half-arm hits were exchanged, Paddock receiving some sharp thumps in the ribs, and retaliating on Poulson’s knowledge-box. Both down in the close.

12.—Paddock feinted, and then let go his left, a cross hit on Poulson’s cheek; he got away, and repeated the dose on Harry’s smeller. Poulson seemed stung at these visitations, rushed in, and after some busy half-arm work Paddock was down.

13 to 20.—Busy rounds, but short, and very similar in character, Paddock opening the ball and getting on by his superior length, but Poulson winding up the rounds by fear-nought hitting, and Paddock ending them by being first to grass.

21.—Paddock still first, got in his left on Poulson’s bread basket, and his right on the side of the head; the latter was retaliated by a severe body-blow, and Paddock broke away. Paddock nailed Poulson on the nose, and on the left brow, still Poulson pegged away, but was first down from a wild hit of Tom’s on the side of his head.

22.—Poulson tried to open the ball, but his left was stopped, and then his right, and Tom got home an ugly one on Harry’s left eye, which showed symptoms of the early closing movement. Poulson went in, but Tom planted an upper-cut on the damaged ogle, and Poulson slipped down.

23.—Paddock, on time being called, rose and walked rapidly across towards Poulson’s corner. The latter had hardly time to turn round from his seconds, when Tom let fly at his forehead. Poulson let go both hands without aim; Tom missed a vicious hit with his left, and Poulson slipped down in a scramble.

24.—Poulson was quickly up at the call of time, determined not to be stolen a march on; he opened the pleadings by a declaration with the right on Tom’s ribs, but got it on the mouth, and in a second attempt was stopped neatly; he, however, persevered, and some ding-dong exchanges ended by Poulson slipping down.

25.—Both men slower, as well they might be, Paddock giving his adversary a crack on the bridge of the nose that compelled him to snuffle and wink; half-arm hitting, in which Paddock dropped.

26.—Poulson took the initiative; he stepped in, caught Paddock a heavy spank with the right on the left cheek, and slipped from the force of his own blow.

27.—Poulson again rattled in; Tom countered, and Poulson was down in the hitting.

28.—Both seemed of opinion that a turn of the tide must be at hand. No time was lost on either side; Paddock made play, but Poulson was with him, and at close quarters they pegged away, Paddock with his straight left and Poulson with his dangerous right; but Jack was as good as his master—or rather Harry was as good as Tom. Though Poulson was first on the ground he had not the worst of the hitting.

29 to 34.—Alternate leading off, but Paddock best at the attack. Poulson’s eyes were much damaged, though he was still the stronger man on his legs. The left side of Paddock’s face was awfully swelled, and as Jerry Noon said, “Was polished like a newly lasted boot.” At the end of round 33, Poulson fairly sent down Paddock in a close rally, and the seconds of the latter cautioned him to “keep away” from infighting.

35.—Paddock adopted the advice. He measured his distance with his left got it in, but not heavily, on Poulson’s forehead, and jumped back; Poulson followed, but Tom retreated and shifted, hitting out as opportunity offered. Paddock got home on Harry’s right peeper, but could not prevent a visit to his ribs, and a sharp crack on the nose, from which the ruby distilled copiously. Poulson closed, and Paddock got down.

36.—Paddock’s mug, on coming up, was a curious mixture of the comic and the serious. The right side, which was untouched, bore a sort of grin, while the left side, which was swollen to twice its natural size, buried the other half of the laugh in its tumefied recesses. He had, too, a cut on the bridge of his nose, and a blue mouse under his left eye. Poulson’s hardier mug was less battered in appearance, but his left eye was nearly closed, and the remaining window damaged. Paddock got on to Poulson slightly, and after some exchanges, both were down.

37 to 50.—As before; alternate leads, followed by half-arm hitting, and one or the other down. Anybody’s battle.

51.—Poulson’s left eye was now entirely in darkness, but he dashed in. Paddock caught him round the neck with his left arm, but could not screw him up for fibbing. Poulson kept pegging away, although getting the worst of it, and got down through Paddock’s hands.

52.—Paddock let go his left on Poulson’s nose, but Poulson rushed in and pelted away till Tom got down to finish the round.

53.—Paddock kept working in, and twice reached Harry’s eye and brow without a return. As they got closer there were some sharp exchanges, Poulson getting home a heavy hit on Paddock’s left eye, and also on his bruised ribs; Poulson was, however, down.

54.—Paddock several times attempted to get in his favourite blow on the mark, but he was not quite near enough; at last he got home effectively, and Poulson reeled from the blow; Paddock followed him up, caught him on the head with the right, and Poulson was down.

55 to 60.—Poulson’s right eye seemed to be in danger of following suit with the left. He evidently thought there was no time to be lost, and as Paddock would not come to close quarters, he rattled in somewhat wild and round, and in the 59th and 60th rounds was down.

61.—Both came tired and slow, with but little to choose as to which was the weaker man. Paddock caught Poulson in the neck, changing his aim to the body, then caught Poulson on the proboscis, who closed and fell.

62 to 65.—Paddock commenced business in each of these rounds; in the last-named Paddock delivered a spank with the left under Poulson’s right eye which knocked the brave fellow off his legs, and was pronounced to be “First knock-down to Paddock.” There was loud cheering, and many thought the fight over, concluding that Poulson’s right eye must now be closed. To the surprise of all, however, Harry came up at the call of “Time,” looking little, if any, the worse for the knock-down.

66, 67.—Poulson steadily stopped two attempts with the left. Paddock at length got in a blow on the mark, and Poulson missed his return. Paddock hit over Poulson’s head with the left, and Poulson closed and fell.

68.—Both slow; after some ineffective exchanges Paddock concentrated his energies, and, letting go his left straight from the shoulder, gave poor Poulson a nose-ender that again knocked him off his legs.

69 to 75.—Poulson, losing precision in his deliveries from his failing eyesight, was nobbed almost at pleasure by his opponent, yet he never failed to get in a hard blow when they were at close quarters.

76 to 88.—In all these rounds Poulson came up with unshrinking courage and determination, and his friends clung to the idea that a chance blow might yet reward his exertions, while Paddock’s friends, though they thought themselves on the winning side, feared that he could not finish his day’s work satisfactorily, and that a “draw” might yet disappoint their hopes. Round after round Poulson came up, amid cries of “Take him away!” But the brave fellow refused to give in.

89.—Poulson, to the astonishment of all, was no sooner at the scratch, than he rushed at his opponent with such vigour and determination, pegging away right and left, that Paddock, in retreating, fell on his south pole in a ludicrous state of surprise and bewilderment at this unexpected but ineffective onslaught.

90.—It was clear that this was the last flickering effort. Poulson came up weak and shaky, and, on Paddock letting go his left, fell.

91 to 102 and last.—It was clearly all over with the gallant Harry. Paddock, by the advice of his seconds, kept away from his man, and just popped in a hit when he saw an opening, whereon Poulson fell. Noon vainly urged him to give in, until, in the 102nd round, his seconds and several of his backers, seeing the hopelessness as well as danger of prolonging the contest, threw up the sponge, and Paddock was declared the winner, after a desperate battle of two hours and thirty-two minutes.

Remarks.—Few remarks will suffice upon this game and manly encounter. Experienced ring-goers tell us that second fights, still more third battles, between the same men are, as a rule, unsatisfactory. This was indeed an exception to that rule. It was, in courage, active work, and endurance, the best fight between big ones for many a day past. Poulson, for a man pronounced “stale” by many, is an extraordinary quick and punishing hitter, but he depends too much on his right, and thus throws open his face to the blows of a superior tactician. With any man not more skilful than himself he must yet prove the victor, but not even his game and gluttony can enable him to conquer a clever two-handed boxer possessed of resolution and skill like Tom Paddock. We must give praise to Jerry Noon for his humanity in throwing up the sponge when he did, and this we the more insist on as we know that he has been most shamefully censured and even abused, since the affair, by persons who ought to know better, and who have even brought to us their complaints of what they call his “unauthorised giving in against the wish of Poulson himself.” No impartial spectator can support such an argument for a moment, and the stakes were accordingly given up, with the approbation of the referee, despite a notice served upon the stakeholder.

Paddock, having thus retrieved his first defeat by the hardy Harry Poulson, by a second victory, was soon after called to the field by his old opponent Aaron Jones, who now sent forth his cartel from the domicile of Jem Burn, who had moved his head-quarters westward from Windmill Street to the erewhile domus of Johnny Broome, the “Rising Sun,” in Air Street, Piccadilly. Paddock, as before, was backed from Alec Keene’s, the “Three Tuns,” in Moor Street. The stakes, £100 a side, were duly made good, and the 18th of July, 1854, saw both parties embarked on board “The Waterman, No. 7,” which was the craft chartered to convey the men and the managers to the battle-field. On this occasion Paddock trained at Brighton, under the supervision of Alec Keene; Aaron first at Newbridge, in Ireland, near the Curragh, and later on at Shrewsbury, under the auspices of some distinguished military officers, and the mentorship of Jerry Noon. “The loquacious” Jerry won the toss for choice of corners, and took the corner with Jones’s back to the sun. Paddock, after an ineffectual attempt to lay an even “tenner” with his adversary, offered Jones 2 to 1, but there being no response, Tom, much disappointed, replaced the flimsy in his pocket. All being in readiness, and rumours of Jones’s inferior condition spread about the ring, offers to lay 2 to 1 on Paddock were taken to some amount. The colours were tied to the stakes, the men shook hands, and at ten minutes to one began

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—On assuming the perpendicular it was evident that Jones was the taller and more symmetrical man. He was, despite rumour, in excellent condition. There was a pleasing smile of confidence and an ease in his attitude that favourably impressed the spectators; in short, he looked a model of a 12 stone man. Tom, the rough-and-ready, seemed rather lighter than usual—he was declared to be no more than 11st. 9lbs.—but he still looked rounder, stronger, and tougher than his fairer skinned opponent. Paddock lost no time in sparring but went straight in, catching Jones on the forehead, but getting a smack in return on the proboscis from Jones, who said, smilingly, “You had it there!” Paddock replied by making another dash, and landing on Aaron’s cheek, who retorted on the side of Tom’s head. Some rather wild exchanges followed, left and right, in which each displayed more haste than judgment; they then broke away. Paddock twice made his left on Jones’s cheek, leaving marks of his handiwork; on trying a third time, Jones countered him sharply on the nose, then closed, and both rolled over, Paddock undermost.

2.—Paddock let go his left and reached Jones’s ear, another attempt was too high, and a third was cleverly stopped. Paddock bored in, when Jones met him with a sounding spank on the left eye that made Tom “see fireworks.” Paddock forced the fighting, but after a rally, in which no harm was done, Jones gripped Paddock and threw him in good style, falling on him. (Applause from the “Rising Sun.”)

3.—Jones came up all smiles, but Paddock did not give him a chance of leading off, for he rattled in left and right, but was cleverly stopped. Tom afterwards succeeded in landing on Aaron’s ribs, but sent his left over Jones’s shoulder. He then bored in, but Jones jumped back quickly, caught Paddock in his arms, and again threw him neatly, Jones being evidently the better wrestler.

4.—Paddock made his left hand and then his right, the latter heavily, on Aaron’s left optic. A ding-dong rally ensued, in which Jones drew “first blood” from Tom’s smelling organ. The men closed, and some severe fighting took place at close quarters, Jones getting it on the forehead and ear, Paddock on the ribs. Both down.

5.—Jones’s left peeper in mourning from Paddock’s one, two, in the previous round. Paddock grinned derisively, and at once went to work, but was stopped cleverly. Jones returned with both hands, dropping on to Tom’s nose and left cheek. Paddock looked vexed, and went in with both hands, when Jones was down first.

6.—Paddock led off, but Jones countered him heavily on the nose. Paddock reciprocated with a heavy left-hander, also on the nasal prominence, and after some exchanges both were down.

7.—Paddock led off short, and Jones missed his left, but soon afterwards got on his right on the side of Tom’s head, inflicting a deep cut that bled freely. Jones closed, and after a brief struggle threw Paddock a burster.

8.—Jones led off, nailed Tom sharply on the left eyebrow with the right, closed at the ropes, and hung on Paddock till he got down.

9.—Paddock looked unutterable things at finding Jones was not the easy customer he had expected. He rushed in, hit-or-miss, banged in his left at Aaron’s head, who retaliated straight and swift on the cheek and side of the brain-pan; this led to a rally in favour of Jones, who threw Paddock, and walked to his corner laughing.

10.—Paddock began hastily, but was stopped. Jones closed and again threw him, falling on him.

11.—Paddock let fly his left, but was short. Jones kept him at arm’s length. Paddock got closer, but his hits were stopped. Jones then got home on Tom’s left eye, making a cut and drawing the crimson fluid. Some tremendous exchanges followed, Jones sticking to his work in a style that electrified those who doubted his pluck, and in the end Jones gained the second event by knocking Paddock off his legs by a right-hander which cut open his left eyebrow. (“First knock-down” for Jones.) The layers of 3 to 1, for some had ventured those odds, looked blue, and there was some anxiety to “hedge;” even money would have been taken, but there were no layers.

12.—Jones’s left optic all but closed. He went in wildly, and Paddock slipped down.

13.—Jones let go his left, which went over Tom’s shoulder; with his right he was more successful, and reached Tom’s left eye a sharp crack. Paddock was out of distance with his return, and Jones again slipped down.

14.—Paddock led off, but was prettily stopped, left and right. Jones returned on the left temple, closed, and again threw Paddock heavily, falling on him.

15.—On getting together, good exchanges took place, Paddock reaching Aaron’s snuffbox smartly, but Jones giving him a rattler on the domino-box in return. Jones, in the rally which followed, struck Paddock on the top of the head, to the damage of his own dexter fin, and then slipped down.

16.—Jones dashed in fearlessly, got home a heavy one on Tom’s left ear, who went down on his right hand with a sort of half-consenting stagger, and so finished the round.

17.—Jones, still forcing the fighting, dashed out left and right, and Tom, in stopping and getting away, fell by catching his heel against the centre stake.

18.—Paddock now tried for a lead; he opened the ball by dropping his left on Aaron’s cheek-bone, and got it on the side of the head—tit-for-tat. Some tremendous exchanges followed, when Jones closed, shot his left arm round Paddock’s neck, threw him a clean back-fall, and fell on him. (We learned, subsequently, that in this round Jones so severely injured his left shoulder that he was incapacitated from its free use for several succeeding rounds; he also complained that Jerry Noon, by his careless way of lifting him, increased the mischief by an additional twist.)

19.—Jones went in and pegged away, but his left-hand hits seemed ineffective; Tom hit out wildly, but at last fell with his own consent.

20–24.—Jones planted on Paddock’s frontispiece cleverly; but there was no steam in the hits. In the last-named round Paddock slipped down, but instantly jumped up to renew the round; Jones, who was in the arms of his seconds, released himself, and at it they went. After some wild exchanges, the men embraced, swung round, and both fell.

25.—Paddock got home his left bunch of fives on Aaron’s sadly damaged optic. Jones returned on the side of the head, and in going down narrowly escaped a swinging blow from Paddock’s right.

26.—Jones dashed in on the snout, whence spouted a crimson jet, then closed, and, after a short struggle, both fell, Paddock under.

27.—Jones again rattled in, but his left-hand blows seemed mere pushes, his following hits with the right being sharp and heavy. After mutual exchanges, Jones again gripped Paddock and threw him, falling over him. As they lay on the ground Paddock patted Jones on the shoulder, in a patronising way, as if saying, “Well done, my lad!”

28.—Jones broke ground by letting go both hands, but they were mere fly-flaps. In trying to get nearer he missed his left, over-reached himself, and fell.

29.—Paddock, tired of the defensive, dashed in; they quickly got to work, and after a merry rally, in which there were several mutual misses, both were down, Paddock undermost.

30–34.—Good sharp rounds, with equal success; Paddock getting twice or three times on to Jones’s good eye—the right—which looked in danger of following suit like its sinister brother. In the last round Paddock again thrown.

35.—Paddock, anxious for a turn, went in resolutely; Jones met him with the right, and propped him severely, his left, though he made use of it in stopping, doing no damage to his opponent. In the exchanges Paddock slipped down.

36–46.—Similar in character, sharp rallies, some wild but punishing exchanges; Jones the best of the closes, but Paddock hitting hardest.

47.—Jones went in and forced his man determinedly; he got his right hand heavily on Tom’s listener, but received a slashing upper-cut while attempting to close, he staggered and fell, his knees evidently failing him.

48.—Paddock grinned at his opponent, and looked round at his friends, nodding his head as he put up his hands at the scratch. He popped in his left on the side of Aaron’s head, who fell, Paddock just missing a right-hander as Jones went to earth.

49–52.—Jones’s fighting ineffective, and Paddock slowly improving his position.

53.—Paddock again visited the old spot on Jones’s left cheek, and Jones was again down. It was evident the steam was out of Jones’s deliveries, though he yet preserved his form of stopping and hitting. In fact, his left was no longer his best weapon. From this to the 70th round comparatively little mischief was done, through exhaustion from continued exertion, falls, and repeated blows. Paddock, whose hands were swollen by repeated visitations to Jones’s forehead and brain-pan, did but little execution, while Jones, with his sprained left shoulder and weakened understandings, was too tottery to go in with effect. In the 78th round Paddock sent a smasher into Jones’s remaining window, the shutter of which was fast closing. Cries of “Take him away!” to which Jones contemptuously replied, “I’m good for another hour!”

79.—Paddock went in as if to finish, but Jones astonished him by stopping his left, and retaliating with such a stinger on the side of the nut, that he rolled down and over, amidst the shouts of the spectators.

80.—Jones was evidently fighting against fate. Paddock, though his hands were puffed, seemed little the worse for wear in wind or strength, while Jones was weak on his pins, pumped out, had but one good arm, and was gradually losing distinct vision. Forty-one more rounds were fought, making 121; but though Jones made many gallant efforts to turn the tide, fate was against him. His backers (the principal one was absent) were willing he should give in, but the game fellow would not hear of it. He gradually became blind, and, at length, in the 121st round, he rushed wildly in the direction of Paddock, who steadily propped him on the side of the jaw with the left, then delivering his right on the body, down went poor Aaron in a heap, nature forsook him, and Paddock stood over him the victor, after a determined struggle of two hours and twenty-four minutes.

Both men were immediately conveyed on board “Waterman No. 7,” where they received every attention. Paddock quickly recovered, though his external marks of punishment were numerous and severe; Jones, however, was not himself for a considerable period. The boat at once returned to town; but as she departed before the second fight (between Spooner and Donovan) was concluded, ourselves and many others were compelled to avail ourselves of the Gravesend Railway, via Dartford or Purfleet, which brought all in good time to their homes in the great Metropolis.

Remarks.—The reader of the foregoing account will cordially agree with us that Jones in this gallant battle completely wiped out any stain of cowardice which the result of his battle with Orme might have attached to his character. His own statement to us, that he did not refuse to meet Orme a third time from any dread of punishment, but simply upon the advice of his backers and friends, was fully borne out. His perseverance, after the disablement of his left shoulder in the 18th round, and the unflinching endurance with which he faced so determined a two-handed hitter as Paddock, for ever dispose of the imputation of a white feather in Aaron’s composition. The loser certainly left no stone unturned, no resource untried, to achieve victory, and if he failed to command success he did more—he deserved it. Paddock, as usual in his later fights, fought with coolness and good-humour, taking the roughest blows and falls without a murmur. His left cheek, eye, temple, and ear were fearfully swollen, while the right side presented a curious contrast by retaining its original shape and expression. His hands were more injured than in any of his previous battles, and this will account for the protracted nature of the contest after the tide had turned against Jones. The fairness of Paddock’s fighting, even, on several occasions, to the extent of forbearance, was the admiration of all who witnessed the contest. Paddock, too, was certainly weak towards the close, owing to the burning sun under which the battle was fought. For ourselves, the mere work of sitting in a somewhat constrained position, in the full blaze of its rays, attending to our duties as referee, occasionally holding a bet, and taking the note which form the “bones” of the foregoing account, so entirely beat us that we can speak feelingly of the labours of the men who were subjected to and went through such a trying ordeal. Their endurance speaks volumes for the wonderful results attainable by training and condition. In brief, we may say in conclusion, that a better or more courageous fight has not been seen since Paddock last met the game and persevering Poulson.

The battle-money (£200) was handed to Paddock on the ensuing Monday, at Alec Keene’s, “Three Tuns,” Moor Street, Soho, when a handsome collection was made as a golden salve for the wounds of the brave but unfortunate Aaron Jones.

That Aaron Jones fully removed by his last two battles every trace of suspicion as to want of game is certain, but that he will ever be able to take a first-rate position as a pugilist is extremely dubious; not from want of either courage or capabilities as a punisher, but from the simple fact that his constitution is not sufficiently strong to enable him to stand for any great length of time the fatigues of a contest with a determined lasting adversary like Paddock. He is a civil, well-conducted young fellow, and a great favourite among those who know him well. His defeat has not lost him a single friend, though it has gained him many. It is just possible that his constitutional defects may be removed as he grows older, and if they are, he will prove an awkward customer to any one who may fancy him; but unless he can improve his stamina, and that very materially, we would advise him to abstain in future from milling pursuits. Paddock fought steadier and with more generalship than we had given him credit for, and, to our surprise, his hands, which in all former battles had swelled so as almost to incapacitate him from inflicting punishment, stood firm and hard to the last. His hits were delivered with much judgment, and, although he was fearfully punished, he never flinched from his task. He says it was a much tougher job than he expected, and does not disguise the fact that he was glad when it was over; he also adds, that whoever fights Jones in future will find he must put up with a good deal more punching than will do him good. Many persons found fault with Paddock for dropping on several occasions after delivering his right on Jones’s most vulnerable point, the ribs, and certainly we agree that such a practice should have been avoided. It must be remembered, however, that Paddock was himself seriously injured, and fast growing blind, and that he could scarcely be expected to display that coolness which under more favourable circumstances would have been expected from him. These dropping manœuvres were also in a material degree counterbalanced by his manly conduct in the eleventh round, when he refrained from punishing Jones, when the latter was in a defenceless but perfectly fair position for being hit.

Our hero was allowed scant breathing-time after this tremendous encounter. At the giving up of the stakes at Mr. Jackson’s, King Street Mews, Park Lane, on the following Tuesday, the fearless Tom Sayers presented himself and proposed a battle for £200, catch-weight, but the details were postponed to a future meeting at Bill Hayes’s in the ensuing week. In the interval Tom’s friends had entered into what the politicians call pourparlers with some friends of Harry Poulson, and this proved “a red herring” that crossed the “line,” and so the match with Tom Sayers was for the present a lost “scent.”

In the papers of August 27, we read as follows:—

“The gallant Tom Paddock having waited for some time for a reply to the question we put to the Tipton Slasher, as to whether he intends to maintain his claim to the Championship, and having seen no answer, declares that if Perry has retired—as he is at a loss to know which of these worthies is actual Champion—he will fight Harry Broome for £200 or £300 a side.” [We may state, for Paddock’s information, that Broome, when he forfeited some time back to the Slasher, declared his intention of retiring from the Ring, and leaving the title to the Tipton.] “Paddock adds that if neither Perry nor Broome takes up the gauntlet, he shall consider himself Champion, as prepared to meet all comers.”

In the following week’s issue, the Editor announces that Johnny Broome has called on him, and left a deposit to “find a man” who will fight Paddock for £200, or any larger sum.

As the day of the battle approached, the interest in the expected encounter increased, and the eighteenth deposit, carrying the stakes up to £160, being duly posted at Alec Keene’s, “Three Tuns,” Moor Street, Soho, all seemed going fairly. On the following Tuesday, however, an alarming intelligence reached Air Street, that Harry had been apprehended at his training quarters at Patcham, and taken before the Brighton magistrates, by whom he had been bound over to keep the peace for three months, thus putting an end to hostilities for that period at least. We shall not here encumber our pages by any detail of the angry “’fending and proving” which followed this very mysterious arrest, of which each sought to cast the blame on his opponent’s party. On this occasion the Editor of Bell’s Life, who was the stakeholder, declared it to be his duty, from documents laid before him, to hand over to Paddock the £180 deposited, which was done on the 20th of February, 1855. Hereupon Broome deposited £10 for a fresh match, to come off on May 7th, after the expiry of Harry’s recognisances, which Paddock covered, and once again received forfeit from his wrangling opponent on the 12th of March. Hereupon the “highest authority” declared, “in answer to numerous correspondents,” that “Tom Paddock is now Champion of England, until the position is wrested from him by the Tipton Slasher or Aaron Jones, or confirmed to him by their defeat.” And here we may note that “old K-legs” was still “pegging away on the same line;” but the ruddy hero of Redditch fancied Aaron Jones to be an easier job, so he postponed his old friend’s invitation, and joined issue with Jones by signing articles on April 3rd, at Bill Hayes’s, the “Crown,” in Cranbourne Passage, to fight on the 26th of June, 1855, for £100 a side, within 70 and over 50 miles from London. As we were present on the previous Thursday, at Dan Dismore’s, and ourselves registered the “ring-constables” for preservation of order on the occasion, it may be interesting to print our note. Those who gave in their names were: Nat Langham, Edward Hoiles (the Spider), Tom Sayers, Jack Grant, Jemmy Welsh, Young Sambo (Welsh), Jemmy Massey, Billy Duncan, Charley Mallett, John Hicks, Alf. Walker, Tom Adams, and Ned More; Ned Adams, Inspector. All these were provided with armlets and a number, and were empowered to prevent any person intruding within the outer roped circle, unless provided with an inner-ring ticket, purchased of them individually or of the appointed distributors. Each of these constables was compensated by an “honorarium” in proportion to the receipts for “privilege” tickets, which was subject to deduction or fines for proved remissness or breach of duty. These arrangements fell into confusion and almost into oblivion when the master-hand which framed them retired from the conduct of the affairs of the Ring, of which he had been, through good report or evil report, through sunshine as through storm, “the guide, philosopher, and friend”—nay, more, the disinterested and zealous champion and advocate. We allude to Vincent Dowling, Esq., who for more than thirty years edited Bell’s Life in London, and to whom the hand which writes these lines is proud to own that that teacher was the Gamaliel at whose feet he sat to learn the now forgotten and self-degraded principles of honour, courage, forbearance, and fair play embodied in and inculcated by the Art of Self-Defence. On this occasion the law survived the law-giver, and the most perfect order was maintained. On the former occasion Jones’s friends declared that their man lost the use of his left hand from an injury to his collar-bone in the tenth round, and moreover, that he was suffering from a disablement brought on by undue exertion, for which the application of leeches had been considered necessary only a day or two before the fight. If, they argued, Jones could under these drawbacks, prolong the fight for two hours and twenty-four minutes, to the 121st round, the chances were now in his favour. Besides, Jones, on a recent occasion (at Jem Ward’s benefit) had so unmistakably “bested” Master Tom, flooring him in masterly style, that his friends were “legion” for this second trial. For some time after the signature of articles both men remained in town, but at length Aaron betook himself to Shrewsbury, where he remained until a fortnight before the fight, when he came up to London, and took up his quarters at Sutton, in Surrey, under the surveillance of Bob Fuller, who, “it goes without saying,” did all that could be done to bring him “fit to the post.” Paddock went to the neighbourhood of Leatherhead, where, by strong exercise on the breezy downs, he did all that could be done to bring his “pipes” and muscle into the primest order. We saw him both at the Epsom and Ascot meetings, to each of which he came on “Shanks’s mare” and certainly looked in “wind and limb,” eye, skin, and general complexion, up to anything. On the Monday previous both men showed at the Rotunda, Blackfriars Road, at the gathering for the benefit of the Pugilistic Benevolent Association, and of course received the congratulations of the crowd.

The “special” was chartered on this occasion by Dan Dismore, Hayes, Mr. Jackson, and Paddock’s backer. On our arrival at the terminus we met an immense assemblage of curious folks, who unable to be present at the fight were anxious to get a peep at the men. On the platform was a goodly concourse, noblemen and soldiers, Corinthians and clergy (at any rate, we noticed the “Bishop of Bond Street,” carefully superintending the safe deposit of sundry Fortnum-and-Mason-looking baskets and hampers in the guard’s van), sporting pubs, country-cousins, pugilists, and many well-breeched plebeians. At a few minutes past eight o’clock, both men with their immediate attendants were comfortably seated, and at half-past eight the whistle sounded and away we steamed. The well-known stations on the Eastern Counties were quickly passed, and, with the exception of one stoppage for a “drink” for the iron horse, we had covered nearly eighty miles from Shoreditch before we put on the brakes, and pulled up near Mildenhall, in the county of Suffolk. Here an excellent piece of ground had been selected, and a first-rate inner-and-outer-ring were quickly marked out by Tom Oliver, Tom Callas, and assistants. A brisk trade in tickets for the outer enclosure showed a receipt of £33 10s., a very fair contribution to the funds of the P.B.A. The heat, as the men stripped for the encounter, was intense, and by an amicable agreement the usual toss for corners was dispensed with, and the men “placed across the sun;” thus neither had the disadvantage of advancing to the scratch with the rays of that dazzling luminary in his face. At half-past twelve o’clock, the number of spectators numbering a little over a thousand, Jones threw in his cap, attended by Bob Fuller and Bill Hayes, the latter, who was in ill-health, resigning his position soon afterwards to Jerry Noon. Paddock soon followed, Alec Keene and Jemmy Massey acting as his assistants. Paddock, after shaking hands, offered £25 in crisp bank notes to Aaron, on condition of a deposit of £20 on the part of the latter, but Jones declined the wager. The odds round the ring were now at this figure—5 to 4 on Paddock. Jemmy Massey, however, offering “3 to 2, rather than not get on,” had his £15 taken against £10, and the market-price went back again.

As the men stood up Paddock looked red, hard, and, contrary to former exhibitions, sinewy and comparatively lean, with a look of wear and tear about him that spoke well for his attention to training. Jones was fine, symmetrical, and a model for a statuary; but though he smiled and looked healthy and confident, we could not bring ourselves to think he could last out a day’s work with the Redditch man. At six minutes to one the seconds retired and business began.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Paddock was evidently not disposed to make a waiting race; he approached his man with an ominous smile, and at once launched forth his left, which was prettily stopped. He tried it a second time, but Jones was away. Tom would not be denied, but dashed resolutely in, and caught Jones heavily on the mouth with his left. Jones turned half round and went down, bleeding from the lips. (First blood for Paddock. First knock-down blow was also claimed, but not allowed by the referee, who considered that Jones was a consenting party to his own downfall.)

2.—Paddock again tried his left, catching Aaron a second time on the mouth. This led to some heavy exchanges, in which Paddock got it on the left cheek heavily, and Jones in the mouth. Paddock in the end slipped down.

3.—The men at once got within distance, and heavy counter-hits left and right were exchanged, Jones with the latter hand catching Tom another spank on the left cheek, and receiving on the left peeper and ribs. A close followed, in which both were down, Jones under.

4.—Paddock came up smiling, when Jones let go his left heavily on Paddock’s larboard optic, and his right on his nose—a very heavy hit, which produced a good supply of red currant juice, and both fell.

5.—Paddock dashed in, but was met with another smasher on the snout. He retaliated on Aaron’s left eye, inflicting a cut on the brow, and drawing a fresh tap. He made his left again on Aaron’s cheek, which led to heavy exchanges, left and right, both getting it on the left side of the nut, and Paddock at the close fell on his south pole.

6.—Jones came up with his left peeper in mourning; Paddock’s sinister visual organ had on a similar suit. Paddock determinedly rattled in and tickled Aaron on the left side of his occiput. He tried a second dose, but napped an ugly right-hander on the left eyebrow, which was cut, and the ruby at once responded to the call. Heavy exchanges without an attempt to stop followed, and both were down, Paddock under.

7.—Both showed serious marks of punishment, but neither said “nay.” Some heavy rambling exchanges took place, and Jones slipped down.

8.—No ceremony on either side, but ding-dong was the order of the day. The exchanges were in favour of Paddock, who paid some heavy to visitations Aaron’s left peeper. In the close both were down.

9.—Jones attempted to lead off, but Paddock got cleverly away; Jones followed him up, and some tremendous exchanges took place, Jones in the end knocking Paddock off his legs by a tremendous crack from his right on the jaw. (First knock-down blow for Jones.)

10.—Paddock looked serious—he was evidently shaken by the hit in the last round. Jones, however, instead of going to work, waited for him. Paddock quickly recovered, and just touched Aaron on the proboscis; this brought on a rally, in which little mischief was done, and Jones got down.

11.—Paddock took the lead, planted a left-hander on Jones’s left daylight; Jones retaliated by a right-hander on the same spot, and then a second edition of the same, and in getting back fell on the ropes; he was not down, and Paddock might with fairness have struck him, but, with a manly feeling, for which he is entitled to much credit, walked to his own corner amidst cheers from both sides.

12.—This was a tremendous fighting round. It commenced with some heavy exchanges left and right, Paddock reaching Aaron’s left eye, and the latter pounding Tom on the smeller. A break away, followed by some severe counter-hits in favour of Jones, who again drew Tom’s cork, brought them to a close, in which both were down. Paddock distilling the ruby from his nose and left eye, and Jones from the nozzle. (The facetious Jerry Noon remarked that it was “Chelsea Hospital to a sentry-box” on Jones.)

13.—Jones led off, caught Tom another nasty one on the side of his knowledge-box, and Tom, astonished at its suddenness, dropped.

14.—Paddock tried his left, which was neatly stopped. Again did he make the attempt with a like result, but Jones with quickness planted his right on the damaged left eye with effect, and Paddock fell, Jones on him.

15.—Tom came up with his left shutter nearly closed, and the cheek on the same side as big as a pumpkin. He attempted to lead off, but was again well stopped. He would persevere, and got home on Jones’s left ogle. Jones countered heavily on the same point, and Paddock again got down, Jones on him.

16.—Jones rushed at his man, who in retreating fell.

17.—Paddock led off, but missed. Tremendous counter-hits followed, Paddock getting it on the side of his nut from Jones’s right, and Jones being knocked off his legs by a heavy visitation on his left cheek, which inflicted a severe cut and spilled more of the vital fluid.

18.—Paddock again missed a well-intended left hander, and, after a few scrambling exchanges, Jones fell weak. He had evidently not recovered the terrific hit in the last round.

19.—Paddock let go his left, which caught Jones on the damaged chop, but not heavily. Jones returned on the left eye, and Paddock dropped laughing.

20.—Paddock went to his man, who let go his left on the side of his head, and Paddock fell. He jumped up to renew the round, when Jones at once went to work, pegged away left and right, drawing some more claret from the left eye. Paddock returned on the left cheek, but in the end was knocked through the ropes, Jones falling weak from his own exertions.

21.—Paddock’s lead was again stopped, and Jones again propped him on the left cheek. Paddock dropped, and once more jumped up to renew the round, but Jones’s seconds forced him away to his owner.

22.—Jones, slightly recovered from his weakness, went to work, and some tremendous counter-hits were exchanged, Paddock on the left eye, and Jones on the smelling bottle. Paddock now shoved in his right heavily on Jones’s ribs, and dropped, amidst cries of “Foul.” No appeal, however, was made, and the affair passed off.

23.—Paddock came up with his left ocular completely closed, the opposite cheek being swollen as if from sympathy. Jones’s left eye was also barely open. Paddock went resolutely to work with both hands, Jones retaliating, and in the end Jones fell.

24.—Paddock took the lead by another essay upon Jones’s head, which staggered him. Paddock at once closed, threw, and fell on him.

25.—Slight changes to a close, in which a little mutual fibbing took place. In the end both down, Paddock under, but still much the fresher man.

26.—Jones attempted to open the pleadings, but Paddock stepped back, jobbing him on the snuffbox as he came in. Slogging exchanges now took place, in favour of Jones, who caught Paddock a tremendous right hander behind the left ear, which cut that organ severely, and opened a new crimson conduit. The men closed and fell together, Jones under.

27.—Paddock, although bleeding from the left ear and eye, came up merrily, and led off with the left on Aaron’s os frontis. Jones returned with a heavy right hander on Tom’s darkened peeper, and again knocked him off his pins.

28.—Paddock, who was very slow to the call of time, came up weak. Jones led off, with his right on the nose, but had not devil enough to let it go with a will. Paddock retreated until he had shaken off the effects of the knock-down in the last round, and then caught Jones heavily on the body. Jones returned on the mouth with effect, the blow turning Paddock half round. Paddock at once walked to his corner and sat down—an example followed by Jones. This hit was very severe, and many persons thought Paddock would not come many more rounds.

29.—Paddock tried to lead off, but was stopped. Jones then planted his left slightly on the right cheek, and Paddock got down.

30.—Jones went to work, but without force, and after some slight exchanges, both fell on their knees exhausted. The intense heat must have been indeed distressing to both.

31.—Slight exchanges, in which little mischief was done, and Paddock again down.

32.—Both attempted to deliver, and both missed their mark. Slight exchanges, each on the left side of the nut, and both down fatigued.

33.—Jones essayed a lead, which was neatly stopped. He then dashed in, and after a scrambling rally both fell over the ropes.

34.—Paddock’s head presented an unique specimen of Aaron’s handiwork. The left cheek was swollen as big as a cocoa-nut, and his eye was all but covered up. With the other optic he glared furiously upon his opponent, and rushing at him, delivered his left on the cheek. Jones returned slightly on the body, and Tom dropped.

35.—Paddock stopped Aaron’s left. Paddock returned twice heavily on the ribs with his right, leaving visible impression of his knuckles, and then dropped without a return, amidst the hisses of the Aaronites.

36.—Paddock’s left well stopped. A tremendous ding-dong rally then took place, in which Paddock got it on the left eye and cheek, and Jones on the ribs. In the end both down.

37.—Paddock’s left again stopped, and Jones returned on the side of the wig-block. Paddock then popped in his left with effect on the mouth, and after some more exchanges Paddock got down. He looked round anxiously at Jones, as he was being carried to his corner, and evidently wished his work was done.

38.—Paddock made his right heavily on Jones’s body, and then his left on the side of his head. Both now pegged away with determination, and in a most unflinching way, as if they had received fresh vigour. The hitting, however, was in favour of Paddock, and in the end Jones fell weak. It had evidently been an expiring effort on his part to get a decided lead, and having failed it was now patent to all that his defeat was a mere question of time.

39.—Paddock let go his left on the side of Aaron’s cheek, which led to some severe counter-hits. They then closed, and Paddock pegged away with his right at the ribs until both were down.

40.—Some slight exchanges, without mischief, and Jones down.

41.—Paddock came up with an awful grin; his single open peeper glaring in a most ludicrous manner. He tried to lead off, but napped it on the smeller and left ear, from which the main was again tuned on. Paddock then made his right on the ribs, and Jones dropped.

42.—Paddock again effected a heavy right-handed delivery on the ribs, and after slight exchanges both were down.

43.—Slight exchanges, in which neither was effective, and in a scramble they fell. Paddock under.

44.—Jones attempted to lead off, but was easily stopped; Paddock returning heavily on his left eye, and then on the body, again screwed his courage to the sticking-place, and a second with his right and got down.

45.—Paddock led off, but was short. In another attempt he reached Aaron’s damaged bread-basket, and dropped à la Bendigo. He jumped up to renew the fight, when Jones nailed him on the left side of his brain-pan, and Tom finally dropped to end this round.

46.—Jones tried to lead, but was very slow, and easily stopped. Paddock again reached his ribs with his right, and a sharpish rally ended in their failing together at the ropes.

47.—Paddock’s left was out of distance; he tried his right at the body but missed, and Jones dashing in, caught him on the right cheek slightly, and fell on his face.

48.—Counter-hits with the left, Paddock catching Jones very heavily on the left temple, and dropping him as if shot.

49.—Jones, very slow to the call of time, at length came up wildly. He staggered in to close, and they fell, Jones under.

50.—Jones, alter a futile attempt to punish, fell weak.

51.—Slight exchanges, but no mischief, and both down.

52.—Wild, swinging hits which did not get home. Paddock then planted his right heavily on the ribs, and again got down, amidst loud hisses. There was no appeal to the referee, and the fight proceeded.

53.—Paddock let go his left on the mouth; slight exchanges followed, and they then fell on their backs. Both were much exhausted, but Paddock was the stronger on his pins.

54.—After slight exchanges, Paddock again made his right at the ribs, and got down.

55.—Paddock led off, but was stopped. They then got close, and some slight fibbing ended in Jones seeking Mother Earth. Paddock stood looking at him, as much as to say, “Why don’t you cut it?” until he was carried to his corner.

56.—Jones attempted to lead off, but Paddock countered him heavily on the cheek, and he fell, amidst cries of “Take him away.”

57.—Jones, although slow to time, came up steadily, and succeeded in putting in a little one “on the place where Tom’s eye ought to be,” and having received in return on the proboscis, he fell on his latter end.

58.—Paddock rushed in to finish, but Jones, to the surprise of all, stopped him, and some heavy counter-hits took place. Paddock getting another crack on his disfigured nob, and hitting Jones down by a spank on the dice-box.

59.—Paddock planted his left on Jones’s kissing-organ heavily, opening a fresh tap, and Aaron again dropped. For two more rounds did Jones stagger up to the scratch, but it was only to receive—all the steel was out of him—he was extremely weak on his legs, one eye was closed, and the other following suit; his nose, mouth, and ribs were severely damaged, while Paddock—although tremendously disfigured about the title-page—had still a little “go” left in his trotters. Every one begged of Jones or his seconds on his behalf to give in, but the gallant fellow persevered against hope until the close of the 61st round, when getting another heavy crack on the mouth, he fell, almost senseless, and his seconds threw up the sponge in token of defeat, at the end of one hour and twenty-nine minutes. Poor Aaron, who had done all he could do to turn the tide in his favour, was much mortified by this second defeat at the hands of Paddock, and cried like a child. He could scarcely walk on leaving the ring, and was obliged to lie down on an adjacent bank for some time before he could be removed to the station. Paddock was no great shakes, and was evidently much delighted that his task was at an end. He went into the ring with a full conviction that he should not gain a bloodless victory, and that he should get his brain-pan pretty well knocked about, but we question whether even he, confident as he was, anticipated that it would be quite so “hot” as it turned out.

Remarks.—Every one who witnessed the above battle will cordially agree with us that it was a determined, manly struggle for pre-eminence throughout. It clearly demonstrated to our mind, however, the fact that Jones does not possess sufficient physique to enable him to contend successfully against such a hardy bit of stuff as Tom Paddock. True, he is a harder hitter than Paddock, but then, after a time, unless a man has a frame of iron, this gift is materially diminished by the constant jar; and a determined adversary, with such a granite nob as Tom Paddock, capable of receiving almost any amount of punishment, is almost certain to last longest at mere give-and-take fighting, as was fully proved on Tuesday. Jones, notwithstanding he had received hints from the most accomplished boxer of the day, Jem Ward, still persevered in his old system of hitting principally with his right-hand, a practice which, although it altered Paddock’s physiognomy in the most extraordinary manner on one side, still was not calculated, unattended as it was by much execution from his left, to reduce his opponent to a state of darkness. He punished Paddock more than that hero was ever punished before, and we believe that, did he possess more wear and tear, it would have been a much nearer thing than it was. He had for some time the best of the hitting, but, falling weak, the inequality was quickly removed by the determination of Paddock, who, seeing that he had his work to do, never gave Jones breathing time to collect his faculties.

The Old Tipton being matched with Aaron Jones, and Harry Broome being supposed to have retired from pugilism to publicanism, Tom was standing idle in the market-place, when on the 2nd of December he was enlivened by reading the following in the Ring column of Bell, under the heading of “Who is to have the Belt?” A new one having been just put into the hands of a fashionable goldsmith from the proceeds of a public subscription:

“Mr. Editor,—It was my intention never to have entered the roped arena again, but the persuasions of my old friends and backers have determined me to pull off my shirt once more. I now come forward for the satisfaction of the public and the Prize Ring, in order to determine who’s the better man, Tom Paddock or myself. I will fight him for £200 a side for the Champion’s Belt, which I feel I am entitled to, for both the Tipton Slasher and Aaron Jones have been beaten by me or by men that I have beaten, and therefore I claim it, and shall do so until fairly beaten in a roped ring, as a trophy of that description ought to be contested for man to man, and never obtained upon a mere challenge. To prove that I mean to carry out what I state, I will meet Paddock at your office on Wednesday, Dec. 12, to sign articles, to which the following condition must be attached:—The money not, under any circumstances, to be parted with until fairly won or lost in a 24 feet roped ring. Should this not suit Paddock (not that I wish to interfere with the match between the Tipton Slasher and Aaron Jones) I will fight Aaron Jones for £200 a side, whether he wins or loses with the Tipton Slasher. By inserting this, you will oblige.—Yours, &c.,

“HENRY BROOME.”

“Bell’s Life” Tavern, Strand,
November 28, 1855.

Paddock lost no time in calling on the stakeholder, and leaving £10 early in the next week, under condition that if he could not raise £200, they should meet for £100. Broome did not flinch, and, after two more “conditional” deposits, articles were signed in the editorial sanctum of Bell’s Life, by which Thomas Paddock and Henry Broome mutually bound themselves to fight for £200 a side, on Monday, May 19th, 1856, within 100 and over 50 miles from London. The anxiety in boxing circles, as the day drew near and all was found progressing smoothly to the desired issue, became intense; and Alec Keene’s “Three Tuns,” in Moor Street, whence Paddock was backed, and Harry’s own house, the newly named “Bell’s Life” Tavern (now the “Norfolk Arms”), in the Strand, were crowded with curious inquirers as to how the men went on, and for “the straight tip.” On the day previous both champions showed, and the distribution of colours—a blue with white spot for Broome, and a blue with a white check for Paddock—on the usual terms of a guinea or “nothing,” was extensive. Paddock was closely scrutinised by both friends and foes, each equally anxious to ascertain whether time or previous contests had impaired his freshness or vigour; but no traces of deterioration were there, and those who felt his muscle declared their belief that he was never in finer trim.

Harry’s appearance, so far as his face was concerned, was that of perfect health, and the disappearance of the protuberance which had long been visible under his waistcoat was remarkable. These signs of careful training, with the prestige of his name, carried the odds to 6 and 7 to 4 in his favour. We knew that he worked hard and was most creditably abstemious; but we feared, as the sequel proved, that he was unable to train efficiently, and that strength was lost in the great reduction of weight to which he had been subjected.

It had been the original intention of the backers of the men to have given the inhabitants of Kent and Sussex the opportunity of a view of this encounter; but it proved, upon inquiry, that it was impossible to obtain a “special” on those lines, as some saints in the directorate of the companies had issued an ukase against such “excursions” as were not to their own taste or under their own patronage. Recourse was, therefore, had to the Eastern Counties, where the necessary facilities for an excursion of “Odd Fellows” was applied for and granted. It was suggested to the “managers” of the “outing”—Alec Keene, Fred Broome, and Dan Dismore—that any invasion of the territory of Cambridge, Huntingdon, or the country round Mildenhall or Brandon, would inevitably be resisted; so these worthies, after consultation with experienced strategists, deemed it prudent to abandon the old and beaten track, and strike out a new plan of campaign. The company’s agent was, therefore, apprised that the excursionists wished to pass through Suffolk into Norfolk, by the Eastern Union Line, as their place of reunion would be a few miles beyond Ipswich. The officials made their arrangements accordingly, and on our arrival at the Shoreditch terminus, at eight o’clock on Monday morning, we found that no pains had been spared to prevent anything like crushing or disorder at the doors. The neighbourhood of the station was, as usual, crowded with anxious spectators, who hoped to get a view of the principals in the forthcoming duel; but, so far as Broome was concerned, they were disappointed, as he had proceeded at an early hour to Stratford, where it was arranged the train should stop and pick him up. Paddock, however, accompanied by Jemmy Massey and Alec Keene, was early at the starting-place, and was eagerly greeted by the multitude. From the heavy tariff which had been determined on, we fully expected to find the company not only very select, but far from numerous, and we anticipated that the original number of carriages ordered would have been found sufficient; but such was the rush of the public, that, long before the hour of starting, every carriage was filled, and chiefly by respectable persons. It was soon perceptible that a considerable addition to the conveyances was required, and no less than seven extra carriages were added, all of which filled almost immediately; and, not only so, but very shortly after the special had started a sufficient number of gentlemen arrived at the station to charter another train of some four or five carriages, to follow that containing the belligerents. Among the voyageurs by the first train were almost all the pugilists of note, and an immense number of Corinthians of every grade. In fact, a larger muster of the higher classes we have not seen on such an occasion for many years. There were one or two familiar faces missing, but there were quite sufficient new hands to make up for the deficiency. Among the company was an Indian prince of high rank, and his suite, anxious to obtain a glimpse of the peculiarly national spectacle, and we were delighted to hear that he was treated throughout with the greatest respect, and suffered not the slightest indignity from the thoughtless throng on account of his peculiar appearance or unaccustomed manners; a piece of good behaviour on the part of an unpoliced crowd that was a creditable example to those public gatherings which pretend to superior order and civility. The only complaint we heard on the way down was on the subject of the commissariat, the want of “belly-timber” being universally felt. It turned out that the absence of refreshment among the Corinthians was attributable to the pressure of a certain class at the doors of the station, who, unwilling to pay, and anxious to get a trip for nothing, besieged the doors at the latest moment, in the hope of taking the officials off their guard, and so making a rush for the platform. The formidable appearance of this phalanx induced the police of the line to close the doors and refuse admission to all. Unluckily, amongst the late arrivals, was Mr. Commissary Dismore, who, with his Land Transport Corps, well provided with everything necessary, arrived just too late. Dan himself contrived to get round by a private way on to the platform, but, alas! the “vital ammunition” was cut off. Thanks, however, to the second special, the provisions were brought down in time for the hungry and thirsty souls to refresh themselves after the mill, when due justice was done to Dan’s ample provision. The first special did not leave Shoreditch until a quarter past nine; it reached Stratford about half-past; and here Harry Broome and his friends were picked up. Harry’s mug looked hard and healthy, and about his mouth was a smile of confidence. The universal exclamation was, “How well he looks!” and the short glimpse obtained of him induced many persons to “open” at offers of 7 to 4 on him—offers which the friends of Paddock were not slow to accept. The train now sped on at a good pace to Chelmsford, where water was taken in, and we again set forward on our journey. At Manningtree, where a second refresher was necessary for the engine, an intimation was received that the “war hawks” were abroad, and that the Ipswich police had, through the indiscretion of some would-be-clever persons, who had gone on over night, obtained a scent of what was intended, and had telegraphed to the police at Diss, in Norfolk, and other places, to be on the look-out. This intimation arrived most opportunely, and it was at once resolved to put on the double, and to bring off the mill as close as possible to Ipswich, where it was least expected. The commander-in-chief mounted the engine, and, under his direction, a likely spot was selected, where the train was brought to a halt, and the assembled multitude, to the number of at least five hundred, dropped upon the field like a flight of crows. Several of the committee of the P.B.A. at once spread themselves about the field in skirmishing order to select the best spot, but while they were so engaged the Commissary and Callas had pitched upon a place which, although not the best, was still tolerably level, and the grass was not very long. Here no time was lost in getting up the fixings. It was uncertain how long the Ipswich “blues” would be hoodwinked, and, therefore, time was everything. A large outer-ring was formed simultaneously with the original circle, and round this the non-paying part of the community quickly ranged themselves. The business of selling inner-ring tickets proceeded briskly, and a sum of £47 was realised thereby, the surplus of which, after paying ring-keepers and the farmer on whose grounds the mill took place for damage to his grass, went to the funds of the Association. So great was the number of privilege ticket-holders that, on sitting down at some distance from the ring, they formed a double row almost the whole way round, and effectually proved their own barrier against the irruption of those who at all times are more free than welcome. It is true that several of the latter class, by some means, obtained access to Broome’s corner later on, where their vociferations were the reverse of agreeable; but, thanks to the exertions of Mike Madden, Bill Barry, and Fred Mason, they were effectually kept within bounds. At length, by a quarter to one, everything was in apple-pie order, and the signal being given, the men at once stepped into the arena; Harry Broome attended by Tass Parker and Tom Sayers, and Paddock under the surveillance of the accomplished Alec Keene and Jemmy Massey. They smiled and shook hands, Harry shaking his nut in a significant manner at Tom, as much as to say, “I’ve got you at last, old fellow.” The colours were now tied to the post, and while the men were preparing their toilet a good deal of betting took place. The first offer was £35 to £20 on Broome—a bet which was at once made and staked. 7 to 4 was then laid very freely, the business of booking and staking going on most briskly. Massey now came forward and offered to take £20 to £10, but not being able to get a higher bid than £15 to £10, he closed, and this amount was staked, as was also a similar bet laid to Alec Keene. The layers now began to hang back, and £30 to £20 became the current odds, at which a good deal more business was done. A heavier amount of betting we never remember to have witnessed at the ring-side; and this tended, more than anything else, to show the intense interest the battle excited. At length, offers became more languid, and finally ceased altogether; and as we did not hear of a single bet after the mill commenced, we are inclined to think that the speculators had staked every farthing they brought with them. By one o’clock it was announced that both men were quite ready, and time being called they were led to the scratch, where, after the usual hands across, they were left, peeled to the buff, and their proportions and condition displayed to the curious gaze of the assembled throng.

Tom Paddock, as he stood at the scratch, looked every inch a gladiator. Each thew and sinew was perfectly developed, and seemed ready to burst the tightened skin. His broad shoulders and deep chest, covered with ponderous muscles, were the admiration of all; and the distinctness with which his lower ribs were visible proved that there was not an ounce of superfluous flesh on his wiry, powerful frame. His mug was hard and ruddy, and there was clearly little there to swell up should his dial come in too close propinquity to Harry’s sledge-hammers. He looked good-humoured, but determined, and evidently feeling the importance of the occasion, he toed the scratch with a determination to “do or die.” Widely different was the aspect presented by the once powerful Harry Broome. True it was that he had got rid of his superabundant belly, but in doing so it was apparent to all that he had also got rid of much of his muscle and sinew. When he fought Harry Orme he was certainly well covered with fat, but still underneath this coating the evidences of great power were plainly visible; but now, what a falling off was there! Barring the aforesaid protuberance, he was as fat as ever, but all appearances of sinewy strength had vanished. His breasts were soft and puffy, his arms round and smooth, while the flesh on his once fine back hung in collops; there was also a slight eruption on his pale skin, which betokened a feverish state of the blood, which would not have been guessed from the appearance of his face. He said he felt quite well, though not so strong as on former occasions. On inquiring of Joe Bostock, who had been with him while he finished his training at Bosham, near Chichester, we learned that he had several times complained of weakness, and that the more he tried to get his fat off the more did it seem to accumulate. Harry himself informed us, and we are satisfied as to the truth of his statement, that he reduced himself upwards of 3st. in the course of his exercise, but he found himself getting so weak that he was compelled at last to be more gentle in his work; and he now declares his belief that had he gone into the ring in his ordinary state, without any preparation whatever, he would have been better and stronger than he was on Monday. With all his drawbacks, however, he was extremely confident as to the result of the battle, and advised his friends to back him at all hazards. He no doubt depended upon his science, and expected to set at defiance the well-known onslaughts of his opponent. We must now bring these preliminaries to a conclusion, and proceed to our account of

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Precisely at six minutes past one the onslaught commenced. Broome, to the astonishment of all, did not assume the elegant attitude we have seen in former battles, but feinted and dodged about without gathering himself together in the least. Tom was evidently surprised, and thought he must be “kidding;” he therefore assumed a defensive position, and bided his time. He had not long to wait. Harry was bent on forcing an opening, and dashed in, feinted with his left, ducked his head, and lodged his left heavily on Tom’s breadbasket. His nut was laid open to a severe upper cut, but Tom, bewildered, did not see, and therefore did not take the advantage of his opening. Broome now came again, let fly his left at the forehead, inflicting no damage, napped a little one on the left brow, and slipped down.

2.—Paddock at once rattled in, let go his left with great quickness on the proboscis, drawing first blood. Broome returned on the left cheek, and also elicited a supply of the ruby. Harry then closed, and tried to throw his man, but, after a short struggle, in which Tom was very busy with his right at close quarters, Tom slipped from his grasp and fell.

3.—Broome, out of all form, tried to take a lead, but in vain. Paddock was too quick for him, and pegged away heavily left and right on the conk, inflicting a cut on the bridge thereof, drawing more fluid. Broome again closed, and Tom resorted to his fibbing system with both hands heavily on the side of Harry’s nut, and on his ribs. This effectually put a stop to any chance of his being thrown, and in the end both fell side by side.

4.—Broome dashed in, let fly his left, which missed; slight exchanges with the same hand followed, and Paddock slipped down. He jumped up immediately to renew the round, but Jemmy Massey squeezed him in his arms as if he were a child, and carried him struggling to his corner.

5.—Broome came up puffing, and evidently out of sorts. Paddock, fresh as a daisy, grinned a ghastly grin, and awaited the onslaught. Harry tried his left, when Tom countered him heavily on the snout, drawing more of the crimson. Tom attempted to follow up his advantage, but Harry turned and ran away, Tom after him. On Broome turning round, Tom again planted a little one on the snuff box, and they once more closed, and some infighting took place, in which Broome received heavily on the body, and Tom got a little one behind his left ear. In the end Paddock slipped down.

6.—Tom came up smiling. Broome at once rushed in, and closed with his head under Paddock’s arm. Here Tom held it and pegged away at the ribs until both were down, Broome blowing and apparently distressed. The layers of odds even thus early began to look excessively blue at the want of precision of their pet, and his evident lack of lasting powers.

7.—Broome slow, tried a feint, when Tom nabbed him with the left on the cheek, and then with the same hand on the snout. Harry at once closed, when Tom, as usual, resorted to his fibbing, at which game Harry joined issue, and each got it on the nose and left cheek. In the end both again down.

8.—Tom led off with his left, a straight’un, on the snuff box. Some rambling, scrambling exchanges followed to a close, in which both fell.

9.—Tom steadied himself, and let go his left, but Harry countered him heavily on the right cheek. Tom returned on the jaw with his right, and in his hurry to get away slipped down. Harry drew back his hand, as if intending to deliver a spank, but prudently withheld the blow.

10.—Broome let go his left, but open-handed, on Tom’s left peeper. Tom returned on the sneezer, increasing the supply of the carmine, and slipped down.

11.—Tom feinted, but found Broome ready for a shoot, and stepped back, Harry after him. Tom now let fly his left well on the nose. Harry rushed in to close, and Tom resumed his fibbing on the dial and ribs. In the end he slipped down to avoid the fall.

12.—Tom tried his left, but Harry stepped back, and as Tom followed, delivered a heavy right-hander on the mark, and then his left heavily on the mouth, drawing the Falernian, but fracturing one of the small bones of his hand. Paddock at once got down, and Harry walked to his corner.

13.—Tom tried his left twice in succession, but Harry jumped away, Tom, however, persevered, and having got another little one on the mouth, went in to close, but on Broome grasping him slipped down.

14.—Harry now tried it on, but Tom kept away, and as Harry followed, gave him a touch on the ribs with his left, and getting a little one in return on the chin, dropped.

15.—Paddock dashed in without precision, and after a scrambling rally, in which there was more bustle than damage, he got down.

16.—Tom once more steadied himself, and let go his left, but Harry cross-countered him on the forehead. Tom now crept close, and feinting with his left, drew Broome out, and then knocked him off his pins by a slashing right-handed cross-counter on the jaw. (First knock-down blow for Paddock.) The cheers of those who had taken the odds were now vociferous.

17.—Harry did not seem much the worse for the crack in the last round, but came up good humouredly, and at once dashed to a close. Some sharp infighting took place, followed by a break away. Tom came again, and Harry nailed him very heavily on the snout with his right, staggering him, and drawing a plentiful supply of home-brewed. Paddock quickly sought mother earth.

18.—Tom showed a slight mark on the left side of his beak, which was also swollen and bleeding. He rushed in, when Harry caught him on the left cheek, drawing more blood. Tom returned the compliment with interest on the smeller, a very heavy spank, which once more knocked the gallant Harry off his perpendicular.

19.—Paddock feinted and let go his left on the nozzle, got a little right-hander on the left cheek in return, and slipped down, grinning. He jumped up, however, and said, “Have another round, Harry.” Harry was ready, but Tom was once more borne off by “the stunted Life Guardsman” (Massey).

20.—Tom rattled in again, caught Harry on the nose, just between his eyes, removing more bark, and drawing more claret. Broome returned on the left cheek, and a close followed, in which both pegged away, until Tom fell on his knees, bleeding from his scent-bottle. (Time 28 minutes.)

21.—Paddock let go his left once more at Harry’s proboscis, and some rapid but wild exchanges followed, Harry hitting open-handed, and Tom without judgment, and in the end Tom slipped down.

22.—Harry came up panting and bleeding from the nose. Tom feinted, and Harry turned away, but Tom, when he got near enough, dashed out with his left very straight and heavy on Harry’s mouth, inflicting a severe cut, and turning on the tap. Harry missed his return, but tried to make a plant upon Tom. It was a failure, however—he seemed to have no steam in him—and Paddock once more dashed out his left on the mug, increased the wound, and again floored his brave antagonist.

23.—Harry, although distressed, attempted to take the lead with his right, his left being apparently useless. He, however, missed a terrific right-hander, and napped a hot one on the nozzle in return. Harry then got in a little one on the jaw, and Tom got down cunning.

24.—Paddock led off with his left slightly on the nose, which led to exchanges, Tom again being at home on the snuff box, renewing the stream. He got a right-hander on the left listener, drawing the ruby, and fell.

25.—Harry’s mug, on coming up, was much altered for the worse. His mouth was much swollen and cut, and his nasal organ was in not much better condition, while a swelling was perceptible under his left eye. Paddock had few marks of punishment, and was as fresh as ever. Massey offered to lay odds on him, but did not find a response. Paddock made a feint, when Harry turned and ran round the ring, Tom after him. Harry then turned round, and a close took place, in which, after some slight fibbing, Paddock fell, receiving a right-hander on the nut as he reached the ground. (A claim of “foul,” which was not allowed.)

26.—Harry sparred a little for wind, and Tom let fly his left, which was stopped. He then closed, and Tom, as usual, pegged away with both hands right merrily, thus preventing any chance of a heavy fall. His blows fell on Harry’s damaged kisser and ribs. In the end Paddock slipped out of Harry’s grasp and fell.

27.—The men feinted until they got close, when tremendous right-handed counters were exchanged, Tom getting home on the snout, and Harry on the left cheek, and Paddock down.

28.—Tom came up wild, and rushed in, when Broome countered him again heavily on the right peeper. Exchanges followed, Harry getting another tap on his cutwater, and, in the end, falling on his seat of honour.

29.—Harry’s phiz was changing its appearance every round. It was now much out of shape in every way. Still, he persevered against hope. He went in feinting and dodging, whereupon Paddock went to him, but Harry retreated, and, as Tom rushed after him, nailed him with his right on the ribs, and then with both mawleys, the left open-handed, on the side of the nut, and Tom slipped down.

30.—Harry rushed in to a close, and after a sharp but short struggle, they fell side by side. (Another claim of “foul,” on the ground that Broome had hit his man when down. Not allowed. Time, 40 minutes.)

31.—Tom went in with ardour, dropped his left on the nozzle, and, after some wild exchanges, fell.

32.—Tom again rushed in, and missing his delivery, Broome closed, and Paddock got down to avoid the fall.

33.—Paddock still on the rushing suit, went in without judgment. Harry closed, and some more sharp fibbing took place. It was all in favour of Paddock, however, who was evidently the more powerful man, and punished poor Harry’s dial severely. In return he got a few touches on the ribs, and that was all. After a severe struggle they rolled over, and a claim was made that Paddock had kicked Broome while on the ground. This claim, like those on the other side, was justly declared by the referee to be groundless, and the mill proceeded.

34.—Tom feinted, and Harry bolted, pursued by his opponent, who let go both hands with quickness on the left ear, from which blood was drawn, and on the mazzard, and Harry fell through the ropes.

35.—Broome once more tried a lead, and got well on Paddock’s jaw with his right; he then closed, and, after a long struggle, in which he could get no good hold, both again fell together.

36.—Tom essayed a rush, and Harry, in getting away, caught his heel and fell.

37.—Paddock went to Harry almost in his own corner, and, after one or two feints some sharp exchanges took place, each getting it on the chin. Paddock slipped on his knees, and while in that position Harry gave him a severe crack on the smeller, drawing a tidy supply of the small still. (A claim of “foul” was once more made, which was overruled by the referee, who considered that Broome’s hand had started on its journey before Tom reached the ground.)

38.—Tom came up bleeding from his sneezer, and dashed fiercely in; he planted his left heavily on the throat, closed, and fibbed his adversary with his left hand, while he held him with his right; he then neatly changed him over into the other arm, and gave him a dose with his right daddle on the nose and mouth, and Harry was eventually down, the main being on at the high service from both taps. Harry now laid himself on his stomach, in the hope of easing his distressed bellows, and was very slow to time; and no wonder either, seeing the quickness with which they had fought.

39.—Tom dashed in, when Harry instantly closed, but Tom gave him no peace; he pegged away with both hands, administering heavy pepper on the ribs without a return; he then nailed poor Harry on the proboscis and mouth very heavily, and Harry fell. (Cries of “take him away,” but Harry would not hear of it.)

40.—Tom came up smiling, and scarcely marked; he at once went to work, and followed Broome all over the ring, giving him no breathing time. He got a little one on the nose without a return, and Broome got down, blowing like a grampus. (51 minutes had now elapsed.)

41.—Harry made a feint, but it was long out of distance, and Paddock quickly returned on the left optic. Broome now put in a little one on the mouth; after some merry little exchanges, they closed. At infighting Paddock got it heavily on the throat, and in the end he slipped down.

42.—Paddock let fly his left, but was short, when Broome returned open-handed on the nose, and immediately closed. Paddock fibbed him heavily and effectually, prevented his obtaining any hold, and in the end, after Paddock had received a rattler from the left on the side of his nut, he slipped down.

43.—Paddock, bent on finishing his job offhand, dashed in, got heavily on Harry’s ribs with his left, and Broome fell.

44.—Tom once more dashed in, let go his left on the beak, and on getting to close quarters some heavy fibbing ensued, and another struggle for the fall, which neither got, and they fell together.

45.—Tom went at his man with determination, delivered his left on the side of the nut, when Broome closed, but Tom proving much the stronger man, Harry got down.

46.—Harry attempted a rush, but it was only an attempt. Tom came to meet him, delivered his one, two, with quickness on the front of the dial, and Harry fell, again lying on his back in the hope of recovering his wind.

47.—Tom dodged his adversary, and then popped in a rib-bender with his right; Harry missed his return, and Paddock then made another visitation on Harry’s temple, and the latter fell.

48.—The left side of Harry’s nut was terribly swollen, and his left peeper all but closed, while Paddock had still two good eyes, and was as strong and active as ever. Harry was extremely weak, and it was perceptible to all that nothing but an accident could give him a chance. He came up boldly, however, and stopped Tom’s first lead. A second time he was not so successful, and received a smasher on the whistler and fell.

49.—Tom led off, but Harry cross-countered him on the proboscis rather heavily, Harry then closed, but was fibbed very severely on the left ear until he fell. (One hour had now elapsed.)

50.—Harry came up bleeding from his left ear, nose, and mouth. Tom rattled in, dashed a heavy hit with his left on the nose, and then his right on the mouth. Harry seemed to wake up a little at this, and some heavy jobbing hits were exchanged, but in the end Harry fell, extremely weak. His brother (Fred) wished him to give in, but he seemed bent on another round.

51 and last.—Harry, very slow to the call of time, came up unsteady and tottering; he made a blow at Paddock, but missed, and Tom let fly a vicious right-hander at the side of his nut—it missed its destination and alighted on Harry’s chest, where it left a tremendous bruise. It was a settler, however; it floored the gallant Harry, who, on time being called, got up, but instantly sank exhausted on his second’s knee, and Tass Parker, seeing that it was all over, threw up the sponge, Paddock being proclaimed the winner, after a bustling affair of one hour and three minutes. An attempt was made by some few outsiders to bring the affair to a wrangle. They declared the sponge had not been thrown up by Tass Parker, and that Paddock, who had left the ring immediately after that act, had forfeited by so doing before a decision had been come to. This attempt was, of course, scouted by all the respectable spectators, and was especially discountenanced by Harry Broome himself, who owned that he had been fairly vanquished, and that Tom Paddock was now at any rate a better man than himself. The proceedings over, the company at once betook themselves to a station, about a mile distant, whither the special had been removed, and whither they were followed by Tom Paddock, who, with the exception of a few very trifling bruises, appeared unscathed. Harry Broome was too much exhausted to walk the distance, and, therefore, in company with Nat Langham, Jem Burn, and a few others, awaited the arrival of the train at the field of battle. These invalids were quickly embarked, and nothing now prevented the expedition from returning with all speed to the Metropolis. The word was therefore given, and good way being made, Shoreditch was gained by half-past six. Here the excitement was infinitely greater than it had been in the morning, and there was a general rush of the crowd to ascertain the result of the tournay. The news of the easy victory of Tom Paddock was received with universal astonishment; and though the general feeling appeared to be one of pleasure, still, even the largest winners could not help expressing their pity for the downfall of Harry Broome. Harry arrived at home about seven, and was at once put to bed. He did not appear to suffer so much from bodily pain as from mental affliction. His defeat was as unexpected as it was easy, and, of course, convinced Broome that his day had gone by for figuring in the P.R. Tom Paddock proceeded in triumph to the house of his kind friend, Alec Keene, “Three Tuns,” Moor Street, Soho, where he was received with enthusiasm, and where he remained until far into the small hours, receiving the hearty congratulations of his backers and friends.

Remarks.—Our readers, doubtless, have, ere this, drawn their own conclusions as to the conduct and issue of this eventful battle, and it is at the risk of being thought tedious that we venture to offer our own comments thereupon. Harry Broome is no longer the man he was, and this remark applies not merely to his inability to train, but also to his falling off in that quickness and judgment for which heretofore he had distinguished himself. He admits that he cannot train, that he feels his own weakness, and that on Monday all his fighting qualities appeared to have left him directly he held up his hands. It certainly did seem extraordinary to see a well-known good general at the very outset rattle in and lead off at the body, throwing open his head to the attack of his adversary; and when it was seen afterwards that he could neither stop nor hit with anything like vigour, there was a general exclamation of astonishment. Some persons said he did not intend fighting; but any one with half an eye could see that this was not the case, and that all his mistakes were the result of physical incapability. Even his wrestling powers appeared to have left him; but then, it must be remembered that the way in which all his attempts for the fall were met by Paddock, viz., by fibbing at his nut until he loosed his hold, was well calculated to distract even a more powerful man. The only thing that reminded us of the Harry Broome of old appeared to be the gift of occasionally delivering a straight hit with his left; but even this power was taken from him by the accident to that hand early in the fight, which entirely deprived him of its use, as might be seen by his continually hitting open-handed. The want of vigour in his right hand was sufficiently obvious from the almost entire immunity from punishment of the winner. Harry still resorted occasionally to his old trick of turning round and running from his opponent—a plan of fighting which, in our opinion, is neither commendable as a method of escaping punishment, or judicious as a means of drawing an adversary off his guard. Of game and determination Harry displayed no lack, and it was not until perfectly exhausted and incapable of renewing hostilities that he consented to be taken away. Of Tom Paddock we do not feel that we are called upon to say much, but the little we do must be all in the highest terms. At first he was evidently cautious, and a little thrown off his guard by the extraordinary tactics of Broome, thinking, as he did, that the latter was merely “kidding him,” in order to induce him to throw away a chance. Tom however, was steady, and bided his time. He was now and then a little wild, and lost his precision; but this cannot be wondered at, seeing the pace at which they fought—not one round lasting above a minute. He took what little punishment he received, as he always does, without a murmur; and we must do him the justice to say, that he fought throughout with great good temper. In point of science and coolness, we consider that he has improved every time we have seen him enter the P.R., and on this, his last appearance, his advance in the noble art was more than ever perceptible. He hit straight and heavily with each hand. When at close quarters, he fought as one possessing a clear head, and a just appreciation of what was best to be done, and occasionally displayed a presence of mind which was most astonishing, being quite unexpected from his reputed “hasty” character. The performance of changing Broome over from one hand to the other, and giving him a dose from each pepper-box, described above, was one of the best instances of this presence of mind. Tom is now within one of the goal of his wishes, and we doubt not will find plenty of friends to back him against the veteran Tipton Slasher, who, although he vanquished our hero five or six years ago, will, in the event of their again meeting, find that he has cut out for himself a task the satisfactory completion of which will be easier imagined than completed. Tom has now the ball at his foot; every one wishes him well, and by steadiness and good conduct he has every chance of obtaining a position which will render him comfortable for the remainder of his days. We cannot conclude these remarks without paying a compliment to the seconds for the careful manner in which they nursed their men. Alec Keene’s excellent judgment no doubt proved of considerable utility to Tom Paddock, and the herculean strength of the “stunted Lifeguardsman,” as he bore his charge in his single arms to his corner, elicited the applause, and, we may say, the astonishment, of the surrounding throng. Tom Sayers and Tass Parker did their duty most ably by Harry Broome, and by their careful nursing enabled him to prolong the encounter quite as long as was consistent with humanity or prudence.

The battle money, £400, was paid over to Paddock, at Alec Keene’s, on the Friday of the following week. After some deserved complimentary remarks on the conduct of the winner, the Stakeholder expressed his condolence with the defeated man, to which Paddock immediately responded, amidst some applause, by placing a £10 note in our hands towards the collection already made for the losing man; to this two gentlemen present added the like amount, and the collection for the losing man was announced to be £62 14s., a sum subsequently increased. Broome, in a neat speech, expressed his grateful sense of the support he had met with from friends, and the kindness of those who had opposed him. He further declared his intention to “stick to business,” and never again tempt fortune in the Prize Ring, for which he felt his day was past. The evening thereafter passed in harmony and good fellowship.

The Tipton Slasher, whose match with Aaron Jones had gone off in the interval preceding the event just narrated, now came again to the front, and, Harry Broome having retired from the “the tented field,” made proposals to Paddock. Tom was now certainly another man from the time when he was knocking about two or three years previously. Meeting on Worcester Race-course, at the July races, Paddock being now in a sort of partnership with his late opponent, Harry Broome, as booth-keepers and purveyors, the “Old Tipton” being also in the same line, the “two-of-a-trade” proverb was verified, and a couple of “fivers” were popped down for the old opponents to face each other for £200 a side, and meet at Alec Keene’s in the next week, and settle particulars. Great was the muster on Tuesday, July 15th, at the “Three Tuns,” when the articles were drawn, and another £20, in addition to the first £10, provisionally placed in the hands of Alec, and the remainder of the deposits dated and settled. Not a little surprise, however, was occasioned by the fact that Harry Broome appeared as the backer, friend, and adviser of the Slasher, and declared himself responsible for his training expenses, colours, &c.; the date fixed being November 15th. At the second deposit, however, which was appointed for the succeeding Tuesday, at the Slasher’s own house, “The Champion” Inn, Spon Lane, Tipton, “a scare” was occasioned; neither Paddock nor any representative was present, and the Tipton claimed forfeit. Inquiry proved that the seldom-failing post office was the innocent cause of the non-delivery; Paddock’s £10 having been duly forwarded from Brighton two days before, but returned to the post office, marked “Address not known;” “Spon Lane,” being written thereon, but the important word “Tipton” accidentally omitted. All which was explained, and the envelope produced, at the next deposit, at Jem Burn’s, “Rising Sun,” in Air Street. From this time things went on regularly until £80 were down, when, to the general disappointment of all parties, Tom presented himself at the appointed place—Jem Ward’s “Champion Stores,” Oxford Street—and quietly stated that, owing to “want of friends,” and his own losses “at racing,” he “must submit to a forfeit.” Hereupon Broome declared that Slasher should fight for £50, rather than there should be “no fight;” to which there was no response, and the whole of the money was handed over in due time to the lucky Tipton Slasher, at a “Champion’s” dinner, at “The Coal-hole,” presided over by the facetious Chief Baron Nicholson. How this short-lived Championship was “done for,” in 10 rounds, by little Tom Sayers, on the 16th of June, 1857, at the Isle of Grain, must be read in the Life of Tom Sayers, hereafter.

In the month of February in the following year, after Sayers’ second defeat of the unlucky Aaron Jones, we could not help remarking that the little Champion had mentioned to us privately, though certainly not under the seal of secrecy, that he thought his next venture would be either Tom Paddock or the Tipton. It proved to be the latter. Tom, chafing at the delay, called on the Editor of Bell’s Life, on the 17th of June, the day after the battle between Sayers and “The Tipton,” and on the 21st we read:—

“Tom Paddock again in the Field.—Paddock is by no means satisfied that Tom Sayers should wear the Champion’s belt undisputed. He has, therefore, called upon us to state that he can be backed against Sayers for any sum from £100 up to £500. To fight within five or six months at Sayers’ option. He will be at Alec Keene’s, Moor Street, Soho, on Wednesday next.”

A comical episode intervened. “Big Ben” actually left £10 with “the Editor” to make a match with Sayers, who, thereupon, promptly covered it, informing Paddock that if his “engagement” with Ben went off he should have the preference. The “little game” of the Big One was next week displayed most transparently. Caunt declared it “to be understood that the articles were to be drawn up, and further deposits made, at his house;” and “he should expect Sayers to attend there,” &c., &c.; adding, that “of course the date must be beyond my affair with Langham,” (nearly two months later!) Tom was not “drawn” by or to the “Coach and Horses,” and the negotiations were suspended. In the same paper we find the subjoined letter from Alec Keene, relating to Sayers’ reply to Paddock:—

“Three Tuns, Moor Street, Soho, July 9, 1857.

“Mr. Editor,—I have very strictly observed the results of Tom Sayers’ recent career, and certainly did expect (taking into consideration the many warm interviews between Sayers and Paddock on former occasions), that the first-named gentleman would have been only too glad to accommodate Paddock with a ‘merry meeting.’ I cannot understand why Sayers does not accept Paddock’s offer, for should Sayers be permitted, there is just a possibility of abortive matches being continually made, forfeits taken, ultimately the prescribed time for legitimate possession or the belt elapse, and then Sayers becomes its lawful possessor. Let it be distinctly understood, sir, that I do not say such will be the case; but matches like Caunt’s (that personage being preoccupied with Langham) must necessarily occupy needless time; and gentlemen connected with the P.R. have lately become so learned that it behoves me (as Paddock’s deputy) to regard every move in the camp of the enemy with jealous watchfulness. I see no other person really capable to fight Paddock, therefore it will be useless for the opposite party to dissemble; we must meet, and I hope Sayers will think with me, that the sooner we conclude terms the more satisfactory to the public, as it is but just that Tom should be accepted after being so long ‘an expectant.’ I nearly omitted to mention that Sayers never meets Paddock without distributing a quantity of that chaff for which he is famous. We do not want this, we wish business; and I conclude by earnestly hoping your kind insertion of this will assist us.

“Yours, &c.,  “ALEC KEENE.”

There is, indeed, “many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip.” The very week in which Alec Keene penned his friendly note, Paddock was laid prostrate by a severe attack of rheumatic fever, his state being declared dangerous when admitted to the Westminster Hospital, on the recommendation of the medical man called in.

And here we must interpose what a parsonic biographer would call a “refreshing” incident, showing that there is that “touch of nature which makes the whole world kin” even in the hearts of “those degraded wretches who engage in brutal prize-fights” (as we heard a very Reverend Dean, the Vicar of Cheltenham, charitably characterise this very pugilist and his confrères). Tom Sayers called in Norfolk Street, in the next week, to accept Paddock’s challenge and cover his deposit, when he was informed of his namesake’s illness. He was himself that very day going North, and he not only expressed his earnest sympathy with his adversary’s affliction, but at once left £5 for his use, with a promise to use his best endeavours to collect a fund among his friends for the same purpose; and he did so. We find no such practical Christian charity among the “refreshing” passages in “the Memoirs” of the vice-suppressing clergyman.

In the October following, Paddock, recovering from his long and painful illness, looked up his friends, and wrote from Brighton (inclosing £10) to say that he was “ready to meet the winner of the fight between Tom Sayers and Bill Benjamin for £200 a side; to come off within four months after the 5th January, 1858,” the fixture for that fight.

The disposal, by the “coming man,” in 1856, of Harry Poulson, in February, 1857, of Aaron Jones, of the Tipton Slasher in June of the same year, and of Bill Benjamin (Bainge), in January, 1856, seemed to have failed to convince “the knowing ones” of even the probability of a 10½ stone beating 12 or 13 stone; so the anti-Sayerites readily backed Paddock to do battle with the “little” champion. Sayers, on hearing that Paddock had a difficulty (he had quarrelled with Alec Keene, his money-finder) in raising the £200 required, showed his accommodating temper by lowering the stake to £150, thus making the total £300 instead of £400. The 15th of June, 1858, was appointed for the battle.

The public interest was intense, and the crowd at London Bridge station on the eventful morning was immense. Paddock never looked better; he was red as a beetroot, and as strong and healthy as if he never had witnessed the sight of “turning off the gas.” He was credited, on the authority of his trainer, with doing fifty miles of walking a day at one period of his training, and weighed exactly 12 stone, at which he was supposed to be at his best. How all these qualifications, backed by perfect confidence unflinching game, and desperate courage, failed in the trial, and he struck his flag to the victorious “Champion,” who, on this day, proved himself the stronger though the lighter man, will be found in the first chapter of the next “Period” of our History.

Once more, and for the last time, our hero appeared in the P.R. This was in combat with the gigantic Sam Hurst, who, in 1860, put forth a claim to the Championship. Hurst, who weighed 15st., and stood 6ft. 2½in., was renowned as a wrestler. Hurst, of whom the reader may know more by a reference to the Memoir of Jem Mace, in a future chapter of the present volume, was, of course, formidable from his strength, weight, and bulk; his boxing pretensions were of a mediocre quality. Paddock lost the battle by a chance blow from the Colossus, in the fifth round, at the end of nine and a half minutes; and thus closed an active, chequered, but not inglorious Ring career as a defeated man.

From this time Paddock no further occupied a position of prominence in pugilistic circles. He had but few of the qualifications necessary to impart the principles or demonstrate the practice of boxing to learners, and except an occasional appearance with the gloves, he was unheard of by the public, until his demise, from a somewhat lingering illness, on the 30th June, 1863.

CHAPTER IX.

HARRY BROOME (CHAMPION).
1843–1856.

Harry Broome, a younger brother of the renowned Johnny, was born in the “hardware town,” which has given so many of its best pugilists to the modern Ring, that Birmingham early rivalled, and afterwards eclipsed, the fame of Bristol as the birthplace of boxers. The subject of this memoir, who first saw the light in 1826, was a mere boy at the time when his elder brother had fought his way to “the topmost round of fortune’s ladder”—Broome’s ultimate victory, that over Bungaree, the Australian, being achieved in April, 1842, when Harry had not yet counted sixteen summers. At that time Johnny had already married, and settled as host of a well-accustomed tavern—to wit, “The Rising Sun,” in Air Street, Piccadilly, where his shrewdness, activity, and enterprise had transformed the short avenue from Piccadilly to Regent Street into a “high change” of sporting; a very Rialto of the Ring, where patrons and practitioners of the Noble Art “most did congregate.” The sparring saloon at “The Rising Sun,” at this period, was the arena for the display of the best fistic talent of the Metropolis; and here, at the age of sixteen, we first saw the aspiring youngster—a lithe, smooth-skinned, active stripling, very boyish in look, standing 5 feet 8 inches, and weighing 9 st. 7 lbs.—put on the mittens, and make a most creditable “private trial” with the well-known Byng Stocks, of Westminster. Stocks, despite his 11 stone and experience, by no means had the best of the mimic mill, though once or twice urged by the delighted “Johnny” “Not to spare the young ’un because he was his brother.” This promising début was followed by several favourable public displays; and within a few months not a few of the best judges were of opinion that, barring all question of breed and blood, a new and formidable aspirant for the middle-weight Championship would be found in Young Broome, when a year or two should have hardened the gristle into bone, and manhood had consolidated the muscle and set the frame of the future gladiator. And so some months rolled on; a glove-fight, in which Harry disposed of Mitchell, a 10-stone outsider, for a £5 note, being a mere coup d’essai, got up by a few aristocratic visitors of “The Rising Sun,” of which Harry was the rising star.

HARRY BROOME (Champion).

From a Print by Moore.

As we have already said, Johnny Broome at this time filled a large space in the eye of the sporting world, and young Harry, emulous of the fistic fame of his elder brother, with a strong family instinct for fighting, was most importunate with Johnny to let him try his “prentice han’” in combat with some suitable antagonist. Johnny, however, did not choose to lower the dignity of the name of Broome by allowing Harry to strip for “a purse” with any novice; nor would he hear of a match with any “commoner” or “outsider,” for a five, ten, or twenty-five pound stake. He would back Harry for £50, or not at all.

At this time there was a strong jealousy, not to say envy, of the position earned by Johnny in Ring affairs, and more than once did we hear a wish expressed by East-enders and others, that “somebody” would “take the shine out of these upstart Brums.” Accordingly, when it was made known, in September, 1843, that “Young Harry” was ready for a “customer” for £50, they put on their considering caps, and Fred Mason (the Bulldog), standing idle in the market-place, was asked what he thought of the young “ten-stunner?”

Mason, who had, among others, twice beaten Bill Jones, after desperate battles, in which he earned his formidable nickname, received a sort of certificate from Johnny Walker (by whom he had been beaten) that he was just the man to achieve the desired object, if he could raise the half-hundred. At a council held at “The Grapes,” in Aylesbury Street, Clerkenwell, it was decided that the “needful” should be posted, and the cartel accepted. The articles proposed Tuesday, the 10th of October 1843, but subsequently Broome objected to this, as on that day the Cesarewitch would be run, at Newmarket, and several of Harry’s best friends, who were anxious to see his “first appearance,” would be unable to be present. It was accordingly postponed to Wednesday, the 11th. By mutual agreement “The Nymph” steamer was engaged by the two Johnnies (Broome and Walker) for the mutual advantage of the men, and to disburse their training and other expenses. All went smoothly. “The Nymph,” at the appointed hour of eight, got under weigh from Hungerford Market, with a goodly freight of West-enders; then she took in a large company at Old Swan Stairs, London Bridge, while the “Sages of the East” came on board at Brunswick Pier, Blackwall, in increased numbers. Thence she steamed down stream with pleasant speed (with the unwelcome convoy of a trio of crowded tugs), until she came to Long Reach, where, between Dartford and Northfleet, in a meadow distant from all human habitation, it was determined to land. This operation was performed amidst an aqueous downpour, which drenched all the row-boats and their occupants, except those who were clad in waterproof garments. The Commissary lost no time in forming the lists, immediately within the sea wall, upon an excellent piece of turf, and, despite the rattling shower, which increased rather than diminished, accomplished his task in a workmanlike manner. The stools and benches of the steamer were, as usual, transferred to the shore for the accommodation of the “Corinthians,” of whom there were many present, and a most acceptable save-all they proved; nevertheless the great majority had to grin the storm out of countenance; and amidst a perfect deluge, at twelve o’clock the combatants and their seconds made their salaams—the Bulldog under the care of Jem Turner and Jemmy Shaw; Broome waited upon by Levi Eckersley and Tom Maley.

Little time was lost in encircling the stakes with their fogles—white and blue spot for the Bulldog, and blue and white spot for Broome. Both were as cheerful as if pirouetting in the Lowther Rooms. Happily, before business commenced the storm somewhat abated, and the weather became comparatively fine, although occasional slantindicular visitations from the upper regions proved that the only thing settled was the unsettled state of the weather. Young Harry’s “first appearance” was prepossessing. He entered the ring, after dropping in his cap, with a modest bow, and a smile or nod of recognition to several acquaintances, and at once steadily proceeded to divest himself of his upper clothing. “He is a fine young fellow,” says a contemporary report, “only eighteen years of age, standing 5 feet 9 inches, and weighing 10st. 2lbs. (he was limited by virtue of the articles to 9st. 3lbs.), and evidently in first-rate condition, not an ounce of superfluous flesh being visible, and his form as active, alert, and springy as a greyhound.” Of his milling qualifications of course no one had as yet any opportunity of judging, so that he was scanned with all the curiosity with which men examine a “dark horse.” The “Bulldog” also looked in robust health, but he struck us as being too fleshy; and, added to this, it could not but be felt that he was rather stale, not only from the free life he had led, but from his repeated battles, in which he sustained no small quantum of punishment, and especially in his fight with Johnny Walker, who, however, expressed the greatest confidence in his powers. His weight, we should say, was at least 9st. 10lbs., and in length he was full two inches shorter than Broome. His rushing and fearless character of fighting gained for him the sobriquet of “Bulldog,” and his courage further entitled him to this canine distinction.

The officials being nominated, offers were made to take 7 to 4, 6 to 4, and ultimately 5 to 4; but the Broomites were cautious, although, taking youth, length, and weight into consideration, he was certainly entitled to be backed at odds. Doubts as to his qualities were, however, still to be satisfied, and the speculators were shy of investing.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Precisely at twelve minutes to twelve the men were delivered at the scratch, neither displaying the slightest nervousness, and both looking jolly and determined on mischief. No time was lost; Broome led off with his left, but the Bulldog stopped and got away quickly. Bulldog now advanced to the charge left and right, and got home on Broome’s nose and left eyebrow. Broome, not idle, returned prettily, when the Bull rushed in, closed, and, after slight fibbing, finding Broome too strong, got down, amidst the vociferous cheers of his friends.

2.—Broome, nothing daunted, was quick to the scratch, and led off left and right, the Bulldog hitting with him; a sharp rally, and heavy hits exchanged, in which Broome had it on the smeller, and his cork was drawn. (First blood for “Bully.”) A close at the ropes, in which Broome tried for the fall, but Mason held his legs too wide apart, and the crook could not be got. Broome forced him on the ropes, and there held him as if in a vice—his own nose dropping the crimson fluid. Bully struggled to get loose, but Broome grappled him closer. Mutual attempts at fibbing—when, after an ineffectual trial on the part of Broome for the fall, Mason got down besmeared with his opponent’s claret, and pinked on his left cheek. Broome showed a slight cut on the left eyebrow as well as the tap on the snout.

3.—Broome opened the ball without hesitation, and caught Bully on the mouth, lifting the bark from his nether lip. A short pause, when Broome again went to work left and right, but Mason got away; Mason hit out of distance. A rally, in which Broome followed his man to the ropes, hitting left and right; while at the ropes Broome let go his right, and catching Bully on the temple he dropped, but looked up smiling.

4.—Broome popped in his left slightly on Bully’s cheek; tried it again, but the blow passed over his shoulder. Mason rushed in left and right, closed, and tried to fib; Broome, however, proved the stronger man, grappled him against the stake, and, after some in-fighting, in which Mason got a crack over the larboard cheek, he contrived to pull Broome down.

5.—Mason displayed a mouse under each eye, and came slow to the scratch. Broome hit short with the left, and Bully did ditto. Exchanges left and right, and a close at the ropes. Broome hung on the neck of Mason, which lay across the ropes, but was unable to get the look for the fall; at last both were down, Broome having had the best of the round.

6.—Broome, as lively as a kitten, let fly his left, and caught Bully on the mug, repeating a smack on the body with the same hand. Mason tried his right, only tapping Broome’s shoulder. Counter-hits with the left, both napping it on the muzzle. A short rally, followed by a close, in which Broome slipped down.

7.—Broome tried his left and right, but was stopped; he was not, however to be denied; he again rattled in in the same style, nailed Mason with both hands, and gave him the upper-cut with the right. Heavy exchanges, Mason fighting rather wild. In the close Bully down, having all the worst of the milling.

8.—Broome led off quickly with his left, and nailed his man on the cheek. A pause for wind, when Broome again commenced operations. Heavy counter-hitting left and right, and a spirited rally, in which the exchanges were severe. Broome closed for the fall, but Mason dropped on his knees.

9.—Hits left and right attempted, but both short. Bully’s left neatly stopped, when Broome delivered a rattler with his right on the body, and on the cheek with his left. Good counter-hitting with the left; a close at the ropes, and Mason caught Broome round the neck over the ropes, but the latter slipped down.

10.—Mason, short with his left, retreated, and sparred for wind. Slow fighting on both sides. They at length got to work left and right, and heavy muggers were exchanged. A close for the throw, but Mason got down, Broome on him.

11.—The Young’un popped in his left prettily on Bully’s muzzle. Mason fought wildly and hit short. Broome rushed to him and closed, but Bully was not to be had at that game, and fell.

12.—Good outfighting on both sides, left and right, and heavy exchanges. Broome popped in his right heavily, and as Mason was staggering hit him beautifully down with his right. In the counter-hits Broome had received a nasty crack on his smeller, which bled profusely. (First knock-down for Broome.)

13.—Harry, as usual, led off left and right; Mason rushed to a close, and they reached the ropes, where Broome, with his arm round Mason’s neck, hung on him, till at last Mason got back and fell, Broome over him.

14.—Broome popped in left and right in splendid style, repeating the dose with the left on the head, and the right on the body. Mason closed, but, finding Broome too strong for him, dropped on one knee with both hands up. Broome, although entitled to hit, left him. (Applause.)

15.—Broome again led off with his left. Mason short and wild in his returns. Broome steady, and again delivered his left, drawing additional claret. A close at the ropes; more squeezing on the part of Broome, and Mason got down, apparently fagged.

16.—The Bulldog slow to the scratch; counter-hitting with the left, ditto with the right. In the close Mason down again on one knee, but Broome once more retired without taking advantage of the opportunity offered.

17.—A good weaving rally, in which the hitting was tremendous, and, after mutual compliments, in the close Mason dropped on his knees. (Mason’s seconds now called for brandy.)

18.—Mason slow in going to the scratch. Broome rattled to him left and right, catching him a severe nozzler. Bully made a desperate rush, and heavy counter-hits were exchanged. A lively rally followed, in which mutual compliments were paid, and the dripping claret proved that both had been heavily hit. In the close, after a severe struggle on the part of Broome to obtain the fall, Mason dropped on one knee, and Broome walked away, exhibiting heavy marks of punishment. Mason was likewise severely mauled, and his left eye was fast closing.

19.—Each regarded the other with mutual good will. Broome bleeding at the mouth and nose, but still steady and self-possessed. He led off with the left, but was prettily stopped. Counter-hits on each side missed, when Broome closed, caught Mason round the neck, and hung on him at the ropes till he got down, amidst loud shouts of disapprobation from Bully’s friends.

20.—Broome led off with his left, and again nailed Mason on the left eye. Mason closed, when the Young’un suddenly disentangled himself, stepped back, gave Mason the upper cut with his right, followed by a neat slap with his left, when Master Fred slipped down.

21.—Broome led off left and right; closed, again caught Mason round the neck, hanging upon him across the ropes until he fell.

22.—Mason somewhat slow to the scratch, across which Broome stepped, and led off left and right. Bully let fly wildly left and right, when Broome once more closed, flung him across the ropes, and squeezed him as if his neck were in a vice, amidst repeated shouts of disapprobation. Jack Sheppard, urged by the impatience of some of Mason’s friends, ran with a knife to cut the ropes, but luckily his man slipped down, and thereby prevented an act which would have been highly imprudent, inasmuch as the ring would have thereby been destroyed; and however unseemly such a style of fighting might appear, it was not inconsistent with any fixed rule of the Ring.

23.—Broome delivered a heavy hit with his left on Mason’s body; Mason short in the return, and, after some wild exchanges, Bully dropped on his knees.

24.—Counter-hitting with the left; a close, and, after some slight fibbing, Mason again dropped on his knees.

25.—Mason stopped Broome’s left, rushed to in-fighting left and right, then, missing his upper cut, got down.

26.—Mason’s left eye all but gone, and Broome’s mug showing sundry marks of severe deliveries. A desperate rally, both having made up their minds to mischief. Heavy exchanges left and right, followed by a close at the ropes, at which Mason once more dropped on one knee, but Broome still refrained from hitting.

27.—Counter-hits with the left, Broome catching it heavily on the nose. A slashing rally, in which heavy right-handed hits were exchanged till Mason fell on his knees, both bleeding profusely.

28.—Both men cautious. Broome in with his left, and Mason short in his return. Heavy counter-hitting. Bully receiving a finishing smack from the right on his left eye, which was completely closed. Broome grappled for the fall, seized Mason by the neck, and hung upon him until he brought him down upon his nose.

29.—Counter-hits with the left, followed by a close, in which Mason attempted to get down, but Broome held him by the neck under his arm, and tried to lift him from the ropes, until he fell, amidst shouts of disapprobation.

30.—Mason led off short, when Broome steadied himself and popped in a terrific hit with his left on the cheek. Counter-hits left and right followed, Mason fighting wildly. In the close Broome again hung on his man till he extricated himself from his painful position, and in getting away Broome fell heavily upon him.

31.—Mason getting slower. Counter-hitting with the left and exchanges with the right, in which Bully delivered heavily. In the close Mason dropped on his knees.

32.—A rattling exchange of hits; a close at the ropes, and Mason got down, amidst the cheers of his friends. Broome rather groggy from the heavy deliveries in the last round, and the brandy-bottle on his side in requisition.

33 and 34.—Short and merry rallies, in both of which compliments were exchanged, and Mason got down on his knees.

35.—Broome delivered two heavy lunging hits with his left at the body; a rally and heavy exchanges, when Broome caught his man in the corner and again grappled him round the neck with his arm as if in the folds of a boa constrictor. Here he held him for a considerable time, till Mason got each leg in succession over the ropes, and snatched his pimple out of chancery, as he rose making a desperate upper cut with his right, which he luckily missed, for had he struck his man when outside of the ropes, he would have lost the fight on the ground of foul play.

36.—Broome, although fatigued, came up with unshrinking spirit. Heavy counter-hits with the left, when Mason overreached himself, missed, and fell.

37.—Mason evidently less confident. He was slow to the call of time, while Broome rushed to his work, hit out left and right, bored his man to the ropes, and again clasped him in his vice till he fell.

38.—Broome, apparently regaining fresh energy, the moment time was called rushed to his man, led off left and right, closed at the ropes, and, after some in-fighting, Mason got down, Broome falling over him, evidently with the intention of avoiding falling on him.

39.—Broome, becoming still gayer, got to work without delay, popped in a stinger at the body with his right, and after an exchange of facers, closed at the ropes. Mason struggled and fell back, Broome hitting with his right, and falling on him. It was now seen that Mason was satisfied, and after a short consultation with his friends, he declined proceeding with the contest, declaring that he felt he had no chance, for he could not get at his man, and his power of hitting was exhausted. At this time his left eye was completely bunged up, and his face, mouth, and nose were seriously contused; added to which he complained that both his hands were injured. Under these circumstances Johnny Walker saw it was in vain to protract the combat, and gave in on the part of Mason, who immediately stood up and shook hands with his opponent, who was proclaimed the conqueror, after fighting one hour and twenty-one minutes, greatly to the disappointment and vexation of many of Mason’s friends, who considered that he was still able to continue the mill, and probably make a turn in his favour. None, however, know so well where the shoe pinches as he who wears it, and Mason was sufficiently satisfied with the dressing he had received, without adding to its severity. On quitting the ring after being dressed, Broome was so elated with his success, that he threw three successive somersaults, thus proving that his strength and activity, at least, were unimpaired, although the disfigurement of his “dial” afforded pretty strong evidence of the severity of Mason’s hitting.

Remarks.—The issue of this battle has placed Young Harry in a very creditable position, and proved him to possess the first of the requisites for a professor of pugilism—courage, combined with perfect self-possession and a fair share of science. He is quick on his legs, and possesses the happy knack of using both hands with vigour and effect. He never once lost the control over his own actions, and between the rounds nursed and husbanded his strength with the cunning and calmness of a veteran. He was always first on his legs on the call of time, and almost invariably led off with his left with precision and success. It is clear that he knows the use of his legs; and had not Bully known how to foil his intentions he would no doubt have shown him a quick way to his mother earth. If there was any fault to be found with his style of fighting, it was in his repeated hanging on his man at the ropes. It ought not to be forgotten, however, that Mason in the closes endeavoured to grapple him with no friendly intention, and to resist this he had recourse to an expedient which is anything but pleasant to the spectators. There is no law, however, against it, and he cannot, therefore, be blamed for following an example afforded him, not only by his own brother but by many men of long experience in the Ring. Taking him “all in all” his début has been highly creditable, and we have no doubt, if not overmatched or overworked, he will become an ornament to the P.R. The Bulldog fought, we think, even better than on former occasions on which we have seen him engaged. He used his left more handily than it has been our good fortune to witness in his former contests, and his counter-hitting with that hand was extremely severe, while his slogging right told with stunning effect on young Harry’s mug. Of throwing he has but little knowledge, although he possesses sufficient tact to evade the exercise of that talent on the part of his antagonist. Like all old ones who have felt the sting of repeated punishment, he could not resist the influence of hard knocks; and the body and the mind concurring in the opinion that “enough was as good as a feast,” and deeming discretion the better part of valour, he left off while he yet possessed sufficient self-possession to enjoy the satisfaction of knowing that he might have been worse beaten without being better off.

All now sought the ark, there to obtain the “creature comforts” which had hitherto been withheld. To the men every possible attention was paid, and a liberal subscription was collected for the loser. The battle-money was given up to Young Broome, at his brother’s house, in Air Street, Piccadilly, on the Wednesday of the following week.

The “breed” of young Harry being thus satisfactorily proved, his more experienced brother determined that he should turn gristle into bone before he again “sported buff” in the 24-foot, and more than a twelve-month elapsed ere he made an appearance within the ropes. This was on December 10, 1845, when he was matched for £50 a side against Joe Rowe, a well known East-ender, of 10½st., whose victory over Cullen, in 1844, had raised him to a high position among the middle weights.

Mixed up with this encounter was a contemptible and ridiculous feud, provoked and maintained by certain East-enders, who, taking umbrage at what they considered the upstart assumption of Johnny Broome, and also prompted by bitter jealousy at his success with the better order of Ring patrons, sought by fair or by foul means to disparage the name of Broome, and to defeat the pretensions of his younger brother. We quote the contemporary report:—

“The unfortunate issue of the meeting is to be attributed to the gross irregularities and unjustifiable outrages of the parties assembled to witness the affray, who, regardless of all attempts to preserve an outer or even an inner ring, rushed close to the ropes and stakes, which were broken and levelled with the ground, and were at length reduced to such a state by the intrusion of the multitude that it was utterly impossible for the men to continue their contest; and the referee having withdrawn, both retired from a scene which, we regret to say, is but a repetition of similar misconduct in all parts of the country. This species of misconduct has more to do with the downfall of the Prize Ring than any other cause to which we can refer. We shall endeavour to describe the proceedings of the day, and must leave it to the members of the Ring itself who mean to preserve their ‘order’ to adopt some plan hereafter by which similar evils may be prevented.”

It must be borne in mind that by the articles neither of the men was to exceed 10st. 5lbs., and that they were to meet at Peter Crawley’s on the Monday for the purpose of going to scale. At Peter’s they did meet, and were each 1lb. within the stipulated figure, both looking remarkably well and equally confident. Rowe returned to his training-quarters, at Mitchell’s Green, about three miles from Greenhithe, Kent, and Harry Broome remained in London, to be prepared for his embarkation in the morning. The “Nymph,” Woolwich steamer, was patronised upon this occasion, as upon many former expeditions of a similar sort, and received on board a goodly muster of the friends of the men on Tuesday morning, at Hungerford, London Bridge, and Blackwall. She was not, however, without her opponents, and another large steamer named the “Nelson,” as well as the “William Gunston” tug-boat, by the cheapness of their fares, succeeded in obtaining a very extensive patronage from the “rough-and-ready” customers both from the East and the West, but more especially from the former, the great nursery of Rowe’s early pretensions.

Harry Broome embarked at Blackwall, and it was considerably after ten o’clock before the “Nymph” led the way to the field of battle, tardily followed by her two rivals, the “Nelson” having got aground under London Bridge, to the infinite terror of her passengers, who began to apprehend that they had invested their three “bobs” each without the chance of obtaining a view of the mill for their money. Luckily, however, they ultimately got off; and from the delay which took place in arranging the preliminaries for the battle, they arrived in time not only to reach the field, but to increase, and perhaps create, the confusion which subsequently prevailed. The marshes below Greenhithe were selected for the encounter, and here the Commissary executed his operations with his customary despatch. By twenty minutes after one the lists were prepared, but upwards of half an hour elapsed before the combatants made their appearance, and by this time more than 1,000 persons had assembled, including not only the crews of the flotilla, but a large accession from the inhabitants of the surrounding district, who, from Rowe’s training in the neighbourhood, and from the frequent visits of Peter Crawley and his friends, became fully apprised of the treat which was in store: a species of foreknowledge which likewise reached a magistrate in the neighbourhood, who, before the fight was half over, arrived on the ground accompanied by some dozen policemen. The impolicy of the men approaching the intended locality of their fight previous to the mill is manifest, and the present instance confirmed the justice of our remark. In this case, however, from the terrific confusion which prevailed, neither magistrate nor policemen ventured to get within the vortex, the chance of a broken head being infinitely more apparent than the probability of a respectful reception. His beakship, consequently, contented himself with directing his aides-de-camp to take down the names of as many active members of the P.R. as they could obtain.

We will now endeavour to describe, as well as the buffetings to which we were exposed will permit, “the mill,” its progress, and final interruption. Shortly before two o’clock Harry Broome and Rowe arrived at the ring; the former accompanied by his brother, Jack Hannan, and Sam Simmonds; the latter by Peter Crawley, Jem Turner, and Young Sambo. The ground was hard and the weather cold, but the breeze was somewhat tempered to the “shorn lambs,” and not quite so piercing as it had been the day before. The prospect of the commencement of business produced a great deal of bustle among the ring-keepers, who endeavoured to beat out those who had not paid for the privilege of the posts of honour; but this was found to be a task of no common difficulty; in fact, it was soon seen, from the conduct of the majority, that they were not persons disposed to be governed by the rules of courtesy or fair play. Among the betting fraternity Harry Broome had become the favourite, and was backed at 6 to 4, at which price he backed himself on board the boat on his passage down. As in the match between Maley and Merryman, Tom Spring was again persuaded to take upon him the office of referee—a kindness which he had much reason to regret, as the issue will show. All being in readiness, at the given signal the men were stripped of their upper crusts, and amidst the cheering exclamations of their respective partisans, shook hands and threw themselves into attitude. Their colours were, blue bird’s-eye for Rowe, and blue with a divided white spot, and the initials “H. B.” in the centre, for Broome.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—We have already described the condition of the men, and certainly on their stripping there was nothing to induce us to recall our judgment. Broome had a little the advantage in height and length, but whatever advantage he possessed in this respect was counterbalanced by the superior muscular development of his opponent. Broome smiled cheerfully, while Rowe displayed the steady phiz of “a sage from the East.” After a few dodges by way of feelers, Rowe tried his left twice in succession, but was stopped. Harry then led off with his left, catching Rowe slightly on the mouth. This brought them to a sharp rally, in which blows were exchanged. Broome popped in his left at the body, immediately closed, and succeeded in throwing his man.

2.—On coming up Broome rushed to his man, put in a slight blow on his mouth with the left, closed, and after a short struggle both were down.

3.—Harry led off with his left, which got home on Rowe’s whistler; slight exchanges to a close, when both were again down. (On Rowe reaching his corner, we fancied we discovered a tinge of blood on his lips.)

4.—Rowe, on going to the scratch after one or two feints, sent his left well home on Broome’s conk from which the purple fluid instantly flowed in profusion. Rowe again made his left, this time under Harry’s eye, from which the claret also spurted. They then rattled to a close, when some sharp in-fighting took place, Broome catching Rowe on the skull with his right, in a sort of round hit, which evidently injured the thumb-joint, as he shook it as a dog would his sore paw, and they fell together.

5.—On leaving his second’s knee Broome showed a slight mouse on his left eye, the effect of Rowe’s visitation in the last round. Both hit slightly together with the left, and came immediately to a rally, when some heavy exchanges left and right took place. They closed, struggled for the fall, and at length fell together, Broome under.

6.—The men instantly rushed to a close, and Broome got his man to the ropes, where they hung until they went down, Broome again under.

7.—Broome napped another crack on the left eye; ditto repeated; a close, a breakaway, hit for hit exchanged left and right, Broome making both fists tell on Joe’s body. They then closed, and both were down, Broome under.

8.—Broome jumped up with alacrity, rushed to his man, and attempted to plant his left, but was neatly stopped. This led to a rally, in which heavy hits were exchanged, Rowe catching it on the muzzle and Harry on the old spot under his left eye. They then closed, hung on the ropes, and both were again down. (The confusion outside the ring now became greater and greater. In vain did Cullen, Alec Reed, Young Reed, and others, use their sticks and whips on the nobs of the “roughs” who were pressing forward; they were not to be driven back. It was with the greatest difficulty the stakes and inner ring were preserved entire.)

9.—After a few dodges, Broome put in his left slightly on Joe’s body below the waistband. A claim of “foul” was instantly raised by Rowe’s partisans, who alleged that the blow had fallen below the waist. On Spring being appealed to he immediately decided “fair,” and the fight proceeded. The men went to work, counter-hits right and left were exchanged to a close, and Rowe got down.

10.—Broome again home on Rowe’s ’tato-trap, which increased in protuberance; counter-hits with the left, Broome catching it on the nose; body blows exchanged; counters left and right on the dial—a close, in which both were down. Broome on being picked up showed a cut over his left brow, from which the claret was coursing down in profusion.

11.—Heavy exchanges; Broome again caught a nasty one over his eye. He returned the compliment on Joe’s mouth. Body blows exchanged. A close, and both down, Broome under. The punishment in this round increased the flow of claret from the wounds of both, but they took it coolly, and came up smiling for the next round.

12.—This was a punishing round on the part of Broome, who had no sooner risen from his corner than he rushed to his man, put in two or three body blows, and then made his left and right on Rowe’s frontispiece. The latter made some slight returns, and Broome rushed in, caught Rowe in his arms, and hung upon him at the ropes until the latter went down—a game he pursued throughout the fight.

13.—The cheering and chaffing of the East-enders were deafening, and it was with difficulty the timekeepers made themselves heard. On reaching the scratch heavy counter-hits were exchanged left and right, Broome again experiencing the effect of Rowe’s left on his eye. They soon closed, struggled for the fall, and went down together.

14.—This round was similar to the last.

15.—Heavy in-fighting blows exchanged left and right, both on the mug and on the body, the hitting rather in favour of Broome. In the close both down.

16 and 17.—In these rounds the men rushed to in-fighting at once, and some stinging hits were made by each on the sore spots of the other. Broome’s left eye was observed to be fast closing. In the closes which terminated the rounds they fell together.

18.—Slight exchanges to a close, when Rowe was down, Broome alongside of him. Rowe’s mouth began to exhibit unmistakable evidence of Harry’s power of hitting, although, with the exception of the cuts on his lip, there was nothing particular the matter with his face. Indeed, the hitting on both sides seemed to have been directed almost entirely to particular spots—viz., Broome on Joe’s mouth, and the latter on Harry’s left eye and cheek.

19.—Rowe made his left slightly on Broome’s forehead. The latter then attempted his left, but was prettily stopped. In two other attempts he was more successful, as he put in his left twice, first on Joe’s mouth, and then on his smeller, from which, as well as his mouth, the claret began to exude. In the close Joe was down, Harry on him.

20.—The combatants quickly rushed to a close, and after a short struggle at the ropes, both went down together. (The noise and confusion were now becoming terrific. The spectators in the rear made a rush, the stake in Rowe’s corner was nearly forced from the ground, several other stakes were broken, and the bottom rope of the inner ring was completely trodden under foot. The pressure was so great in the corner where we sat that we were obliged to enter the inner ring, in order to be able to get a note of what was going on. There seemed among some of the lowest order of spectators to be a strong party feeling against Johnny Broome, for what cause it was impossible to tell, but they repeatedly called upon him to come in and fight himself, and charged him with acting foully, although we saw nothing of the kind in his conduct up to this, beyond his assisting the seconds in wiping his brother—an example which Crawley followed with Rowe.)

21 and 22.—Broome home with his left on Joe’s nose and mouth several times. Rowe’s returns were slight. In the latter round, however, Rowe succeeded in the close in forcing Broome over the ropes, and falling on him.

23.—Broome’s left again in collision with Rowe’s mouth. Counter-hits with the left. A close at the ropes, and Broome succeeded in throwing his man.

24 to 29.—In these rounds the same style of fighting was pursued, hitting left and right being the order of the day. Very few attempts were made at stopping, and these few were on the part of Rowe, who parried Harry’s left on several occasions. The rounds ended with a close at the ropes, in which Broome generally had the advantage, and got his man down by hanging on him.

30.—Joe stopped a nasty one from Harry’s left. Heavy hits were then exchanged on the old spots, and both were down, Rowe under. (The disorderly conduct of the spectators got worse and worse. The ring-keepers were obliged to get inside the ring, and used their whips and sticks very freely; but as fast as they drove the intruders back from the ropes they again came forward, returning hits for compliments paid them.)

31 to 36.—Heavy exchanges, and no flinching or attempts to stop. Previous to these rounds we thought Rowe was weak and on the wane, but he now rallied, and was firmer on his pins. He was, however, generally forced to the ropes, where Broome hung upon him until he fell.

37.—Broome received a stinger on his snout, which renewed the rivulet of claret. He returned slightly on Rowe’s cheek and closed. Rowe was, after a short struggle, forced down, Broome on him.

38.—Broome made his left again on Joe’s mouth. He then retreated to his corner, as if to get wind. Rowe was following, but Harry rushed to him, repeated his dose on the mouth, and fought to a close at the ropes, where, after a somewhat lengthened struggle, amidst great confusion in and out of the ring (Johnny Broome holding the rope), both got down together.

39.—Hitting right and left, and a close, in which some slight fibbing took place, Broome again receiving over his damaged eye, which was now almost “used up.” At length, after a break away, and a few harmless exchanges, Rowe got down.

40.—Heavy counters with the left, Broome receiving a snorter, which re-opened the springs from which the by-no-means-limpid stream had previously trickled. A close at the ropes, Broome still pursuing his tactics of endeavouring to hang upon his man. Rowe at length got down, pulling Broome along with him.

41.—Rowe had now evidently obtained fresh vigour, and his bellows seemed to have undergone a thorough repair. On coming up, he immediately went to his adversary, led off with his left, which was returned by Broome on the nose. Rowe attempted to obtain the fall, but in so doing slipped down.

42 and 43.—Slight exchanges, no mischief done; both down at the ropes.

44.—Harry hit out left and right on Joe’s mug, closed, and threw him heavily, falling on him.

45.—Broome again touched up Rowe’s “blow pipe.” Joe immediately insinuated a tremendous counter-crack on Broome’s head with his right, which dropped him, and he fell on his hands and knees and fell forward on his face. (First knock-down blow for Rowe.)

46 and 47.—Counter-hitting left and right, Rowe occasionally stopping Broome’s left, but the latter would not be denied, and hit away until he brought his man to a close, and they both went down together, Rowe under. On reaching their seconds’ knees, their punishment appeared to be about equal, neither showing many marks beyond those on Broome’s left eye and cheek on the one hand, and Rowe’s mouth and nose on the other. (About this time a cry was raised that the police had arrived, but we could see nothing of them, as we were so hemmed in by the mob, and, as we stated above, it was impossible for them to get at the combatants, or any one in the ring.)

48.—Stinging hits exchanged with the left to a rally and a close at the ropes, where Rowe got down to avoid Harry’s friendly hug.

49.—Broome’s left eye was now completely closed, and the surrounding flesh was considerably swollen; his nose, also, looked very blue. He went to his man, caught him round the neck with his left, and fibbed him severely with the other hand. Rowe at length caught the offending mawley, and forced Harry’s head back. After a little struggling, Rowe slipped down.

50.—Joe stopped a well-intended smack from Broome’s left. The latter then made his “one, two” on Rowe’s mouth and body. Joe slipped, and Broome was making an upper cut at him as he went down, but just succeeded in stopping the delivery in time to prevent grounds for a claim of “foul.”

51 and 52.—Some good countering took place in these rounds with equal advantage, for what Broome gave on Joe’s mouth and cheek he received in return on his damaged ogle and sneezer.

53.—The men quickly rushed to a close, and after a short struggle Joe succeeded in giving Broome a clean somersault over the ropes, amidst the joyous shouts of his partisans.

54 to 57.—Still the same hit-away style of fighting, no stopping or flinching, Broome occasionally getting his man’s head in chancery and fibbing. In the 56th round Harry put in a smasher on the body of Rowe, from the effects of which he was going down, when Broome sent in another, which did not reach him until he was on his knees. Another claim of “foul” was made by Jem Turner and Sambo, but the blow was evidently accidental, and Spring decided “fair.” Had it been otherwise, it would have been almost impossible for Spring to see, he was so beset by the mob who were creating the disturbance and overwhelming the ring. Spring at length was compelled to come within the arena to watch the proceedings. In the 57th round Rowe went down weak. Both Johnny Broome and Peter Crawley had now been in the ring during some rounds, Broome assisting his brother, and Crawley performing the same kind office for Rowe. Broome led the way, and his presence excited a good deal of angry feeling, but it was “six of one and half-a-dozen of the other.”

58 and 59.—Rowe was getting weaker, and Broome was piping. In the latter round heavy counter-hits were exchanged in Broome’s corner. The latter then put in a heavy body blow, from the effects of which Rowe staggered and went down.

60.—In-fighting in favour of Rowe, who made several good hits on Broome’s dial. Broome retaliated, but not so severely. They closed at the ropes, and both fell together. (The ring was now half full of people, and sticks and whips were being plied without avail on all sides.)

61 to 70.—On coming up for the 61st round, Broome’s face, principally on the left side, was terribly disfigured, while Rowe’s right jaw, cheek, and upper lip were so much cut and swollen as to produce the appearance of dislocation of the jaw. The hitting in these rounds was severe, although Rowe occasionally hit open-handed. In the close they generally fibbed each other severely, and fell together. The space in which they were fighting became gradually more and more circumscribed, and almost invariably in the close the ring-keepers were obliged to surround the combatants, and literally beat the crowd away, to give room for them to struggle for the fall, and to prevent their being injured by the mob.

71.—Tom Spring now, finding that there was not the slightest probability of a clear ring being again obtained, and satisfied that it would be impossible to obtain fair play, resigned his office as referee. The seconds and backers ought then to have each withdrawn his man; instead of this, however, the fight was continued amidst the most dreadful confusion, and in a space about two yards square, until the 81st round, when the men were taken away and conveyed on board the Nymph, after fighting for 2 hours and 21 minutes. All chance of concluding the contest had at this time vanished, and, of course, universal dissatisfaction prevailed. A cowardly attack was made on Johnny Broome by some of the disappointed Eastenders, but Peter Crawley manfully threw his shield over him, and prevented mischief.

Remarks.—We have thus, to the best of our ability, amidst the shameful confusion which prevailed, endeavoured to give as accurate a description of this battle as our opportunities would admit. We can only repeat that at a very early period of the battle the crowd completely overwhelmed the efforts of those who were certainly anxious and creditably active in their endeavours to preserve order. The jealousy of those, however, who could not pay towards those who had paid was so forcibly evinced as to prevent all resistance; and this, combined with a large majority of Rowe’s friends and partisans, who indulged in a very unseemly expression of ill-feeling towards Johnny Broome and his brother, produced the very unsatisfactory conclusion at which the affair arrived, and of course led to the necessity of another meeting before it could be decided which was the better man. We confess we do not feel ourselves justified, from all we have yet seen, in assigning the palm of decided superiority to either. They both fought manfully and bravely, and exhibited all those sterling qualities which are calculated to reflect credit upon the characters of British boxers. There was no flinching, no cowardly attempts to fall to avoid punishment, nor were any of those subterfuges adopted on either side calculated to create the disapprobation of the spectators. On the contrary, when permitted by the disgraceful intrusion of strangers in the ring, they promptly and fearlessly obeyed the call of time, and hit away left and right each with a courageous determination to turn the scale in his favour. In the last few rounds—or, rather, scrambles—which took place, we are inclined to believe that Broome had a little the advantage; but it would be by no means just on our parts to give this as a decided opinion, and the less so as we saw Rowe run vigorously from the ring to the place of embarkation, followed by Broome. We were glad to make our escape from such a scene, and made our retreat along the banks of the river to Greenhithe, from whence we subsequently obtained a passage, not in the “Nymph,” but in a Gravesend boat, on its way to Blackwall, and thus did not obtain a close view of the men. Many heavy blows were exchanged in the course of the turmoil, and some one, with a wantonness perfectly indefensible, flung up a quart bottle in the air, which, alighting on Johnny Broome’s head, might have been fatal, and, as it was, proved anything but agreeable to his feelings. We cannot too strongly impress upon the parties concerned in this disgraceful exhibition that, as in the fable of the goose and the golden egg, they are sacrificing the chances of their own future gratification. A clear ring and no favour is the battle-cry of all fair boxing; and if the spirit of this cry be once abandoned, it is in vain to hope for the continuance of those manly demonstrations of courage and fair play which render prize-fighting defensible. It seems also to be forgotten that, by keeping a wide and extended ring throughout a combat, all have a fair opportunity of witnessing its progress; while, by thus closing in, the greater portion must be debarred from a view of the combatants, and thus disorder becomes inevitable. Added to this, the prejudices of the opponents of the good old sport become trebly fortified, and the interference of the magistrates and the police will find not only apologists, but eulogists, even among those who heretofore would have been the first to decry their interference. Aquatic excursions, by limiting the number of spectators, were, in the first instance, adopted as a prudent and judicious move, and so long as they were confined, by a fair charge, to the men and their real supporters, this object was gained; but the unfair system of starting opposition boats, at low prices, by enabling the worst class of Ring-goers to obtrude upon the scene of action, has superseded this intention, and it now only remains to adopt some new expedient by which fair play and good order can be maintained. Nothing but a determined coalition upon the part of the milling fraternity themselves will prevent the repetition of evils which must altogether extinguish their popularity as a class.

Great complaints were made of Broome having gone into the ring to assist his brother, which was decidedly contrary to the rules of the Ring, and led to Crawley following so bad an example. It was undoubtedly wrong; but some allowances must be made for the horrible confusion which prevailed, and the utter impossibility of the referee calling for a stringent attention to the rule referred to; although in two instances when Broome had intruded he peremptorily ordered him out, and was obeyed. It must be distinctly understood that any man, save the seconds, thus interfering with his man loses the fight.

Broome soon recovered from the contusions on his face, although when we saw him on the Friday the marks were sufficiently apparent. The forebone of the thumb on his right hand was, however, fractured. This occurred in the fourth round, and the repeated use of the hand afterwards rendered the consequences more serious. Rowe’s physiognomy was still far from symmetrical. His face on the right side was dreadfully swollen, and the cut on his lip severe and deep. The left side of his countenance also showed obvious symptoms of unpleasant visitations. In other respects the men were little damaged; but Rowe had clearly got the larger share of the punishment. His left hand was also much puffed. It was stated that for the present it would be impossible for Broome to use his right hand, and Crawley readily agreed that the day for the renewal of the battle should not be fixed till a surgeon had pronounced when the damaged feeler was likely to be fit for service. Johnny Broome proposed to give £5 towards Rowe’s training expenses, provided the match were made for £100, and to come off in four months. To this Crawley could make no response, as he had his apprehensions of being able to get any addition to the stakes down.

The final agreement was that the renewal of the combat should take place on the 6th of May; Peter Crawley and Johnny Broome to name the locality. At a subsequent meeting at Spring’s, it being mentioned that the 6th of May was the day of running the Chester Cup, the date was altered to the 13th by mutual agreement, and the place of rendezvous was settled for Ensham, Oxfordshire, six miles from the University city. On the overnight the men and their mentors set off for that locality. The “London Particulars,” however, contented themselves with the half-past seven morning train, and the quarter to ten fast ditto, as their method of reaching the trysting-place. Soon after eleven all was alive in Ensham, and the cavalcade moved off for the battle-field, many of the drags being of the style and pattern that bespoke the Corinthian quality of their owners or occupants. At twelve the Commissary and assistants had made a model ring and enclosure in an emerald-green meadow near Ensham, and soon after Harry Broome, his brother Johnny, his seconds and friends, came on the ground on a four-in-hand; while Rowe, under the broad shadow of Peter Crawley, escorted by a numerous cavalcade of equestrians and charioteers, with a long queue of pedestrians was also “thar.” Harry Broome was waited on in the ring by his brother and Sam Simmonds, of Birmingham; Rowe by Jack Macdonald and Bill Hayes. Broome’s colours were blue with a large white spot, Rowe’s the old blue birdseye.

After some little delay in the choice of a referee, “time” was called, and the men, in fighting costume, advanced from their corners and shook hands. Young Harry, in point of condition, was all that his best friends could desire; he was indeed a model of youthful health and activity. He stood slightly over his opponent, and had evidently the advantage in length of reach. Rowe looked far more solid and burly at his weight (10st. 5lbs.), and was much less graceful in his movements; indeed, his look lacked the animation and confidence which beamed on the features of his youthful antagonist. The friends of Rowe were, nevertheless, sanguine of his success, and took the 5 and 6 to 4 readily which some of Broome’s patrons offered.

At a few minutes before one the men and their seconds crossed hands, the latter retired to their corners, and the twain stood up for

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—On throwing themselves into position each put out his feelers and advanced and retreated several times. After one or two feinting dodges Rowe tried his left, but was short; they got closer to their work, and left-hand counters were exchanged, Rowe catching it on the mouth and Broome slightly on the cheek. After a break away they again approached, and once more exchanged counter-hits with the left, Broome getting well home on Rowe’s kissing organ, whence blood immediately trickled, and “first blood” was claimed for Broome and awarded. Broome rushed in, caught Rowe round the neck under his left arm, fibbed a little with his right, hitting up, then, giving him a leg, threw and fell on him. (7 to 4 on Broome offered.)

2.—Rowe, on coming to the scratch, showed a stream of the crimson fluid from the side of his mouth. Broome led off with his left, but was neatly stopped, and in the second attempt equally well foiled. Slight exchanges, and Broome closed, and, after a short struggle, had his man down, but came himself to the ground rather heavily.

3.—Rowe short with his left. Broome quickly caught him a smasher on his damaged mouth, repeating the dose twice, and playing round his man with a celerity that reminded us of Young Dutch Sam. Rowe tried to get home, first with one hand then the other, but was short, from the rapid shifting of his adversary. In the close Broome tried to get the lock, but Rowe kept his legs wide and declined the intended favour. Broome tried to hit up with the right, but Rowe slipped on one knee, catching a stinger on the jaw as he was falling, and Harry tumbling over him.

4.—On Rowe coming up, his left eye, left cheek, and mouth gave evidence of renewed visitations. Harry, though flushed in the frontispiece, was not yet “adorned with cuts.” Rowe hit short with the left, and then stopped two or three attempts by Harry to get home with the same hand. In trying to return Rowe hit rather in the style of the sparring school, drawing back his elbow just as his fist reached its destination, instead of letting the blow go straight from the shoulder. A rally, in which Rowe succeeded in planting his left on Broome’s eye, and then stepped in with a rattling hit on the jaw that seemed for a moment to stagger the Young’un; in fact it looked for a moment as if he would go down from the stunning visitation; but he did not, and Rowe closed and threw his man amidst vociferous acclamations from the East-enders.

5.—Broome came up smiling, steady, and resolute, showing little effects of the last round. He made play, but Rowe easily stopped two long shots from the left. Rowe retreated, but did not succeed in drawing Broome near enough, so the latter, after an exchange or two, got within distance, delivering left and right heavily on the head and body, then catching his man firmly on his left arm, he “fiddled” him with the right, and as he struggled away gave him the leg and fell heavily on him. (The Rowe-ites mute with astonishment.)

6.—Both showed signs of punishment, Rowe on mouth, eye, cheek, and left ear, Broome on the left cheek. Rowe short with the left; a rally, when Harry caught Rowe an upper-cut with the left, but Rowe grappled him, and Harry got down through his hands, amidst the jeers and scoffs of the Rowe party.

7.—Broome came up slowly; he sparred and shifted ground, but Rowe would not be drawn. Broome sent out his left, but was short, and in a second attempt just reached Joe’s neck with his right, who threw his head back with great quickness out of the way of mischief. Three times in succession Rowe stopped Broome’s left with great neatness. (“That’s the way to break his heart,” cried Jack Macdonald.) After some more clever sparring, in which little damage was done, Broome closed, and again threw his man, falling on him.

8.—Broome was again neatly stopped, but he persevered and got in a smasher on Rowe’s damaged mouth, who counter-hit, but not effectively. Broome got in to half-arm and visited Rowe’s left eye. Joe, not relishing these pops, dropped on his knees, but Harry caught him with his left arm and lifted him bodily up from the ground, thus displaying immense muscular strength, threw him and dropped on him. (2 to 1 on Broome.)

9.—Harry came up smiling confidently. He led off with his left, but Rowe stopped him three or four times beautifully. (Applause.) At length they got close, and Broome twice in succession got home on Rowe’s mouth and eye. Rowe, wild and stung, rushed into close quarters, but Broome got away, broke ground, and twice or three times popped in sharp hits in the face. Rowe got down in his own corner during a rally.

10.—Broome played round his man actively, occasionally getting in a “little one.” Rowe was slow, and stood steadily on the defensive. He evidently reckoned on Broome tiring himself by doing all the work. He could not, however, keep Broome out, who gave him a tidy smack on the cheek, and Rowe got down.

11.—Rowe still slow and on the defensive. Broome put in a nobber, and Rowe was down on the grass.

12.—Rowe stopped a succession of hits with the left, but Broome would not come in to be propped; at last they exchanged two or three sharp hits, when Broome closed and threw Rowe, but not heavily.

13.—Good out-fighting on the part of Broome, who planted on Rowe’s neck and ear. Rowe continued his stopping, and stepping back, until Broome, tired of the game, fought in, closed, and threw him.

14.—Broome got home with his left, a cutting blow; Rowe let go right and left wildly, of which Broome took advantage, closed, caught him round the waist, and flung him cleverly.

15.—Rowe still stopped steadily, but was sadly short in the returns. As we have before said, his blows did not go from the shoulder, but partook of the flip-flap character of the sparring school. Broome advanced and retreated, and at last, springing in, caught Rowe in the mark with his left, and gave the “first knock down.”

16 to 19.—Broome made the fighting, got in his left, and threw his man in all these rounds.

20.—Rowe maintained his steadiness amazingly. He stopped with precision, and was getting down from Broome’s onslaught when Harry seized him, lifted him by sheer strength, and threw him.

21.—Rowe getting slow, and apparently vexed at not being able to get his man to hitting distance. Broome played half-round to the right, then to the left. Rowe went in desperately and forced a rally, in which he got home his right a sounder on Broome’s jaw, and both were down, amidst the uproarious cheers of the East-enders, who seemed “thankful for small mercies.”

22.—Broome showed symptoms of fatigue; he coughed and hemmed, stepped back, and rubbed his arms, leisurely surveying his antagonist. “Don’t be gammoned,” said Bill Hayes; Rowe nodded his head assentingly. As Rowe would not advance Broome went to him, and in some sharp exchanges hit hardest and oftenest. Broome’s right came in sharp contact with Rowe’s sconce as he was going down, and Broome was seen pulling at his right little finger, to which some mischance had happened.

23.—On coming to the scratch Broome again sparred à la distance. “Go in,” cried Crawley to Rowe; “his hands are gone, it’s all your own.” This was an error; “the wish was father to the thought,” for Harry frustrated his adversary’s attempt by sending his left slap in Rowe’s mazzard, hit him with the supposed disabled right in the ribs, closed, and got him down.

24.—Broome popped in his left, closed, and rolled over his man as he got down.

25.—Rowe, getting slower and slower, seemed to content himself with guarding his head and ribs, and shifting. Broome bided his time, but at length got home, and muzzled poor Joe, who went to grass somehow.

26.—As before, Rowe on the defensive, stopping, but not returning. Broome followed him up, forced him on to the ropes, and rolled over with him.

27th and last.—Broome came to the scratch cheerfully; his seconds certainly sent him up remarkably clean. Although Rowe, as before, stopped an experimental left-hander or two, Harry gave him two severe smashers on the mouth and cheek, then closing as Rowe was trying to get down, he gave him the crook, and fell heavily on him. It was all over. Rowe, though still strong on his legs, declined to continue the contest; and Bill Hayes threw up the sponge in token of defeat. Young Harry was highly elated. He jumped about the ring like a parched pea in a frying-pan, shook hands with his opponent, and performed a coup de théâtre by pressing the winning-colours to his lips, and then waving them round his head. At this moment Harry showed no further discolouration of the face than a blue mark under the left eye. One of the bones of his right-hand, however, was broken, and from that round it was of little effectual service, though he used it several times. The fight lasted exactly fifty-seven minutes, and from first to last was conducted with the utmost fairness, and without the slightest interruption from the surrounding multitude, which was largely increased by the accession of several Whitsun clubs, who were celebrating their holiday in the neighbourhood.

Remarks.—Broome won the fight from superior tact, good in-fighting, and the clever use of his legs, both in getting away and throwing. To the quick use of his left—for he did but little with the right—the downfall of his game antagonist is also to be ascribed. Rowe, we must confess, from what we had previously seen, somewhat disappointed us. Not only was he slow, and generally short, but his hits were elbow-deliveries, while, before the battle was half through, he adopted such a determined line of mere defensive tactics as never could have gained him victory over such a courageous and active adversary as Young Broome. We almost suspected he had made up his mind to defeat early in the fight. Broome’s youth, though much against him, was relied on by Rowe, mistakingly, as the event proved. He was neither so much exhausted, or even tired, as his older opponent. It would be prudent, from the injury he has twice sustained in his right-hand, that he should, for a time, retire from the active pursuit of the profession he has adopted, until gristle has hardened to bone, and well-knit sinew and tendon replace his youthful rounded muscle. That Young Harry possesses steadiness, self-possession, game, and confidence he has fully shown, and these, aided by the increasing strength and stamina which time must bring, must ensure him a high position among pugilistic professionals. The weather was, throughout the day, most favourable, and order and regularity admirably maintained, Spring, Peter Crawley, Jem Burn, Owen Swift, Johnny Hannan, Jem Turner, Young Reid, Jemmy Welsh, and others of the corps d’élite, contributing greatly to this desirable state of things.

At this period (1846) there resided at Birmingham a boxer of high local repute, some five years the senior of Harry, and still in his prime, who, in the opinion of his fellow-townsmen, was well fitted to check the triumphant career of the juvenile representative of the house of Broome, which was considered to have transferred its pugilistic fame from its native place to London. This was Ben Terry, whose successive defeats of Jem Hodgkiss, Forster, Davis of Birmingham, and Tom Davis, in 1841, 1842, 1843, and 1844, all middle-weights, had earned for him a character approaching invincibility. After some cavilling with Johnny Broome in times passed by, before that boxer retired from the Ring, which, however, ended in nothing. Ben now proposed a match for £100 a side, with Young Harry, at 10st. 4lbs., and the youngster, nothing loth, closed with the offer. There was much partisan feeling mixed up in the affair, and on February 3rd, 1846, the men met at Shrivenham, Berkshire, on the Great Western line. There was tedious disputation on the choice of a referee; and the behaviour of the partisans of Terry was simply disgraceful, and marked most significantly the falling fortunes of the Ring. The unfinished battle, which occupies an immense and undue space in the contemporary report, is not worth preserving. Suffice it to say that for the first half hour the fighting of Harry was singularly irregular and wild, and only accountable upon the supposition, loudly proclaimed by Brother Johnny, that Young Harry had been stupefied by the surreptitious introduction of some drug in his drink—in short, had been “hocussed.” We, who witnessed the fight, however loth we should be to admit such a shameful act without clear evidence, could not resist the suspicion of some foul play. Terry, however, seemed to fight very little better than his opponent. After the 35th round, the confusion and disorder defied description. The ring was broken in, and filled with an unruly crowd; repeated claims of “foul” were made from both sides; the referee was sought to be intimidated by uproar and threats; and finally the fight was claimed for Terry, without any decision being given by the properly constituted authorities, and the respective parties returned—the one to Birmingham, the other to London, to wrangle over the destination of the £200 in the hands of the stakeholder. After a tedious controversy and furious mutual recriminations, it is clear that the Terry party did not fancy a second meeting, and the affair ended by Johnny Broome, on behalf of his brother, consenting to draw stakes on receipt of a douceur of £5. Terry, who was subsequently beaten by Coates and Posh Price, died at Birmingham, October 12th, 1862.

We have noted in the life of the Tipton Slasher, how, after his defeat of Paddock, in December, 1850, he laid public claim to the Championship; how Bendigo, after stating that he was prepared to fight for £500, and no less, backed out when the Tipton offered to meet him for that amount; and further, that he, the Tipton, would fight any man for £100 or £200. This challenge was unanswered until May, 1851, when Broome declared himself ready to make a deposit for an “Unknown,” for £200 a side. This was accepted. At a subsequent meeting at Johnny Broome’s, on the 2nd of June, the articles were completed, and the battle agreed to take place within four months. On the occasion first named poor Tom Spring, who had in this case undertaken to see to the interests of the Slasher in London, lay stretched on a bed of sickness, struggling with that grim antagonist who soon after gave him his final fall; consequently Johnny Broome claimed and received forfeit at the second deposit, the Slasher’s friends not putting in an appearance. In the following week a gleam of hoped-for health on the part of Spring, and the arrival of Perry himself in London, led to a demonstration, and a sum of money was deposited in the hands of the Editor of Bell’s Life on the part of Tipton, to meet the “Unknown” for the sum proposed. That the “Great Unknown” was a mystery, like the authorship of “Junius,” and, for a time, the Waverley Novels, was evident, for men did not scruple to say that Johnny had had a lucky escape from “a bit of bounce” by the receipt of the small amount down. The mystery, however, was quickly dissipated, for at the next meeting, to the astonishment of all, Young Harry announced himself to be the “mysterious stranger,” prepared to join issue with the ponderous Slasher, and from that evening the match progressed satisfactorily.

In the interim, the Tipton, after a provincial tour, went into training at Hoylake, in Cheshire, under the mentorship of Jem Ward, and the superintendence of Jemmy the Black (Young Molyneaux). Harry was, of course, looked after by his brother, but was unable to do so much work as he required, owing to the necessity that arose of constantly shifting his quarters. This, we may now state, was owing to the embarrassed state of his pecuniary affairs, in connection with the Opera Tavern, in the Haymarket, of which he was then the landlord.

When we last saw Harry in the lists, in his interrupted combat with Ben Terry, he was looked upon as a “middle-weight,” his height 5 feet 9 inches, his weight 10½st.; and from this circumstance, despite the assertion that he had grown nearly two inches in stature, and would go to scale full two stone heavier in muscle and bone, there was an obstinate incredulity on the part of many who thought they knew the man, with respect to the 10½st. Harry and the 13st. Slasher ever facing each other in the Ring.

The stakeholder, upon whom devolved the duty of naming the place of fighting, selected Mildenhall. Johnny Broome had a predilection for Six Mile Bottom, near Newmarket, as suitable for the convenience of the sporting men going to the First October Meeting, but this he subsequently abandoned. The place having been appointed, Johnny Broome and Young Spring, on behalf of the Slasher, engaged a special train on the Eastern Counties Line, which, it was notified, would start at half-past eight. There was little excitement abroad, for the eve of so important an event as that which was to decide the vexata quæstio as to who was to be Champion of England. It is true, the houses of the two Broomes, and the Castle Tavern, were thronged, but we did not hear of a bet being made, and a strong impression prevailed up to the very day that something would occur to prevent the issue of the battle. On reaching the platform whence the train was to start we found the assemblage was limited, and we should calculate that not more than one hundred took their places in the carriages, so that these who speculated on gain were on the wrong side of the post. With the exception of Peter Crawley and Old Tom Oliver, we recognised none of the representatives of the old school.

The travellers having taken their seats—the Tipton, accompanied by Nobby Clarke and Molyneaux, being among them—the whistle sounded, and off went the party. A good deal of consternation was expressed by some persons at the non-appearance of Broome; but, on the train arriving at Bishop Stortford, all doubt was set at rest by his presence on the platform. The train once more got under weigh, and shortly the goal was reached. Pursuing a winding lane, the veteran Commissary led the way to the field where Bendigo won his parting laurel from Paddock, in 1850. This ground, however, was found to be under plough, and the travellers had to go further afield; nevertheless, all was soon in apple-pie order for business. The London train band was reinforced by a few of the Norfolk and Suffolk Militiamen, and a cavalry contingent from Newmarket, and by one o’clock there was a tolerable muster round the roped arena. At ten minutes after that hour the Tipton hero advanced to the ring-side, and, removing his nob-cover, tossed it gaily within the magic circle. Harry was not long in answering the Tipton’s call for him to come forth, and was loudly cheered on presenting himself. After shaking hands, the difficult point of choosing a referee came on the tapis. This knotty question seemed likely to occupy the whole day, for to each proposition a negative was offered, chiefly by the Tipton and his friends. One hour and forty minutes were thus cut to waste, but at twenty-five minutes past two the differences ended by the selection of Peter Crawley, and the men commenced their toilettes. Crawley had been previously rejected by the Tipton, from an apprehension that his predilections were in favour of Broome; and it was not until Harry offered to fight without a referee that he at last consented. The choice made, the Slasher approached Crawley, and said all he desired was a fair fight and no favour. If he did anything foul he must abide by the consequences, and if his antagonist did wrong he hoped an equal measure of justice would be meted out to him. Crawley said he might rely on his performing his duty strictly and impartially. All he desired was to see a fair and manly contest, and to see it fairly and manfully fought out.

The attendants on the Slasher were Nobby Clarke and Jem Molyneaux. The bold Harry was esquired by Callaghan, of Derby, and Bob Castles, Johnny, of course, being in the corner. A little interlude, in the shape of a shindy between Molyneaux and Callaghan, enlivened the interval of suspense, but, on everything being ready, they were soon quieted down. The ring was admirably kept throughout, Tom Callas, Jerry Noon, Mallet, and others lending a helping hand. The betting at the commencement was 2 to 1 on the Slasher; and at forty-five minutes past two business began.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—And so the men stood up, and all doubts, fears, and suspicions as to whether there would or would not be a fight were at an end, and the question was now to be set at rest as to what sort of a fight those present were to witness, and we were to record. No sooner had the youthful Harry struck his canvass, and exhibited himself in Nature’s buff suit, than an almost audible buzz of surprise and admiration broke from the spectators. Never did gladiator of old offer a finer study for the chisel of the sculptor or the pencil of the painter. 5ft. 10½in. in stature, his height was only fairly proportioned to his weight, 12st. 10lbs. on the morning of the battle, which, by-the-bye, was 10lbs. too much. His chest and scapulæ, with their masses of prominent and rigid muscle, were almost preternaturally developed; and as he swung his long, round arms, with the motion of one practising with the dumb-bells, closing and unclosing his hands (black with the astringent juices applied to them), to supple his joints for the impending encounter, all seemed to agree that he was up to the standard of weight and measure which the veteran Captain Barclay said “was big enough to fight any two-legged creature that ever walked.” There is much, however, in “a name”—despite Juliet’s declaration to the contrary, which, coming from a green young Miss, don’t carry much authority—and, accordingly, the old ring-goers were half inclined to a belief in the Slasher’s invincibility, and doubted whether the audacious “boy,” as the Tipton contemptuously called him in our hearing, would stand up to his ancient friend and fellow-trainer in bygone days. That this was a mistake was soon apparent. Throwing up his hands with smiling confidence, Harry toed the scratch, saying, as he did so, “Here I am, old boy, and I mean to win to-day.” The Tipton grinned—the absence of his incisors imparting that expression to his laugh. On the present occasion, though he looked brown, hardy, and sunburnt, there was somewhat of an antiquated cut about his figure-head which was not observable on his last public appearance, which, as we have already recorded, was with Paddock, in December, 1850. His frame, however, showed no waste or diminution of its formidable proportions. Poised upon his letter K-like pedestals, his huge upper works, broad shoulders, immense blade-bones, wide loins and well-ribbed carcase showed the ponderous athlete, though the bloom and freshness of youth had faded from his skin. It was clear he meant to give no rest, and as little room and opportunity, to his antagonist as he could help. Harry offered with his left high up, in the direction of the Slasher’s nob; it was a sort of measuring, and he stepped aside, breaking ground with graceful agility. Slasher followed him, when he stepped aside laughing, closing and unclosing his hands, playing about out of reach, and sparring. “Go to him, Tipton,” cried Jemmy Wharton; “he’s afraid of you.” The Tipton did as he was bid, and Harry retreated until near the ropes. The Tipton let go his right, and just reached Harry’s ribs, who rapidly caught him a cross-counter with the left on the face. A couple of rather hasty exchanges brought the men together; they separated, and Broome delivered an upper cut on the Slasher’s face, who retaliated on Harry’s body so effectively that he slipped in jumping back, and fell, throwing up his feet as he reached the ground, to prevent the Tipton falling on him, and, when he found himself safely landed, bringing his heels over his head with a spring, and turning a complete somersault. A claim for a knock-down; but it was anything but that. Four minutes. (6 to 4 on the Tipton, and no takers.)

2.—Harry came up laughing, and nodded at the Tipton, who laughed and nodded in return. Nothing was the matter on either side. Slasher followed Broome, who retreated to the ropes. “Get nearer, Harry,” cried Brother Johnny. “Don’t go after him,” said Molyneaux, and the Tipton in turn retired to the scratch, to which he pointed down with his index-finger. Harry stepped right up to his head, and delivered his left flush on the Slasher’s mouth. (Cheers.) There was a momentary pause, Slasher pursued Harry to the ropes, where the latter jumped into a close, and caught his opponent round the waist. Harry tried to get the lock, but both were down, Tipton having hold of the upper rope with his right.

3.—Broome was all confidence and elasticity. He went up to the Slasher, and reached his head, then retreated from the return. “He’ll stand it,” cried Callaghan. The Tipton got in his left on Harry’s right cheek, who, in return, gave him a sounding flush hit on the olfactory organ. The Slasher let fly right and left, and the men closed near the centre stake. Harry got an unmistakable outside look with his right leg over the crooked knee of the Slasher. There were a few seconds of severe struggling, when Broome, having fixed his hold, brought the Slasher over on his back. Down he came, shaking the earth with the concussion, his shoulders, neck, and back part of his caput first saluting the ground, while Harry rolled over on him. The effect was electrifying: even “Peter the Great” gave an audible grunt in unison with the “thud” that accompanied the Slasher’s downfall. There lay the crooked Colossus prostrate, till his active seconds, seizing him by the legs and wings, conveyed him to his corner, whither Harry followed him with inquiring eyes.

4.—Tipton came well and boldly, but not till time had been several times vociferously called, the Broomites evidently in most hurry. Harry shifted round and round the corners, the Slasher following him. Harry reached the Tipton’s mouth smartly, who let go both hands. The hit sounded. Broome closed, and tried the lock again. The Tipton avoided his hips, and both were on the grass.

5.—The Tipton had shaken off the effects of his fall. He tried to gammon Harry within reach of his formidable right by short feints with the left. As this did not have the desired effect, he went in, hitting out with both hands. Harry nailed him on the frontispiece, and as he came on again, administered an upper-cut. It was not quite close enough, or it might have told tales. In the close the Tipton was under at the ropes, but it was no detriment.

6.—Broome went to the Slasher’s head in the most manly style, and popped in one. “Fortune favours the brave.” Tipton retorted, but missed one very mischievous hit. The men closed, Harry hit up, catching the Tipton on the nose, and both were down in the scramble—the Tipton, if either, first.

7.—“First blood” for Broome, which was unmistakably distilling from the Slasher’s nose, to which he put his hand as if to feel it. The Tipton forced Broome to the ropes, threatening with his right, where they closed, and after some not very effective fibbing, Broome brought the Tipton down on his back, falling on his stomach with his latter end. (An offer to take evens on Broome.)

8.—Smart active sparring and a bustling exchange. Harry gave the Slasher a very heavy hit on the jaw, producing a slight cut. The Tipton retorted with a nobber, and also sent home a body-hit. Whether the Tipton’s right hand had lost its cunning or not, these ribbers did not seem to stagger the Young One as they did former adversaries. Still, the old one rattled in, and in the scuffle was jobbed in the head, till at the end of the round Broome pushed him from him sideways with both hands, when he got down. Bellows to mend on both sides.

9.—The Slasher came up grinning, but his merriment looked rather forced, although the hitting had left but little traces on his hard features. He hit very short with his left, and Broome walked round smiling. There was a close at the ropes in Harry’s corner, in which the Tipton got Broome awkwardly over them, and hung on him, holding the rope with his right, his left hand being across Harry’s face. The rope was slacked, and Harry was let down. The referee was appealed to, who ordered the fight to proceed.

10.—Exchanges: Harry gave the Tipton a blow on the left eye that raised a lump, then swung round and broke away from the return. He jobbed the Slasher as he advanced, but was driven to the ropes, whence he suddenly sprang forward, took a half-arm hit, and making his favourite grip, brought the Tipton over—a heavy fall—tumbling on him with his knees. As Harry lay on the grass, he blew like a grampus.

11.—The Slasher came slowly up. There was a short pause, when again Broome went up to his head. The Slasher’s right reached Harry’s body, who put in a sharp left-hander that cut the Tipton’s lip; there was some quick half-arm hitting, in which Broome delivered a clever upper-cut with his right, and both were down. Broome uppermost, the crimson fluid from the Slasher’s nose and lip smearing Harry’s frontispiece as they embraced.

12.—The Tipton bored Harry to the ropes, was on to him before he got his chance for a lunge, and had him down in a scramble.

13.—Harry retreated to the ropes. The Tipton followed. Broome stopped his left, and shifted from his right, but got a slight taste as he broke ground, and moved round his man. Harry dashed at the Slasher, and got within his guard. There was a short scrambling rally, when the Tipton got down to avoid the lock. Offers to take evens, and then to bet the short odds on “the Young’un.” Bob Castles retired from Broome’s corner in this round, and his place was supplied by Macdonald. An objection to the change of seconds overruled.

14.—Broome milled prettily on the retreat, the Tipton hitting remarkably short with his left. Harry unclosed his hands, and shifting round towards the Slasher’s corner, said, cheerfully, “I’ll take odds ‘the boy’ licks him without a black eye.” The Tipton was evidently more bothered than beaten, and the facility with which he was thrown made him put on his considering cap. Broome went up to his head, as if to attack, but as quickly stepped back. The Slasher followed, and let go both hands, his right alone getting home. Harry turned at the instant, hit up sharply with the left, and weaving away, the Tipton got down. In the in-fighting there were some heavy hits exchanged, and Broome’s over-weight told sadly on his bellows, which heaved and jerked like those of a pumped-out steeplechaser.

15th and last.—There was a little squabble about time, the Slasher slowest from his corner. Both sides seemed somewhat inclined to spar for wind. Harry dashed in, evidently with the intention of closing and trying for a heave. He hit the Tipton on the chin, but the Ould’un got away, as if to get room for his right. Harry advanced, closed, and a struggle took place, each attempting to hit. The Tipton grasped him tightly with his left, and was trying to hit with his right, when Harry slipped down on both knees. The Tipton let go his right just as he reached the ground, giving him a decided nobber, which certainly did not reach its destination till Harry was down. It was the work of a moment. The shouts from all sides were tremendous. Broome’s seconds ran to the umpires and referee, as did the ever-active Molyneaux, on the side of the Tipton. There was a short pause, during which “Peter the Great” declared he had not yet been formally appealed to. This was done, the umpires, of course, disagreeing. “A most deliberate foul,” said “Peter the Great,” and the ring broke up. Thirty-three minutes had sufficed for the present decision of the question, “Who is the Champion of England?”

As the ponderous Peter left the roped enclosure, another instance was added to the many previous of the suicidal conduct of the present race of Ring men. The referee was surrounded by a vociferous and violent mob, whose language was of the most outrageous description. The Tipton himself, too, so “raised the dander” of the referee by his remarks and conduct, that the veteran Crawley declared he would fight for his credit and integrity, and, to the no small amusement of many, was disencumbering his portly person of his outer coat, to inflict summary punishment on his assailants, when the Tipton was forced away.

Remarks.—Upon this battle, ending in a manner so unsatisfactory, few remarks are necessary. The style of fighting will speak for itself. It was clear that the Tipton was surprised by the vigour and determination of his youthful opponent, and not less so at the manner in which he exhibited his throwing powers; for, in closing, not only was Harry the better wrestler, but apparently the stronger man. How the battle would have terminated had it proceeded in the ordinary way it is impossible to say, and in this respect opinions naturally differed. For, on the one hand, the little punishment that was administered came from the Young One, while the Old One had evidently lost none of his personal confidence, and no doubt anticipated that Harry would out-fight himself, and, by the rapidity of his movements, increase that exhaustion which had already shown itself at the conclusion of some of the earlier rounds. The sudden termination of the battle came upon all by surprise, and few believed that there was a “deliberate” intention on the part of the Tipton to administer the blow which was pronounced “foul.” That Harry was on his knees when he received the ugly hit we can aver, as we were seated by the side of the referee at the time of the appeal. The men were certainly in a scrambling close at the moment; and it was obvious that, while Harry desired to get out of trouble, the Tipton felt inclined to make the most of his fancied advantage. Crawley’s experience thoroughly enabled him to form a correct opinion, and we have no reason to believe that his judgment was not given fairly and impartially. Of course those not over-honest persons, who always attribute unworthy motives to others, assert that Crawley’s prepossessions were in favour of Broome, and that this was the reason why the Tipton originally objected to his being selected as referee. To this we can distinctly oppose that, to our own knowledge, the bias of Peter, if he had any, would have carried him the other way. Such, however, was not the opinion of the Tipton nor of his friends, as the latter, on the following day, served the stakeholder with notice “not to part with their money,” and the Tipton still asserted himself to be “Champion of England.”

Upon this unsportsmanlike proceeding the Editor commented with much severity, arguing that if such practices were pursued, there would be an end to all confidence between man and man in sporting matters, and would assuredly deter any one from posting money on any similar event, as well as from holding stakes.

Harry Orme having, as we have seen in the preceding chapter, defeated Aaron Jones a second time, was strongly urged to put forth his claim to the Championship, and to meet Harry Broome on his “advertised” terms. Months, however, passed before the match was made. First Broome made one stipulation, and then Orme’s friends showed their “stupid cleverness” in a counter-proposition, and there was a cannonade of angry correspondence of the most futile controversial character. Late in the year 1852, however, articles were signed and delivered for a fight to come off on the 18th of April, 1853, for £250 a side, the Editor of Bell’s Life to name the place of fighting, and also appoint a referee.

Harry, who since developing into a Boniface had become excessively corpulent, at once placed himself under the care of Levi Eckersley, at Cleave Hill, near Cheltenham, and here diligently subjected himself to an immense amount of work. Orme went into training near Maidstone, whence, the Monday before the battle, he removed to Greenstreet Green, in Kent.

It being stipulated in the articles that the stakeholder should name the whereabouts for the event, a special train was engaged on the Eastern Counties Railway, for “an excursion of 100 miles or thereabouts,” the exact spot being undivulged to the general sporting public, lest the gentry then known as “Cheapsiders” should get down “by hook or by crook,” and, by alarming the county, spoil sport. The arrangements with the railway company were made with despatch, and the gentlemen at the Shoreditch Station took every care to make such dispositions on the eventful morning as effectually to prevent any of the unprivileged classes from obtaining admittance. The time for starting was nominally a quarter-past eight, but long before that hour the neighbourhood of Shoreditch was in a perfect ferment; the streets and the station-yard were crowded with spectators anxious to get a glimpse of the chief performers in the forthcoming drama; but in this they were disappointed, as they had both proceeded a certain distance on the line of march on the previous day. As the time for starting approached, the arrival of cabs and other vehicles was incessant, and it was perfectly clear that there would be a very large muster of patrons of the sport, the majority of whom were what Pierce Egan would have called “reg’lar nobs and tip-top swells,” but who are, in the present Ring vernacular, classed as patrician and Corinthian patrons of the noble art. At no fight for many years past had there been such a congregation of noblemen and gentlemen; and certainly at no encounter since that between Caunt and Bendigo, in 1845, was so much interest excited. Among the company present we were glad to observe some patrons of the Ring of the Old School—gentlemen who remembered the battles of Cribb, Spring, Hickman (the Gas-man), Oliver, &c. There was also a good sprinkling of Turfites present, attracted partly owing to its being a bye-day in the racing world, and partly by the fact that Orme’s backer was a gentlemen well known in the betting-ring. Among the latest arrivals at the station was the “Arch” Bishop of Bond Street, with a considerable number of his flock. The reverend “gent.” although suffering from gout, had strained a point to be present at such an important contest, no doubt anticipating that the winner would insist upon his “crowning” him upon the spot; but in this the “mad priest” was disappointed: his services were not required, and he had to return to town after the battle, without being called upon to distinguish himself in any manner except in the voracious devouring of the contents of a huge sandwich-box, which he was compelled to attack by the calls of appetite, and in the ceremony of swallowing which he highly distinguished himself. At length the train was full, the station-doors were closed, and at half-past eight precisely the whistle sounded, and we were off. The caravan, consisting of some sixteen carriages, all of which were crammed, proceeded steadily on its way until we reached Bishop Stortford, where we took in Orme (for the fight), and water (for the engine). The next stoppage was Elsenham, where Broome got into the train, and the engineer received his orders as to the final destination. He, acting under directions, pulled up at Ely, where a pilot, who had gone on the previous day, took up his position on the train, and informed us of that of which we had already our misgivings—viz., that an immense number of persons had gone by parliamentary train from London to Mildenhall, early in the morning, and were there in waiting to receive the combatants and their friends. This being the case, proved the correctness of the precautions we had taken in sending on a pilot beforehand. That gentleman now undertook to conduct us to a spot where business could be proceeded with in peace and comfort, and the train once again sped on its way. As we passed Mildenhall, we saw hundreds of disappointed travellers, who had been patiently waiting all the morning, and who were thus, very properly, baulked in their parsimonious intentions. At Lakenheath, the next station, we perceived a company of mounted blues in readiness to spoil sport. These worthies, like the would-be spectators at Mildenhall, also had their trouble and expense for nothing. There was no intention of breaking the peace within their bailiwick, so still the train went on. At length the appointed spot was reached, between two stations, and about 108 miles from London. Here a hasty debarkation was effected, and the train returned to the nearest station. Tom Oliver, his son, and Tom Callas, at once proceeded to erect the lists, while Dan Dismore carried on a brisk business in the sale of inner-ring tickets. Some idea of the number of gentlemen present may be gathered from the fact that the tickets so disposed of realised between £40 and £50. There were, of course, a great number of outsiders on the ground, but owing to the precautions that had been taken in keeping things dark, the total number of spectators did not exceed 2,000. All these persons, by the admirable arrangements, and the activity of the ring-keepers of the Pugilistic Association, obtained an admirable view of the contest throughout, and we did not, during the day, hear of a single disturbance calculated in the slightest degree to interfere with the sport, or those anxious to witness it. By a quarter-past one o’clock the ring was completed. Orme immediately pitched his castor within the ropes, and followed himself, attended by Tom Sayers and Jack Grant. He looked well and hardy, and wore a smile of confidence on his good-humoured mug. In about ten minutes more the other Harry made his appearance, closely followed by Bill Hayman, of Birmingham, and Callaghan, of Derby, his brother Johnny being, as he had promised, “in the corner.” Harry smiled, and shook hands with t’other Harry, and both were loudly cheered. The ceremony of peeling now commenced, and by half-past one the men were delivered at the scratch in fighting undress.

On toeing the scratch, there was a very perceptible difference in the appearance of the men. Broome overtopped his adversary a good two inches, and was proportionably longer in reach. His weight, we are told, did not exceed 12st. 5lbs., but of this he might well have spared half a stone. There was much loose flesh about his back, chest, and ribs, and although he was evidently in rude health, he had not been drawn fine enough to stand a long day’s work under such a burning sun as shone down upon the combatants during the fight. Broome, had he been permitted to take that pains with himself requisite to make him fit, would have been about as awkward a customer as could have been well conceived. As it was, however, he was so much harassed with law and other proceedings that he could not pay that attention to his training that he otherwise would have done. We think at 11st. 8lbs. his condition would be about perfection. His attitude, as he stood awaiting the attack, was admirable, and, had it not been for his fat, he would have looked all over a gladiator. Orme, whose colour is almost mahogany, is barely 5ft. 8in. in height, but is a thick-set, powerful fellow, with a frame of iron, long arms, a perfect bull-neck, and a pair of understandings fit for an Atlas. His weight was 11st. 8lbs., and of this scarcely 2lbs. was superfluous stuff. His attitude, when on the defensive, is not graceful, but he looks rough and ready, his dangerous right being across his mark, but always ready to be dashed out at the least opening on his adversary’s ribs. It was clear that there was a determination on both sides “to do or die,” and the spectators made up their minds that they were in for a good thing. Before the men entered the ring, the betting was 6 and 7 to 4 on Broome, but these odds were, previous to the fight, increased to 2 to 1, at which price a good deal of business was done. The colours having been duly tied to the stakes (blue and white spot for Broome, green, with small white rings thereon for Orme), the signal was given that all was in readiness, and “time” was called.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Broome, after one or two feints, approached his man and attempted to draw him, but Orme was wary, and stepped back. They both then advanced and retreated several times, Broome repeatedly making attempts to kid his man within reach, but Orme was too wary. Broome scratched his ear, as endeavouring to rouse an idea what to do next, when Orme approached and lunged out heavily with his right out of distance; Broome then let fly both hands, but was neatly stopped. Orme now went up to his man and sent out both mauleys, but Broome jumped away. More sparring and fiddling, Orme several times stopping Broome’s left. At length Broome crept close again, lunged out one, two—his left was stopped, but his right just reached the left side of Orme’s nut; Orme returned very heavily with his right on the ribs, and after receiving a gentle tap on the forehead from Broome’s left, the latter closed, and both rolled over. This round lasted eight minutes, and at once showed to the spectators that Orme was much better on his legs and cleverer at stopping than the public had given him credit for.

2.—Again did each man make ineffectual feints out of distance. Broome at length let go his left, but Orme jumped cleverly away. Broome tried it again, but was stopped. “There’s luck in odd numbers,” however, for, in a third attempt, he got home heavily on Orme’s left peeper, and then on his mouth, and, on Orme rushing at him to make a return, Broome turned his back and ran round the ring. They quickly got together again, when, after one or two very slight exchanges, Orme got down.

3.—Broome, on nearing his man, led off with his left, and reached Orme’s kissing-trap. Sharp counter-hits followed, Orme reaching Broome’s left ogle with his right, and Broome getting heavily home on Orme’s right eye. A few weaving half-arm hits followed to a close, and both were down, Orme under.

4.—Broome feinted with his left, but it was no go. At length he succeeded in drawing Orme, who rattled at him, when Broome propped him heavily on the left peeper, drawing “first blood” from a cut on the brow. Some heavy exchanges followed, Orme delivering his right with terrific force on Broome’s ribs three times, and receiving heavy spanks in return on his right ogle and mouth, drawing more claret, and in the end, as Orme lunged out with his right, his head came forward, and Broome administered a terrific upper-cut in the mark, which doubled him up completely. Orme turned round, and gradually fell to the ground. It was now thought to be all over, but Orme, being in good condition, quickly rallied.

5.—Orme, on coming up, showed marks of Broome’s visitations on his right peeper, which was beginning to close, while the marks on Broome’s ribs proved that Orme’s right had done him good service in that quarter. Broome dodged his man, and on Orme poking his head forwards, instantly dashed in his left on the dexter optic. He tried to repeat it, but was stopped. Both now let fly out of distance, crept close, and Broome made his one, two, on the right eye and side of Orme’s canister. Orme returned with severity on the ribs, and then on Broome’s mouth. A pause ensued, during which Broome put down his hands. On lifting them again he approached Orme, planted one hand on the forehead, and the other on the left lug, and cleverly jumped away from Orme’s return. Broome made two attempts to repeat the dose, but Orme got quickly away. Orme now took a turn, swung out his right heavily on the ribs, and got away. Long sparring followed, during which the perspiration came from Broome’s every pore—the sun was insufferably hot for the time of year, and must have been distressing to both men. Caution was now the order of the day, until Broome got within distance, when he sent out his left and caught Orme on the right eye, but not heavily; this he repeated, when Orme again swung out his right, catching Broome heavily on the ribs, and jumped away. Some wild hitting out of distance succeeded, but, on their getting steadier, Broome let go his left spank in Orme’s mouth, and jumped away; again he crept close, made his one, two heavily on the left and right cheek, drawing claret from the latter. On Orme attempting to rush in, Broome again turned tail and ran across the ring. Orme followed him up, when Broome jumped quickly round and delivered his left heavily on the right cheek. Orme countered him heavily on the mazzard—received another spank on the right cheek, when Broome once more turned his back and retreated. Long sparring for wind now took place, after which there was some mutual stopping. Broome, at length caught Orme sharply on the mouth and right cheek, which brought them to a rally, in which Orme’s right was excessively busy on Broome’s ribs, while the returns of Broome did no execution. The repeated “thuds” on his ribs made Broome wince, and screw himself up, evidently with pain; he retired, blowing, while Orme (instead of following him up) stood in the middle of the ring until Broome recovered himself. The latter now popped in his left on the right cheek, but Orme countered him with the left heavily on the nozzle, drawing claret from a cut on the bridge of that organ, which, in Harry, as well as Johnny Broome, is slightly of the Roman order. Orme also caught Broome another spank on the ribs with his right, which led to heavy exchanges, in the course of which Broome reached Orme’s mouth and right cheek, while the latter caught Broome a tremendous hit on the left eyebrow, with his right, inflicting a deep, perpendicular cut, and drawing the ruby in profusion. Broome retired, and wiped away the fluid as it ran into his ogle, Orme again refusing to profit by opportunity, and go in while his man was confused. Broome soon recovered his presence of mind, went at his man, and, after some rattling exchanges, Orme was down, amidst the vociferous cheers of his friends, who considered that in this round he had infinitely the best of the hitting. It was a tremendous round, lasting sixteen minutes, during the greater part of which time the hitting was extremely severe.

6.—Both came up puffing, and their countenances considerably changed since the last round. After a good deal of sparring out of distance, Broome opened the ball, just reaching Orme’s nose with his left. A second attempt was frustrated by Orme jumping away and lunging out his right most viciously at the body; luckily, however, for the Champion, it did not reach him, or it would most assuredly have “found him at home.” Broome again crept up, caught Orme on the potato-trap with his left, but was prettily stopped in a second attempt. He tried once more, reached Orme’s left whisker-bed, but napped it heavily on the sore spot, his left eyebrow, from which a fresh tap was instantly opened. Broome retreated to wipe away the carmine from his peeper, and as Orme attempted to follow him up, he met him with a straight shooter on the mouth, which opened up another spring. This caused Orme to rush in wildly, when he caught it severely on the smeller, from which more claret trickled; Broome then closed, and, after a long struggle, threw and fell heavily on Orme.

7.—Broome led off with his left, but was neatly stopped; he tried again left and right, and was again parried, Orme returning a stinger with his right on the left eye. Orme now took the initiative, dashed in regardless of consequences, and was propped heavily on the left eye. This led to tremendous counter-hits with the left, each getting well home on his opponent’s smelling-bottle. A ding-dong rally followed, both getting it severely on the mouth and nose, left and right, and Orme punching Broome’s ribs with great severity. At length they closed, and rolled over together, Orme under.

8.—Both came up much the worse for wear. They sparred cautiously for wind, until Broome got close and sent out his left, which Orme parried, and missed his return. Broome led off twice in succession; the first time Orme jumped away, but the second Broome paid a visit to his right cheek. Orme then made his left on the chest, Broome returning with both hands on the side of his opponent’s nut and his right cheek-bone. Two more attempts were cleverly stopped by Orme, after which they rested a short time. Broome was first to recommence, caught Orme on the left cheek, and received another awkward reminder on the left eyebrow from Orme’s right sledge-hammer. Heavy exchanges followed, Orme getting well home on Broome’s mug and nose, and Broome on the right ogle and mouth. Broome now resorted to his old system of turning his back and running away, Orme after him. Broome at length turned round, let out his left, but was countered heavily on the nozzle and mouth. Heavy hits were now exchanged, left and right, and in the end Orme caught Broome full on the point of his conk, drawing the ruby in profusion, and knocking the Champion off his legs; “first knock-down” being awarded to Orme amidst vociferous cheering. This round, which, like the fifth, was extremely severe, lasted twelve minutes.

9.—Broome came up snuffling; the crack on his snuff-box in the last round had evidently been a teazer. His left eye was fast closing, and the hopes of the East Enders began to be in the ascendant. The betting receded almost to even money, and it was clear Broome had made the discovery that his adversary was no such catch as people had expected. He, nevertheless, opened the proceedings by dashing out his left, which was well stopped. Counter-hits followed, Broome reaching his opponent’s left cheek, and receiving in return on the mouth. Broome next made play left and right, caught the gallant Orme heavily on each cheek, and then, closing, threw and fell on him. (One hour had now elapsed.)

10.—Broome once more took the lead, but was prettily stopped. Heavy counter-hits followed, Broome on the nose and Orme on the left cheek. A close at the ropes succeeded, when Broome hugged Orme round the neck. Orme, however, punched away at his ribs until Broome released him, and Orme retreated to the centre of the ring, whither Broome followed him, and some heavy exchanges took place, Orme reaching Broome’s nose and left peeper, and Broome punishing him severely on the mouth. In the end Orme got down.

11.—Broome, first to open the ball, caught Orme sharply on the ivory box with his left, drawing claret and loosening several of his head rails. Orme would not be stalled off, but immediately rattled in, when some heavy counter-hitting took place, each getting it severely on the nose and mouth. A break away and at it again. The hitting in this round was really tremendous, both men staggering away after the counters, and each having his cork drawn to some purpose. At length they closed, and after a slight struggle Orme got down.

12.—Broome, in coming up, looked weak and distressed. Orme was also by no means in good order; both his cheeks were considerably swollen, and his mouth was “reethur” out of shape. Orme led off, but was well stopped. A second attempt from his right reached Broome’s ribs very heavily, and caused the latter to wince like a galled horse. He quickly got over it, however, and dashed out his left on Orme’s mouth. He tried again, but Orme stepped back, propping Master Broome on the sneezer with his left as he came in. Exchanges followed, Orme inflicting a fresh cut under Broome’s left peeper, and receiving sharply on his damaged kissing trap. In the end Orme got down to avoid the fall.

13.—Broome, after a little cautious sparring, let go his left and right, but was short, and Orme immediately returned on his right peeper; Broome retreated, and as Orme came after him Broome sent out his left on the mouth again, drawing the cork freely. Broome now made two attempts to get in his one, two, but on each occasion Orme was too quick for him, and jumped away. In a third attempt he reached Orme’s smeller, a heavy nose-ender, which again tapped his best October. He repeated the dose on the mug, whereupon Orme dashed in, caught him on the left cheek with his right, closed, and, after a short struggle, both were down.

14.—Orme feinted with his left, and then dashed in his right on Broome’s left ogle, a very heavy hit. Broome returned on the mouth, and then retreated; some sparring at a distance followed, and on their again getting close, Broome sent out both mawleys, but was cleverly stopped. Orme then popped in his left on the right cheek, and Broome, in getting away from further visitations, fell through the ropes.

15.—Both slow to the call of “time,” and on reaching the scratch they stood and looked at each other until Orme advanced, when Broome tried to meet him with his left, but Orme stopped him neatly twice, and at a third attempt jumped away. Orme then again crept in and made his right tell heavily on the ribs. Broome now sent home his left and right on the left ogle and nose of Orme, repeated the dose on the nose and mouth heavily, and as Orme dashed in with his right on the ribs, Broome caught him a tremendous upper-cut on the mark with his right, and Orme fell.

16.—Orme, on coming up, appeared to have suffered severely from the upper-cut in the last round; he was evidently much shaken, in addition to which both his eyes were gradually going. He nevertheless tried to lead off left and right, but his blows wanted power. Broome returned on the left cheek, and then on the mouth, Orme’s return being out of distance. Orme still persevered, but got propped heavily on the nose from Broome’s left. Broome at length closed, when Orme punched him heavily on the ribs, but Broome succeeded in throwing and falling heavily on him.

17.—Orme led off left and right, but was stopped; he then rushed in, and was propped heavily on the nose, and got down. (Time, one hour and a half.)

18.—Broome rattled in left and right on the ogles of Orme, and got away. Orme followed him up, reached his chest with the left, and was propped heavily on the left cheek. Broome closed, and catching Orme round the neck, hugged him until Orme dropped on his knees. Orme then put his hands round Broome’s thigh, but Broome got away, and walked to his corner. A claim of “foul” was made on the part of Broome, on the ground that he (Orme) had attempted to pull him over by catching him below the waistband. The claim, however, was not allowed, the referee believing that Orme was utterly unaware as to where he had caught hold of Broome.

19.—Broome again led off left and right, reaching Orme’s cheek and mouth heavily. A close, and some in-fighting in favour of Broome, followed by a break-away, and at it again, Broome delivering heavily on Orme’s nose and eyes, and drawing claret from several bottles. In the end Broome closed, and threw his man again, making the unpleasant addition of his own weight.

20.—Both long in answering to the call of time, but Broome first up. On getting close Orme caught Broome on the ribs, and was countered sharply on the nose. Broome then took the lead, and planted on his right cheek heavily. This brought them to some sharp exchanges in favour of Broome. In the end, Orme got down on his knees, and Broome caught him on the os frontis with his left while in that position. A claim of “foul” was now made by Orme’s friends, but it was clear Broome’s blow had started before Orme reached the ground, and could not have been withheld. The decision was again “fair,” and the mill proceeded.

21.—Broome, after one or two feints, let go his left, reaching Orme’s snuff-box with effect; slight exchanges ensued, and Orme again got down weak.

22.—Broome, seeing his man was much shaken, at once went to work, caught Orme heavily on the left cheek, and closed at the ropes, where he hung on Orme; the latter pegged away at Broome’s ribs until he let him go, and Orme then planted his right heavily on Broome’s left cheek. Tremendous exchanges followed, each staggering from the effects of the blows, Broome reaching Orme’s left eye and nose, and he receiving on the left peeper and ribs. Broome then stepped back, and as Orme came again caught him heavily on the left ogle, and Orme fell. Both were now much distressed, and lay on their backs on the ground until time was called.

23.—Orme was the first at the scratch, and attempted to lead off, but Broome got cleverly away, and then went at his man, delivering both hands on the mouth and nose heavily, and jumped easily away from Orme’s returns, which were sadly out of distance. Orme, however, followed him up, and although Harry met him full on the snout, he planted his dangerous right on the ribs with astonishing effect. Harry then reached Orme’s sinister peeper heavily, drawing more of the Falernian, and finally shut up the shop. Rattling exchanges followed, Broome getting well home on the mouth, and receiving a slogging right-hander on the jaw, from the effects of which he staggered back and fell in his corner.

24.—Orme came up almost blind, but still he persevered; he feinted, and tried to get on to Broome, who stepped cleverly away, and waited for the attack. Orme did not keep him long in suspense, but dashed out left and right; the former was stopped, but the latter reached Broome’s damaged peeper, drawing more blood. Broome, however, by way of retaliation, cross-countered him on the nose heavily, again drawing a crimson stream. Broome now walked to his corner, took a sponge and wiped his eye, and went at it again, caught Orme heavily on the point of the nose with his left, and Orme dropped on his knees, Broome again catching him a snorter just as he reached terra firma, giving rise to another appeal, which was not allowed.

25.—Caution the order of the day, both evidently tired. Orme at last led off, and caught Broome with his right on the side of his cranium, on which Broome closed, and Orme immediately got down.

26.—Orme led off with his left, but was short. Broome quickly returned one, two, on his left cheek and mug, and got away from Orme’s return. Orme persevered and bored in, but Broome hit him straight on the cheek, Orme being again out of distance with his returns. At last he reached Broome’s ribs with a heavy right-hander, and Broome returned on the mouth. Both now retired to their corners, and permitted their seconds to wipe their phisogs for them, and took a pull of “Adam’s ale,” after which refreshing ceremony they once more returned to the scratch, and Broome let fly his left on Orme’s left cheek, closed, and after a short struggle both were down. (Two hours had now expired.)

27.—Broome set a good example by dashing out his left on Orme’s right cheek, which led to light exchanges at the ropes. Orme then walked to the middle of the ring, whither Broome followed, gave him a spank in the left eye, and walked away. He again approached his man, caught him heavily on the mouth, and in return received another rib-bender from Orme’s right. Broome now made his right tell on Orme’s ribs, and in getting away from the return fell.

28.—Orme, although almost in darkness, led off with his right on the ribs—he attempted a repetition, but Broome caught him heavily on the mouth and then on the nose. After some slight exchanges in favour of Broome, they again retired to their corners and had a rest, and came at it again; Orme was receiver-general, and in the end got down.

29.—Orme again led off, but was well stopped; he tried it yet once more, but from the style of his hitting it was pretty clear he could scarcely see his adversary. He, however, reached Broome’s ribs heavily after one or two attempts, and Broome missed a well-intended upper-cut in return. The latter, however, soon approached his now fast-sinking adversary, delivered his left and right heavily on Orme’s left ogle and smeller, drawing a fresh supply of claret from the latter, and knocking his man down.

30.—Orme came up very groggy and wild, but determined; he led off with his right, but Broome laughingly stepped on one side; he tried again but was stopped, and received heavily on the left eye and mouth, and was again knocked down. His backers and seconds, seeing that it was useless to prolong the contest, wished to throw up the sponge, but the gallant fellow would not hear of it, and he laid on his back until time was called, when he again went to the scratch for the

31st and last round.—It was evident that he came up only to receive, and that he was struggling against nature; he was all but blind, and tremendously punished about the head, but was still tolerably strong on his pins. He led off wildly, but of course was out of distance. Broome then went to him, administered the coup de grâce, in the shape of a gentle tap on the nose, and the brave fellow went to earth almost insensible. Tom Sayers now threw up the sponge, and Harry Broome was proclaimed the victor, and still Champion of England, amidst the vociferous cheers of his friends. The battle lasted exactly two hours and eighteen minutes. All being over, all at once made for the station to which the train had been removed, the vanquished man being conveyed there on a truck. The only personage left behind on the ground was Jem Burn, who, being still a martyr to the gout, declined attempting to walk a good mile along the railway to the station, and intimated his intention of remaining on the field of battle all night. All necessity for his imposing on himself such a penalty as this was, however, avoided by the engineer taking the engine and tender which had been attached to the train down the line to the place where “my nevvy” was located, and bringing him up, sitting on a heap of coke, to the door of the carriage in which his patrons were already seated. All now quickly ensconced themselves in the train, and the homeward journey was commenced about half-past four o’clock, and the Metropolis was reached about eight o’clock, after many stoppages. On the homeward passage a collection was made for the game and resolute Orme, which reached the handsome sum of £22, and this was considerably increased at the giving up of the stakes.

Remarks.—This battle took everybody by surprise. On the one hand, there had been continual rumours that Broome never intended fighting, that he could not possibly get himself anywhere near fit, and that the match would end in a juggle. On the other, it was asserted that Orme had overreached himself, and was flying at too high game; that he would never be able to reach Harry Broome, and must be beaten in half an hour. Our readers will perceive, by the foregoing account, that the “croakers” were far from the mark. The fight was the best we have had for years between two big men. Broome has lost none of his scientific acquirements. He is a good straight hitter, clever at stopping, an excellent wrestler, and quick on his pins. He is, however, remarkably awkward in getting away when in difficulty—instead of jumping back, as we are accustomed to see others do, he turns his back and runs, leaving himself open to severe punishment from a cleverer tactician than Orme. Although he was much out of condition, and was hit very hard, both in the ribs and on the frontispiece, and several times was in great difficulties, he persevered most gamely throughout, and took his punishment like a thorough glutton. Should he make another match, he ought to commence training much earlier than he did on the present occasion, and reduce himself certainly to 11st. 10lb., which is the outside weight at which he ought to fight. If he does this, we think, looking at the way in which he fought on Monday, he will prove himself a tough customer to all comers, and the man who wrests the laurels of the Championship from him will have reason to be proud of his achievement. Orme, since his last battle with Aaron Jones, has wonderfully improved in science and quickness. On Monday, for a considerable length of time, Broome found it exceedingly difficult to get on to him; he could stop well, get away sharply, and, directly he saw an opening, was ready with his dangerous right, which, as will be seen above, proved a dreadful teaser to the flesh-covered ribs of Broome. We consider him to be the severest hitter of the present day, and did he but understand leading off with his left, instead of giving his head, as he must necessarily do when he makes play with his right, would be “hard to beat.” The knock-down blow on Broome’s nose and jaw, and one or two of the punches in the ribs, administered early in the fight, were of such a nature as for the time to reduce Broome to a standstill, and had Orme only possessed the requisite skill to follow up his advantage, things might have presented a very serious aspect as regarded Broome’s chance of winning. By saying that Orme did not possess skill, we do not for an instant impute to him a want of ordinary boxing capability, but a want of tact in knowing when to “force the pace,” and prevent his opponent recovering wind and strength. Had Orme been capable of pursuing that system, the result might have been “a horse of another colour.” This only applies to the earlier part of the contest. After the upper-cut administered on the mark in the 15th round, a great deal of the steel was taken out of Orme, and we are informed that he felt sick during the remainder of the fight, while Broome slowly, but surely, improved his position. Although Orme now and then got again on the damaged ogle and ribs, Broome almost invariably met him on the eyes and mouth, gradually reducing his chance, until, in the last round, he was completely blind, and nature had deserted him. Some remarks were made on the novelty of the men retiring to their corners, and “taking a drink” during the rounds. We do not recollect ever witnessing a similar scene before; but the want of condition on the part of Broome, combined with the heat of the day, was a very good excuse for his adopting such a plan, and as it was resorted to by one, there could, of course, be no reason why the example should not be followed by the other. The battle, from first to last, was a manly, upright struggle for pre-eminence—neither man attempted to take an unworthy advantage—and had it not been for the ridiculous appeals made by the seconds on each side, would have been a model mill in every sense of the word. Such a fight for the Championship has not been seen for very many years.

Once again the Old Tipton made public his “grievance,” declaring that the award of “foul” in their former encounter had deprived him of the honour of the belt and the profit of the stakes, and that the bold Harry held the Championship by “a fluke.” Harry accepted his offer, and articles were entered into, but when £25 were posted, Broome forfeited the money down; his plea being that he had an engagement with Aaron Jones (this went off), and another with Paddock. Forfeits seem to have been in fashion in 1855. On February 20th, 1855, Harry Broome forfeited £180 to Tom Paddock, and on March 12th, £10 to the same. In March, 1856, the Tipton received £70 forfeit from Aaron Jones; and on October 2nd, 1856, he also received £80 forfeit from Tom Paddock. Pleasant times for the bonâ fide backers of men!

It would have been well for Broome’s fame had his hard-won victory over the gallant Harry Orme been the closing scene of his Ring career; his increasing bulk, as was evident to all who knew him, forbade the absolutely necessary reduction of weight which must precede anything like fitness for a pugilistic contest of a prolonged and severe character. Not so, however, thought Harry Broome. On the 12th of December, 1855, he signed articles with Tom Paddock, for £200 a side, for a meeting on May 19th, 1856, and on that day experienced his final defeat, of which the full details will be found in the Memoir of Paddock in our preceding chapter (pp. 294–303).

From this time forth Harry fell out of the rank of claimants for the “blue riband” of the P.R., leaving the struggle for supremacy to Paddock, Aaron Jones, the Tipton Slasher, and the little pugilistic phenomenon of 10st. 12lbs. who successively beat all three of them, and whose exploits form the subject of our next chapter.

Harry left London in 1856, and became the landlord of the Albion Tavern, in Warblington Street, Portsmouth, which was soon famous as a sporting rendezvous. From this house he backed several good men, the best known of whom was the unlucky Bill Bainge, or Benjamin, who as “Broome’s Novice” was twice unsuccessfully brought out to check the upward and onward career of Tom Sayers to the eminence of the Championship. For a few years following Harry was a public caterer and attendant at the principal race-meetings. The last time we met him in the flesh—and he had then too much of it—was at Epsom in 1865, in Gladiateur’s year, when, in reply to an inquiry after his health and prospects, he told us he was “in charge” of the Count Lagrange’s invaluable horse; we suspect as a “watcher,” for which he was formidably well qualified, physically as well as mentally. He was, however, aptly described by a friend as “all to pieces,” and this was shown by his death, which soon followed, on the 2nd of November in the above-named year, at the early age of 39 years.[27]

[27] It may interest some readers to know that we are indebted to Harry Broome’s early opponent, Joe Rowe, for the original of the portrait which faces the first page of this memoir. In our search after authentic likenesses, we learned that “Joe” still flourished as the proprietor of a cigar and tobacco store in Sun Street, Finsbury. Thither we bent our steps, and there we found a pleasant-spoken and young-looking specimen of the fair sex, who, in answer to our inquiries, announced herself as Mrs. Rowe. Our first impression was that we had chanced upon “Young Joe’s” bride; but no, it was the spouse of “Old Joe,” who was “kicking up behind and before,” and in his sixty-second year is proprietor of the lady and the “Sultan Cigar Stores.” A shake of the hand and a recognition, a smoke, and a “liquor-up,” renewed acquaintance; and as Joe has a portfolio of “sporting celebrities,” he cheerfully placed them at our disposal, for which we thus record our thanks.

APPENDIX TO PERIOD VII.

Of the numerous pugilistic pretenders who did battle during the years comprised between the Championships of Bendigo and that of Harry Broome, few deserve the honour of a separate memoir, or even of a recapitulation of their battles. The best of the fights, indeed, may be safely credited to the middle and light-weight men, who were, by their class, excluded from competing with the big ones for the Championship.

Of these, Hammer Lane, Jem Wharton (Young Molyneaux), Johnny Broome, Johnny Hannan, Owen Swift, Ned Adams, Mike Madden, Bill Hayes, Donnelly, and others, will be found in the Author’s “Recollections of the Ring,” to which the reader is referred. Here it is proposed to insert, with a brief notice, the best battle of such heavy-weights as appear in these pages as the antagonists of the men whose biographies are included in this Period.

I.—BRASSEY (JOHN LEECHMAN), of Bradford, and YOUNG LANGAN, of Liverpool, for £100.

In the Memoir of Caunt (ante pp. 60–69) will be found the details of Brassey’s gallant contest with the gigantic Champion, October 26th, 1840. That John Leechman had fair pretentions to be selected by his patrons to do battle with “Big Ben,” the subjoined account of his fight with Young Langan, of Liverpool, in the October of the previous year, will show.

John Leechman, whose height was six feet, and weight 12st. 7lbs., was born at Bradford, in Yorkshire, on the 1st of January, 1815. His first battle, recorded in “Fistiana,” was in 1831, when, at the age of 16, he defeated one Thomas Hartley, at Eccles Moor, near Leeds, after a tough fight of an hour and a quarter. On August 24th, in the same year, he took the same time to batter one Ned Batterson, in 72 rounds. He then fought, at Harpurhey, near Manchester, in May, 1833, Young Winterflood, of Nottingham, for an hour, when the affair ended in a wrangle. Brassey next met the well-known Jem Bailey, at Baildon Moor, and beat him, on the 24th of April, 1835, in 74 rounds, occupying 2 hours and a quarter; Brassey being at the same time sadly out of condition. Tom Scrutton was also disposed of in 20 minutes, 17 rounds, on January 11th, 1836; and this brings us to Brassey’s battle with the eccentric Bendigo. In the memoir of that boxer (ante pp. 7, 8), will be found the particulars of that defeat, which took place near Sheffield, on the 24th of May, 1836. Brassey’s former antagonist, Jem Bailey, now came out, and demanded a second trial, to which Brassey assented, and the men met at Hales Green, near Pulham, Norfolk. Although Brassey had won the fight in the 71st round, through the indecision or misconduct of the referee, Bailey’s backers raised a dispute, sued the stakeholder, and recovered back their money. We now come to the battle with Young Langan, of Liverpool, which, except his defeat by Tass Parker, is Brassey’s only fight worth preserving.

This contest, which was decided on the 8th of October, 1839, at Woodhead, in Cheshire, excited an unusual degree of interest, not only among the friends of each man, but throughout all sporting circles in Yorkshire, Lancashire and the Midlands. Brassey was trained near Norwich, under the personal superintendence of the veteran Ned Painter, who accompanied his pupil to the scene of action. Langan took his exercise at Bootle, near Liverpool, in company with Tommy Britton, and his condition was pronounced “perfect.” The ring was formed by the Liverpool Commissary, and at 25 minutes past one Brassey, accompanied by Bill Hall, and Gregson Green, the “sporting sweep,” as seconds, threw in his hat, and was quickly followed by Young Langan, amidst loud cheering from the Liverpool contingent. The day was magnificent, the sun shining with splendour, and as Langan lost the toss for corners, Brassey was placed with his face to the north. Each man was near upon 13 stone, but Brassey was a little the taller. An objection having been taken to the length of the spikes in Langan’s shoes, “the Morocco Prince,” who acted as his second, condescended to waive his dignity, and a file being procured, he sat down, and in a most workmanlike style reduced the sharp projections to the dimensions of “sparrowbills.” Again some delay took place in the selection of a referee; this point settled, the men stripped for action. The colours, an orange bandanna for Brassey, and a green and yellow for Langan, being knotted to the stake, at 23 minutes past two the men shook hands and stood up for

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Each advanced to the scratch, Langan cool and smiling, Brassey looking serious and earnest. After slight manœuvring, Langan tried his left, and caught his opponent upon the mug. Brassey was impetuous, as if his anxiety was outstripping his prudence. He looked sternly at his antagonist, let fly, and planted two successive right-handers upon Langan’s frontispiece—one upon the left eye, and the other on the potato-trap; a close, and both down. Upon Langan’s rising “first blood” was claimed for Brassey, which was perceptible upon Langan’s mouth.

2.—Langan still wore a good-natured smile, while Brassey appeared serious, and the eagerness which he displayed was checked by several of his friends, who saw that although “his soul was in arms and eager for the fray,” yet a little more of “the better part of valour—discretion,” might prevent an accident. A little sparring—Brassey using his arms à la Bendigo. Closer and closer went the men, and a few smart exchanges took place, when they fell upon the ropes; a brief struggle ensued, and both went to the ground.

3.—No alteration of moment was to be seen upon either of the men, except that Langan’s left eye seemed rather inclined to renounce the plebeian cast, and become “a swell.” Langan held his right arm upon his breast, and his left a little advanced; feints from both, when Langan shot out with his left, caught Brassey upon the pimple, and sent him to grass. Brassey’s second objected to this being considered a knock-down blow, but the referee decided “first knock-down blow” in favour of Langan.

4.—Brassey came to the scratch with as much eagerness as ever, and scowled upon his rival. Langan was not dismayed, and the smile of good-humour, before noticed, assumed, for an instant, that of derision; he was, however, cautious, and played about actively. Brassey tried his right, was well parried, ditto with his left, when Langan receded a pace or two, and escaped a nasty one for his nob. Langan tried his luck, when a rapid bout of in-fighting ensued, which terminated in Brassey’s being thrown.

5.—Upon “time” being called, Langan marched to the centre of the ring, and as Brassey did not appear inclined to advance so far, Langan pointed to the scratch, as much as to say, “Come to the spot, my boy.” Brassey kept his station, when Langan “crossed the Rubicon,” and a long, dodging round took place, each trying his left mauley occasionally without effect, until they reached a corner of the ring, when a slashing rally followed—Brassey down.

6.—Brassey was now more quiet in his demeanour, but still intent upon mischief; in fact, had he not softened down the very strong penchant for going in, which he evinced during the five preceding rounds, it is questionable whether his eagerness would not have led him headlong into mischief. Each man eyed the other with determination, Langan tried his left, no go—again, it would not fit—again he essayed, and caught Brassey a good left-hander upon his dial, receiving a straight left-handed one in return upon his snuff-box. A quick rally, mutual exchanges, when once more Brassey fell.

7.—The visit which Brassey had paid to Langan’s snout was far from pleasant and the claret flowed profusely; the left eye also of the young Hibernian began to puff, and increase beyond its natural dimensions. Lengthened sparring. A close; Langan got away; the men closed again, when some severe blows from the right and left took place, the punishment being about equal, and in the struggle both went down, Langan first on the floor.

8.—The concluding rally of the last round had not been mere play, for each man’s phisog bore striking proofs of handy work. Brassey was cut over the right eyebrow, and was bleeding copiously; and Langan’s left was following suit, except that his wound was under the eye, and his opponent’s over. Extreme caution was now the password. Sparring, and no attempt at a single blow for nearly six minutes, which drew forth some volleys of hisses at the tardiness of the performers. Two minutes more elapsed, and no inclination to go to work, when Langan tried his left, missed, and caught a tremendous left-hander upon his nut, which, we fancy, suffered less than his assailant’s knuckles, and Brassey slipped down.

9.—Langan evidently wished to repay Brassey for his kindness, and planted two successive right-handers, one upon his weasand, and the other upon his nob. (Loud cheers for Langan.) A close, both down.

10.—Sparring and manœuvring (5 to 4 on Langan). Brassey looked daggers, made a feint with his right, and made a lunge with his left upon Langan’s body corporate. Langan quickly tried a right-handed return, failed, immediately seconded his intention with an effectual one, when some excellent counters ensued, and Brassey went down.

11.—The men met, when Brassey dropped his arms straight down, looked and nodded to his opponent. Langan maintained his position, and smiled (loud applause). Protracted sparring. Dodging all round the ring: another halt; more procrastination. (“Go to work,” cried the Morocco Prince; I’m tired of this sort of play.”) All was of no avail, the men still continued sparring, at last an indifferent rally ended suspense, and Brassey was thrown. This round lasted sixteen minutes and a half, and no real work done.

12 and 13.—Mutual returns, with considerable bodily exertion, both down in the struggle.

14.—Very slight variation from the two last.

15.—Counters. Brassey lunged out, and gave Langan an effective muzzler, receiving an excellent left-hander by way of “change,” upon his brow, which set the crimson flowing. Langan went to his antagonist, when Brassey slipped and fell.

16.—Langan’s lip began to swell, and the gash under his left eye still emitted the claret. Brassey’s first wound was quite dried up, and a stranger might have pronounced it three or four days old. After a little sparring, Langan shot out with his left, and fell from the over-reach of his own blow.

17.—Give and take; Brassey down.

18.—Langan was advancing to the scratch, when some cowardly rascal pitched a clod at him, which struck him on the hip, without doing any damage. A tedious round, when Brassey fell, escaping in his fall a right-handed upper-cut from Langan’s bunch of fives.

19.—Hit for hit; when Langan, in striking out, as Brassey jumped back, caught him just below the belt with his right. An appeal, but the referee decided the blow to be unintentional, and consequently fair, and the fight proceeded, Langan getting the worst of the rally; both down.

20, 21, 22, 23, 24.—All in favour of Brassey. A great uproar and confusion took place in the last round, in the outer ring, which threatened an interruption of the mill, but, after some delay, the tumult was quelled, and the spectators resumed their stations.

25 to 33.—Each of these rounds were, more or less, in favour of Brassey, although he was invariably undermost.

34.—Langan’s frontispiece was sadly disfigured, whilst Brassey’s was tolerably symmetrical. This may be accounted for from the fact of Brassey’s flesh not swelling, nor his wounds remaining fresh, but quickly assuming the appearance of cuts of some standing. From this to the 39th round, Langan gradually lost ground, though he never flinched from fairly meeting his man.

40.—Another uproar in the outer ring, with the addition of a few heavy clods flying about, the Liverpool party containing some noisy members. The men proved themselves good ’uns in reality, for they paid no attention to the row, but kept to their work, caught each other’s open left hand, and delivered two terrific round swinging right-handers upon each other’s corpus. After some little fibbing Brassey went down, and Langan rolled over him.

41 to 44.—Brassey was evidently gaining ground, and in the latter round Langan severely injured his right leg in falling against a stake, which made him lame for the remainder of the fight.

45.—Nothing material in this round, except one dishonourable knave deliberately cutting the rope of the inner ring, and had it not been for the praiseworthy activity of little Billy Critchley in splicing the same, would doubtless have finished the mill with a wrangle.

46 to 51.—Brassey’s friends were in transports. Victory was now booked as certain, and the rowdy upon Brassey could find no takers.

52.—Langan rallied, and up to the 56th round may be said at intervals to have turned the tide in his own favour; nay, even bets were loudly proclaimed, but little tin was sported.

57.—Brassey was evidently at sea, and the Langanites bawled most lustily. Compliment for compliment, each party alternately cheering on their man until Brassey fell.

58 to 62.—Both men fought well and to win. Brassey’s lower lip had received some stingers from his opponent in the way of cutting and carving, while Langan’s phisog was quite the reverse of what Lavater would term “the exquisite,” strongly reminding us of Kenney Meadows’s “Gallery” portrait of the “Man wot won the fight.”

63.—To all appearances it was now extremely doubtful which would be the victor. Hit for hit—right and left—give and take—advance and retreat, until both heroes fell over the ropes and out of the ring.

64.—Brassey came up and lost no time in drawing the claret from Langan’s right peeper, but slipped down from exertion.

65.—Langan’s mug was awful, his left ogle nearly closed, and he looked more languid than in any round previously; this and the 66th round told against him.

67.—One effort more; Brassey missed his left, Langan grasped him, and with a vigorous strength which we at this time thought he did not possess, threw him heavily.

68.—From this to the 73rd round Langan gradually continued losing, his left eye being quite closed, his right much swollen, and his lips as thick as those of Massa Molyneaux; Brassey seemed recovered, and was nearly as fresh as ever.

74.—Brassey, bent upon finishing as soon as possible, met his man, delivered his left, then retreated, and as Langan stumbled forward, delivered two tremendous right-handed blows, which felled him to the ground.

75.—Upon time being called, Langan was deaf to the cry, and Brassey was pronounced the conqueror after a protracted struggle of two hours and thirty-five minutes.

Remarks.—The instant the men had peeled the disparity in height and length of arm was apparent, which nothing short of superior science and activity on the part of Langan, which he certainly did not possess, could have overcome. In science Brassey is fully equal to Langan, while in lasting power he is his superior. In the quality of game Langan proved himself a hero; he only gave in when nature left him powerless to continue the contest. Brassey was quickly himself, and walked to his carriage, and Langan, though by far the most punished, said, soon after, that he was fairly beaten. Both men left the ground, as all British boxers should, with no feeling of ill-will towards each other.

II.—TASS (HAZARD) PARKER, of West Bromwich, and JOHN LEECHMAN (BRASSEY), of Bradford, for £100.

After Brassey’s defeat by Caunt, already referred to, Tass Parker, of West Bromwich, offered himself to the notice of Brassey, proposing to meet him halfway between Bradford and West Bromwich, for £100. Parker, (whose best fighting weight was 11st. 10lbs.) at catch weight, and Brassey not to exceed 12st. 7lbs. on the day of fighting, which was fixed for the 13th of July, 1841; a date which was subsequently extended to the 10th of August, on which day the men met at Brunt Lays, near Worksop, under the circumstances and with the result we are now about to narrate.

Though the match was originally made in Manchester, the celebrity of the men lent a metropolitan interest to the battle, and on the receipt of a letter, dated the previous Friday, naming Lindrick Common, Notts, near Eckington, on the borders of Yorkshire, as the rendezvous, the writer booked himself, on the Monday, by the North Midland Rail for Worksop. On arriving at that place he ascertained that Brassey was already snugly ensconced at a small inn on the borders of Lindrick Common, aforesaid, under the care of a liberal backer and Jemmy Wharton (Young Molyneaux). Brassey was in high spirits and full of confidence, yet we did not, upon a close scrutiny, consider him up to the mark, and there was a feverishness in his pulse when we shook hands with him that induced us to question the Black, whereon we were informed that he had made an eccentric bolt from his training quarters a few days before, and that otherwise he had not been strictly observant of the rigid discipline indispensable to A 1 condition. Nevertheless his friends not only declared him “all right,” but offered the odds of 6 to 4 in proof of their good opinion. On the same night Parker arrived, accompanied by Nick Ward, and by Jack Hunt, of Birmingham. He domiciled at the “Red Lion,” where we saw him on the following morning. He was in rude health, his corpus as firm as collared brawn, and in expressing confidence he was by no means more backward than his foe. The expediency of an early meeting at the scene of action being admitted, it was agreed that Brassey should go to scale at 10 o’clock, and that as soon as possible afterwards operations should commence—a prospect extremely agreeable to some hundreds, who were desirous of returning the same day to the distant localities from whence they had come, among whom we noticed several Corinthians of “the upper crust,” and staunch supporters of the fistic art.

Precisely at 10 o’clock we reached the Common, where an immense multitude had already assembled, in every order of vehicle, and including an extraordinary field of equestrians, who were, however, far out-numbered by the muster of toddlers, a vast number of whom had devoted the night to the exercise of their pedestrian powers. The scene was altogether most animated, and rendered not the less so by a huntsman and a pack of foxhounds taking their morning exercise in the distance. To all this, however, there were drawbacks which threatened mischief; the first was the fact of our having passed a body of the rural police for Nottinghamshire on their march to the Common, and the next and more serious, the actual presence of a worthy beak for the county of York, who, however loth, declared he could not permit hostilities to take place within his jurisdiction. Thus Nottinghamshire and Yorkshire were tabooed, but as Derbyshire, close adjoining, was unrepresented, it was at once resolved to conduct the candidates for milling fame to its hospitable meads. In the interim Brassey was found to be as he should be in “pounds avoirdupois,” and a general move to the “land of promise” took place. Of pilots there were abundance, but, as it turned out, not equally happy in their knowledge of the county; for while Parker and his friends took one road, Brassey and the Commissary, with the ropes and stakes, took another. The latter led through bridle paths of the most villainous description, which had never been traversed but by farmers’ carts, and through which it was with the greatest difficulty the carriages could be dragged, not only from the narrowness of the roads, but from the horrifying ruts by which they were cut up. At last, after indescribable difficulties, this portion of the cavalcade reached a field in which it was said the two counties of York and Derby were divided by a small bank. Here, with great difficulty, from the rocky character of the subsoil, the ring was formed, and all waited with patience for the arrival of Parker and his division; but they waited in vain. It was now ascertained that the ring was still in the county of Nottingham; a fatal error. At last, when patience was exhausted, news arrived that Parker had been more successfully led by turnpike roads to a place called Brunt Lays, near Worksop, and to that place a move became inevitable.

The materials of the ring having been once more transferred to the cart in which they had been brought, another pilgrimage was commenced through paths if possible more perilous than the former, till finally by two o’clock the desired goal was reached, and a fresh arena formed. But here a new difficulty arose: the carriages and carts drew so close round the ring that it was impossible to drive back the dense masses which had congregated. There was but one remedy, and this was to carry off the materiel to a new position, where in maiden ground a more extensive field of action was secured, and the throng as it approached being marshalled with a due regard to the formation of a spacious area, the preliminaries were happily and conveniently adjusted for the accommodation of all parties; the pedestrians forming the inner circle, and the outer circle being composed of carriages, carts, waggons, and horsemen. There were scarcely less than ten thousand persons present, and a more imposing spectacle has seldom been witnessed on any similar occasion. The police were in the rear of the cavalcade as it moved, but they did not attempt to interfere, merely intimating that “such scenes were contrary to Act of Parliament,” a piece of information as novel as it was ineffective in preventing sport.

All being in readiness, the heroes were summoned to the lists; Parker from an adjacent farm-house, where he had been hospitably sheltered, and Brassey from the carriage which had conveyed him to the ground. Brassey first made his appearance, attended by “King Dick” and Hall, with a host of friends sporting their bright “yellowmen.” On throwing his castor within the ropes he was received with shouts. Parker next presented himself, under the care of Hunt and Nick Ward, and also escorted by his backers, displaying fogles bearing the insignia of the Royal Standard of England in four compartments. His reception was far from flattering, and the yells of the roughs completely drowned the friendly cheers of his admirers, but they created a strong sympathy in his favour among the advocates of fair play. Betting was commenced with great briskness, and 6 to 4 were freely laid and taken—Brassey being of course the favourite. There was the usual admission of privileged spectators within the outer circle on the payment of a stipulated fee, and the difficulty of preserving order was proportionately increased; but at last all was tolerably well adjusted, and the men commenced their toilettes. The toss for choice of position was won by Brassey, who not only took the higher ground, but placed his back to the sun, which was happily shining with great brilliancy—more favourable weather could not in fact have been enjoyed. The colours of the men having been tied to the stakes in the usual way, a curious scene followed. Several of the partisans of each who wore colours agreed to bet them one against the other, and these were also entwined to different stakes, giving to the ring an appearance of unusual gaiety, from the brightness of the kerchiefs as they fluttered in the breeze. Umpires and a referee having been chosen, little time was lost in commencing business.

On Brassey being stripped his appearance by no means altered the estimate we had formed of his condition on the previous night. He was “unshaven” and “unshorn;” barbers being unknown on Lindrick Common, he had not been able to obtain the assistance of one of the fraternity. This gave a haggardness to his countenance—not the most prepossessing—which was not calculated to raise him in the estimation of the spectators. His flesh, too, appeared flabby, and there was an absence of that healthful glow and muscular development which was observable at his contest with Caunt. He struck us, too, as being out of spirits, although there was no indication of the want of personal confidence. Parker, on the contrary, was obviously “up to the mark,” his skin was clear and fresh in colour, and his muscles exhibited a tensity indicative of rude health, while his bearing was marked by unusual confidence. On standing together the disparity of size was not so remarkable as might have been supposed, although in height and frame Brassey had clearly the advantage. At twenty minutes to three o’clock the men were conducted to “the scratch,” and their seconds retired to their corners.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Brassey, on throwing himself into position, stood erect, with his hands well up and his head thrown back, but his manner was stiff and constrained. There was nothing of that graceful ease which distinguishes an accomplished master of the art, and which is characteristic of quickness and activity. Parker was more free in his action, his shoulder and head thrown slightly forward, and his arms free and in playful attitudes, low, but ready for a fly. Brassey waited for the assault, and on Parker making one or two dodges, showed himself well on his guard. Brassey advanced, but Parker broke away; at last Parker let go his left, but was stopped. Brassey again made a forward motion, and Parker retreated. Brassey let out his right, but was short, and Parker instantly popped in his left and fell. (Cries of “Nick Ward has come to town” from the Brasseyites.)

2.—Parker evidently creeping in to hit, Brassey waiting. Slight exchanges with the left, when Brassey popped in his right on Parker’s nose, and in the scuffle Parker got down (cries of “First blood from Parker”), and in a short time the purple fluid was seen trickling from his nasal promontory.

3.—Brassey on his guard, but Parker succeeded in popping in his right; his left went over Brassey’s shoulder. After slight exchanges, Parker was down, his nozzle still bleeding.

4.—Parker tried his left and right, but did not get home. Brassey rushed to him and hit him slightly on the ear with his right. He was preparing for further mischief, but Parker slipped down, holding on by the ropes with his left.

5.—Parker led off again, left and right, but without effect. Brassey followed him, and in a wild rally, in which trifling hits were exchanged, Brassey fell back on his knee.

6.—Parker, who was the first to go to work, planted his left and right on Brassey’s dial. Brassey tried his left in return, but was short, and Parker slipped down.

7.—Parker short with his left and right, Brassey stepping back. Brassey attempted to return with his left, but was also short. Parker, in a second attempt, was more successful, and delivered his left on Brassey’s ogle. Brassey returned a round hit with his right on Parker’s pimple. Slight exchanges, when Parker let go his left with dire intent, but Brassey ducked his nob and got away. In a scramble which followed Parker got down.

8.—Parker dodging, Brassey waiting; Parker let go his right, which got home on Brassey’s cheek, but missed his left. Brassey made play, but Parker retreated and slipped on his knee, looking up at Brassey as he approached. Brassey walked quietly to his corner.

9.—Brassey now changed his tactics and led off, but Parker got away. Slight counter-hits with the left. Parker retreated, but, waiting an opportunity, popped in his left twice in succession. Brassey followed, contemplating mischief, but Parker got down. (Cries of “Foul,” but no notice taken by the umpires.)

10.—Parker tried his left and right, but Brassey got away. Brassey advanced, hit round with his right, but was short. Wild exchanges with no effect, and Parker down.

11.—Parker was the first to make play, tried his left and right but did not get home. He retreated, when Brassey followed him up, shoved out his left, and Parker went down.

12.—An exchange of trifling hits, and Parker down to avoid.

13.—Up to this time there was no visible appearance of punishment on either, with the exception of the first blood already noticed. Parker put in his left and right, when Brassey caught him round his neck with his left, and gave him a crack on the ear with his right. Parker slipped down to avoid a repetition of the compliment.

14.—(2 to 1 on Brassey). Counter-hits with the left, but that of Brassey was more like a shove than a hit; it wanted elbow-grease, and made no impression. Brassey closed, grasped his man with his left, and was about to fib him with his right when Parker slipped down to avoid.

15.—Brassey came up eyeing his antagonist with contempt. Parker approached him slowly, and let fly his left and right, catching him on the phiz. Brassey rushed at him to return the compliment, but Parker went down “nasty,” quite in the Nick Ward style.

16.—Parker, as usual, opened the ball, but was stopped left and right. Brassey ran to him, hit out slightly with his left, when Parker fell on his back, Brassey falling over him, with his knees on each side of his body.

17.—Parker hit over Brassey’s shoulder with his left, and was going down to avoid when Brassey hit him with his right hand open on the back.

18.—Parker again hit over with his left, and Brassey followed him to the ropes, hitting, without precision, left and right, while Parker retreated and fell on his knees.

19.—Smart exchanges left and right, Parker napping it on the auricular, and down to escape a repetition of the dose.

20.—Parker popped in his left heavily on Brassey’s mouth, from whence blood was drawn. It was a stinging smack Brassey rushed after him in the retreat, when Parker fell, Brassey upon him.

21.—Smart counters with the left, and Brassey again paid a visit to Parker’s listener. Parker, on Brassey’s efforts to engage him in a rally, went down.

[This falling system on the part of Parker caused many expressions of contempt on the part of Brassey’s friends, and he was called upon to “stand up and fight like a man.”]

22.—Parker pursued his dodging system, and again delivered his left on Brassey’s mouth. Brassey caught him with his right on the side of the head, but was unable to get home with his left; Parker dropped.

23.—A trifling exchange of hits left and right, when Parker got down, Brassey falling upon him.

24.—Counter-hits with the left, but Brassey did not get well home. Brassey tried to bring his man to a rally, but he went down to avoid.

25.—Parker hit short with his left and retreated to his corner. Brassey followed boldly, when he napped it from the right on the jaw. Brassey hit out left and right, missing his man, and Parker went down.

26.—Parker hit slightly left and right, but in getting away from the return slipped down.

27.—Brassey led off, missing his left and right, when Parker got away and went down.

28.—Parker, as usual, led off with his left, but caught it in return from Brassey’s right on the lug. In the close Parker caught Brassey round the waist, threw, and fell on him, thereby showing that he possessed strength enough if he had but courage to use it.

29.—Counter-hits, followed by a close, in which, after a slight struggle, Brassey threw Parker on his back and fell on him. Parker in going down caught at Brassey’s face open-handed, and drew blood from his mouth. (Cries of “He’s gouging him,” and exclamations of disgust.)

30.—Wild fighting, in which trifling exchanges took place, and Parker went down, Brassey falling on his knees beside him.

31.—Parker led off, but Brassey retreated, hitting out wildly. Parker rushed in to him, and Brassey fell as he stepped back. From this to the 38th round little mischief was done. Parker generally led off, and occasionally delivered heavy blows left and right, which began to tell on Brassey’s phisog; Brassey was far from idle, but Parker invariably pursued his dropping system when mischief was likely to ensue.

39.—In this round they looked at each other for some time with their arms down, Brassey laughing and shaking his flabby sides, but still fresh and vigorous. At last, on approaching nearer, Brassey let go his left, with little effect. In the short rally which followed Brassey received a heavy right-handed thump on the jaw, and Parker went down.

In a rally in the 44th round heavy blows were exchanged, Parker catching it on the nose, which again commenced bleeding, but he still pursued his getting down system. In the 46th round Brassey led off, hitting Parker on the ear with his right, and repeating the dose with his left on the mouth and nose; Parker down bleeding, and 3 to 1 offered on Brassey, although he had evidently received the worst of the punishment. Parker’s pusillanimous system of dropping excited general disapprobation, but he contrived so to time his tactics as to keep within the pale of the law. Brassey’s seconds, finding that Parker’s one two was invariably set aside when Brassey led off, urged him to let fly the moment Parker approached; from these assaults, Parker, stopping left and right, retreated, but in the 55th round went down so palpably without a blow, that cries of “Foul!” burst from all quarters. An appeal was instantly made to the referee, who, however, would not pronounce his judgment till properly applied to by the umpires, to whom no appeal was at all made, and Brassey, instead of retiring to his corner, as he ought to have done, to await a deliberate decision, rushed to take the handkerchiefs from the stake, an example which “King Dick” followed. At this moment Parker approached Brassey, struck him a heavy blow with his right, and a desperate rally ensued; heavy hits were exchanged left and right, and in the close both were down. On rising to their seconds’ knees both showed severe marks of punishment, Parker on his left ear, and Brassey on his mouth and left eye. This renewal of the combat with such mutual good will necessarily set aside the claim of “foul,” and thereby deprived Brassey of the verdict of “victory,” which would doubtless have been given in his favour.[28]

56.—Counter-hits with the left, when Brassey caught Parker another of his terrific round hits on the ear, and after a short scramble Parker got down.

57.—A rally, in which heavy hits were exchanged, Parker down, Brassey falling upon him with his knees. (“Foul” was claimed for Parker, but the intention was not sufficiently apparent to justify a decision in his favour, added to which, he provoked the act by his own tricks.)

From this to the 100th round the same style of fighting was pursued, with alternate changes, Parker receiving some heavy lunges from Brassey’s right on his ear, which was dreadfully swollen, and presented a most unseemly aspect, and Brassey catching it repeatedly on the mouth and face—the former of which was cut, and the latter exhibited marks of repeated visitations. Parker went down at the termination of almost every round, obviously to avoid punishment; but although this system was cowardly, and opposed to the character of a fair stand-up fight, he contrived so to time his prostrations, as to keep himself within the pale of the law; blows, however slight, having been exchanged. The unnecessary length of the spikes in his shoes might have had some influence in the falls, but it was too clear that he wanted a heart to stand up manfully to give and take in the old English fashion. From the 100th to the 117th round the same objectionable system was pursued; but although numerous hits were exchanged, and the marks of punishment on the side of Parker’s head and Brassey’s frontispiece increased in severity, there was still no decisive mischief done. Brassey’s left seemed to be of little use to him; and although with Caunt he used it with cutting effect, with Parker he did no execution, and the right side of Parker’s face was literally without a mark. Nevertheless, in the 118th round, Brassey was the favourite at 2 to 1. From the 118th to the 127th round, during which time the same style of tactics was adopted, little visible alteration took place in the spirits of the men, both coming to the scratch with confidence, but slowly. In the latter round, however, Parker succeeded in delivering a heavy blow with his right on Brassey’s nob, who fell in a state of apparent insensibility. All was now thought to be over, and a simultaneous rush took place from all quarters to the ring. “Time” was called, to which Brassey did not respond. Parker, for whose personal safety from the crowd apprehensions were evidently entertained, was almost immediately taken away, his seconds and friends claiming the battle. To the astonishment of all, however, Brassey rose, and declared his readiness to renew the combat, a claim which the referee, when appealed to, allowed; for although more than eight seconds had elapsed, by which time he ought to have been at the scratch, still, as he had not been duly summoned—the umpires having, in the confusion, neglected their duty—he was fairly entitled to the advantage. In like manner it was determined that Parker, who quitted the ring without first going to the scratch, to which he had not been called, was absolved from the penalty of the loss of the battle to which his absence might otherwise have exposed him.

[This, again, imposes on seconds and umpires the absolute necessity of obtaining a perfect knowledge of their duty, and strictly adhering to its dictates. From the great confusion which prevailed in this instance some excuse may be found, but it only confirms our repeated observations on the great disadvantage arising from permitting throngs of partisans to congregate close to the milling arena, who, by shouts and exclamations, tend to interfere with that cool and dispassionate judgment which the umpires and referee should be permitted to exercise, and which, in ancient times, was perfectly secured, none but the umpires and referee being then permitted to sit close to the ropes and stakes.]

Some delay took place before Parker returned, one of his seconds declaring he had been knocked down, an assertion which proved without foundation, although on his way to his carriage he had certainly fallen, and execrations were showered upon him from the friends of Brassey.

With the 128th round the fight was renewed, but amid such a riotous display of party feeling from the crowd, which could not be driven back from the ring, that it was difficult to note the changes which took place. Brassey exhibited unshrinking “game,” and succeeded in planting some heavy blows with his right on Parker’s ear, while the latter was occasionally equally successful in delivering his left and right on his opponent’s disfigured mug. Parker, as usual, preserved his cautious or rather questionable generalship, and no sooner found himself in danger than he got down. In point of freshness he had a decided superiority over the unfortunate Brassey, and not only hit oftener but harder. In the 143rd round he planted the first heavy body-blow with his right, the effects of which were instantly visible on Brassey’s countenance, who was almost doubled up with pain. In the next round he was equally successful with his left on the body, and Brassey was again down. For the three succeeding rounds Parker fought not only with renewed vigour but with a more manly and determined spirit, a change sufficiently amounted for by the almost helpless state of his antagonist, who was down in every round.

The friends of Brassey now saw that all hope of a favourable change was extinguished. The ropes were cut, and a crowd armed with sticks and bludgeons rushed between the men, and prevented the possibility of the continuation of the fight. The most dreadful confusion prevailed, during which Brassey lay at full length with his head resting in his second’s lap, who sat down on the ground to receive him. He was evidently in a helpless state, but still he refused to give in, declaring himself perfectly ready to renew the contest whenever the ring was cleared. Persuasions and entreaties were all in vain to induce the interlopers to retire. Parker’s seconds claimed the battle; but this would not be conceded; and after a long wrangle between those who wished the fight to be drawn and those who wished it to be concluded, a body of horsemen were admitted within the outer circle, who instantly galloped round the fragments of the ropes and stakes yet left standing, and effectually succeeded in clearing the area. Those within the ring then retired, and with some difficulty the ropes were spliced and the ring assumed something of its original form. Brassey still continued to lie prostrate on the earth, but there being no further impediment to his once more resuming the battle he was again called to the scratch. He came up quite groggy, while Parker, on the contrary, was fresh, and apparently as strong as when he commenced the battle.

It was soon seen that the forebodings of Brassey’s friends would be confirmed, and that his chance of success had indeed vanished. In fact, Parker hit him as he liked, his boldness increasing as his sense of danger diminished. Still, from the 148th to the 156th round, Brassey came valiantly to the scratch, but was down in every round, and was obviously incapable of stemming the current of misfortune. His friends again forced themselves into the ring; but “King Dick,” feeling the folly and foreseeing the danger which a repetition of punishment under such circumstances might incur, refused to second him any longer, and the unfortunate fellow at last consented to give in. He then shook hands with Parker, who although thus crowned with the wreath of victory, was certainly not entitled to praise for either manliness or gallantry. He retired from the field perfectly fresh with few marks of punishment, save those on his left ear and on the left side of his caput, which were certainly most wofully damaged. Brassey was completely exhausted, and almost in a state of stupefaction from the repeated visitations, left and right, to his knowledge box. His lip was split, and in other respects his punishment sufficiently testified that he had not left off till nature had deserted him. It is needless to say that his friends and himself were deeply mortified and disappointed by the result. The fighting was rapid, time called quick, and the rounds extremely short, which will account for the number of rounds is so limited a period.

Remarks.—We candidly confess that from first to last we never witnessed a fight the conclusion of which was less satisfactory. We have more than once expressed our disgust at that species of tumble-down fighting by which men, regardless of the principles of fair stand-up boxing, seek to punish others, while by cowardly subterfuges they escape punishment themselves. It is a species of paltry cunning to which no true British boxer would have recourse, and which in Parker’s case, as well as that of Nick Ward, admits of no apology. It is ridiculous to say that such manœuvres are consistent with good generalship, or excusable when small men are opposed to men of greater bulk; because, if small men are incapable of fighting men of larger size by fair means, it is not incumbent on them to enter the lists at all. But here the disparity of size was by no means such as to justify the adoption of such a mode of defence. From the first it was clear that Parker was not only the better fighter left and right, but was the harder hitter; and if he had had the courage to exercise those physical qualities which he possessed, and fought fairly and manfully at his man, there is little doubt that he would have brought the combat to a similar issue in one-third of the time. That he actually went down without a blow in more instances than one the spectators must have been perfectly satisfied, although on those particular occasions the appeals to the referee were not legally and properly made; and that he frequently went down equivocally is equally certain, but he had always self-possession and cunning enough to take care that he did not have recourse to these tricks except under circumstances where no adverse decision could be formed. He was repeatedly warned by the referee, but he declared solemnly he could not help it. On quitting the ring he vauntingly forewarned Caunt, who was present, that he would ere long have a tussle with him for the Champion’s belt, but we apprehend this is idle bounce, which he will be very unlikely ever to realise. With regard to Brassey, he utterly disappointed the anticipations of his friends. He no longer presented the formidable front by which he was distinguished in his contest with Caunt; he seemed, in fact, to have lost that gift of hitting left and right of which the head of Caunt, after their fight, afforded such signal testimony. His left hand appeared to be utterly ineffective, and when he did hit with it it was rather a shove than a blow, while the hits with his right hand were anything but decisive, although from their repetition they seemed at one time to threaten the ultimate defeat of his shifty antagonist. Of Parker’s cleverness and pusillanimity the reader will find further examples in the account of his defeat by Perry, the Tipton Slasher, in our memoir of that boxer, forming Chapter IV. of this volume.

This was the last appearance of Brassey in the P.R. The poor fellow was evidently on a downhill course, and died at his house, the “Coach and Horses,” Todd Street, Manchester, in 1845.

[28] It should never be forgotten by seconds that the referee is distinctly bound by the 4th of the New Rules of the Ring, to “withhold all opinion till appealed to by the umpires.” And it is to those umpires alone that the first appeal should be made; not by bystanders, who may be influenced by personal interest, but by the seconds alone, a rule which is unfortunately but too frequently forgotten, and which was in this instance attended by unfortunate consequences to Brassey—Ed.

III.—TASS PARKER, of West Bromwich, and HARRY PRESTON, of Birmingham, for £100.

As the name of Harry Preston has more than once occurred in connection with the subjects of Memoirs in our history, and was at one period of his career thought good enough for a match for £300 with Young Dutch Sam (see Pugilistica, Vol. II., p. 388), we shall here give his last battle, which was also memorable as being Tass Parker’s first Ring victory. The articles, which fixed the 8th of May, 1838, as the day of meeting, and the stakes to be fought for at £200, and further stipulated that Preston should confine himself to 11st. 7lbs., were duly complied with, Preston, on the morning of fighting, balancing 11st. 6lbs., which many considered 8lbs. below his best standard. Harry, it must be borne in mind, was an “old stager,” having credited to him, in the previous ten years, seven victories, two draws (one with Young Dutch Sam, already alluded to, the other with Davis, of Birmingham, whom he afterwards conquered), and but one defeat, and that by the scientific Jem Wharton (Young Molyneaux). It was, therefore, to be expected that 6 to 4 was readily offered on Preston, and that the defeat of Parker, who, notwithstanding his admitted superior skill with the gloves, had been twice beaten by the renowned Hammer Lane, with a prevalent doubt of his gameness, should have been booked as a certainty; the sequel, however, proved that in the Ring, as on the Turf, “public running” is not always to be implicitly relied on.

On the morning of the event we found ourselves in Sawley, a village in Derbyshire, eight miles south-west of Nottingham, where we were introduced to Preston, at a “public” on the banks of the Trent, wherein he had taken up his quarters. He spoke confidently of his prospects of success, and treated his reduction of weight as by no means reducing his capabilities. We, however, did not share his opinion; though lighter bodily, his face struck us as more puffy than is consistent with perfect training, and he did not impress us with the idea of a man hardened by his exercises. Of Parker’s whereabouts we could learn nothing; and a warning being given that “a magistrate was in the village with an escort of police,” Preston was hastily disguised and got out of danger; and not a bit too soon, for scarcely was Preston on the road to Appleby, when a clerical “beak,” with a constable and three or four “specials,” armed with a warrant for “three counties,” as we were informed, made their unwelcome appearance. In justice to these officials, however, we must say that they behaved in what poor Jack Scroggins called “a gentlemanlike sort of a way,” and gave all to understand that they should exercise their undoubted powers with moderation, and that if “the peace” of Derbyshire was unmolested, their function would then and there cease. Away, then, for Leicestershire, towards Ashby-de-la-Zouch—renowned in days of old for its tournaments and “passage of arms”—was the word. Now, as fighting Ashby (fifteen miles from Leicester) was about seventeen from where we then were, and as it was already past twelve o’clock, the “fixture” was indeed a damper, many remembering how they were thrown out when Caunt and Bendigo held their first “joust” at Appleby. The cloud, however, passed away when, about a mile and a half beyond Castle Donington, a hint was given that in a field not three hundred yards from the turnpike-road, yet out of view of it, a secluded spot was at the service of the weary wayfarers. A general halt was made; each man was temporarily housed in an adjacent “Tom and Jerry;” and these establishments being each luckily provided with considerable stabling, every stall and shed was at once occupied by vehicles and quadrupeds, while the bipeds consumed every eatable and drinkable, to the last loaf and the last “tilt of the barrel,” in both establishments. These despatched, word was brought that the Birmingham Commissary had pitched his stakes, and all moved off to a pretty dell, where, on a nice bit of turf, surrounded by gentle slopes thickly wooded, the lists were formed; not a few aspiring countrymen and youths ascending the trees nearest the ring, and forming a “rookery” whence a vocal, but not very musical, “cawing” was heard at intervals of the fight.

At two o’clock precisely, Preston made his appearance, and shied his pimple-coverer into the ring; an example immediately followed by Parker, who stepped briskly into the arena, and with a good-humoured smile went up to Preston and shook hands with apparent cordiality. There was a buoyant springiness in Parker, and a confidence in his appearance, which seemed to say “I mean winning, and nothing else.” Preston’s manner was more subdued—he looked serious, but exhibited nothing like distrust in his own powers. Betting was 6 to 4 on Preston, which, in a few instances, was taken, Parker’s partisans seeming doubtful of their man. The colours having been fastened to the stakes, and umpires and a referee chosen, the men stripped. Parker’s condition appeared excellent—he looked as fine as a star, and weighed exactly 11st. 4lbs. Preston looked delicate—his flesh did not appear firm, nor had it the roseate hue of health. At fourteen minutes after two the men came to the scratch—Peter Taylor and Nick Ward seconding Parker; and Dick Davis and Holland, both of Birmingham, performing the same friendly office for Preston. After the usual formalities,

THE FIGHT

Commenced, Preston having the sun shining brilliantly in his face. “It will be a merry fight,” said Taylor, who had been taking the odds of 3 to 2; “but my man is in a merry mood, and means winning, and nothing else.” Preston’s attitude was good; he appeared ready either for the offensive or defensive, and watched his man closely, who was also on the alert; Preston trying to draw him, and making two or three feints, but Parker was wide awake. Preston made a hit, but Parker jumped back, keeping his hands well up. After two or three feints, Preston hit right and left; Parker countered; several exchanges, slightly in favour of Preston. A smartish rally, each trying to give the upper-cut; a short struggle, and both down, Preston under. “First blood” was claimed for Parker, and admitted; it was from a slight blow on the mouth. This round occupied four minutes, and was in favour of Preston; but the Parkerites were uproarious, Tassey having gained the first event.

Round 2.—After sparring for some time, neither man liking to commence operations, Preston put in a tidy one with his left on the ribs without a return; more sparring; Preston got in his left, and Parker countered well. Both on their mettle, and rapid exchanges of compliments passed, each anxiously trying to give the upper-cut. Parker planted a facer, and Preston returned under the left ear. Loud cheering for both men animated them to redouble their exertions; and after a sharp and merry round, in which there was good fighting on both sides, both down, Preston under. Preston had rather the best of this round. This round lasted 16 minutes.

3.—Long sparring; Preston trying to “gammon” his man to begin, but Parker seemed to be down to Preston’s moves. At length Preston led off with his left, which was well stopped; Parker countered smartly, and fought well before him, boring his man, who gave his head away. Preston tried to give the upper-cut, but failed. “Give and take as much and as quickly as you can” appeared to be the motto of each, and they rattled away merrily without any decided lead to either. This was the best-contested round in the fight, and Parker proved himself a better man than many anticipated. He stood well to his gun, and not a few thought Preston began not to fancy his man quite so much. Indeed, Harry found him stick closer to him than he expected, and a much sharper fighter than he had calculated upon; still, the round was, if anything, favourable to Preston. 25 minutes had elapsed.

4.—The effects of the last round and the heat of the day appeared not to suit Preston. He had a slight mouse on the left eye, when he came to the scratch, and hemmed several times, as if a “little” touched in the wind. Preston manœuvring to draw his man; Parker hit short. After sparring for some time, Parker put his hands down as a “ticer.” After a little more sparring, Parker made his one-two without a return, and followed his man briskly. Preston’s face covered with perspiration, both hit together; exchanges, Parker driving his man to the ropes, where he fell, Parker upon him. (Shouts for Parker, and cries of “He’s got Harry; where’s your 6 to 4?”)

5.—This was a short round; Parker took the lead, and hit his man well and smartly, gave him no time for parrying, but bustled away. Preston relished this mode of attack so little that he turned from his man. (“What do you say now? Why it’s Donington Hall to a cowshed!” exclaimed Peter Taylor. “Oh, my man’s got him beautifully—it’ll soon be over.”) Parker stuck to his man; delivering rapidly as he went in, and Preston went down.

6.—Preston looked as if he meant mischief, but was fearful of going in; after he had made a few feints, Parker went boldly in, hitting away right and left, and, to avoid punishment as well as fatigue, Preston went down in a short rally. (“He’s coming it”—the Tassites uproarious, and the layers of odds rather blue.)

7.—Parker found he had got his man, went to work instanter, and drove him before him, and Preston fell outside of the ropes. (“He’s done for!” was the general exclamation of the Parkerites).

8.—Parker determined not to give a chance away, commenced fighting instanter; Preston giving his head, and making no defence, slipped down. (Cries of disapprobation.)

In the next round Preston was driven out of the ropes; and the three following rounds were all one way. It was clear that Preston’s chance was gone. From the fourth round he appeared to fight like a man who had either made up his mind to be beaten, or was so dreadfully out of condition that he had not the power to make any defence. At the end of the thirteenth round, on being lifted up, he could not, or would not, stand; and his seconds gave in for him. Preston’s friends said he was seriously hurt, in a very tender part of the body, by Parker falling upon him. He certainly looked faint and ill, but Parker’s friends denied the assertion, and the Brums were loud and deep in their expression of disgust and indignation. Time 40 minutes.

Remarks.—The fight was over at twenty minutes to three, and certainly disappointed every one who saw it; after the third round Preston appeared to be “down on his luck;” still, many thought he was only “gammoning,” but the conclusion of the fourth round convinced the most sceptical that the glory of Harry had departed, for he never stood well up to his man afterwards. He gave his head every round, and fell to avoid punishment in a manner that excited feelings of contempt. Parker from the first showed great confidence; when he found he had “got his man,” he bustled in and gave him no time for breathing, and although two pounds the lighter, proved himself by far the stronger man; he used both hands well and quickly. Among the members of the Ring on the ground were Hammer Lane and his brother Surrender, Lazarus, Johnny Broome, and Bill Atkinson; Caunt, Merryman, and several others were thrown out. Preston exhibited no severe marks of punishment, excepting a mouse under the left eye, and a swelling of the left ear, although Parker appeared to have given him several “hot ’uns.” Parker appeared as fresh as when he began. If, as Preston said, “He never was better,” it is clear he never used his physical advantages to less effect. That he is a game man he has on more occasions than one signally proved, and his defeat can only be attributed to a falling off in power and lasting quality; while the proverb that “youth will be served” receives another illustration in Parker’s rapid success when he found his adversary’s strength had left him. Tom Spring being stakeholder the money was handed to the victorious Tass at the “Castle,” Holborn, on the ensuing Thursday week, who then and there challenged Britton of Liverpool. With that boxer Tass fought, on the 8th May, 1839, a drawn battle. Britton was subsequently arrested, and bound over for twelve months. The men met again on the 9th of June, 1840, when Parker was victorious after 77 rounds fought in 1 hour and 50 minutes, and was thereafter matched with Brassey of Bradford, with the result we have already narrated in a former page.

Harry Preston appeared no more in the 24-foot after this defeat. He died at Birmingham on the 25th of February, 1850, in his 41st year.

IV.—AARON JONES AND BOB WADE (THE DOVER CHAMPION).

“’Tis not in mortals to command success,” says Addison in his sententious “Cato,” though they may “do more—that is, deserve it.” Aaron Jones, born in 1831—who, in his first essay in the Ring, at the age of 18, had the ill luck to encounter the formidable Harry Orme (in 1849), when he fought him for 2 hours and 45 minutes, at Frimley, as we have already narrated—was a notable instance of this. Jones’s after-defeats by Orme, Paddock, and Tom Sayers being herein set down, we now propose to resuscitate and “photo” the only gleam of sunshine in Aaron’s clouded career. This was his battle with Bob Wade, called the Dover Champion, on the 24th September, 1850.

From the time of Jones’s first defeat he had been anxious for a second customer; but his friends dissuaded him, and gave him the good advice to wait until another year or two had hardened gristle into bone, and set the stamp of endurance on his frame. The youngster, however, was impatient and importunate, and a cavalry officer, to whom Jones had been known in his boyhood, and who was a constant visitor at Jem Burn’s, on Jones calling his attention to a challenge from Bob Wade, offering himself as a candidate for the favours of any 12 stone man, for the small stake of £25 a side, consented to find the quarter of a hundred needful for the match. To improve the amount for the men, it was arranged that they should join in hiring a train on the South Eastern line, in conjunction with the clever little Joe Hoiles (“The Spider”), who was articled to do battle with Jemmy Madden, on the 24th of September. Accordingly, the “excursionists” repaired, on the morning of that day, to the London Bridge terminus of the South Eastern; for as yet the London, Chatham, and Dover was not. The day was delightful, and the destination, Edenbridge, Kent, was reached by noon. Here the travellers alighted at the foot of a rude set of steps cut in the turf embankment. These surmounted, a walk of a few hundred yards down a shady lane, out of sight of travellers by the rail, brought Tom Oliver’s roped square in view, and the smaller couple of heroes were soon at work. After a lively exhibition of game and resolution on one side, and artistic skill, with precise and cutting execution, on the other, “The Spider” succeeded in knocking his sturdy little opponent out of time.

The bantams having settled their difference of opinion, the bigger brace of “unfeathered bipeds” appeared in the pit—we beg pardon, the ring. Jones looked youthful, fair, cheerful, and symmetrical; his height 5 feet 11 inches, his weight 11st. 7lbs. Wade, on the other hand, was a brown and hardy veteran, his look as solid as his carcase, and his weight the same as Jones. His more compact frame, however, gave him quite two inches less stature than the Young’un. Jones had two excellent seconds in Alec Keene and Bob Fuller, while Wade had no reason to complain, having the services of the gallant Jack Grant and the accomplished Bill Hayes. It was currently reported that Jones had made rapid improvement since his encounter with Harry Orme, in the previous December, and hence he had the call in the betting at 5 to 4. We prefer giving a description to a mere numbered detail of the rounds.

In leading off, after a few seconds spent in manœuvring, Jones got in his left so cleverly and effectively on Wade’s jaw-bone that he not only staggered the veteran, but sent him against the centre stake with such force that his head was cut severely, and bled profusely throughout the after rounds of the fight. Wade, nevertheless, returned to the charge, and in the exchanges caught Jones a sounding right-hander in the ribs, after which both were down in a scrambling rally. In the second round Jones displayed superior science, nobbing Wade neatly, who, however, when he got to half-arm hitting, pegged away with resolution and effect, until again both were on the grass, with hardly any “best” in the matter, though Jones’s friends were uproarious in their encouragement of their man.

From the third to the tenth round Wade worked away well, Jones not seeming able to meet him with sufficient precision and certainty as he came in. When the men got together, ding-dong hitting and give and take was the order of the day; thus they roughed away until one or the other was down in the hitting, Wade the most frequently, Jones’s superior and straighter style gradually improving his position. In the twelfth round Wade, who had certainly by far the larger share of the punishment, caught Aaron a stinging hit on the nose, and so severe was its effect that for the moment it brought the Young’un forward in a state of mystification, and, hitting out at random, he came upon his knees. The Dover lads were vociferous in their acclamations, but Jones came up steady, and in the next round, nailing Wade as he came rashly in, balanced the account by battering his already damaged figure-head. In the succeeding three or four rounds Jones stopped Wade’s rush effectually. Both men rallied with great determination, and many thought that the lasting stamina of Wade must wear out the active spurts of Jones. In a rally in the 25th round, the Dover veteran hit Jones down with a swinging body-blow, and the hopes of his partisans were again buoyant. Wade, however, was too much abroad from severe hitting to take full advantage of his chance, and again and again his adversary administered punishment, as he followed him up to force the fighting. In the 39th round, Jones having propped Wade three or four times in succession without a return, the Old’un fell. Fifty-six minutes had elapsed, and amidst cries of “Take him away!” Wade came up for the 40th round, and Jones, in a half-arm rally, milled him down. The 41st and 42nd rounds presented little variation, Wade obstinately refusing to give in, though so advised by his friends; and at length, just as the hour had expired, and Wade had come up for the 43rd bout, Jones nailed him two straight ones, the first on the side of the head, the second on the mouth, and down went poor Bob, to all intents and purposes a beaten man. Jones was highly elated at his conquest, which was certainly creditable to the youngster, as his experienced antagonist was one of that old-fashioned “give and take” school, the members of which are not to be beaten by any boxer who cannot stand heavy retaliation in return for the favours he may bestow upon his opponent, even by superior skill or activity. The money, £50, was given up to Jones on the following Thursday, at Mr. Prior’s, South Audley Street, when the brave Old Bob received a liberal supply of “golden ointment” to heal his disappointment and his bodily hurts.

Jones, for a long period, up to the present year, 1881, has been living in America, where he has earned respect for his civility, steadiness, good behavour, and his skill as a teacher of the art of boxing. A paragraph in a recent newspaper informs us of his return to the Old Country at the age of fifty-one.

TOM SAYERS (Champion)

PERIOD VIII.—1846–1863.

FROM THE CHAMPIONSHIP OF TOM SAYERS TO THE FIGHT BETWEEN HEENAN AND KING.

CHAPTER I.

TOM SAYERS (CHAMPION).—1849–1860.

As seven cities contended for the honour of being the birthplace of Homer, so, parvis componere magna, half a dozen places, English and Irish, have been named as the spot of dull earth whereon the last Champion of England opened his sharp little grey eyes. Somers Town and Camden Town, his favourite haunts in later life; Pimlico, now a palatial precinct of Belgravia, and several other places, have been oracularly declared, in “Answers to Correspondents,” in sundry sporting journals, to have been the locus in quo Tom struggled into what proved in his case literally “the battle of life.” A clever sporting writer (“Augur”) remarks with truth that “Ireland makes it her rule of faith always to claim the winner, be it man, woman, or quadruped. The ‘divided honours’ of Farnborough presented no obstacle to this. She adopted the maternity of Heenan out of hand, and with fair pretence, and now she has put in a post mortem claim to Tom Sayers. A regular county Kerry genealogy has been found for him, including a maternal aunt, who, naturally and nationally attributes his valour to her family infusion of the ‘blood of the Fitzgeralds!’”

In the memoir in Bell’s Life, at the date alluded to (which to our knowledge was from the pen of a trueborn Celt), we read “Tom Sayers, whose parents came from Dingle, in the county of Kerry,” &c. This gossip we pass, being able to state from personal knowledge, not only that Tom was born at “Pimlico,” a place of “fish-like smell,” in the middle of Brighton, Sussex, on May 25th, 1828, but that his father, “Old Tom,” so called from the bronzed complexion he transmitted to his son, whom he survives, is a genuine Sussex man, born at Storrington, near Steyning, in that county, where he was baptised in 1793, and in 1819 married a home-born and home-bred Sussex woman. Tom’s pedigree, therefore, is indisputably that of an Englishman. How he passed his youth, pushing off the Brighton hog-boats from the shingly beach of London-super-mare, we may also pass. In due time he was placed out to the trade of a bricklayer, and we have heard him say his first “big job” was on the Preston Viaduct of the Brighton and Lewes Railway, a noble structure of stone and white brick, visible from the Brighton terminus, crossing the Preston Road. Tom quitted Sussex, and in 1848 he was following his vocation on the extensive works of the North Western Railway at Camden Town, a locality for many years a favourite with the departed Champion.

Sayers’s Ring career was doubtless one of the most remarkable on record, his fights extending over twelve years, 1849–1860, besides numerous earlier battles. They were, within the regular P.R. ropes, sixteen in number, including one defeat and a wrangled “draw;” and in all but three cases against heavier and bigger men; for soon after the opening of his career no professional of his weight and inches cared to tackle him.

Tom was in his twenty-third year when, having migrated in the pursuit of employment from Brighton to Camden Town, he was induced by the challenge of one Aby Couch, and the stake of a “fiver,” to meet his opponent “down the river,” in the ropes of old Commissary Oliver. The affair came off on March 19th, 1849, near Greenhithe, when Tom sent Couch to rest in less than 13 minutes. For more than a twelvemonth Tom’s friends looked in vain for a customer at 10st., or thereabouts, but could not find one, though they declared him not particular to a few pounds.

A TRIO OF CHAMPIONS—THE THREE TOMS.

At length “Tom Spring’s waiter,” Dan Collins, whom we remember as a civil, smart, intelligent news-boy, petitioned his worthy master for a shy at Master Thomas, and articles were agreed for £25 a side, to fight on October 22nd, 1850. Dan was about an inch taller than Sayers, and a trifle heavier, though each on the day was under 10st. His known skill, too, from his exhibitions at Spring’s, made him the favourite, though he had been defeated by Ned Donnelly in the previous year. We well remember the surprise of the veteran Vincent Dowling (Editor of Bell’s Life for more than its first quarter of a century), and of Tom Spring, not only at the tough resolution and remarkable endurance and strength of the “novice,” as the Camden Town hero was called, but at the gameness with which poor Dan, sadly overmatched, took his “gruel.” At Edenbridge, Kent, in the first ring, they fought nine resolute rounds in 27 minutes, when, the rural constabulary intruding, the belligerents retired to Red Hill. Spring considerately proposed to Dan to decline, saying “He had fought quite enough for his money,” but Dan earnestly entreated, and was indulged, when thirty-nine more rounds were fought in 1 hour 52 minutes, both men being heavily punished. Darkness now interposed, and the final trial was postponed to December 10th, to meet in the same ring as Young Sambo (Welsh) and Cross. This draught-board game proving a draw between black and white, burned out two hours and a half of the short daylight, and there was no time for Sayers and Dan to exhibit; so once more the decision was deferred.

On April 29th, 1851, Sayers and Collins met in fistic fray at Long Reach. The improvement of Sayers in skill made poor Dan appear to have fallen off, and though he struggled gallantly through forty-four rounds, occupying 84 minutes, the tide never turned in his favour. Collins scaled 10st. 2lbs. at this second meeting, Sayers 9st. 10lbs. If Tom reaped fame by this contest, there was but little profit in training three times for a quarter of a hundred “yellowboys.”

The great improvement of Sayers on this occasion was evident to every judge of boxing; he took a strong lead, was never headed, and won in a canter. If there was little profit in three trainings and three fights for one stake, Tom gained confidence and lots of friends. His weight, however—too heavy for the nine-stone men, and underweight for the “middles” and “heavies”—kept him without a match for nearly a year. The “empty praise” of his friends, too, kept him from the “solid pudding,” so that none of the 9st. men cared to meddle with him. Various challenges in the columns of Bell’s Life show the impatience with which Tom bore this enforced inactivity. At length, to the surprise and delight of the Southwarkians, Tom had, what they thought, the presumptuous hardihood to offer to meet the renowned Jack Grant, for £100 a side. Jack was at the top of his renown. He had beaten James Haggerty, drawn with Mike Madden (daylight failing), beaten Alec Keene, and received forfeit from the talented Callaghan of Derby. Winning, and nothing else, was the idea of the Borough lads. The mill came off at Mildenhall, Suffolk, June 29th, 1852, for £100 a side. Grant was attended by Harry Orme and Jemmy Welsh; Sayers by Nat Adams and Bob Fuller the pedestrian. Betting 6 and 7 to 4 on Grant.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—On appearing at the scratch, the condition and general appearance of Sayers was the theme of admiration: there was not an ounce of superfluous flesh about his body—he appeared all wire and muscle. His phiz wore a good-humoured smile of confidence, and there was a ruddy glow upon his cheek which told of good health and condition. His attitude was graceful and firm, and, to a good judge, it was apparent that if he was as good as he looked the Borough Champion had his work cut out. Grant seemed not quite up to the mark. His arms, it is true, were muscular and brawny, and his good-tempered mug looked healthy; but there were certain accumulations of fat upon his chest and ribs which sufficiently indicated that his exercise had not been so severe as it might have been, and we were informed that, instead of weighing about 10st. 2lbs. he turned the scale at 10st. 6lb. Notwithstanding his lustiness, however, he appeared to look upon the result with quiet confidence, and to hold his adversary at a very cheap rate. His position indicated the old tactician—the arms well up, and not too far from his body, his head back, and his eye fixed upon that of his adversary, who stood well over him, and was longer in the reach. After a little dodging, Grant, who was anxious to begin, led off with his left, slightly reaching Tom’s forehead, and jumped away from the return. Sayers followed him up, when Grant tried to repeat the dose on the forehead, but was prettily stopped. Sayers at length got home with his right on the ribs, which was followed by heavy counter-hits, Grant on the left cheek, and Sayers heavily on Grant’s nose. Ditto repeated, when Sayers gained “first blood” from a cut over that organ. Grant then went in to force the fighting, but Sayers stepped back, jobbed him again on the nose, cleverly stopping the return. Counter hits succeeded, Sayers catching a nasty one on the left side of the head, and on getting back slipped down.

2.—Grant tried to lead off several times, but was on each occasion well stopped. He returned the compliment by twice stopping Sayers, and then lunged out his right, catching Sayers heavily under the left ear. Tom countered him with effect on the nose, and a close following, both were down; Sayers under.

3.—Grant took the initiative, but Sayers jumped away smiling; he, however, came again directly, and led off with his left, but was stopped. He was more successful a second time, and reached Grant’s damaged nose. Grant closed for the fall, but Sayers would not struggle, contenting himself with fibbing Grant on the nose and left ear until both rolled over.

4.—Mutual good stopping, after which Sayers delivered his left heavily on Grant’s ribs and jumped away. Counter-hits with the left followed—Sayers on the nose, and Grant on the ribs. A close, and some sharp fibbing. A break away, and at it again, Grant delivering his right heavily on Tom’s left eye. Slight exchanges, Grant again getting it on the nose, and Sayers slipped down.

5.—Both, on coming up, looked flushed. Sayers smiled, while Grant looked grim. The latter led off, but was twice stopped. They then got to work; sharp counter-hits were exchanged, Sayers receiving heavily on the left cheek, and Grant on the nose and jaw. A close and struggle for the fall ended in Grant being thrown, but not heavily.

6.—Sayers tried to lead off, but Grant was wary, and stopped him. He was not to be denied; however, he made another attempt, and again reached Grant’s smeller, getting well away from the return. Sayers then repeated the dose heavily with both hands, and followed this up by one or two punches in the ribs. At length Grant swung round his dangerous right, and caught Master Tom a tremendous whack on the left ear, which staggered him. Grant then closed, but Sayers declined to struggle for the fall, and fibbed away at his man until he allowed him to slip down.

7.—Sayers showed the effects of Grant’s visitation to his left ear, which was considerably swelled. Grant looked flushed from the taps on the nozzle. The latter led off, but was quite out of distance, and Sayers followed his example by delivering too high to be of any service. Exchanges then took place, each catching it on the right eye, Sayers’ delivery appearing to be the heavier. In getting away Sayers slipped down.

8.—Grant took the lead, but was again stopped, and caught an awkward one on the left listener for his pains. He then succeeded in planting his left on Tom’s forehead. Grant bored in, but Sayers stepped back, administering an upper-cut, which led to a rally, in which some sharp hitting took place, and Sayers scrambled down.

9.—Both slightly blown. Tom stopped Grant’s attempts to plant on him, and then delivered his left on the nose twice in succession. Grant again made his right sound against the left side of Tom’s head, and then sent in a heavy one on the ribs. Sayers, nothing daunted, was at him again, popped in his left on the cheek and his right on Grant’s left ear, and this bringing them to a struggle, Sayers letting himself down easy.

10.—Grant tried to force the fighting by boring in, but got it on the left eye rather heavily. Sayers, however, had not the strength to stall him off. He again went in, caught Sayers on the left eye, and in a struggle which followed the latter again slipped down to avoid being thrown.

11.—Grant led off, got well home on Sayers’ left ear, and then closed, and both rolled over together.

12.—Sayers’ left ear and left side of his head were much swollen; still he smiled, and calmly awaited the attack, which was not long in coming. Grant dashed in, and commenced hitting away with both hands; he drew blood from Tom’s mouth by a heavy spank from his left. Sayers delivered on the left cheek, and the round finished by both falling together at the ropes.

13.—Grant made his right with severity on the ribs, getting away from Sayers’ return. Sayers followed him up, and some sharp hits were exchanged left and right, both catching it on the nose and cheek, and Grant at length got down.

14.—Grant dashed in resolutely, but twice was well stopped. Sayers then delivered his left and right on the nose and left eye. Grant, not liking this, bored in, made his right on Tom’s left cheek, closed, but Sayers catching well hold of him, threw him a cross-buttock and fell on him.

15.—Both, anxious to get to work, led off at the same time, and each got it on the left eye. Grant was then neatly stopped twice in succession, but at length closed, and some sharp in-fighting took place, Sayers catching it on the left eye, and Grant on the left ear. The round ended by both going to grass. (Forty minutes had now elapsed, and those who had backed Grant to win in an hour began to look blue.)

16.—A capital round. After some excellent stopping and manœuvring on both sides, they got close together, and some sharp exchanges took place, each catching it on the nose and left cheek. A close ensued, followed by a break away, and both at it again, left and right, until Grant got down, somewhat blown, his want of condition evidently beginning to tell.

17.—Somewhat similar to the last, each catching it severely on the side of the head. The hitting appeared rather in favour of Grant, who drew more claret from Tom’s mouth. Both were eventually down.

18.—Grant dashed in and closed for a fall, but Sayers declined the struggle, fibbed him severely on the left ear several times, and Grant slipped down. He lay on his back where he fell, blowing like a grampus until time was called, when he was carried to his corner, from whence he walked to the scratch.

19.—Some good exchanges, Sayers on the right eye, and Grant on the nose, removing the bark, and drawing a fresh supply of the ruby. Quick exchanges, but both apparently hitting open-handed, were followed by Tom getting down cleverly.

20.—Grant, whose ear had been lanced, came up bleeding from that organ, which was much swelled from the blows in the 18th round. He rushed in, but Sayers caught him heavily on the damaged listener. Grant, still determined, persevered, caught Tom on the left side of the head twice in succession; exchanges followed in favour of Grant, and at last Tom got down.

21.—Sayers’ left eye began to show symptoms of adopting the early closing movement. He tried to lead off, but was stopped by Jack, who made his left again on the closing peeper, and then closed. Sayers fiddled away at his left ear until both were down.

22 and 23.—Both slow but steady, and the rounds ended, after a few exchanges, in the men slipping down at the ropes. In the latter round Grant pursued Sayers, who ran round the ring until he got to his own corner, when he turned sharp round, caught Grant left and right on the nose and left eye, which led to the close and fall.

24.—Grant came up bleeding from a cut over his left eye. Sayers attempted to take the lead, but was well stopped, Grant making his right heavily on his left ear, and Sayers fell through the ropes.

25.—Sayers was again neatly stopped, and in stepping back from Grant’s return, caught his heel and fell.

26.—Mutual good stopping, Sayers evidently the more active; he caught Grant again on his left ear, which was terribly swollen, received a heavy thump on the ribs from Grant’s right, and dropped on his south pole.

27.—Grant dashed in with his left on the mouth, and then his right on the side of Sayers’s head. Exchanges—Grant drawing blood from Tom’s nose. Some good in-fighting in favour of Sayers, and Grant got down.

28.—Good counter-hits, each catching it heavily on the nose. They now went to work in earnest; the hitting on both sides was tremendous, but owing to the excellence of Sayers’s condition, he did not show it much, while Grant, who received principally on the left ear and nose, looked considerably the worse for wear. Eventually Sayers slipped to avoid Jack’s friendly hug, and Grant, who fell over him, cleverly avoided touching him with his spikes.

29 to 32.—In these rounds Grant led off, but his want of condition prevented his being as quick as he otherwise might have been, consequently he was often stopped, and of course exhausted himself by throwing away his blows. When, however, they got at it he gave as good as he got, and the rounds ended by Sayers slipping down. In the 32nd, however, Grant threw Sayers, and fell heavily on him.

33.—Grant came up bleeding from the mouth and left ear; he tried to lead off, but was stopped. Sayers popped in his left and right on the mouth and throat, getting it in return on the nose heavily, more of the bark being displaced, and in the end both were down.

34.—Grant planted both hands, but the steam was gone; Sayers returned on the mouth and left eye. A rally, Grant delivering on the damaged cheek-bone of his adversary, and receiving another gentle tap on his nose, which drew more fluid. A close struggle for the fall, and both down, Sayers under.

35.—One hour and a half had now elapsed, and both appeared fatigued from their exertions. Grant stopped several well-intentioned deliveries, and returned on Tom’s left eye and nose, drawing blood from both. Good exchanges led to a close, when both were down.

36.—Sayers came up weak, while Grant had slightly recovered. The latter led off, was twice well stopped, but ultimately sent home his right on Sayers’ left cheek and the latter slipped down.

37.—Sayers, whose left cheek and eyebrow were much swollen and discoloured, led off, and caught Grant on the left eye and nose, but not heavily, and in retreating fell.

38.—Grant took the lead, but was propped in the throat by Tom’s right. Grant, however, found out the side of his head with effect. Exchanges followed, both receiving on the nose; but Sayers, who was the weaker, got down on the saving suit.

39.—Grant dashed in with his right on Tom’s left cheek, who closed, fibbed him heavily on his damaged ear, and then slipped down.

40 to 42.—In these rounds but little mischief was done, both sparring for wind, and eventually Sayers got down cleverly.

43.—Grant, who seemed to have got second wind, led off quickly, but Sayers jumped away. Grant followed him up, caught him on the ribs, heavily with his right, and then on the nose with his left. Sayers returned on the throat, and some heavy deliveries on both sides took place, both standing and hitting away for some time without an attempt at stopping, and there appeared to be no decided advantage on either side; at length Sayers slipped down exhausted. This was unexceptionally the severest round in the fight. The men appeared to think this was the turning-point, and each wished to make some decided impression on his game adversary.

44.—Both were the worse for the exertions in the last round. Grant’s left ear bore marks of having been again severely visited, and we believe his seconds again found it necessary to lance it. Sayers did not show such decided marks of Grant’s handiwork, but this was mainly accounted for by his excellent condition. His left eye was, however, closing, and his left cheek much swollen. Both unwilling to begin, and some slight blows having been exchanged, Sayers slipped down.

45.—Grant went into mill, but napped it on the left ear and nose with severity. Good exchanges followed, and Sayers again slipped down.

46.—Grant still first to fight, but was cleverly stopped by Sayers, who was getting more active. They quickly got to in-fighting, when after a few exchanges they rolled over, and Grant excited the admiration of all by the careful manner in which he avoided falling on his man with his feet or knees.

47, 48.—Grant took the lead in both these rounds, but was stopped in each instance, and received deliveries from Sayers’s right on his left ear. He nevertheless succeeded in each round in planting on Sayers’s left ear with his dangerous right; but the blows had not that vigour we have seen him exhibit on former occasions. Both were down in these rounds.

49.—Some rattling exchanges took place in this round; Grant getting it on the throat and ribs, and Sayers on the chest and mouth and eventually slipping down.

50.—Sayers made play on the ribs with his left heavily, Grant returning on the nose with his left; Grant then stopped two attempts on the part of Sayers, made his left and right on the nose and left cheek, and Sayers slipped down.

51.—Grant again popped in a spank on Tom’s nut, receiving in return on the smeller heavily, and losing more claret. Good exchanges followed, when Grant rushed in and bored his man over the ropes.

52.—Sayers attempted to make the running, but was stopped by Grant, who went in to mill, and planted both hands, one on the nose and the other on the left side of the head heavily. Another on the nose succeeded, which opened the claret jug again. Sayers only planted his left once on the nose and slipped down. This round was decidedly in favour of Grant.

53.—Sayers made his left on the ribs, and tried to plant the same hand on the nose, but was well stopped. He received one from Grant’s right on the side of his head; this brought on a rally, in which he caught it on the eyebrow heavily, and slipped down.

54.—Grant, thinking the game was now his own, again rushed in, but Sayers was with him and in the exchanges which followed he visited Grant’s left ear with great severity, catching it slightly on the side of the head, and then getting down cunning.

55.—Grant again first, but stopped; he however, made good his right on the ribs directly afterwards, and then his left on the right eye of Sayers, who sent home his right on the neck, and his left on the left ear. Grant bored in again, received one on the left ear, which bled freely, and Sayers slipped down.

56.—A close, and Sayers got down.

57.—No mischief done. Some slight exchanges, and Sayers slipped down.

58.—Sayers caught Grant as he came in on the nose and throat, and then on the mazzard heavily, drawing more of the ruby. Grant then closed, struggled, and both fell heavily to the ground—Sayers uppermost.

59.—Grant, who seemed weak and exhausted, was twice stopped; but in a third attempt caught Sayers on the left ear with his right, and the latter slipped down.

60.—Grant led off, reached Sayers’ left eye, received one on his damaged listener, and slipped down.

61.—Grant appeared determined to finish the matter off hand, rushed in left and right on Sayers’ cheek and nose. Sayers put in both hands on the left eye and nose; a rally, close, and short struggle, both again coming to the ground heavily—Grant under.

62.—Sayers tried to lead off, but was short; Grant just contrived to reach his nose, but the blow had no steam in it, and Sayers in getting back slipped down.

63.—Both slow to the call of time, and both evidently exhausted. Grant was first up, but he looked much flushed; his face was much swollen, his nose anything but Roman in its appearance, and his left ear presenting an unpleasant spectacle. He rushed in, but Sayers, whose good-natured mug still bore the ghost of a smile, although nearly on the wrong side of his mouth, stopped him cleverly and got away; Grant followed him up, got home with his right on the side of his head, receiving, in return, on the left ear. A close, and long struggle for the fall, which Grant got, throwing his man and falling on him.

64 and last.—Grant came up looking very groggy. The falls in the few last rounds had evidently shaken him. He appeared to be suffering from cramp, but still was determined. He led off, getting slightly home on Sayers’ left cheek bone. Tom retaliated on the left ear. A few sharp exchanges were succeeded by another struggle for the fall, and ultimately both came very heavily to the ground—Grant being undermost—Tom falling across his stomach. Both were immediately picked up and carried to their corners, and on time being called, Jemmy Welsh, on the part of Grant, threw up the sponge in token of defeat. On our inquiring as to the cause of this rather unexpected termination of the affair, we were informed that Grant was severely suffering from cramp, and had moreover injured some part of his intestines in such a manner that it was feared he was ruptured, and he was in such pain that he could not stand upright. Sayers went up to his fallen but not disgraced adversary and shook him kindly by the hand, and was proclaimed the victor amidst the shouts of his friends. Grant was conveyed on a railway truck to a small public-house in the neighbourhood, where every attention was shown to him, but he continued in great pain for some time afterwards. The poor fellow was not actually ruptured; but he had received a severe internal strain, which caused him considerable uneasiness for some time. Grant met with an accident some time before at Manchester, which always rendered him weak in the muscles of the stomach, and he considered that being not fully up to the mark, he was more than usually susceptible of injury. The fight lasted exactly two hours and a half.

Remarks.—The great length to which our account of this “model mill” has extended imposes upon us the necessity of being brief in our remarks. Tom Sayers by this victory established for himself a reputation as a man of science, courage, and endurance, for which few were disposed to give him credit. The manner in which he stopped the determined attacks of his adversary, and the judgment with which he extricated himself from difficulty, and continually refused to struggle for the fall with a man stronger than himself, proved that his headpiece was screwed on the right way, and that although, compared with his opponent, a novice in the Prize Ring, he was perfectly acquainted with the theory of his art, and only wanted the occasion to arise to put that theory into practice. He proved himself a very hard hitter, and managed to get on to his opponent so frequently that even Grant’s iron mug displayed such bumps and contusions as the gallant hero has seldom exhibited in his former engagements. Sayers is a good-tempered, well-behaved young fellow, and bears a high character for honour and integrity. He is by this victory nearly at the top of the tree, and we trust that by his future conduct he will show that prosperity has not, in his case, as it has in many we could name in his profession, had the effect of destroying his good principles. Grant, although not destined on this occasion to wear the crown of victory, was not disgraced by his fall. He manfully disputed every inch of ground with his clever opponent, and showed that his qualifications as a sparrer were quite equal to those of Sayers. His stopping and wrestling were universally admired, while the manliness and care with which he avoided falling upon his adversary in such a way as to cause any dispute, obtained for him the repeated plaudits of the surrounding throng. The fight, as we have before observed, was conducted throughout in a way to leave nothing to be desired.

Tom now remained idle until January of the following year, 1853, when a game, resolute fellow, named Jack Martin, who had disposed of several countrymen, and grown into high favour with Ben Caunt, was brought forward by “Big Ben” to uphold the honour of the “Coach and Horses.” Tom’s standing challenge was accordingly accepted for £50 a side, and Wednesday, January 26, 1853, named as the day of battle. A foggy trip per steamer landed the voyagers in Long Reach, and, the preparations being made, the men stood up and shook hands; Alec Keene and a friend, for Sayers, and Tom Paddock and Jerry Noon as seconds for Martin, joining in the friendly ceremony.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—On toeing the scratch it was clear to all that Sayers was a bigger man than his adversary; and, if possible, in better condition. His eye had resumed its brightness, and there was a hardness in his general appearance which made him look all over a perfect gladiator. Martin, who was shorter in the reach than his opponent, showed great muscularity of arm and thighs, but elsewhere he was not nearly so well furnished. He was pale, but there was a good-humoured smile on his mug, which showed that the word fear was unknown in his vocabulary. Little time was lost in sparring—Sayers led off, catching Martin slightly with his left on the nose. Martin immediately rushed to in-fighting, when some heavy hits were exchanged, each catching it on the left eye, and each showing claret at the same moment from cuts on the brow. After a few random shots both were down together. “First blood” was claimed by each party, but was decided by the referee to be a drawn event.

2.—Both bleeding from the left eye, Sayers appearing to have the worst of it. He was undaunted, smiled, led off with his left, catching Martin on the right cheek. Martin again went in, and commenced pegging away with both hands. Sayers was with him, hitting with most precision, and the round ended in both again falling together.

3.—Sayers commenced the ball, caught Martin a spank on the right cheek, received slightly on the body, and then catching Martin full with his left on the nose, sent him to grass, a clean “knock-down blow,” and thus won the second event.

4.—Martin came up bleeding from the nose, but with a smile of confidence. Sayers led off, but Martin jumped cleverly back. He then stepped in, caught Sayers on the damaged optic, drawing more of the ruby. Heavy exchanges followed; Martin delivered his right heavily on the ribs, Sayers returning with effect on the nose. A close at the rope followed, and both were quickly down.

5.—Martin attempted to take the lead, but was neatly stopped; he then swung round his right at the body, and immediately closed for the fall. Sayers, instead of struggling, fibbed away at Martin’s head until Martin forced him down.

6.—Sayers led off on the nose with his left; Martin countered on the side of the head. A tremendous rally followed, the hits on both sides succeeding each other with great quickness. Each caught it on the side of the head, but the blows of Sayers, from his superior reach, told with most force. In the end both were down.

7.—Martin led off, was well stopped, and received a nasty one on the nose; he then closed, but Sayers refused to struggle with him, and got down, Martin following suit.

8.—Sayers commenced by planting his left on Martin’s nose with effect, and immediately repeating the dose. Martin returned on the left eye heavily, enlarging the old cut; and Sayers, in stepping away, slipped down.

9.—Martin showed a bump on each side of his nose from the heavy blows in the last round. He tried to take the lead, but was well stopped. Ditto repeated. After which he bored in, Sayers catching him heavily on the left cheek. Martin succeeded in reaching Sayers’ damaged brow; good exchanges followed, Sayers getting, however, on Martin’s right eye, and Martin on the ribs with his right. Another tremendous rally followed, each getting heavy pepper, Martin, however, having the worst of it, and receiving on the mouth and left eye with great severity. At last they got close together, and, after a short struggle, Sayers eased himself down, and Martin fell on him.

10.—Martin, on coming up, showed marks of the efficacy of Sayers’ handiwork in the last round. His right eye, which was previously “all serene,” was now completely closed, and his right cheek much swollen, while Sayers appeared little the worse for wear. Sayers led off, but was short; Martin then made an attempt, but failed in like manner. Counter-hits followed; Sayers again reached the right ogle of his adversary, who took all in good-humour, and still smiled with one side of his face. He now dashed in, and more exchanges took place, Martin succeeded in inflicting a cut over Sayers’ right eye, which had been hitherto unscathed. At length, after some sharp in-fighting in favour of Sayers, Martin slipped down on one knee. Sayers, who might have hit him, laughed and walked away, amidst cries of “Bravo” from both sides.

11.—Sayers led off with his left, reaching the side of Martin’s nose. A rattling rally followed, at the end of which Sayers threw his man, and fell heavily on him.

12.—Martin came up bleeding at all points, but still the same good-humoured fellow as ever. Sayers led off short, ditto Martin; Sayers in on the ribs with his left. Counter-hits, Sayers on the nose, and Martin on the cheek, drawing more of the ruby fluid. A close followed, and some more heavy infighting, after which, Martin contrived to swing Sayers over.

13.—Sayers on coming up was bleeding rapidly from a severe cut on his left hand, evidently inflicted against Martin’s teeth. The men quickly got to it, counter-hits were exchanged, Martin on the ribs, and Sayers on the right cheek, followed up by two spanks, left and right, on the nose and mouth. More heavy pounding in favour of Sayers, who hit at points, while Martin hit round, and principally at the body. At length they closed, and both were down, side by side, each looking at his adversary and smiling.

14.—Martin led off with his left, but was out of distance. Sayers, with great quickness, let go his left, and reached his opponent’s mouth. Martin merely grinned at the visitation, bored in, but only to receive another severe prop on the right eye and a spank on the nasal organ. Still he was determined, and again went at his man, who, in getting away, slipped down.

15.—Martin’s phisog in anything but picturesque condition, his right cheek much swollen and bleeding, and his mouth completely out of kissing condition. After a few passes, slight counter-hits were exchanged, Martin getting home on the body, and Sayers on the left cheek. Martin, not to be stalled off, rushed in and delivered a heavy round hit on the ribs with his right; Sayers was with him, and visited his damaged smeller with severity. This led to another good rattling rally, in which Sayers inflicted more heavy punishment on poor Martin’s nose and right eye, while Martin only succeeded in delivering some sounding punches on his ribs. They broke away, again got at it ding-dong, and finally, in the close both were down. Martin apparently as strong on his legs as his opponent.

16.—Good counter-hits with the left, each catching the other on the mazzard. Sayers now stopped one or two attempts on the part of his adversary very neatly, and returned heavily on the nozzle. An attempt to repeat the dose was unsuccessful, Martin quickly jumping back. Martin came again, and swung round his left on the ribs, but napped it again on the nose for his imprudence. More mutual punching in favour of Sayers followed, but still Martin’s deliveries were occasionally severe. A close, in which both fibbed away hammer-and-tongs. Sayers reaching Martin’s remaining optic, but not with sufficient force to put up the shutter, and Martin drew more claret from his opponent’s left ogle. A break away, and at it again, until Martin slipped down on one knee; Sayers again walking away smiling. This round, which was one of the best fighting rounds we have seen for many a day, elicited universal applause.

17.—Martin came up piping, and rather slow, but still smiling, as well as his damaged phiz would allow. He endeavoured to lead off, but was easily stopped. In a second attempt he reached Tom’s left cheek, but Sayers countered him on the left eye heavily, his superior reach giving him the advantage. Martin, not to be cowed, popped in a heavy right-hander on the ribs; received again on his left eye, and, in retreating, slipped down.

18.—Sayers let fly his left, but was short; both appeared fatigued from the quickness with which they had worked, and sparred a few seconds for wind. Sayers at length again led off, and caught Martin on the left eye, Martin returning on the same suit with considerable quickness. Both were now short in their deliveries. Martin at length bored in and reached Tom’s ribs with his right. Sayers returned on the right cheek, and both slipped down.

19.—Sayers again out of distance. He soon crept closer, however, sent out his left, was neatly stopped, and cleverly got away from Martin’s return. Martin followed him up, caught him on the left cheek, and then on the body, receiving a nasty one in return on the left eye. In the close which followed he succeeded in throwing Sayers heavily, amidst the cheers of his friends, who did not think he had so much strength in him.

20.—Sayers led off, caught Martin on the mouth, was unsuccessful in a second attempt, and then caught a heavy right-hander on the ribs. Martin sent out his left and was stopped, Sayers returning with effect on the right eye, and then on the left, from which he drew more claret. Martin, whose head was much swollen, again planted a rib bender, closed, and after a short struggle both were down.

21.—Martin took the lead, but Sayers jumped away laughing; Martin returned the grin, and again sent out his left, which was easily stopped. Sayers once more reached his adversary’s blind side, and Martin slipped down weak.

22.—Any odds on Sayers, who was as fresh as possible. Martin made an effort to turn the tables, but was stopped several times; he at length reached Tom’s ribs, and the latter stepping back, steadied himself, waited for Martin’s rush, and then sent out his left with terrific force, caught poor Martin on the right jaw, and the latter tumbled over on his face apparently out of time. It was thought all over, and the poor fellow was carried to his corner, but when time was called, to the surprise of all he came up for round

23, and last.—He was evidently all abroad, and staggered about the ring. Sayers went up to him, delivered his left on the right cheek, and following this with a right-hander on the nose, down went Martin for the last time, and Sayers was proclaimed the winner after fighting 55 minutes. Sayers, although severely handled about the mug, was still fresh on his pins; both his eyes were fully open, and it was evident that, had it been necessary, he was good for many more rounds. Martin, on being conveyed to his corner, was laid upon the ground, and every effort made to restore consciousness, but it was fully five minutes before he could be made to understand what had happened. As soon as possible he was conveyed on board the steamboat, and made as comfortable as could be expected under the circumstances.

Remarks.—A few more such battles as that we have just recorded would go far to restore the fallen fortunes of the Prize Ring. It was, in truth, as we have styled it above, a mill of the old school. More punishment was inflicted in 55 minutes than we have seen in two hours in any encounter during the last few years. There was not a single appeal to the referee, nor was there a single action on the part of either man throughout the fight at which the greatest stickler for fair play could take exception. Both had evidently made up their minds to a fair and manly struggle for victory, and their friends ably supported them in their laudable resolution, by rigidly abstaining from any interference. In fact, the only thing at which we felt inclined to cavil was the manner in which Jerry Noon seconded the losing man. A good second always remains quiet until the round is over, then picks his man up, carries him to his corner, and cleans him as tenderly as possible. Roughness, or interference during the round, only tends to confuse a man’s ideas and lead him into jeopardy. As to the merits of the men, there cannot be two opinions. Martin was clearly overmatched. He was opposed to a taller, longer and stronger man, one, moreover, possessing greater knowledge of the art of self-defence than himself. That he (Martin) is a game, resolute fellow no one will deny. A greater glutton we have seldom seen. He is, also, an exceedingly fair fighter, scorning to take the least advantage, and is possessed of that greatest of all requisites to a boxer—unwavering good-temper. The terms of praise in which he was mentioned by all clearly showed that his conduct was appreciated as it deserved to be. Of Tom Sayers, and his manly, good-tempered style of fighting, we have before spoken in the highest terms, and it is only necessary for us to state that his conduct was as upright and his tactics were as fair as ever. He, on several occasions, refrained from punishing his adversary when he was down on one knee only—a position in which he was perfectly entitled to strike him, and one in which he might have administered pepper with effect. He used his left hand with greater precision than in his battle with Grant, and his deliveries appeared altogether heavier than in that encounter. As we have before observed, the ring was exceedingly well kept throughout, and all had an uninterrupted view of the encounter from its commencement to its conclusion. As soon as possible after the event was decided, the crowd that had assembled took its departure—some returning by the boat, while others, who did not fancy a return trip up the river in the dark against an ebb-tide, struck across the marshes to Dartford, and thus reached town at seven o’clock by the North Kent Railway. Among the latter was our eccentric friend, Bendigo, who quite put out the pipe of the milling orator and poet, Charley Mallett, as, while waiting at the station, he composed and sung a long extempore poem, descriptive of the day’s sport, and laudatory of the heroes and of himself, which elicited uncontrollable laughter and applause from his Corinthian auditors, and sent all back to the Metropolis in perfect good humour, caused as much by the ready wit and “hanky-panky” performances of that eccentric individual, as by the extraordinary treat they had enjoyed on the field of battle.

The year 1853 was not to expire without witnessing the first and last defeat of the gallant Tom.

Nathaniel Langham, for many years known as “mine host” of the “Mitre,” in St. Martin’s Lane, Leicester Square, whose biography illustrates a former portion of this volume, was, as the reader is already aware, of that unlucky weight, 11st., which is so difficult to match when accompanied by first-class pugilistic capabilities. Too heavy for the light men, whose average lies between 9st. and 9st. 10lbs., and too light for real “big-uns,” provided they possess skill and pluck, men of this size can find fair competitors only among men of their own weight and inches. Nat’s earlier combats, therefore, as we have already seen, were with heavy men; and his only defeat had been by Harry Orme, his superior by more than half a stone, under circumstances fully detailed at page 244 of this volume. Two years had elapsed since Nat’s defeat, and public talk had prophesied in fistic circles of “the coming man” in the person of the conqueror of Jack Grant. “Ould Nat,” who seemed for the moment laid on the shelf, pricked up his ears when he heard that Tom, whose motto was “Excelsior,” was ready to make a match with the “Champion of the Middle-weights.” Nat picked up the gauntlet, and all was soon arranged. At Lakenheath, Suffolk, on the 18th October, 1853, they met, with the result already recorded.

Defeated, but not disgraced, Tom lost no time in challenging Langham to a second trial; but the latter, for good and sufficient reasons, which we have fully set forth in our memoir of that boxer (ante p. 251), declined the invitation.

Sayers was, therefore, on the look-out for a new competitor, and although Tom “proposed” to several of the provincial “ten stunners” and upwards, none listened to his suit.

One evening, after some “chaff,” George Sims, a long-limbed professor of the art, immensely fancied by some of the “locals,” threw down the gauntlet to Tom, professing regret that £25 was all he could raise for the experiment, and that Tom could easily post £50. Finding that the professor was serious and “meant business,” Sayers, who declared himself “blue mouldy for want of a bating,” accepted the chance, as he said, “to keep his hand in.”

The day fixed was the 2nd of February, 1854, and on a miserably foggy morning the principals and their friends took steamer to Long Reach, below Gravesend, and soon were face to face, near the river wall. Sayers, who weighed 10st 6lbs., looked remarkably well. Sims, who stood over him, was 5 feet 10 inches, and said to be under 11st. We doubt if he were so light, despite his leanness. Sims was waited upon by Jemmy Welsh and Harry Orme, so that he had talent behind him; Sayers had Jemmy Massey and Bob Fuller as counsel. 7 to 4 and 2 to 1 on Sayers.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Sims was so much taller than Sayers that he seemed quite a lath before him, and, as soon as he held up his hands, displayed such awkwardness that it was evidently “sovereigns to sassingers” on Sayers, and Dan Dismore immediately offered 4 to 1 on him, which was taken by Jem Burn on the off chance. Sims, after a little unartistic squaring, lunged out awkwardly, and caught Tom on the chest with his left. Tom, who was evidently waiting to find out what his adversary could do, returned smartly on the mouth, and in getting back fell on his corybungus.

2.—Tom grinned, dodged his man, and, on the latter wildly sending out his left, countered him on the nozzle heavily. Sims immediately closed, and Tom, seizing him round the neck, pegged away with his right at the ribs and left eye until both fell.

3.—Sims led off, evidently without any settled plan; he caught Tom slightly on the mouth, and the latter again countered him heavily on the nose, deciding the first event in his favour by producing an excellent supply of the best crimson dye. Sims did not like this, and again closed, when Tom fibbed him heavily on the proboscis, drawing more of the ruby, and then on the left eye, and both again fell.

4th and last.—Sims on coming up looked much flushed; his left ogle winked again as if it saw so many bright stars as to be perfectly dazzled. He attempted to lead off, but was countered with the greatest ease by Tom on the left eye and mouth. He retreated as if bothered, and then went in again, when Tom let go both hands, the left on the smeller, and the right with terrific effect over the left brow, inflicting a deep cut, and drawing a copious supply of the best double-distilled. Sims was evidently stunned by the hit; for, as Sayers caught hold of him, he fell back and rolled over him. It was at once perceptible that it was all over; poor Sims lay perfectly insensible and motionless. His seconds did their best to stop the leak in his os frontis, but for some time without effect; and, as for rendering him capable of hearing the call of “Time,” that was quite out of the question, and Tom Sayers, to his own astonishment and the disappointment of those who had expected a rattling mill, was declared the conqueror, after a skirmish of exactly five minutes. Sayers was so bewildered that he could not make it out; he evidently did not know he had made so decided a hit, and displayed considerable anxiety to ascertain the fate of his less fortunate opponent. A medical gentleman was present, who soon did the needful for the poor fellow, and in about five minutes more he was himself again, and was able to walk about. He was quite dumbfounded as to the result, and expressed a strong wish to be thrown into the river; but, after some persuasion from his friends, became more calm, and thought it better “to live to fight another day.”

Remarks.—A few words are all that are called for in the shape of remarks on this mill. Sims was from the first overmatched. He is a civil, well-behaved, courageous fellow, ridiculously over estimated by his friends. Tom Sayers and his tactics are too well known to require comment. He did all that was required of him, and left the ring without a scratch. We never saw him in better fettle; and if he ever had a day on which he was better than he ever had been before, that day was Tuesday. An easier job never fell to man’s lot; and the best wish that his friends can express is, that he may never have a worse.

This brief episode left Sayers literally without a chance of continuing the main story of his battles, of which this could be hardly reckoned more than “un affaire,” as French militaires would call it. Tom looked round and round, he sparred, and challenged, and travelled, but he was not fancied as a customer by either Londoners or provincials. He was too good a horse, and handicapping him was not so easy. There was much “talkee, talkee” about a match between himself and Tom Paddock, then claiming the Championship, and a proposal for Paddock to stake £200 to Tom Sayers’s £100, Paddock weighing 12st. 8lbs. to Tom’s 10st. 1lbs., or thereabouts. It came to nothing, however; and Tom, in despair, announced his intention of going to Australia.

Harry Poulson, of Nottingham, whose three tremendous battles with Paddock, in the first of which he was victorious, though defeated in the second and third encounters, had raised his fame deservedly, was now talked of, and Tom was induced to match himself against him. Here, again, Sayers was giving away “lumps of weight;” for Poulson, though an inch shorter than Sayers (namely, 5ft 7½in.) was a perfect Hercules in the torso, weighing 12st. 7lbs. in hard condition. He had thrashed, in provincial battles, all comers, and was known as one of the coolest, most determined, and game fellows that ever pulled off a shirt. True, he had come into the London Ring rather late in life, having been born in 1817, but his endurance and strength were considered an overmatch for Sayers. So, too, thought Jem Burn, a staunch friend of Poulson, and he proposed to stake £50 on his behalf. Sayers accepted it, and Bendigo, who was Poulson’s friend and adviser, snapped at what he declared to be “a gift” for his townsman Harry.

Many of Tom’s friends were displeased with the match, which they considered presumptuous on his part, and declared that he was completely overmatched, as it was known Poulson could not fight under 12st., and Sayers to be well ought to be more than a stone under that amount. At first he had some difficulty in finding supporters, but that was happily got over by the influence of one of the staunchest Corinthian fanciers of modern times. After he was matched, Sayers remained longer in town than was prudent, and, as a natural consequence, was too much hurried in his preparations. He was not quite a month at country quarters, and on arriving in London looked fleshy, and had evidently done insufficient work. Had he been about five pounds lighter he would have been all the better. He was, nevertheless, extremely sanguine of success, and assured his backers that he would fully justify the confidence they had placed in him. We saw Tom at Nat Langham’s, the “Cambrian,” on the Monday evening. He was surrounded by an extensive circle of the upper-crust supporters of the P.R. His weight was about 10st. 12lbs. or 13lbs.

Poulson, after his last defeat by Paddock, had remained at Nottingham, where he followed his laborious occupation as a navvy until informed of the proposed match, in which, as already stated, he was taken in hand by Jem Burn. That facetious worthy, determined that no pains should be spared, summoned Bendigo to his assistance, and under the able tutelage of that eccentric but painstaking ex-champion did Harry get himself into very first-rate trim. Every muscle in his powerful frame was beautifully developed, and there did not seem to be an ounce of superfluous meat in any place. As the men were not tied to weight, no scaling took place at the last moment on which dependence could be placed. He was certainly not less than 12st., and might have been a pound or so more. His height 5ft. 7½in., and in figure and general appearance, although shorter and thicker set, marvellously like “the renowned” Bendigo. On the Monday before the battle Poulson took up his quarters under the hospitable roof of “My Nevvy,” at the “Rising Sun,” where he was greeted by an admiring circle, including many patricians. He retired to his “flea pasture” at an early hour; but the eccentric Bendy kept the company at the “Rising Sun” in a perpetual grin until the approach of the small hours reminded him that he, too, had work to do early in the morning, upon which he retired to roost, as did the host himself, who, although suffering from gout, had made up his mind to be present. The betting, at both Jem’s and Nat’s, varied between 6 and 7 to 4 on Poulson—odds which the superior strength, weight, and condition of the countryman fully justified. The betting was tolerably brisk, but there were more layers of odds than takers.

By six o’clock in the morning all the Fancy were astir, and great was the difficulty in getting cabs. A hard frost had set in, and most of the vehicles were detained at home to get the horses “roughed.” Several, owing to this unforeseen occurrence, were unable to catch the train at eight o’clock; and, had it not been for the opportune arrival of the drag of an old friend, Sayers would, in all probability, have been left behind. As it was, he cut it so fine that he only arrived as the station-doors were closed. The journey down was performed by eleven o’clock, and within half an hour the ring was ready at Appledore. The men lost no time in entering its precincts, Poulson attended by Bob Fuller and Bendigo, and Sayers receiving the friendly assistance of Nat Langham and Jemmy Massey. Umpires and a referee were soon appointed, and at six minutes to twelve the men toed the scratch. The betting now was tolerably brisk at 7 to 4 on Poulson—odds which, at one period of the fight, advanced to 3 to 1, which was laid by Tom Paddock, whose confidence in his old opponent’s tried game and resolution tempted him to overstep the bounds of prudence in his investments.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The disparity in weight was very perceptible, as was also the superior condition of Poulson. Sayers, however, had the advantage in height and length. Poulson threw himself into the old-fashioned attitude, with both hands held somewhat high, and planted firmly on both pins. Sayers, on the contrary, assumed an elegant position, resting most upon his left foot, his right arm across the mark, and the left well down. He fiddled a little, until Poulson went in and let go his left and right. The former was stopped; but with the latter he got home on Tom’s nut. A sharp rally instantly took place, which brought them to close quarters, in which Sayers fibbed his man very cleverly, catching him heavily on the conk, and in the end both were down, Poulson under.

2.—Both were flushed from the rapid in-fighting in the last round, which had evidently been severe. Poulson tried to lead off, but was too slow for his active opponent. He persevered, and at last got home with his right over Tom’s left ear. This led to more heavy exchanges and a close, in which Poulson caught Sayers round the neck. Sayers hit up, but without doing any damage, and in the end was down, Poulson on him.

3.—Sayers came up smiling but cautious. He fiddled his man until he got within distance, when he lunged out his left on the right brow, but too high for mischief. Poulson returned heavily on the ribs with his right, when Tom retreated. Poulson followed him again, let go his left and right, was beautifully countered, but again too high and on the side of the nut, and Poulson slipped down.

4.—Sayers feinted and let go his left on the nose, but not heavily. Poulson was wild and missed his return, whereupon Sayers put in his left very neatly on the right cheek. Poulson now went in ding-dong, but his blows wanted precision. He got close, when Sayers caught him on the right peeper and the right lug, from each of which there was a tinge of blood. Tom then closed and threw his man very neatly, falling on him. (“First blood” for Sayers.)

5.—Sayers again feinted to draw his man, who came in, and Sayers sent his left over his shoulder. Poulson then closed, threw, and fell on him.

6.—Tom, after one or two feints and dodges, again let fly his left, but was well stopped. Poulson, however, missed his return with the right at the body. He now rushed in determined, and some tremendous punching, left and right, ensued, in which Sayers hit straighter and oftener, but Poulson heavier with his right, which paid some heavy visits to Tom’s nut.

7.—Sayers again feinted and succeeded in drawing his man, who let go both hands, but out of distance. Sayers with quickness returned on the forehead, but was too high. Heavy counter-hits followed to a close, in which the fibbing was severe, Sayers receiving on the left side of his head and returning on the mouth.

8.—Both, much flushed on the dial, came up laughing. Poulson lunged out his right, catching Tom heavily on the ribs and then on the cheek, Tom instantly closed, and, after a sharp struggle, in which it was thought Poulson had the best of it, Sayers cleverly back-heeled him, throwing him heavily and falling on him.

9.—Poulson tried again to deliver his right on the ribs, but Sayers was well away. Harry rushed after him, slinging out both hands, when Tom ducked and escaped. Poulson persevered, and at last caught him with his right on the ribs, when some more severe in-fighting in favour of Poulson took place. In the end both were down.

10.—On coming up Tom’s nose showed that Harry had been there in the last round; his ribs, also, were unmistakably bruised. He feinted to draw his adversary, and let go his left, which was stopped, and Poulson returned on the ribs. Sayers, with great quickness, countered him as he delivered this blow, and sent him to grass by a sharp left-hander on the right temple. (“First knock-down blow” for Sayers.)

11.—Poulson came up slow, as if posed by the blow in the last round. Sayers dodged with his left, and popped it over Harry’s right peeper, getting quickly away from the return. Poulson followed him up, but missed his right; he persevered until they got to close quarters, when Sayers again knocked him down by a heavy right-hander on the jaw. (Loud cheers for Sayers, the Poulsonites looking blue.)

12.—Tom came up smiling and all alive, dodged, and put in his left very straight on Harry’s nasal promontory. Poulson instantly rushed in, but napped it on the right side of his nut and slipped down.

13.—Poulson, who had been called on to fight with his left, waited for Sayers, and, on the latter coming near, caught him heavily with that hand on the proboscis, staggering him. Tom soon came again, and retaliated by a heavy delivery on the mouth with his left. After some mutual sparring, Harry was short with his left, and Tom countered him with the right on the left peeper, and then with the left bang on the olfactory organ. Some sharp exchanges ensued, in which Poulson drew the ruby from Tom’s snout, and Tom slipped down.

14.—Both got quickly to work. No stopping; and, after one or two harmless cracks, Sayers got down.

15.—Poulson again attempted to fight with his left; but Sayers was too quick for him, and nailed him on the right cheek. Harry tried it again, but was stopped; and Sayers then let drive with his left on the smelling-bottle very heavily; he retreated, feinted, and, by putting the double on, succeeded in delivering another smack on the same organ. Some very heavy exchanges followed, in which Sayers got home on the right eye and Harry on the sneezer; Sayers slipped down.

16.—Tom came up filtering the juice from his beak. Poulson tried to plant his favourite right, but was stopped. He then tried his left, but was out of distance. After several more wild efforts, Sayers caught him with his left heavily on the right cheek, and retreated. Poulson followed him to the corner and let go his left and right, when Sayers countered him on the cheek. Poulson retaliated on the mouth very heavily, and Tom slipped down.

17.—Tom was now bleeding from the mouth and nose. He was as steady as ever, and planted his left on the side of the head. This led to some sharp in-fighting, without material damage, and in the end Sayers slipped down, tired.

18.—Poulson bored in, let go his left, which was stopped, and Sayers was out of distance with his return. The same thing was repeated on both sides; but, on their getting closer, some good counter-hits were exchanged, Poulson getting it on the jaw and Tom on the damaged nose. Tom retreated, followed by Harry, who let go both hands, but was prettily popped on the nozzle. Some more sharp exchanges followed, Tom getting it heavily on the left eye, and in the end Tom was down.

19.—Tom’s left peeper showed signs of closing. Poulson, seeing this, bored in, but was propped on the forehead and cheek. He persevered, when Tom succeeded in planting a very straight nose-ender, which removed the bark from Harry’s proboscis. The force of his own blow staggered Tom, who slipped down.

20.—The gnomon of Harry’s dial was by no means set straight by these visitations. He tried his dangerous right at the body, but missed. Sayers nailed him again on the snout, and got down.

21.—Tom again put in his favourite double on Harry’s os frontis and nose, and, on receiving Poulson’s right on the ribs, fell.

22.—Harry, in his usual style, lunged out his right at the body, but was short; Tom returning on the right peeper, and getting cleverly away. Poulson followed him up, and, after innocuous exchanges, Sayers went down.

23.—Poulson again led off, but was propped neatly on the forehead and nose. This led to sharp counter-hitting in favour of Poulson, and Sayers was again down.

24.—Tom tried his double and got home his left on the frontal bone, to the detriment of his knuckles, and again too high to be effective. Poulson pegged away at the ribs and the side of his head very heavily, the latter blow knocking Tom off his pins.

25.—Tom seemed much fatigued; he nevertheless led off, but without effect. Poulson tried to return, when Tom met him on the nose with his left, and then on the forehead. Poulson once more reached Tom’s nose with his right, and Tom was down.

26.—Harry tried his left, and succeeded in reaching Tom’s right peeper, but not heavily. Tom returned on the forehead, and then delivered his left on the snout. He retreated to draw his man, and as he came caught him a tremendous spank on the potato-trap with his right, but in retreating caught his foot against the stake and fell.

27.—Harry’s mouth much swollen from the hit in the last round. He rushed in, when Tom caught him on the nasal organ heavily with his left, and got away. Poulson now tried his left, but was short; and Sayers caught him once more on the lips, renewing the supply of carmine. Poulson rushed after him, and Tom in getting away again caught against the stake and fell heavily.

28.—Tom smiling, dodged and popped in his left on the mouth, and then on the nose with great quickness, drawing more gravy. Poulson rushed after him, but missed his right; some slogging punches followed on both sides to a close, in which both fell, Sayers under.

29.—They immediately closed, and after some sharp fibbing, in which Sayers was the quicker and straighter, both were again down. One hour had now elapsed.

30.—Tom led off, and again reached Harry’s nose. It was a long shot, and not heavy. Poulson missed his return, whereupon Sayers planted his left twice in succession on the nose, and, after receiving a little one on the chest, slipped down.

31.—Poulson led off with his left, but was stopped, and Sayers was short in his return. Harry then missed his right on the ribs, and napped a hot one on the kisser from Tom’s left. This visitation Tom repeated, and then got on Harry’s nose. Harry rushed at him, and Tom slipped down, the ground being in a dreadful state.

32.—Sayers feinted and again got well on the mug and nose with his left, and Harry was short with his return. Tom drew him, and as he came got home on the right eye. Harry now reached his left cheek heavily, and Tom got down.

33.—Tom planted his left slightly on the dexter ogle, and then in the mazzard, getting cleverly away from the return. Poulson followed him up and delivered another terrific smack with his right on the nose, drawing a fresh supply of the sap. A close followed, in which Tom slipped down, bleeding from his proboscis.

34.—Poulson tried both mauleys, but was short. He then rushed in again, missed, and Tom, in getting back, fell. He was evidently weak, and it was now that Paddock laid 3 to 1, thinking, no doubt, that Poulson, who from his fine condition showed scarcely a mark, would tire him out.

35.—Poulson went to work, missed his left, but caught Tom with his right on the larboard cheek, which was much swollen, and in the close which followed Tom was down.

36.—Tom led off with his left on the nose, but not heavily. Harry returned on the nose and the side of his head, and Tom slipped down.

37.—Harry let go, and planted his right on the nose. Exchanges followed in favour of Poulson, and Sayers got down.

38.—Tom collected himself, waited for his man, and nailed him twice in succession on the right eye. Slight exchanges followed, and they fell opposite to one another on their knees, the ground being more slippery than ever, and their spikes almost useless.

39.—Tom dodged, put in his left and right on Harry’s optics; the latter then went to work, and some heavy exchanges ensued in favour of Poulson who nailed Tom with effect on the left eye, and Tom fell. His left eye was nearly closed.

40.—Tom still took the lead, caught Harry on the snuffbox heavily, and in retreating slipped down.

41.—Tom busy with the left on the right eye, and then on the mouth. Poulson returned heavily on the left goggle, and then bored Tom down through the ropes, his left daylight being quite extinguished.

42.—Sayers tried his left on the mouth, but was stopped, and Poulson dashed in, nailed him with the right on the mouth, closed, and fibbed him until Tom was down.

43.—Tom, although evidently tired, came up smiling, feinted, and let go his left on the right cheek. Poulson dashed in, when Tom met him heavily over the left eyebrow. Poulson still followed him as he retreated, and Tom nailed him on the nose. In the end Tom got down in his corner.

44.—Tom “put his double on,” but it wanted steam. Poulson then bored in, closed at the ropes, and, after a short struggle, both were down.

45.—On getting close, some heavy counter-hitting took place, Tom getting on to the right peeper, and Poulson on the mouth, renewing the supply of crimson. Tom retreated, came again and caught his man on the temple, and then on the mouth. Poulson returned on the latter organ and ribs with his right.

46.—The left side of Tom’s nut was much swollen, and his nose all shapes but the right. He came up undaunted, let go his left well on the right ogle, which at last began to show signs of a shut-up. Tom retreated, followed by Poulson, and as the latter let go his right, Tom countered him bang on the right eye. Poulson returned slightly on the nose.

47.—Sayers once more tried his double with effect, and got on the right eye. Poulson rushed after him, when Tom slipped down in rather a questionable manner, but there was no appeal.

48.—Tom crept in and popped his left on the nose. A close followed, in which Tom got down on the saving suit.

49.—Poulson tried to take the lead, but was too slow for the nimble Tom, who got quickly away. Harry persevered, and got well on the ribs twice in succession very heavily.

50.—Tom evidently felt the effects of the visitations to the ribs, for his left arm certainly did not come up with the same freedom as before. Poulson went in, delivered another rib-bender, and Tom got down.

51.—Harry tried to improve his advantage; but Sayers propped him beautifully on the nose, received another little one on the ribs, and dropped.

52.—Poulson once more swung out his right; but Tom got away, and, as Harry followed, planted his left on the smeller. Poulson then bored him down, and falling himself, carefully avoided dropping on Sayers by placing a knee on each side of him. This manly forbearance on the part of Poulson elicited loud applause on all sides, the more particularly as it was not the first time during the fight.

53.—Poulson again let go his left and right, but Tom was away, planting his left on the jaw as Harry came after him. Poulson succeeded in delivering his right slightly on the cheek, and Sayers got down.

54.—Poulson led off left and right, but was stopped, and he, in turn, stopped Tom’s attempted deliveries. Tom then made his left on the throat and mouth by one of his clever doubles, and, after napping a little one on the proboscis, dropped.

55.—Poulson popped his right on Tom’s damaged peeper, and then on the jaw very heavily. Heavy exchanges followed, each getting it on the side of the cranium, and in the end Sayers was down.

56.—Tom feinted, put his double on the mouth and throat, and, as Poulson followed him up, he took advantage of a slight hit to go down.

57.—Poulson dashed his right on the left cheek, and Tom was again down, evidently requiring rest.

58.—Harry got well on to Tom’s conk with his right, and then with his left, and Tom dropped.

59.—Harry again led off, but the blow was of no effect; he followed it by another on the nose, and a third on the side of the head, and Tom went to earth.

60.—Harry made his left and right, but they were very slight, and Tom got down.

61.—Sayers was now recovering his wind, and, waiting for his man, countered him very straight on the right eyebrow as he came in, inflicting a cut, and drawing the carmine. Exchanges in favour of Sayers followed, who again caught his man over the right peeper, and, in the end, Tom got down, the Poulson party asking why he did not stand up, and claiming a foul, which was not allowed, there being no ground for it.

62.—Tom led off, but missed, and napped a heavy smack on the whistler from Poulson’s left. On getting close, a tremendous counter-hit with the right was exchanged, Sayers getting it on the jaw, and Poulson on the right eye, each knocking his adversary down.

63.—Both slow to time, the counter in the last round having been a shaker for each. Poulson was bleeding from the right ogle, and Tom from the mouth. Tom again got on to Harry’s right eye, and, on getting a little one on the mouth, once more fell.

64.—Tom, again very weak and tired, waited for his man, caught him slightly on the left cheek, and slipped down. Another claim that he went down without a blow disallowed, the ground being very bad; the referee, however, cautioned him to be careful.

65.—Tom tried his left, which was easily stopped, and Poulson nailed him on the mouth. A close and fibbing followed, when Tom, having all the worst of this game, got down.

66.—Poulson led off with his right, which was stopped, and Sayers missed his return; Poulson then caught him a little one with his right on the side of his nut, and Tom, glad of the excuse, got down.

67.—Harry tried his left, and succeeded in reaching Tom’s right cheek. Heavy counter-hits followed, Poulson on the nose, and Tom on the left cheek; and Tom, in turning, after getting another crack on the side of his occiput, dropped.

68.—Poulson dashed out his left, but Sayers got cleverly away. He tried it again with the same result, and on making a third essay, Tom countered him well off on the right ogle. He then made his left twice on the left eye, and, as Poulson rushed at him, got down. Two hours had now passed, and the punishment was pretty equally divided. Poulson’s right eye, like Tom’s left, was completely closed, and each of their noses was much out of shape. The right side of Tom’s face was unscathed, but his ribs bore heavy marks of punishment. Poulson had a mouse under his left eye, but was much stronger on his legs than Sayers, and it was still thought he must wear him out. Many also imagined that, as Tom was getting slower, Poulson would knock him out of time with his dangerous right.

69.—Tom tried to lead off with his left, but was stopped twice in succession, and Poulson nailed him on the snorer. Tom returned the compliment by a tidy smack with his right on the mouth, drawing more of the cochineal; slight exchanges followed, and Sayers got down.

70.—Tom’s left was again stopped, and Harry was short in his return. Tom then feinted and popped his double on the nose and right cheek, which he cut slightly.

71.—Poulson let go his left, but did not get home. On Sayers attempting to return, Harry popped him on the nose, and Tom got down.

72.—Poulson’s left was stopped easily; he then tried a one, two, and reached Tom’s mouth with his right; the left, however, did not reach its destination (the unscathed side of Tom’s phisog). In the end Tom got down.

73.—Sayers stopped Poulson’s one, two, and then got home on the right eye. Poulson returned on the chin. Some rapid exchanges followed, Tom making both hands on the mouth and left cheek, and Poulson getting in on Tom’s nose. Poulson closed, when Tom caught him heavily on the mouth, and Poulson got down.

74.—Tom put in a well-delivered left-hander on the damaged peeper. Slight exchanges followed, and Tom got down.

75.—Tom getting more lively every round, and Poulson’s head at last beginning to swell. Tom let go his left on the throat; good counter-hits followed, Poulson on the mouth, and Tom on the side of the head. Poulson then dashed in with his right on the ribs, leaving marks of his knuckles. Tom retaliated on the right eye, and a determined rally followed, in which each got pepper; but Sayers was straighter in his deliveries. In the end he was down. The Poulson party began now to look serious; their man was gradually going blind of both eyes, and Sayers appeared to be no weaker than he was an hour ago, added to which he had still a good eye.

76.—Both came up piping from the effects of the last round. Poulson tried his left twice, but Sayers got away, and, as Harry came after him, met him well on the mouth, and then on the right eye, and in the end both fell side by side.

77.—Sayers came up smiling as well as his distorted mug would allow; he dodged, and then got well over Poulson’s guard on to his left eye. Harry instantly returned on the chin, when Tom once more popped his left on the mouth heavily, and got away. He played round his man and at last sent home another left-hander on the left eye—a cross hit. Poulson just reached his jaw with his right, and Tom got down.

78.—Tom made play with his left on the right ogle, and avoided the return. Poulson persevered, and at last Tom got down in his corner.

79.—Poulson dashed in his right on the nose, but not very heavily; Sayers returned on the right gazer, and napped a heavy right-hander on the cheek, from the effect of which he went down weak.

80.—Tom steadied himself, crept close, and popped his left on the left eye. Poulson rushed at him, and heavy counter-hits were exchanged on the jaw, both coming to the ground side by side.

81.—Tom missed two attempts to deliver, and received another heavy thwack on the bread-basket. Heavy exchanges ensued in favour of Poulson, who was always best at close quarters, and Sayers got down.

82.—Tom came up a little stronger, and let go his left, but not heavily, on the right cheek. Poulson tried a return, but Tom, who gradually retreated, propped him as he came in, on the right eye and nose. Poulson, determined if possible, to make a decided turn in his favour, persevered, and some rattling ding-dong fighting took place, each getting it heavily on the dial, and in the end both were down.

83.—Both looked the worse for the last round, but Poulson’s left eye was fast following suit with his right, and it was evident to all that if Sayers kept away it was a mere question of time. Sayers feinted, put in his double very neatly on the mouth, and then got a hot one on the left cheek. Good exchanges at close quarters followed, in which Poulson’s visitations to Tom’s snout were anything but agreeable, while Tom was busy on the right eye. This was another ding-dong round, and astonished every one after the men had fought so long. In the end Sayers got down, and Poulson fell on his knees at his side.

84.—Tom’s double was once more successful, and he got well on Harry’s smeller. Poulson once more reached the left side of the nut, just by the ear, and Tom fell.

85.—Poulson led off with his left, getting well on Tom’s nose. Good counter-hits followed, Tom getting it on the mouth, and Harry on the left eye. Poulson now dashed in, but got one on the right eye; he, however, nailed Tom on the right ear, drawing claret. Another desperate rally followed, in which Jack was as good as his master, and in the end Sayers got down. Two hours and thirty minutes had now elapsed.

86.—Poulson dashed in, but Sayers stepped nimbly back, propping him as he came on the left eye. Harry at last made his right on the left ear, and Tom got down.

87.—Poulson again rushed in, but Sayers, after propping him over the right eye, dropped. Another claim of foul not allowed.

88.—Tom tried his left, but was short; Poulson then rattled in, caught him on the left side of his knowledge-box, and Tom dropped.

89.—Poulson, after being short with his one, two, made his right on the ribs, and Tom fell.

90.—Poulson again hit out of distance; he persevered, and eventually nailed Tom slightly on the nozzle, and that hero wisely got down, by way of a rest, finding that Harry was still dangerous at close quarters.

91.—Tom stopped Harry with great neatness, and then planted his left on the throat; heavy exchanges followed in favour of Poulson, who again reached Tom’s left ear very severely, drawing more of the Burgundy, and Tom fell very weak.

92.—Tom, who staggered up, received a heavy one from Harry’s right on the brow, and got down.

93.—Neither very ready at the call of “Time,” but Tom slowest; he nevertheless came up steady, and, as Poulson rushed in, planted his left very heavily, first on the right eye and then on the nose, and got away, followed by Poulson, who forced the fighting. Heavy exchanges followed, Harry on the ribs and Tom on the forehead, and Tom down.

94.—Poulson for the first time got on to Tom’s right eye, but not heavily; he then popped his right on the ear, and also on the ribs very heavily, staggering Tom, who evidently winced under the latter visitation. Tom, however shook himself together, and some sharp exchanges took place, which ended in Sayers dropping to avoid a fall.

95.—Poulson’s right neatly stopped. He tried again with a rush, but Tom cleverly ducked and got away. Poulson followed him up, and napped a sharp reminder over the right brow; Poulson returned on the chest, and Tom got down.

96.—After some harmless exchanges, Sayers got down, amidst the groans of the Nottingham party.

97.—Poulson was again neatly stopped, and Tom returned heavily on the mouth, turning on the main once more. Poulson made his right on the ribs, and then on the left cheek, and, after one or two harmless passes, Tom got down.

98.—Sayers put in his double on the throat, and Poulson rushed to a close, and, after a brief struggle, Sayers fell; Poulson again, and in the most manly way, avoiding failing on him.

99.—Tom, evidently the best man, dodged, and put in his left on the side of Poulson’s head; Harry wide of the mark with his return. Tom came again, dodged him, and whack went his left on the smelling-bottle. Slight exchanges followed, and then Poulson, as Sayers was retreating, caught him a heavy right-hander on the jaw which knocked him down.

100.—The Poulsonians anxious for the call of “Time;” but to their surprise Tom came up quite steady. He dodged his man, popped in his double on the nose and left peeper without a return, and then on the throat, and in getting back fell.

101.—Poulson, nearly blind, dashed in with determination, and heavy counter-hits were exchanged, Tom getting well on the mouth and Harry on the nose, and Sayers slipped down. Three hours had now elapsed.

102.—Sayers drew a fresh supply of the ruby from Harry’s right cheek, and, in retreating, fell. Another claim of foul.

103.—Poulson went in and made his right on the side of Tom’s head. Tom retreated, advanced, making his usual feint, but, on seeing Poulson coming at him, he tried to get back, and, his legs slipping apart, he could not get himself into a defensive position, and fell. Another claim of foul was here made; but the referee, who had not seen the round, owing to the interposition of the bodies of the seconds and backers of Poulson, pronounced “fair;” and in his decision we decidedly concur, as, in our opinion, the fall on the part of Sayers was entirely unpremeditated and accidental. It was for some time before order was restored; and the delay was of the greatest advantage to Sayers, while it had an opposite effect on Poulson, whose left eye was now all but closed.

104.—Tom came up gaily, dodged his man, who came towards him, and then nailed him heavily on the proboscis and left peeper. A close followed, and Sayers got down.

105.—Slight exchanges, in which no damage was done, and Sayers slipped down.

106.—Poulson dashed in to make a last effort, and heavy counter-hits were exchanged. Sayers caught him on the left eye, and received a heavy rib-bender and then a crack on the left ear, whereupon he dropped.

107.—Sayers, bleeding from the left ear, came up slowly and feinted in his usual style; caught Harry on the right eye, and then on the mark. Poulson popped his right heavily on the ribs, and another give-and-take rally followed, at the end of which Sayers, who was still weak on his legs, got down.

108.—Poulson’s face was now much swollen and there was scarcely a glimmer from his left peeper. He was, however, still strong as ever on his pins. He rushed in, knowing he had no time to spare, and caught Tom heavily with his right on the left ear. Exchanges followed, Sayers being straightest. Poulson bored in, and got home heavily with his right on the ribs, when Tom delivered his left heavily on the jaw, and knocked him down.

109, and last.—The last blow had evidently been a settler for the gallant Poulson: he came up slowly and all abroad. The game fellow tried once more to effect a lodgement, but missed, his head came forward and Tom delivered the coup de grâce by a heavy right-hander on the jaw, which again knocked the veteran off his legs, and, on being taken up, he was found to be deaf to the call of “Time.” He recovered in a few minutes, and shed bitter tears of disappointment at the unsatisfactory and unexpected termination of his labours. Sayers walked to a public house adjoining the field of battle, and of course was vociferously congratulated by his friends and admirers upon his triumphant success. Poulson was also conveyed to the public-house, and, after taking some refreshment, became himself. He was quite blind, and his mug otherwise much battered, but beyond this had sustained no serious injuries. Sayers complained a good deal of the punishment about his body, and the repeated visitations to the side of his head, but of course the fact of his being the winner went far to allay the physical suffering he endured. Both were enabled to return to town in the same train with their friends, and arrived at their respective houses about half-past nine o’clock. The fight lasted three hours and eight minutes.

Remarks.—Owing to the minute details which we have given of all the material incidents in this really extraordinary battle, we may spare our readers the trouble of reading many observations upon the respective merits of the men, of which the account of the different rounds will have enabled them to form as correct an opinion as ourselves. Tom Sayers, by his quickness on his legs, his steadiness and excellent judgment, not only astonished his adversary and his backers, but completely took his own friends by surprise. He had evidently much improved, in every possible way, since his defeat by Nat Langham. Great fault was found with him for his too constant resort to the dropping system; but for this he had every excuse. He scarcely ever went down without having had a bustling round, and once only during the battle did we observe anything at which an impartial man would cavil. This was at a period in the middle of the fight when he was extremely weak, and at the time no appeal was made by the friends of Poulson. It must be taken into consideration that Tom was anything but himself, and the ground was far from favourable for keeping on his legs and getting out of the reach of his weighty and powerful adversary. It has been urged that the ground was as much against Poulson as Sayers; but this was hardly so. Poulson is a steady ding-dong fighter, of the squarest build, does not depend much on his defensive tactics, and makes little use of his legs; while Tom had to be continually jumping back, and, when opposed to such superior weight, would of course find proportionate difficulty in keeping on his pins. Indeed, many times when he fell he came to the ground with such a “thud” as must have shaken a good deal of his strength out of him. We are aware that since the match had been made many things had occurred to harass Tom’s mind, and that he had pecuniary difficulties to contend with which, we trust, will not exist in future matches; and this, again, must be taken into consideration. He does not want for friends, and, we doubt not, with steadiness and good conduct, will find himself on the high road to prosperity. Of Harry Poulson’s gallantry and manliness we cannot say too much. He fought from first to last in a game, straightforward manner, with an evident determination to do his best to win in a fair and honourable way. He scorned to take advantage of many opportunities of falling on his man, when he might have done so with perfect fairness, and otherwise comported himself in a manner as reflects the very highest credit upon his character as a man, and a demonstrator of the noble art of self-defence. Although evidently annoyed at being unable to get home as he expected, he still never allowed his temper to get the better of him; and often when Tom, from his shifty tactics, evaded what had been intended as a finisher, he stood and shook his head at him, as much as to say it was too bad, but not once did he allow a harsh or angry expression to escape him. He is truly one of the gamest of the game; but he is too slow, and depends too much on his right hand, to have much chance of success against a really finished boxer. We do not consider that his age had anything to do with his defeat, for he is as fresh as most London boxers who are ten years his juniors. His bravery and universal good conduct cannot but secure him the respect and support of all admirers of such good qualities.

The conquest of Poulson was unquestionably the greatest achievement of Sayers’s pugilistic career. He was now established as a man with whom the men under 12 stone on the boxing list must not meddle; at any rate, none other were likely to get backers against him.

From this period the name of Tom Sayers mixes itself with every question of the belt and the Championship.

In the year 1855, a proposition was set on foot by a number of patrons of the Ring, to raise, by subscription, a sum of money to purchase a belt of greater intrinsic value than anything of the kind previously presented, in lieu of the belt which had “gone astray” during the squabbles between Bendigo, Caunt, and the Tipton Slasher. Lists were opened, and before long a sum of nearly £100 was collected. To Mr. Hancock, of New Bond Street, was entrusted the manufacture of the trophy, and from that gentleman’s establishment was produced the elegant badge of the highest fistic honours which Tom Sayers so well and so worthily won. On the belt being ordered, the committee who undertook its management issued the following as the conditions on which it should be held: “That it should not be handed over to any person claiming the Championship until he had proved his right to it by a fight; that any pugilist having held it against all comers for three years, without a defeat, should become its absolute possessor; that the holder should be bound to meet every challenger of any weight who should challenge him for the sum of £200 a side, within six months after the issue of such challenge, within the three years; that he should not be bound to fight for less than £200 a side; that at the final deposit for every match within the three years the belt should be delivered up to the committee until after the battle; and, finally, that on the belt being given to the winner of any Champion-fight, he should deposit such security as should be deemed necessary in the hands of the committee to ensure the above regulations being carried out.”

No sooner did it become known that the belt was ready for whosoever could win it, than there was a general stirring up of the dormant energies of the big men who had retired, or thought to be about to retire, from the Ring. Harry Broome shook himself together; the Tipton Slasher roused him from his lair; Tom Paddock’s hair stood on end between hope and fear of disappointment; while Aaron Jones, who about this time (1855) had fought the second of two tremendous battles with Paddock, and, though defeated, had entirely removed any impressions as to his want of pluck caused by his battles with Harry Orme, also pricked up his ears, and issued a defiant grunt. The only man among the recent combatants for Champion’s honours who made no sign was Harry Orme, who was content to rest upon his well-earned reputation. At first it was thought there would not be found a man sufficiently venturous to tackle the “Ould Tipton,” but this was soon seen to be a fallacy; for not one only, but each and every of the aspirants sent out a defiance to the crooked-legged hero of the hardware districts. The first cartel that reached him was that of Aaron Jones, and with him preliminaries were at once arranged.

The challenges of Broome and Paddock arriving afterwards, the Slasher informed them that they must wait the issue of the struggle with Jones. Broome and Paddock seemed both disinclined to wait for this event, and neither was desirous of postponing his claims to those of his co-challenger, and, as a natural consequence, a good deal of badinage took place between them, which ended in their being matched for £200 a side, to ascertain which should have the preference. While they were in training Aaron Jones was compelled to forfeit to the Tipton Slasher, through meeting with an accident during his training; so that there appeared a clear course for the winner.

The fight between Broome and Paddock took place on the 19th of May, 1856, and was won by Tom Paddock with ease in 51 rounds, and 63 minutes, it being at once apparent that, though Harry Broome had all the will and the courage to do deeds of valour, the power had deserted him, and he had become prematurely old and stale. (See page 294.)

Soon after Paddock’s defeat of Broome, Paddock obtained the acme of his desires—viz., a match with his old opponent, the Slasher; but when £80 a side had been staked Master Tom allowed his temper to get the better of his judgment, and, having offended his best friends, had to forfeit through a scarcity of “ochre.” This was not only a disappointment to himself, but also to his opponent, who was thus foiled in his efforts to get hold of the belt, which could not be obtained without a mill, and which he had made sure of winning from Tom Paddock. Just previous to this mishap Jones had recovered from his accident, and, to the surprise of all, had been matched with the “coming man,” Tom Sayers; so that even here the “Old’un” was again done out of an opponent, and the belt still remained in abeyance, to abide the issue between Sayers and Jones, the winner to meet the ponderous Tipton for the coveted trophy. This fight, which took place on the banks of the Medway, on the 19th February, 1857, we now propose to narrate.

Owing to the puritanical persecution to which the Ring had been for some time subjected, a line of country had to be selected which had for a long time been untried, so that there was every prospect of matters being adjusted in that quarter without let or hindrance. Although bills were circulated, stating that a train would leave the Great Northern Station at King’s Cross on Tuesday at nine o’clock, it was at the eleventh hour considered that the locality would on the present occasion be too “warm,” and therefore, an alteration was deemed prudent. This alteration could not be made public at so late a period, and it was only those who happened to consult the initiated at the benefit of the Pugilistic Benevolent Association, on the previous Monday evening, who got a due to the real state of the case. The consequence was that on Tuesday morning, at the Fenchurch Street Station, there were at the utmost 180 persons, including a considerable number of patricians and a very small proportion of the professors of the noble art, while of the “roughs” and other noisy demonstrators there was an almost total absence. These gentry and some few unfortunates of the higher class hastened to the Great Northern terminus at the hour named in the handbills, and great was their disappointment, and loud their indignation, at finding themselves sold.

The start from Fenchurch Street took place at eight o’clock precisely, and by nine o’clock Tilbury was reached, where all at once embarked in a vessel provided for the purpose, and by twenty minutes to ten were safely on board, and, greatly to the credit of the managers of the expedition, a start was at once effected. In order to throw dust in the eyes of the Blues, it was determined to proceed straight to the mouth of the river; and, in the face of a stiff gale from E.N.E., the journey to the Nore was effected in excellent style. The lumpy water in this locality had, as may be imagined, a most unpleasant effect upon many of the voyagers, whose stomachs, unaccustomed to salt water, and anything but improved in tone by their nocturnal vigils (as they had sat up all night in order to be early in the morning), were turned inside out; and the consequence was that swabs and buckets of water were in strong demand. After about an hour’s tossing among the billows, “’bout ship” was the cry, the river was re-entered, and the vessel sped homewards until a spot was reached not far from Canvey Island, where Freeman and the Tipton Slasher fought. With some difficulty a landing was effected, and Tom Oliver, Tom Callas, Puggy White, &c. proceeded to form the lists, although it was not without extraordinary exertions that anything like a favourable spot could be found, and even this was rough and extremely uneven, from the late heavy weather. Numerous were the mishaps of the company on landing, but by no means equal to those they experienced on attempting to regain the vessel after the battle was over, when thick darkness overspread the land, and led many an unwary traveller into mud and mire of the most consistent character. The ring was pitched by half-past twelve o’clock, and a tolerable outer ring was established; but, as usual when the attendance is small, the difficulty of preserving this outer circle intact was very great, and towards the close of the fight, notwithstanding the exertions of some of the ring-keepers, the spectators crowded close to the ring, but, fortunately, did not disturb the ropes and stakes.

The combatants, who had made a sort of demi-toilette on board the steamer, quickly entered the ring, Sayers attended by Jemmy Welsh and George Crockett, Jones advised by Alec Keene and Mike Madden. The stake was £100 a side. The career of Tom’s youthful antagonist will be found sketched at pages 253, 283, and 289 of this volume. Jones had the advantage of Sayers in age by five years; his height 5 feet 11½ inches, and his weight 12st.

Jones, after his defeat by Orme, was on the shelf for a period of two years. He then came out with a challenge to Tom Paddock, which was accepted, and the men met July 18, 1854, at Long Reach, for £100 a side, and, after as gallant a struggle as was ever witnessed, Jones became blind, and his friends gave in for him, after fighting 121 rounds in two hours and twenty-four minutes. So satisfied were his backers on this occasion that they at once expressed their willingness to make a fresh match. After some little time articles were entered into, and they went into training for the second mill. This affair came off at Mildenhall on the 26th of June, 1855, and was another display of manly courage and perseverance on both sides. Towards the close Jones, who for some time had the best of it, fell off very weak, and Paddock, who, like his opponent, was much punished and exhausted, saw that his time was come, and, shaking himself together, he rattled away in style until poor Aaron was once more compelled to cry “a go,” after a contest of sixty-one rounds, in one hour and twenty-nine minutes. Jones after this was matched with the Tipton Slasher, as we have already stated, but this went off; and this brings us to the present meeting.

On entering the ring both men were loudly cheered, and both looked equally confident. No sooner had they put in an appearance than speculation began. The Sayers party originally stood out for 6 to 4, but being unable to get on at that price, they reduced their demands to 5 to 4, at which price considerable business was done, and a bet of £10 to £8 was made and staked between the men. It was piercingly cold; and, the ground being in a moist state, all looked anxious for business, in the hope that the excitement of the combat would dispel some of the shivering fits to which the spectators, one and all, notwithstanding their Crimean-looking outfits, seemed to be subject. Little time was lost by the men in denuding themselves of their remaining outer-garments, and, the handkerchiefs having been tied to the stakes (a light grey and white for Sayers, and a neat white and blue check for Jones), at one o’clock precisely “Time” was called, hands were clasped, and the men began

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—On baring their forequarters to the piercing breeze, a perceptible shiver ran through the carcases of the combatants. Sayers looked in perfect condition; every muscle was perceptible, and we doubt whether there was an ounce of superfluous flesh about him. There was a smile of confidence on his lips and bright sparkle in his eye that betokened extraordinary health and spirits. His attitude was artistic and firm, yet light. Of course he stood on the defensive, and eyed his heavier opponent. There did not appear to be that disparity of size that really existed; for Jones stooped rather on throwing himself on guard, and thus reduced his height almost to a level with that of the gallant Tom, who was upright as a dart. Aaron’s condition did not seem to us so first-rate as the first glance at him had led us to suppose. His muscles, though large, were too well covered, while his back and chest also displayed much superfluous meat, and we should say that his weight could not have been less than 12st. 4lbs. He, like Sayers, looked confident, but was far more serious in his demeanour. They both commenced the round with the utmost caution, sparring, and attempting to draw one another into something like an opening; but for a long time neither would throw a chance away. At length Jones dashed out left and right; but the blows passed over Tom’s shoulders, and Tom with quickness tapped Aaron on the face, but without force. Sayers now let go his left, but Jones retreated. Tom persevered, and was cleverly stopped. In a third attempt, after more dodging, he got heavily on Aaron’s mouth and stepped back without a return. Jones now assumed the offensive, but was stopped, and Tom, after another dodge or two, planted his left heavily on the mark, and then the same hand on the side of Aaron’s nut, but not heavily. Jones returned heavily on the right peeper, and shortly after made a second call at the same establishment. More stopping and dodging, until Sayers paid another visit to Aaron’s kisser, Jones missing his return. Each now stopped a lead; but immediately afterwards Jones popped in his left on the snuff-box, a heavy hit without a return. Tom grinned a ghastly grin; but the crack evidently made him see stars. Jones attempted to repeat the dose; but Tom got well away, and, as he retreated, popped his left on the neck. More excellent stopping on both sides, and, after a few harmless exchanges, Tom tried a double with his left and got on the throat, but the blow lacked steam. Jones returned with quickness over the left peeper, inflicting a cut and drawing the claret. (“First blood” for Jones.) Tom, although staggered, was undaunted, and went at his man with determination. He once more got on the bread-basket heavily. Good counter-hits followed, in which Jones again reached Tom’s damaged peeper, drawing more of the essential, and Tom delivered a straight one on the snout, removing a small portion of the bark. Tom then got on the left eye, and, after some sharp punching at close quarters, both fell. This round lasted exactly half an hour.

2.—Tom came up much flushed, and the crimson distilling from his damaged eye. After a little dodging, he tried his double, but did not get it home. He tried a second time, but was stopped, and Jones returned on the left eye. This led to very heavy counters, each on the larboard goggle. Jones now feinted, and popped his left on the nose. They got hold of one another, swung round, broke away, and Sayers then popped his left again on the left eye. Severe exchanges followed at close quarters, and both in the end were down.

3.—Sayers quickly led off with his left, and was stopped. He then tried his double, but was short. In a third essay he got home on Aaron’s nose, but not heavily. Twice again did he pop in gentle taps, but he now napped another rattler on the left eye. Severe exchanges followed, Aaron again turning on the stream from Tom’s left brow, and Tom tapping his opponent’s snuff-box. More exchanges in favour of Jones; and in the end both fell in a scrambling struggle, Jones under.

4.—Tom’s left brow and the left side of his canister were much swollen, but he was still confident, and led off, Jones countering him well on the mouth. Heavy exchanges followed, Tom on the nose, and Jones on the left cheek, and both again slipped down, the ground being anything but level.

5.—Tom let fly his left, but was neatly stopped; Jones returned on the side of the brain pan, and got down.

6.—Sayers came up, looking very serious, and it subsequently turned out that he was suffering from severe cramp in the stomach and lower extremities. He went in, feinted, and got well home on Jones’s left eye. This led to sharp exchanges and a close, when both were down, Jones being underneath. Aaron had now a bump on his left peeper, which was apparently closing.

7.—Aaron lost no time in sending out his left, which fell on Tom’s chest. Heavy counter-hits followed, Jones on the nose, and Tom on the mouth. More exchanges in favour of Sayers, who again got on Aaron’s damaged optic, and the latter got down.

8.—Sayers went to his man, and tried his double, the second blow dropping on Aaron’s sneezer, and Tom then got cleverly away from the return. Exchanges ensued, Tom on the mark, and Aaron on the mazzard; Aaron then got home his right heavily on the left side of Tom’s knowledge-box, then his left on the left eye, and in the close Sayers was down.

9.—Aaron led off, but was well stopped, and this led to some sharp exchanges, Jones on the bad peeper, and Tom on the left brow. Sayers tried another double, and once more visited Aaron’s nose, but not heavily. More mutual stopping, and Jones, at length, in getting away, slipped and fell. One hour had now elapsed.

10.—Tom planted his left on the beak, and received a little one in return on the forehead. Jones now let fly his left and right, but was cleverly stopped. In a second essay he got home on the left cheek. Heavy exchanges followed, Tom getting on both peepers, and Jones on the side of Tom’s cranium with both daddles, and Tom fell.

11.—Aaron had now a mark on each peeper, the left fast closing. Tom’s left, too, appeared almost shut up. Jones tried to take the lead, but missed; Sayers likewise missed his return. Exchanges followed in favour of Jones, who, in the end, closed, and in the struggle both fell, Jones uppermost.

12.—No time lost; both quickly at it, and some sharp exchanges took place in favour of Jones, who got heavily on Tom’s nose. Tom made his left on the body heavily, and they then pegged away wildly at close quarters until Jones got down.

13.—Aaron dashed in and pegged away left and right, but without precision, and ultimately bored his man down.

14.—Jones feinted and popped his left on the left eye, without a return. Tom then let go his left, but was short, and Jones, in dashing at him in return, slipped and fell.

15.—Aaron led off, left and right, but Tom got away. He came again, and tried to plant his left, but was short. He then tried his double, but Jones got away. Both now sparred and dodged, but nothing came of it. At last Jones dashed in, and heavy exchanges took place in favour of Jones, who, however, in the end, fell.

16.—Both at once went to work, and heavy exchanges took place, each napping it on the left ogle, and both fell through the ropes.

17.—Tom’s forehead and left eye much disfigured. Jones let fly his left and right on the sides of the nob very heavily, and both again fell through the ropes.

18.—Tom came up slowly, and was nailed on the damaged peeper. In return he caught Aaron on the brow, but not heavily. Jones then made his left and right on the side of the head and left eye, and Tom retaliated on the nose a little one. A close followed, and in the end both were down, Jones under.

19.—Tom dodged and got home on Aaron’s smeller with his left, and Aaron then made both hands on the left side of Tom’s wig-block. A close and sharp struggle, when both fell, Tom under.

20.—Jones dashed in and let go both hands on the head. Tom returned on the left brow, and both fell backwards.

21.—Aaron again dashed in. He missed his right, closed, and both fell, Jones under.

22.—Tom now led off, but missed, and Jones caught him heavily with his right on the frontispiece, and knocked him down. (“First knock-down for Jones.”)

23.—Tom, on coming up, showed the effect of the last blow on his forehead. He attempted to lead off, but was very short. He tried again with a like result; and Jones, in letting go both hands in return, overreached himself and fell.

24.—Aaron rattled in, planted his left and right on the scent-box and left ear, the latter very heavy, and bored Tom down.

25.—Tom came up bleeding from a severe cut on the left lug, and his gnomon much out of straight. He tried to lead off, but Jones caught him on the right brow, but not very heavily. Tom then got home on the body, and tremendous counter-hits followed, in favour of Jones, who, in the end, slipped and fell, Tom catching him, just as he reached the ground, on the side of the head.

26.—Jones went in left and right, closed, and both were down. Sayers was now very weak, and the Jonesites were in ecstasies.

27.—Aaron led off, getting well on the side of Tom’s nut with his right. Tom missed his return, and Jones then planted his left and right on the top of the skull; closed at the ropes, where Tom managed to throw him but not heavily.

28.—Jones led off, and got well on Tom’s nose with his left, and Tom returned on the side of the head. After a little dodging, Jones popped his left on Tom’s left peeper, and his right on the jaw, again flooring Tom and falling on him.

29.—Tom, who was excessively weak, came up slow, but determined; he tried his left at the body, but was short. Jones then let fly his left in return, but was countered on the mouth. He then planted his left and right on Tom’s damaged listener, and in the end fell.

30.—Aaron, after a few dodges, once more popped a little ’un on Tom’s ear. Tom thereupon dashed in, but got a little one on the nose, and another on the side of the head, and Jones, in getting away, fell, laughing.

31.—Jones attempted to lead off, but Tom got away. Jones followed him up, caught him again on the side of the nob, closed, and both rolled over together.

32.—Jones dashed in, planted both hands on the brain-pan, closed, and forced Tom down.

33.—Jones again rushed in, but inflicted no damage, and again bored Tom down.

34.—Jones still forced the fighting, and caught Tom, who seemed very tired, on the side of the head, and, in the end, both slipped down.

35.—Sayers was forced down, after getting a gentle reminder on the side of his damaged figure-head.

36.—Tom, a little refreshed, sparred about for wind, until Jones went in, and heavy exchanges took place, in favour of Jones, when both fell backwards.

37.—Tom, recovering a little, tried his double, but Jones got away, and, as Tom came, he nailed him on the left brow. Tom then made his left on the mark, but again napped it heavily on the left eye. Aaron now got on the nose with his left—a heavy spank—and, in getting back, he staggered and fell.

38.—Jones dodged, and planted his left on the mouth heavily, and his right on the side of the head. Tom returned slightly on the nose, and, after slight exchanges, both fell.

39.—Very slight exchanges, and Sayers slipped down.

40.—After a little sparring they got close, and exchanges took place, each getting it on the mouth. Sayers then tried his left at the mark, but Jones got away. Tom followed him up, and was caught by Aaron, left and right, on the side of his head and fell.

41.—Tom came up, shook himself, and rattled in, but he got it on the top of his cranium. Jones, in stepping back, fell. Two hours had now expired.

42.—Jones, steady, let go his left on the side of Tom’s head, and then both mauleys on the same spot. Tom followed him up, but got it again on the brow. He, however, got home on Jones’s body, and, in retreating slipped and fell.

43.—Long sparring for wind, until Jones once more made play on the left side of Tom’s occiput, and then on his snout. Tom returned on the latter organ, but not heavily. He now tried his favourite double, but did not get home. In a second attempt he got heavily on Aaron’s proboscis, and got away. Exchanges followed, in which Tom again delivered heavily on the nose with his left, and in the end Jones dropped.

44.—Tom was now evidently recovering from his exhaustion. He came up steadier, and sparred shiftily until Jones commenced the attack, when he stopped him neatly. Heavy counter-hits followed on the jaw, after which Sayers tried the double once again, but was stopped. More good counter-hits, Tom getting well on Aaron’s left eye, and receiving on the mouth. Aaron’s left eye all but closed.

45.—More sparring, until Jones let fly his left, but Sayers got away. Exchanges followed, Tom on the whistler, and Jones on the nose, but not heavily. More sharp counter-hitting, Tom once more getting on the left eye severely. Jones returned, but not effectively, with both hands on the side of the head, and in getting away from the return he fell.

46.—Jones succeeded in planting a spanking hit from the left on the left eye, and then another with the same hand on the left cheek. In a third attempt he was stopped. Heavy counter-hits followed, and in the end Jones fell, Sayers falling over him.

47.—Aaron feinted with his left, and got well on Tom’s nose; a very straight hit. Tom, in return, tried his double, but was short. After some more ineffectual attempts they got to it, and tremendous exchanges took place, each getting it on the nose and left eye, and in the end Jones got down. Two hours, fifteen minutes.

48.—Tom tried to lead off, but was stopped, and Jones planted his left on the cheek. Tom now stopped two of Jones’s hits, after which heavy exchanges took place, Tom getting well on to the left eye, and Jones on the nose. More sharp exchanges, left and right, each getting pepper in earnest, and the favours mutually divided. A break away, and to it again, ding-dong, and Tom drew the crimson from Aaron’s left peeper, which was now effectually closed. In the end Jones fell. It was now anybody’s battle; Tom had quite recovered his wind, and was nearly as strong as his heavier opponent.

49.—Both much punished. Sayers sparred until Jones tried to lead off, when he got away. Jones followed him up, but was short in his deliveries. In the end they closed, and as they were falling Tom popped his right sharply on Aaron’s back.

50.—Jones, after sparring, led off, and got home on the nose, but not heavily; Tom returned on the right peeper, and some pretty exchanges, left and right, took place, followed by a break away, and Jones then stopped Tom’s left; Tom, in return, stopped Aaron, and planted his left on the mark, and then on the left eye, and Jones got down.

51.—Jones led off, but was stopped. He persevered, and a good give-and-take rally followed, Jones getting on the left eye, and Tom on the left cheek heavily. Tom next got on the mouth, drawing the Burgundy, and then on the nose and left cheek. Another sharp rally followed, after a break away, and in the end both down.

52.—Sayers visibly improving while Jones fell off. Jones was short in his lead, and Tom returned on the smelling-bottle, and got away. Jones followed and dashed out his left, but Tom ducked his head. Tom then got home on the mouth and nose, and drew more of the ruby from the latter ornament. Jones succeeded in returning a little ’un on the left eye, and Sayers slipped down.

53.—Jones, who was bleeding from the left eye and month, led off, but was well stopped. He then missed his left, but in the end heavy exchanges, left and right, took place, Jones on the side of the nut and the neck, and in getting back he fell.

54.—Tom now essayed a lead, but was stopped. A second attempt reached Aaron’s body, but not heavily, and Jones returned on the nose. Tom tried his double, but missed, and Jones popped a little one on the mouth, and then his left on the left eye, and fell in the corner.

55.—Tom dodged about until he got within distance, and then got home heavily on the mark. Jones returned on the jaw with his right, but not heavily. After some more sparring, Jones dashed in, when Tom met him very sharply on the right cheek-bone with his left, and Aaron fell all of a heap. He was carried to his corner, where it was with the utmost difficulty he could be got round at the call of “Time.”

56.—Jones came up all abroad, and Tom popped in another spank on the same spot, whereupon Jones again fell. It was thought to be all over; but, by dint of shaking him up, Aaron was again enabled to respond to the call.

57.—Tom rushed at his man to administer the coup de grace, but, going in without precision, he contrived to run against Aaron’s left, which was swung wildly out, the blow, which alighted on Tom’s nose, regularly staggered him. He quickly recovered himself, and went in again, but Jones fell weak.

After this, the battle continued to the 62nd round, Jones getting gradually blind, and Sayers becoming very tired. At length in the 62nd round, after slight exchanges, the men, who were much exhausted, stood still, looking at each other for some time, their seconds covering them with rugs. Upon this the referee and umpires called on them to go in and finish. Both went to the scratch, but on Sayers approaching Jones, the latter retreated to his corner, and Tom, in obedience to the orders of his seconds, declined going to fight him there. It was getting dark, and it was clear that Jones and his friends were determined not to throw a chance away. The referee once more called on Jones to go to the scratch, which he did, but with precisely the same result; and the referee, seeing that Tom was not strong enough to go with prudence to finish on his adversary’s ground, and that Jones was unwilling to try the question at the scratch in his then exhausted state, ordered the men to shake hands, leaving the motion as to further hostilities to a future day. Both were severely punished; each had a peeper closed; Jones’s right was fast following his left, and his right hand was injured; so that a second meeting the same week was not to be thought of. The fight lasted exactly three hours. The men and their friends now hastened to regain the vessel, and it was dark long ere the last of the company were safely on board. Of course there were many laughable accidents in the mud through which all had to wade; but luckily, nothing occurred of a serious nature to mar the pleasures of the day, which, although in some measure clouded by the fact that the battle was not finished, still left sufficient impression on the minds of the spectators to cause them to remember this brilliant passage of arms, which formed so hopeful an opening to the pugilistic year 1857. The vessel conveyed the company with all due speed to a convenient place for debarkation, whence they obtained a passage by railway to the Metropolis, which was reached in safety by nine o’clock. Numerous complaints were made by the disappointed ones who went to the Great Northern Railway, at the manner in which they were deceived; and the only consolation is that we are sorry for those whom we should have been glad to welcome at the ring-side, but who have themselves alone to blame for not finding out the final fixture as many others had done; while as to others of a certain class, who are always more free than welcome, we can with truth say their room was better than their company, and we rejoice, with others who were present, that they were so completely sold. Some unlucky wights got a sort of hint as to the fixture, and arrived within a few miles of the spot at a late hour in the afternoon, and were landed, but unluckily for them, on the wrong island, and here the poor fellows had to remain all night, and sleep under a haystack. The boats that landed them had departed, and they could make no one hear; so that, cold, hungry, and thirsty, they had to weather the cold, severe night in the best way they could.

The renewed battle, which was for £200 and an additional bet of £100, was fixed for Tuesday, the 10th February, 1857, on the same spot as the previous gallant encounter. On this occasion Sayers was seconded by Jemmy Massey and Bill Hayes, with Jemmy Welsh as bottle-holder; Aaron Jones by Alec Keene and Jack Hicks, Jack Macdonald taking care of the restoratives. 7 to 4 on Sayers.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—On toeing the scratch the condition of both men struck the spectators with admiration. In our opinion it was perfect on both sides, but the development of muscle was decidedly in favour of Sayers, who is better ribbed up, and has his thews and sinews laid on in the right place. He looked brown, wiry, and healthy, and, for a middle weight, seemed wonderfully big. Jones, who is of fairer complexion, was altogether more delicate in appearance than Sayers, and, although so much taller, heavier, and longer, did not loom out so much larger as might be expected. He is a fine-made, muscular young fellow, but still there is an appearance about him which at once leads to the conclusion that his stamina is scarcely fitted for the wear and tear of gladiatorial encounters. He is about twenty-six years of age, and in height is over 5 feet 11 inches, while Tom Sayers is thirty-one, and is little more than 5 feet 8 inches. It was soon seen that Sayers intended to pursue different tactics to those he adopted on the previous occasion. He dodged about for a few seconds, and then let go his left and right with great quickness, but Jones stopped him neatly, and in getting back fell.

2.—Tom came up smiling, feinted with his left, and then tried his favourite double; the first hit was stopped, but the second caught Aaron on the chin. This he repeated, and got away without a return. After trying his double once more without success, he planted his left very heavily on the mark. Jones at once went to close quarters, and some quick in-fighting took place in favour of Sayers, who got well on to Aaron’s snuffbox with his left, drawing “first blood.” Jones got on the left side of Tom’s head, but not heavily, and at length both fell.

3.—Both quick to the call of “Time,” and Sayers at once went to work with his left, Jones countering him heavily, each getting it on the forehead. Tom then popped his left on the mark, and Aaron returned, but not heavily, on the nose. Tom now again planted the left on the mark, and was stopped in a second effort. Heavy exchanges next took place, Tom once more drawing the cork from a cut on Aaron’s sniffer, and receiving on the left ear. After a few dodges, Tom again approached, and made a heavy call on Aaron’s bread-basket, then planted a stinger between the eyes, and got away laughing. He attempted to repeat the dose, but was stopped. Another effort was more successful, and he dropped on the mark, staggering Jones, who, however, recovered himself, and popped his left on the chest, then on the left cheek, but not heavily. Sparring until Tom got within distance and shot out his left heavily on the proboscis, without a return, Jones being a little wild. Tom now essayed his double, but Jones got away, and returned on the mouth. Tom persevered, and napped a little ’un on the left eye for his pains; still, he would be at work, and got well on Aaron’s left peeper, drawing the ruby. Heavy exchanges followed, Jones getting on Tom’s left brow, and Tom turning on the home-brewed from Aaron’s nasal organ. After two or three slight exchanges in favour of Sayers, he again put the double on, reaching the left cheek and bread-basket. Next he popped another hot one on the victualling department, receiving a slight return on the forehead. After a break away he stole in, and bang went his left on Aaron’s damaged eye, drawing more of the ruby. A merry little rally followed in favour of Sayers, who at last broke away, and sparred as if blown from his fast fighting. Jones approached to take advantage of this, when Tom propped him on the brow, and then on the forehead. Jones returned with both hands, but not heavily, on the brow and body, and another bustling rally came off, Tom getting home on the left ogle and throat heavily, and Aaron on the larboard cheek. Another break away, and Tom, on getting himself together, resumed the double, got on the mark very heavily, and then popped his right on the left side of Aaron’s nob; he got away laughing, and as Jones tried to follow him up he warned him off by a pop on the left eye. A heavy rally at last took place, in which Jones got sharply on the left ear, and Sayers on the left eye, and this protracted and well-fought round was concluded by Tom slipping down.

4.—Sayers, on coming up, showed a mark on his forehead, and another on his left ear, while Aaron’s left eye and nose were much out of the perpendicular. Tom lost no time in going to work, and planted his one, two, the left on Aaron’s right eye, and the right on the left jaw, knocking Aaron off his pins. (“First knock-down” for Sayers.) Jones seemed all abroad, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he was got round to the call of “Time.”

5.—Sayers at once went in left and right, but he was too anxious to finish his handiwork, and the blows lacked precision. He reached the side of Aaron’s nob, and Jones returned slightly on the same spot, and after mild exchanges, both fell. This gave Jones time to get round, and by the commencement of the next round he had shaken off the nasty one he had got in the fourth.

6.—Tom tried his double, but missed, and Jones rushed in to close, when Tom caught him round the neck and punched him heavily on the left peeper and nozzle, drawing more of the ruby, In the end both fell, Sayers under.

7.—Aaron came up with his left eye all but closed. Tom let go his left, but Jones returned on the nose. Tom tried again and got on the ribs; Jones returned merrily left and right, but did little damage, and Tom fell in his corner.

8.—Jones dashed in and pegged away with both mauleys on the left side or Tom’s knowledge-box; Tom returned on the left brow and closed, when both fell, Tom under.

9.—Jones again dashed in, and some sharp in-fighting took place, followed by a close, in which both fell, Jones, this time, being underneath.

10.—Tom’s dial seemed flushed, but his eyes were still uninjured. Jones rattled in to close, some quick fibbing took place, followed by a long struggle for the fall, which Sayers got and fell on his man. In drawing his legs away, he brought one foot in smart contact with Aaron’s leg, which was claimed as a foul kick, but disallowed by the referee, being evidently accidental.

11.—Jones again took the initiative, and let go both hands on Tom’s forehead, and then his left on the nose. Tom returned on the left eye, and then a squasher on the mark. Exchanges, and Sayers fell, evidently fatigued by his fast fighting.

12.—Jones persevered in his forcing system, and got on the left side of Tom’s cranium, Tom returning very heavily on the nose. Jones again went in, and planted his left under the left optic, closed, and both fell, Tom under.

13.—Jones rushed at Tom, and pegged away at him in his corner. It was a rambling, scrambling round, and both fell, no mischief being done.

14.—Jones again led off, but Tom propped him well on the left eye, and Aaron fell on his face.

15.—Good exchanges on the left cheek, after which Jones got well on Tom’s throat, closed, and both were down.

16.—Jones dashed at Tom, popped in his left and right on the frontispiece and nose, and bored Tom through the ropes.

17.—Jones again opened the ball, got on to Tom’s left ear, closed, and both were down.

18.—Aaron led off on Tom’s nose; Tom returned on the left eye, very heavily, and Aaron fell.

19.—Tom resumed the initiative, and reached Aaron’s nose—by his favourite double. Jones returned, but not heavily, on the forehead; after which Tom cross-countered him prettily on the left peeper, and this led to exchanges in favour of Jones, when Sayers fell.

20.—Both quick to work; good exchanges, and in the end Jones floored Tom by a heavy right-hander on the jaw. (Loud cheers for Jones.)

21.—Jones, elated, rushed in, but Tom steadied him by a straight ’un on the left cheek, and Jones dropped.

22.—Aaron missed both hands, and after some sparring Tom caught him heavily on the left ogle, and Jones dropped. Sayers also fell.

23.—Tom, who seemed getting fresh wind, rattled in, and planted his double on the nose and mouth. Jones rushed at him, and in the scramble Sayers was bored over.

24.—Tom popped a left-hander on the “grubbery,” received a little one on the nose, and fell.

25.—Heavy exchanges, Sayers on the left eye, and Aaron on the nose. Jones slipped down.

26.—Jones led off with both hands, but not heavily, and Tom returned severely on the nose and left eye, which was now quite closed. Jones fell.

27.—Jones rushed to close quarters, and after a brief struggle fell.

28.—Tom feinted, and popped his left twice on Aaron’s damaged peeper. Jones returned on the mouth, and Tom fell.

29.—Jones went to work, catching Tom over the right eye, and Sayers in getting back fell.

30.—Both went to work with good will, and, after sharp exchanges in favour of Sayers, Jones got down.

31.—Aaron tried to lead off, but was well stopped, and Tom returned on the mark. He next popped his left on the left cheek, and in getting away slipped down, just escaping a heavy upper-cut.

32.—Tom feinted, and then got well on to Aaron’s nose with his left, and retreated, Aaron pursuing him. At length they got close, and Tom sent in a stiffener on the scent-box, receiving a right-hander on the left ear, which opened a cut received in their former fight, and both fell.

33.—Tom again seemed tired, and sparred for wind. Jones came to him, when Tom let go his left on the jaw, closed, and both fell.

34.—Tom slowest to time. He tried his left, but was stopped; Aaron closed, and Tom fibbed him on the left eye as they fell.

35.—After a little dodging, they got close, and heavy counters were exchanged. They now closed, and, as they fell, Tom again put a little one on Aaron’s left eye.

36.—A close and a struggle, when both fell, Jones under.

37.—Sayers led off, but was stopped, and, after a wild scramble, Tom fell. One hour and five minutes had now elapsed.

38.—Jones dashed in, but Tom steadied him by a left-hander on the left cheek, and Aaron got down.

39.—Jones, still first, let go left and right on the mouth and left cheek. Sayers returned on the blind eye, and got down.

40.—Jones let fly his left, but missed. Slight exchanges to a close, and both down.

41.—Jones, on the forcing system, planted his left on the jaw and then on the left ear, and as he was pursuing his man he fell on his face.

42.—Jones missed his left. Tom returned open-handed on the back, and Jones dropped.

43.—Jones dashed to a close at the ropes, where they pegged away smartly but ineffectually until they fell.

44.—Tom got home on the left jaw. Aaron missed both hands, and fell.

45.—Jones went to work, but without precision, and as Sayers retreated, Jones fell on his face. It was clear that Tom was carefully nursing himself, while Jones, feeling that both his ogles were going, was forcing the fighting, in order to tire out his opponent before he became blind.

46.—Jones rattled in and caught Tom on the left cheek, but not heavily. Tom returned on the left peeper, drawing more claret, and Jones dropped.

47.—Aaron, in his anxiety, missed both mauleys, and Tom caught him a heavy right-hander on the proboscis, whereupon Jones dropped.

48.—Jones went to his man, who nailed him on the left ogle, and, as Jones persevered, he caught him heavily on the throat, and Jones fell.

49.—Tom tried to lead off, but was short, and Jones returned heavily on the ribs with his right. He then attempted to close, but, on Sayers catching hold of him, he fell.

50.—Tom tried his double, but Jones stopped him, and in getting away slipped down.

51.—Slight exchanges; Jones on the mouth and Sayers on the nose, and Jones down.

52.—Jones led off and was neatly stopped. Tom missed his return, and Jones fell forward.

53.—Tom led off and got on Aaron’s blind eye. Jones returned very slightly on the nose, and fell.

54.—Tom planted his left heavily on the mark, which led to mutual exchanges, and Jones fell.

55.—Tom feinted and popped both hands slightly on Aaron’s good eye, which began to tell tales. Jones returned on the left ear, but it was too long a shot to do damage, and Sayers fell.

56.—Aaron opened the ball, and planted his left and right on the nose and ear twice in succession. He then rushed in, when Tom stopped him by a straight one on the blind eye, and Jones down.

57.—Jones again went to work, but Tom was too quick on his pins, and got out of harm’s way. Sayers missed his return, and Jones fell.

58.—Tom, still on the nursing system, kept himself quiet, waiting for the attack. Jones went in, but Tom stepped back; slight exchanges ensued, and Jones down.

59.—Jones let go his left; Tom ducked his nut, and the blow went over, when Jones fell. A claim of foul, as Jones fell without a blow. The referee said, “Fight on.”

60.—Jones popped his left on the chest; Tom returned on the left cheek, and Jones fell. One hour and a half had now elapsed.

61.—Jones, still first to begin, got on Tom’s nose and fell, Tom falling over him.

62.—Jones planted his left very slightly on the ride of Tom’s nob; Tom just touched him on the smeller in return, and Jones down again.

63.—Jones rushed in, caught Tom on the chin, and Tom fell. The blow was not very heavy.

64.—Jones missed both hands, got a little one on the side of his nut, and fell.

65.—Jones got home, left and right, heavily on the ribs; Tom retaliated on the mark, and Jones down.

66.—Jones let go his left, but Tom avoided the force of the blow by stepping back. He returned on the neck, and Jones got down.

67–71.—In all these rounds Jones led off, but did no mischief, from Tom’s quickness on his pins, and in each Jones was down.

72.—Tom still waiting and resting himself; Jones came in and planted his right on the ribs. Tom returned on the right ogle, but not heavily, and Jones down, his right eye going fast. Sayers, though much tired, had both eyes well open, and his face presented no very serious marks of punishment.

73.—Heavy exchanges, and Jones fell on his face.

74.—Jones tried to lead off, but was stopped. Counter-hits, Sayers on the nose, and Jones on the cheek, and Jones fell.

75.—Heavy exchanges, in favour of Sayers, and Jones down.

76.—Jones, who saw he must do it quickly or not at all, dashed in recklessly, but was stopped. Tom popped a little one on the nose, and Jones down.

77.—Jones was again stopped, and Tom got well on his good eye, and Jones fell.

78.—Sayers stopped Aaron’s rush, and again got on to his good peeper. Jones instantly fell on his knees.

79.—Aaron delivered his left on the nose, and, in trying to repeat it fell on his face. Another claim that he had fallen without a blow not allowed.

80.—Heavy exchanges, Tom getting again on Aaron’s good peeper, which was now all but shut up, and Jones down.

81.—Jones led off, but wofully out of distance, and fell forward.

82.—Exchanges in favour of Sayers, and Jones down weak.

83.—Tom, who saw his time had arrived, went in, planted his favourite double on Aaron’s good peeper, and Jones fell.

84.—After a little fiddling, Tom crept close again, dashed out his left on the good eye, and then on the cheek, and Jones down.

85 and last.—Jones made a last effort, was easily stopped, and, as he turned round Tom caught him with his right a terrific half-arm hit on the right eye, and knocked him off his pins. It was evidently a finisher. Poor Aaron’s nob fell forward, and it was at once apparent that his remaining daylight was closed; and his seconds, seeing this, of course threw up the sponge, Tom being proclaimed the winner, after a gallant battle of exactly two hours. Sayers at once went to shake hands with his brave antagonist, and then repaired on board the vessel, whither he was soon followed by Jones, whose damaged peeper was at once looked to by a medical friend. The poor fellow was very severely punished, but he did not seem to feel this so acutely as he did the bitter disappointment of having to play second fiddle to one so much smaller than himself. The expedition quickly got under way, and all reached the Metropolis by nine o’clock. As soon as Sayers was dressed he went round among his fellow-passengers, and made a collection for his fallen antagonist, which reached the sum of £8. Beyond fatigue, and a few trifling bruises on his forehead and nose, he was unscathed, and he certainly could scarcely be said to have a black eye.

Remarks.—We have little doubt that many of our readers will have anticipated the remarks that we feel called upon to make respecting the two game encounters between these men. On the first occasion it was obvious that Sayers felt he had a great undertaking before him, and he was therefore naturally cautious in the outset not to throw a chance away which might at once put the victory beyond his reach. Jones was known to be a very heavy hitter with his right, as was proved by the severe punishment he dealt out to Tom Paddock in both their mills. Sayers accordingly “played ’possum,” and in the first few rounds allowed him to take the initiative, in order that he might measure his powers carefully before he exposed himself to danger. Tom proved himself extremely quick on his pins, and by his agility he to a certain extent neutralised the effect of Jones’s severe lunges. True, he got hit occasionally with effect, as witness the cut over his left eye, and also on his left ear. Jones, to his surprise, found before him a man clearly his superior at out-fighting, and one, too, as he soon discovered, but little his inferior in bodily strength. For the first hour and a half, it will be recollected, he had apparently the advantage, Sayers suffering severely from cramp, and having to depend principally upon his legs to keep him out of harm’s way; but after this he gradually recovered, and Jones, as was the case in his fights with Paddock, after the said hour and a half, gradually fell off, and became languid in his exertions. Tom, of course, improved the occasion, and showed such superiority in hitting that many thought he would have won with the greatest certainty had not darkness come on. We must confess that, although we did not say so at the time, we entertained a similar opinion, and we at the same time thought that the darkness was in other respects an unfortunate circumstance for Sayers, believing, as we did, that Jones, profiting by experience, would at the next meeting have resorted to a different system of milling, and, by at once going to close quarters, have reduced his adversary to such a state in a few rounds as to render victory certain. It seemed to us that this would have been his game in the first fight, instead of trusting to long shots, at which he found Sayers as good as himself, and we, in common with others, were fully prepared to see him adopt the system. There is no harm now in making known our opinion that Aaron’s performance on the first occasion disappointed us not a little. We all along thought Sayers had overmatched himself, and it was not until the conclusion of the first round that we changed our mind. Many shared our belief that the man who could maul the game and resolute Paddock as Jones had done must prove too much for an antagonist so inferior in size and weight as Sayers, and many blamed the latter for his presumption. Among this latter class we do not number ourselves, for it is our practice never to blame a man for soaring at high game when he really feels confidence in his own powers. Ambition, when kept within bounds, is a praiseworthy quality, and Sayers merely followed the example of other middle weights who had preceded him, in essaying to raise himself to a higher level when he could not find an antagonist worthy of his fist in his own sphere. How fully he was justified in his confident aspirations the result has proved. On Tuesday last, as may be gathered from our account of the fight, Jones fought even less “judgmatically” than at the first merry meeting. Instead of forcing the fighting at once, as he had expressed his intention of doing, he allowed Sayers to open the ball, and in the very onset to inflict such punishment upon him as to shake the confidence of his friends very materially; and not only did he allow his adversary to take extraordinary liberties with him, but he seemed to have lost his precision in returning, and for some time made not the slightest impression upon Tom’s wig-block. The exceedingly clever performance of Sayers in the third round, and the apparent impunity with which he got home upon all parts of Aaron’s dial, took his own friends by surprise, and the fear expressed was that he was fighting too fast for a long day, and that the strength and length of his opponent must tell with fearful effect when he became tired. He was cautioned as to this, but requested to be allowed to fight his own way, as he knew what suited him best. The blow on Aaron’s jaw in the fourth round was very severe, and nearly decided the event, and this we are induced to believe had some effect in stopping his rushes later in the fight, when, had he been capable of continuing the offensive with effect, the result might have been very serious to Tom, who for a long period was exceedingly fatigued, and had to nurse himself in the most careful manner in order to bring himself through. The improvement he (Sayers) displayed in every way, since his last match, was extraordinary. His system of leading off is almost perfect, and his quickness on his legs would have delighted the late Mr. John Jackson, whose opinion on the subject of this qualification is well known. He had little recourse to stopping, trusting to his activity to keep him out of harm’s way, and the success with which his manœuvring was attended was proved by the fact that he had scarcely a black eye, and, beyond exhaustion, had nothing to complain of. In addition to his quickness in defence, he seems also to have acquired greater facility in pursuing the offensive, and the weight with which many of his blows fell upon his opponent proved that his hitting was as effective as that of most 12 stone men. As usual, he stood up in the gamest, most resolute manner, and faced his adversary throughout with the utmost good humour, but, at the same time, with determination. By many it was expected he would have adopted the dropping system, as he had done with Poulson; but we were delighted to perceive that on neither occasion did such a notion enter his head; and indeed we are told that even with the bold Nottingham man he would not have had recourse to it, had he not been terribly out of condition, and altogether in such a state as to be incapable otherwise of resisting the onslaughts of so powerful an opponent. We understand that Tom has now an intention of looking still higher in the scale for an opponent worthy of his powers, and both Tom Paddock and the Tipton Slasher are talked of as his next antagonists, but that he will first rest on his oars a while to recover from his recent fatigue. How far this may be true we know not, but we presume time will show. Of this, however, we are confident, that whoever the Middle Weight Champion may next pick out, that worthy must look to his laurels, and leave no stone unturned to get himself fit for the fray; for big as he may be, he will have a hard day’s work before him. Of Aaron Jones we must say that his exhibition on each day disappointed us, and fell far short of what we expected after his extraordinary encounters with Paddock. True it is that he never once flinched from punishment, and when severely hit persevered in the most manly way to turn the scale in his favour. Not a word can now be said against his character for gameness and gluttony, for both which qualities he had already earned for himself sufficient fame in his passages with Paddock to remove any stigma that his meetings with Orme might have cast upon him. Most gamely did he persevere while Sayers was fatigued to force the milling and to wear out his antagonist; but, owing to the great quickness and judgment of Tom, his efforts recoiled upon himself; and, being unable to effect any punishment, he did but reduce himself below the level of the gallant Tom, and thus fall a prey to his opponent’s superior judgment and tactics.

Sayers’s triumphant coups d’essai with two good “big ’uns” gave him an open “perspective view” of the goal of his ambition—the Championship—an honour never yet achieved by a middle-weight. With this view he addressed a challenge to the redoubtable 13 stone Tipton Slasher, who then claimed the belt; the Tipton having received forfeit in 1856 from Harry Broome, who retired, and in the year 1857 from both Tom Paddock and Aaron Jones.

Never since the memorable battle between Caunt and Bendigo, in Sept., 1845, had there been a match which excited such general interest outside the circle of regular supporters of true British boxing. Here was a man, the acknowledged Champion of the Middle-weights, boldly throwing down the gauntlet to the equally acknowledged Champion of England, and daring him to combat for the title and reward to which for so long a time he had laid claim without meeting an adversary of his own weight and inches daring enough to deny his pretensions. Not a semblance of ill feeling was there existing between the men, and we are glad to state that throughout, even up to the very contest itself, they maintained towards one another the most kindly sentiments. The only matter at issue between them was whether a man of 5 feet 8½ inches, and under 11st. in weight, possessed of whatever science he might be, could contest, with any chance of success, against one topping the 6 feet by half an inch, and weighing not less than 14st. 6lb. The Slasher himself laughed at the idea of defeat, and stated to us his firm belief that on entering the ring he would, in addition to his other advantages, be found the cleverer man of the two. He said he had made up his mind not to run all over the ring after his younger and more active opponent, but to take his stand at the scratch, and await the onslaughts of the gallant Sayers. This we (who knew the bold Tom’s capabilities) deemed a sound determination; how far the burly Tiptonian adhered to it on entering the ring will appear in the sequel. Sayers also, to some measure, made us his confidant as to his intentions on the day of battle, and intimated that he believed the Slasher was perfectly worn-out and incapable of anything like prolonged exertion. He had fully made up his mind, he said, to keep him on his pins, and lead him about the ring, by forcing the pace, until he should be so exhausted as to be somewhat nearer his own mark. He, like the Slasher, scorned the idea of defeat, and felt such intense confidence from the very day the match was made, that he invested almost every penny he possessed upon the result of the encounter. The excitement in all quarters increased week by week from the time the match was made, and in every sporting circle the contest was made one of the great themes of discussion. The general feeling at first appeared to be that Sayers had by his victory over Aaron Jones got above himself, and that his overweening confidence would lead him into unexpected difficulties, if, indeed, as was in many quarters anticipated, the match did not end in a forfeit on his part. As the time approached, however, and it was found that both men were in active work, and evidently both meaning mischief, the doubts as to the match going on vanished, the only point remaining for discussion being the foolhardiness of Sayers, and the overweening confidence of his friends in allowing the match to come to an issue for the full stakes. The Sayers party, however, maintained their own opinion, and from first to last contended that the Slasher was stale and out of practice, that he was destitute of scientific acquirements, and so slow that any want of size and weight on the part of his adversary was fully compensated for by these deficiencies. We believe they never refused to take 6 to 4, and finally accepted 5 to 4 against their pet.

The doings of Tom’s gigantic opponent will be found in our fourth Chapter. We have noted the awakening given to the Ring by the announcement of the New Champion Belt, and the Slasher’s defiant challenge. Tom accepted the terms, and Jemmy Massey immediately made the match for the Tipton; the day being fixed for the 16th of June, 1857. So soon as articles were signed, the Slasher, who was then keeping a public-house in Spon Lane, Tipton, gave up his business and betook himself to training at Boxmoor, where he got off some superfluous flesh acquired in his calling as a Boniface; indeed when we saw him one evening at Owen Swift’s he appeared to have been carefully prepared. He was certainly not so hard and thin as we had seen him some years before; but his complexion was fresh and his muscles well developed, and he told us he “drew the balance at 14st.” He expressed entire confidence, and grinned good humouredly at the bare mention of defeat by so small an opponent. The Tipton left London overnight to avoid interruption, and was picked up on the downward voyage at Tilbury.

The stakeholder (the Editor of Bell’s Life) having to name the place of fighting, proposed to charter two steamers; one to convey the men, their seconds and friends, the other a select party of Corinthians; and for this tickets were issued. At the last moment, however, the scheme miscarried, a special boat being unobtainable. A gentleman, however, offered a vessel to start from Southend, with 250 passengers as a maximum number, on the Tuesday morning, to convey the “excursionists” wherever they might wish to go. This offer was gratefully accepted. The number was, subsequently, limited to 200, including ring-keepers, men, and seconds. On arriving at Southend, it was blowing a gale from the S.E., and there was a heavy sea on. The boat could not come alongside the pier, and it was with great difficulty that the passengers were able to get on board. It was upwards of an hour before Tom Oliver and the ropes and stakes were got in.

When all were on board, the vessel steamed out to sea, and rounded the Nore Light. The passage was anything but enjoyable to bad sailors, and many offered their contributions to Neptune in the most liberal manner. The passengers in the fore-part of the vessel were drenched with salt water, but they bore the infliction with stoical good humour. The men entered the ring between two and three, but just as all was arranged, the company seated, and the dressing commenced, a bevy of blues was seen swiftly approaching the ring. Sauve qui peut was the order of the day, and all rushed off to the steamboats, many, in their anxiety, making for the wrong vessel, and many mistakes consequently occurring. All, however, got on board one or the other by three o’clock, and a move was made some miles farther on to an island, where a second debarkation speedily took place. Another ring was pitched, and round it were quickly ranged some 3,00 persons. The movements of the steamer had put all the frequenters of the river on the qui vive, and the water was studded with boats and sailing vessels of various sizes conveying their numerous freights to the scene of action. The ground selected was excellent for milling purposes, and the inner and outer rings were formed with as much expedition as possible, for fear of further interruption. A good business was transacted in the sale of inner-ring tickets, the amount realised by which was £47 2s. 6d. The number of Corinthian sportsmen was the largest we remember at the ring-side, and the spectators most orderly. At half-past four the men entered the ring ready for business; Sayers attended by Nat Langham and Bill Hayes, and the Slasher under the superintendence of Tass Parker and Jack Macdonald, perhaps the best pair of seconds that could be found. No time was cut to waste in preliminaries; the colours were tied to the stakes—blue and white spot for Sayers, and the old blue birdseye for the Slasher—and at twelve minutes to five they were delivered at the scratch, the betting being 6 to 5 on the old one.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—On toeing the scratch the contrast between the men was, as may be imagined, most extraordinary. The ould Tipton topped his adversary at least four inches, and it looked, to the uninitiated, “a horse to a hen.” His immense frame and ponderous, muscular arms and legs seemed calculated to bear him to victory against four such men as Sayers. He looked all full of confidence, and evidently considered he had a very easy little job before him. He was thinner than we expected to see him, and his condition generally was very fair, but there were the usual indications of age upon certain points where the fulness and roundness of youth had disappeared from his form. He looked all his age (thirty-eight); indeed, by many he was thought to be far on the shady side of forty. His attitude was ungainly, but still he was rough and ready, and the question that suggested itself was “how was Sayers to get at him?” Tom Sayers, as he advanced to meet his antagonist, was the perfection of manly strength and athletic development. His fine broad shoulders, small loins, and powerful arms and legs were all turned in one of Nature’s best lathes, and there was not a fault to find, unless it was found that he had two or three pounds more flesh than was necessary about his back and ribs. His attitude for attack or defence was admirable, and however confident the Slasher was, it was perfectly obvious that Sayers was not one whit behind him in that respect. The Slasher had evidently made up his mind to set to work at once and cut his man down in a jiffey. He lumbered in like a huge bear, let go both hands with more vigour than judgment, but did not get home, and Sayers, in stepping back, fell, but at once jumped up to renew the round. The Slasher went at him, put in a little one on the skull, and Tom again fell.

2.—The Slasher came up evidently with greater confidence than ever, and lunged out his right, which reached Tom’s ribs with great force, and Tom countered him sharply on the mouth, drawing “first blood.” The Slasher looked astonished, stopped to consider a moment, and again went in, swinging his great arms like the sails of a windmill. Sayers danced lightly out of harm’s way, and then, stepping in, popped a tidy smack on the spectacle-beam, and got away laughing. After dancing round his man, and easily avoiding several more lunges, Tom again got home on the snuffer-tray, removing a piece of the japan, and drawing a fresh supply of the ruby. The Tipton, annoyed, rushed in, missed his right, and also a terrific upper-cut with his left, and Sayers again dropped in upon the nose. After this, slight exchanges took place, the Slasher too slow to be effective. He now chased Sayers all over the ring, the latter dancing round him like a wild Indian, or fleeing like a deer, to draw him after him. The vicious blows aimed by the Slasher all fell upon the air, and his exertions to catch his nimble antagonist caused him to blow off steam to an indefinite extent. Had one of the intended compliments alighted upon Tom, it looked as if it would have been all over with him. After Sayers had completed his dance he went to his man, cleverly avoided a good right-hander, and delivered another very hot one on the proboscis (more “Lafitte” of the premier crû). The Tipton tried his heavy punches again three times and missed; a fourth attempt was prettily stopped, after which both hit short. The Tipton next got on Tom’s right cheek with his left, but not heavily, and some very pretty stopping followed on both sides, after which the Tipton made another rush like a bull at a gate, and found himself once more battling with vacancy, Tom having slipped under his arm, and danced off laughing. The Slasher looked with astonishment, and shook his nut. Sayers again approached, and after one or two feints a good exchange took place, Sayers getting on to the left eye, and the Slasher on the ribs. Sharp counter-hits followed, Slasher on the mouth and Tom on the cheek. Tom now led off with his double, but the Slasher stopped him prettily twice in succession, when he missed his return. The Slasher again pounded away, principally with his right, but without effect, as Sayers jumped back or stopped every effort. Sayers now planted a stinger with his left on the mark and stopped the return. The next minute he got sharply home on the nasal organ, and jumped quickly away from a well-intended upper-cut, which looked like a finisher. The Slasher now stopped one or two pretty leads, but his return came so slowly that Sayers was far out of harm’s way. This occurred several times, the Slasher rushing about like a baited bull, Sayers skipping and nimbly getting away from every rush. After a little of this entertainment Sayers went in, let go his left, and was stopped neatly, and he, in turn, stopped two very round hits on the part of Perry. Sayers next feinted, and got home a slashing left-hander on the right cheek, which he cut severely, and drew a plenteous supply of ruby. Another hit fell on the same spot. The Slasher then got a little one on Tom’s body, and tried again, but Tom got away. The Slasher retired to his corner to get his mug wiped, and, on coming out again, Tom led him another dance all over the ring, the Old One, with more haste than speed, trying to catch him, and repeatedly expending his strength in empty space. At last Sayers, having given him a good turn at this game, stopped to see whether he was pumped, and some good exchanges followed, Sayers again on the damaged cheek, and the Slasher also reaching the cheek. Mutual stopping followed, and Sayers next got home heavily on the olfactory projection. The Slasher now stopped Tom, and returned, but not heavily, on the top of his nut, which led to exchanges, Tom on the left optic, and Bill on the ribs. After one or two more exchanges, another tremendous counter took place, Tom receiving on the mouth, and the Slasher on the nose, each drawing the carmine. The Slasher having next made several misses went in, and another sharp counter was exchanged, Tom receiving on the brain-pan, and the Slasher on the beak, from which more home-brewed escaped. Each now had a wipe of the sponge, and Tom treated his opponent to another game of follow-my-leader all over the ring, in the course of which the Slasher caught him a heavy right-hander on the back. He then stopped Tom’s left and heavy counters followed Tom on the nose, and Slasher on the os frontis, knocking him down (first “knock down” for Slasher). This round lasted nearly half an hour.

3.—The Slasher came up laughing, but he was evidently bent on mischief. Sayers smiled, tried his left and was stopped, and the Slasher, as usual, missed two swinging right-handers. Tom dodged, popped his left on the mark, and then on the forehead, got a little one on the ribs, and exchanges followed, Tom getting home on the left ogle, and Tipton on the mouth. Some heavy give and take fighting followed, Tom getting more juice from the Slasher’s right cheek, and receiving one or two smart ones on the neck and side of his head. Mutual stopping, feinting and dodging until Tom got home on the mark, and the Slasher again followed him all over the ring, hitting out of distance, and with no manner of judgment. Finding he could do nothing, the Slasher put down his hands, and retired for another wipe from Jack Macdonald, and then renewed his exertions, when some pretty stopping took place on both sides, after which Sayers got home on the left side of the nob, but was stopped in another essay. The Slasher stopped two more well-intended ones, and then got home on the side of Tom’s cranium; Sayers returned now heavily on the proboscis, once more turning on the tap. Tom now dodged, and then got home heavily on the damaged cheek—a tremendous hit, and again did the home-brewed appear. The Slasher retired to be cleaned, and came again viciously, but Sayers pinked him on the smeller, receiving a slight return on the top of the nob. More futile efforts on the part of the Slasher, whose friends called upon Sayers to stand still and be hit, but Tom wisely declined. He had orders to keep his man on his legs and fight him at long shots, and these orders he carried out most excellently. Again and again did the Slasher miss or get stopped. Occasionally he got home a very little one, which did not leave a mark, and now he rushed at Tom, dashed out his right, and very narrowly escaped smashing his fist against the stake—it was within an inch. Sayers lifted up his arms with astonishment, and stood laughing until the Slasher wore round on another tack, and came at him again, when Tom got away, shaking his noddle and grinning. The Slasher followed, Tom nailed him on the nozzle, stopped his return, and then planted another on the cheek. Sharp exchanges followed, the Slasher getting on Tom’s right cheek and just drawing the juice, while Tom left a mark on the Slasher’s left eye. The Old’un, very slow, sparred apparently for wind, and was then stopped left and right, after which each hit over the shoulder. Tom afterwards stopped both hands, and got easily away from a third attempt. Slight exchanges followed, Tom on the nose, and Slasher on the top of the head. More dancing by Sayers, and exhausting efforts on the part of the Slasher, and then as the Slasher came, Tom caught him a severe straightener on the snuff-box, drawing lots of claret. The Slasher, savage, stood to consider, and then rushing in delivered a little one on the side of Tom’s head with his right, and Tom fell. (Time, 52 minutes.)

4.—The Slasher came up grinning, but he was evidently somewhat fatigued by his exertions. He nevertheless adhered to his practice of forcing the fighting, again dashed at Tom, and contrived to plant a little one on the body with his right, but it was not within punishing distance. Slight exchanges followed on the side of the wig-block, after which the Slasher stopped Tom’s left. Heavy counter-hits next succeeded in favour of Sayers, who got home on the Slasher’s potato-trap, and napped a little one on the nob. After another dance round the ring, Tom stopped the Slasher’s right, and the latter then drove him into the corner, and, evidently thinking he had him safe, wound himself up to finish; but when he let go his left and right, he found that Tom had slipped under his arm, and was laughing at him in the middle of the ring. The K-legged giant, irate that his opponent would not stand to be hit, again lumbered after him, like an elephant in pumps, but it was no go. “No catchee, no havee,” was Tom’s maxim, and he kept to his active tactics. The Slasher persevered, and Sayers stopped his left and right, and then turned away laughing and shaking his noddle. The Tipton giant could not make it out, and turned to his second as if to inquire what he should do; another illustration of the classical adage—capit consilium gladiator in arena. At last he went at it again and got home on the body, receiving in return on the kisser. Some sparring followed, until the Tipton again led off, and was short with both hands. Finding he could do nothing, he retired to his corner, where he stood leaning on the ropes, Tom waiting and beckoning him to the scratch. After a rest the Slasher came out, feinted at Tom, but was quickly nailed on the left cheek. He tried again, and got home heavily on the ribs, and Sayers fell. (Time, one hour and four minutes.)

5.—Perry still adhered to his boring tactics, but Tom was far too quick on his pins, and easily avoided him. Another attempt was stopped, and from a third Sayers got easily away. A fourth was missed, and Tom returned on the left cheek, which led to heavy exchanges on the side of the head, and Tom fell, the Slasher falling over him.

6.—The Slasher came up laughing, and let go his left, but out of distance; good exchanges followed, Sayers effecting another lodgment on the right cheek, and increasing the cut in that quarter, and the Slasher getting home on the cranium. The Slasher, after another ill-directed rush, again retired to his corner, had a drink and a wipe, and then came again, when Sayers stopped his deliveries with the greatest ease. The Slasher persevered, and Tom led him another morris-dance, but they afterwards got close, and slight exchanges ended in the Slasher falling.

7.—The Tipton bored in stooping, head-foremost, like a bull of Salamanca. Tom, not being provided with a mantilla to throw over his head, jumped aside like a matador, and on went his assailant to the ropes. Perry swung round, just got on to Tom’s head, and each then missed a blow. The Slasher persevered, and Tom countered on the left side of his forehead with his right, after which Perry retired to his corner, whither Sayers followed him, and the Slasher at once lunged out at the cheek, but not effectually. He now made another of his wild onslaughts, but only to be disappointed, and he next stopped both Tom’s mauleys. Some sparring followed, both being slightly blown; the Slasher stopped Tom’s left, and returned with his right on the body. After a few more misses, they got close, and Tom delivered a heavy spank on the left eye, and fell from the force of his own blow. (One hour, fifteen minutes.)

8.—Perry showed a bump under the left peeper, but he came up smiling, and let go his left and right, both of which were stopped. He then stood blowing, until Sayers went to the attack, and some mutual pretty stopping took place, followed by several misses on either side. The Slasher once more retired to rest in his corner, but was fetched out by Sayers, who then got home on the side of the nob, and neatly avoided a return. Both were now rather wild in their lunges, and the Slasher, who pursued his man most vigorously, repeatedly missed his blows. Tom at length caught him on the cutwater, drawing a fresh supply from the best bin, and the Slasher walked off to borrow Jack Macdonald’s wipe. Tom followed, and got home very heavily on the mark and then on the mouth, renewing “the cataract from the cavern.” Sharp exchanges in favour of Sayers followed, and in the end both fell.

9.—The Slasher came up slowly. Notwithstanding his severe punishment, his seconds sent him up beautifully clean, and in fact their attention throughout was beyond all praise. He tried again and again to plant upon the agile Sayers, but in vain. Sayers stopped him at all points, and then delivered a heavy left-hander on the mark. Some sparring followed, and Sayers stopped several heavy lunges, the Tipton in return stopping his left. Tom, in another attempt, got on the damaged cheek, increasing the cut, and the Tipton walked to his corner, whither Tom followed him, but on the Slasher making his usual lunge Sayers jumped back. Perry followed, and some pretty taps and stops, without mischief, took place. The Slasher then hit out of distance several times in succession, but on getting close some neat exchanges followed, Tom on the mark, heavily, and Perry on the cheek, but not effectively. Perry once more bored in, and delivered his right, but it was a mere fly-blow. Tom missed his prop with the left, and the Slasher retired for a drink. Tom thought this an example worth following, and after the inner man was refreshed, they went to work again, and sharp exchanges, all in favour of Sayers, followed; he kept playing on the Slasher’s damaged nose and cheek, his double being very effective, while Perry’s blows appeared to leave no mark. Tom now stopped several well-intended blows, and returned heavily on the right cheek with his left. Perry, although getting slower every minute, gamely persevered, put in his right and left on the body, and then hit short with both hands. More mutual stopping ensued, until they got close, when the Slasher dashed his right at the body, but Tom met him with a very straight left-hander on the mouth, drawing more of the elixir of life, and with his right he planted severely on the nose. Another sharp one on the mouth caused the Slasher to stagger and fall, and Tom fell over him. The Slasher evidently was fast going; the last three blows, particularly the right-hander, were very heavy, and the game old fellow was almost abroad, and was very slow to time.

10 and last.—The Slasher crawled very slowly to the scratch, and attempted to lead off. It was, however, only an attempt. Tom easily avoided it, and planted a tremendous hit on the mark, stopping the return with ease. He stopped two more attempts, and then as the Slasher lunged out a third time he caught him with the left on the damaged cheek and the right on the mouth, cutting his upper lip very severely, and the Slasher fell, Tom on him. The Slasher was carried to his corner, and, with some difficulty, was got round in time to go to the scratch for another round. His dial, however, was dreadfully punished, and his lip was so much cut that he presented a piteous appearance. It was evident that he had not the slightest chance; he was as weak as a kitten, and entirely at the mercy of his adversary, who was perfectly scatheless and apparently as active as when he began, and Owen Swift, the Slasher’s principal backer, seeing the state of things, stepped into the ring, and with praiseworthy humanity declared that he should fight no more. Perry was very unwilling to give up without one more shy, but Owen was imperative. He insisted upon the men shaking hands, and the sponge was thrown up, Tom Sayers being proclaimed the winner, and Champion of England, amid the cheers of his partisans, at the expiration of one hour and forty-two minutes.

No time was now lost in getting on board the vessels, the majority of the spectators making for the larger vessel, for which they had no tickets, and taking advantage of the absence of the authorities on shore to scramble on board before demands could be made upon them to show their credentials. The charterers of the “Widgeon” (the companion or rather opposition), did not display much consideration for their patrons, as they steamed off almost immediately on the conclusion of the mill, leaving the majority of their customers to their fate.

It was fortunate for Sayers that he finished his task at the time he did, for scarcely had the men left the ring when the same body of peelers who had before interfered arrived upon the ground, just in time to be too late to put their kind intentions into effect. It was only the difficulty in getting a boat that prevented their arrival at an earlier hour.

As soon as all were on board the regular boat a consultation was held as to the course that ought to be pursued, and the general opinion having been taken, it was resolved to make for Strood, instead of giving the navigators another turn round the Nore, and by eight o’clock a landing was effected at that town, and nearly all were enabled to reach town by eleven o’clock in the evening. On the voyage to Strood, Tom Sayers went round among the Corinthians and made a collection for his fallen but game opponent, which amounted to the sum of £22 5s.

Remarks.—The account of this battle tells its own tale, and calls for scarcely any remarks. From first to last it was evident that the Tipton Slasher’s star had sunk, and that he was no longer “The Slasher.” He must have felt from the very first that, barring an accident, he had not the slightest chance. All his quickness and activity had left him, and we could not help thinking that his eyesight also must be failing, for times out of number did he lunge out and attempt to deliver upper-cuts when Tom Sayers was far beyond his reach, and these blows were of such tremendous force that they must have tended to take much of the steel out of him. It appeared to us that from the very beginning he adopted a wrong principle. For a heavy, lumbering man, like himself, to attempt to force the fighting, and pursue a lithe, active fellow such as Sayers, was perfectly ridiculous, as he evidently felt towards the conclusion of the battle; and we should imagine that he must many times since have regretted that he did not adhere to his original intention of awaiting the attack and depending upon his powers as a counter-hitter to bring him through. That he did his best to please his backers and to bring the fight off in his favour cannot for a moment be denied, and that he took his severe punishment without a murmur was self-evident. He always had the character of being a game man, and that character he carried with him into retirement. The Tipton said that early in the fight he injured his right hip in one of his sudden twists to catch his opponent, and this materially interfered with his powers. Tom Sayers fought strictly to orders throughout, and his coolness and judgment greatly enhanced his reputation among his friends. Some persons present commented upon his retreating tactics, and contended that this was not fair fighting, but as these remarks proceeded from the enemy’s camp they are worth but little. Of course it would have been infinitely more pleasing to them had Tom stood and slogged away against an adversary of so much heavier metal until he was disabled by a chance blow, but such a course would have been perfect madness on his part. How his jumping or running away could be called unfair, so long as he confined himself within the ring, we cannot conceive. The ring is always constructed of a certain size for the express purpose of restraining the combatants within certain bounds, and within those bounds a man has a perfect right to retreat and jump about as long as he likes, so that he does not decline to face his opponent; and that Tom Sayers for one moment declined to continue the battle cannot by any one be maintained. How far his jumping about and exertions upon his legs were advisable for his own sake is another question, and we are inclined to think that he might have kept out of harm’s way with far less exertion, and reserved much of his strength against any unlooked-for contingency, had he restrained his peristaltic energies within more reasonable bounds. If the Slasher had been younger and more active, it is not improbable that the gallant Tom would have found out to his cost, as the battle progressed, the benefit of such a mode of fighting. As it turned out, however, no harm was done, and as he achieved such an easy victory, none of his friends can for one moment complain. That his retreating arose from any want of confidence is a proposition not to be entertained for a moment. Never in his brilliant career has he shown the semblance of the white feather, and we feel assured that the only causes to which his method of fighting the Slasher can be set down are caution, a desire to please his friends, and an extraordinary exuberance of animal spirits. The ring throughout the fight was well kept, and, beyond the few vicissitudes connected with the voyage to the scene of action, we heard of nothing calculated to mar the pleasures of the day.

Tom’s defeat of the ponderous Tipton was not, however, to leave him in undisputed possession of the belt. Tom Paddock considered himself capable of taking the shine out of such a little one, and challenged Sayers accordingly; but ere a match could be arranged, the Redditch man was suddenly seized with a rheumatic fever, which completely floored him, and from which it was feared he would not recover. There was now apparently every chance that Sayers would walk over the course, but this did not suit Harry Broome, who, although unable to cope with Tom himself, “thought he knowed a cove wot could,” and made a match for an “Unknown,” to fight Tom for £200 a side on the 5th of January, 1858. The speculations as to who this unknown could be were extraordinary—he was the bold Bendy, he was Ben Caunt, he was Ould Nat, he was Harry Orme—in fact, he was everybody but himself; and great indeed was the public astonishment when it became known that he was not only actually an “Unknown,” but also a perfect novice, being, in fact, Bill Bainge, or Benjamin, a native of Northleach, 5ft. 10¾in. in height, weighing 12st., of whose prowess rumour had propagated extravagant accounts, while others maintained that as the Broomes were behind Benjamin, it was a “got-up” robbery, and that Sayers would “chuck it.” Poor Tom was sadly mortified at these insinuations, and indignantly assured the writer that if he should be beaten it should only be by a better man.

A steamboat conveyed the men and their backers down the river to the Isle of Grain, where, at about half-past twelve o’clock, the Champion made his appearance at the ring-side, and modestly dropped his castor within the ropes, following it at once himself, attended by Bill Hayes and Harry Brunton. He was hailed with loud cheers from all sides. Bill Benjamin was close upon his heels, and stepped into the ropes under the care of Harry Broome and Jemmy Massey. There was a smile upon the face of each man; but we fancied that of Sayers was the genuine smile of confidence, while that of his opponent had somewhat of a nervous twist about it. They shook hands good humouredly, tossed for corners, Sayers proving the winner, and then at once commenced peeling to the bitter frost and south-easterly breeze. The colours, a neat French grey for Sayers, and blue and white spots for Benjamin, were now tied to the stakes, the usual preliminaries were quickly settled, and at fourteen minutes to twelve “time” was called. The betting round the ring was very slight, 2 to 1 being freely offered, but takers were scarce at anything under 5 to 2.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—When the men appeared at the scratch, which they did in the midst of perfect silence, there was a visible contrast in their physical powers. The Novice stood well over Sayers, his muscles were larger and better developed, and altogether he looked, as he undoubtedly was, the heavier and more powerful man. His attitude at first was good, and led one to suppose he had studied under a good master. His condition was perfect, there not being a superfluous ounce about him. Tom looked rather fleshy about the chest and shoulders, but in such weather it was perhaps a fault on the right side. His attitude was the same as ever—cool, calm, and collected. He eyed his adversary with steadiness, and there was the same unmistakable glance of confidence always to be seen on his mug. He had clearly made up his mind to let the Novice make the first move, and tried several dodges to draw him out. The Novice, although evidently nervous, sparred and feinted like an accomplished boxer for a brief period, and at length tried his left, but Tom stopped him with nonchalance, and returned quickly with the left on the nozzle, and then on the mark a sharp crack. The Novice stood his ground, and now succeeded in stopping Tom twice, and returning, but very slightly, on the cheek. Tom next delivered his left and right at close quarters, on the cheek and jaw, and the Novice dropped. He was conveyed to his corner, and the look of dismay upon his countenance as he glanced around was perfectly ludicrous. It was at once patent to all that he knew nothing of the business he had undertaken, and that the contest was virtually over, for directly his guard was broken through he appeared to have no resources. He could not use his legs, and his arms flew about like the sails of a windmill, so that Tom was able to put in both hands perfectly at his ease. The celerity with which he brought his right into play thus early in the fight was remarkable.

2.—The Novice did not “smile as he was wont to smile,” but seemed to be on the look-out for a place of secure retreat. Tom walked quietly up, led off with his left and was stopped, but the Novice missed his return. Tom then popped his left very heavily on the mouth, knocking his opponent clean off his pins, and filling his potato trap with ruby. The Novice lay as if undecided for a second, and then, turning over, got gradually on his pins, and his seconds took him to his corner. He shook his head several times, and appeared extremely undesirous of encountering another of Tom’s heavy shots, but, on time being called, Harry y Broome pushed him forward, and he went reluctantly to the scratch, Massey, in disgust, having declined to have any more to do with him.

3.—Sayers, evidently bent on making short work of it, quickly went to work left and right. Benjamin tried to rally with him, but beyond an accidental touch on the lip, did not reach him. Tom planted heavily on the mouth and jaw, drawing more ruby, and down went the Novice all abroad. He lay in the middle of the ring, and nothing could persuade him to come to “time.” Broome then threw up the sponge, and Tom Sayers was once again proclaimed the conqueror, and still champion, in six minutes and a half, the battle—if battle it could be called where it was all one way—being the most bloodless we ever witnessed. The Novice, on being asked to account for his cutting up so badly, said he was hit very hard in the mark in the first round, and not expecting to be hit there, it had made him very sick and incapable of exerting himself. Further than that he knew not. His easy defeat struck dismay into all his friends, and the look of surprise and contempt cast upon him by Jemmy Massey was a study for an artist. Both men at once left the field of action, and repaired on board the boat, where they lost no time in resuming their warm wraps, and taking other means to infuse a little of that caloric into their systems which had been subtracted therefrom during their brief exposure to the outward air.

Remarks.—We question whether it is not an insult to the understanding of the reader to offer any remarks upon this singular exhibition of incapacity upon the part of the would-be champion. Of Tom Sayers we have nothing more to say than he did what he was called upon to do with the utmost nonchalance, and that he performed his task even easier than he had all along anticipated. The Novice did not exhibit a single point which would entitle him to be called even an “outsider.” From the time that he was foiled in his very first move he cannot be said to have even “tried.” All his senses seemed to have left him, and, as far as we were able to judge, the only predominant thought in his mind was how to escape from the dilemma in which he had been placed, with the least damage to himself. Doubtless he was hit very heavily, but still he had not received even half enough to justify him in crying “a go,” had he meant winning at all hazards. That he must eventually have been beaten by such a man as Sayers, barring an accident, is a positive certainty, and that he exercised a sound discretion in not submitting to further punishment is equally true; but that he has done more than heap ridicule upon himself and those who brought him out, by his miserable performance, is a proposition not to be disputed for a moment. How such a judge of fighting as Harry Broome could have made the mistake he did we cannot understand, but the task of bringing out a candidate for the Championship once undertaken by a man of his known “talent,” it is easy to understand how the public were induced to come forward and take the long odds offered on Sayers. Among the deceived was the renowned Jemmy Massey, who, liking the appearance of the man, and being led on by the reports of Harry Broome as to his man’s cleverness and gluttonous qualities, took the odds of 2 to 1 to a considerable amount. The whole affair was carried out from first to last in a quiet and orderly way, and there was no fault to find with the partisans of either man for either unseemly language or noisy demonstrations. All that was required to render it a model fight was a little more devil and resolution on the part of the loser. The battle money was handed to Tom Sayers at Owen Swift’s, “Horse Shoe” Tavern, Tichborne Street, on Wednesday evening, January 13th, when he was again adorned with the Champion’s belt, which, according to rule, was deposited with the stakeholder to abide the event of his next battle for the permanent possession of the trophy.

After this victory Tom appeared in a fair way to rest upon his laurels, but soon, to his astonishment, as well as every one else’s, it was announced that Tom Paddock had recovered, and did not intend to let the belt pass without a struggle. He issued a challenge to Sayers, in which he intimated that, it being dead low water in his exchequer, he was as poor as a church mouse, and that unless Tom would extend him the hand of charity, and meet him for £150 a side, instead of the stipulated £200, the darling wish of his heart could not be gratified. He thought he could win the belt, and hoped Tom would not let a paltry £50 stand between them and prevent a friendly mill. Sayers, like a “brick” of his own laying, promptly responded to the call, and intimated that the meeting would afford him the highest gratification. With such an old pal he could not allow the paltry “rag” to stand in the way. The match was at once made, and came off on the anniversary of Tom’s fight with the Slasher—viz., on the 16th of June, 1858. After some narrow escapes from police pursuit and persecution, the two Toms met on a place selected as “maiden ground,” at Canvey Island.

And here the phrase, “the two Toms,” tempts us to a brief digression. The baptismal name of “Tom” has, indeed, furnished more than its calculable proportion of Champions of the fistic Ring; and hence we have pictured on a previous page the “three Toms” whose deeds made their names, in the first three-quarters of the present century, among admirers of pugilistic prowess, “familiar in men’s mouths as household words.” This curious pre-eminence of name may be further extended; for though the Christian name of John, the familiar Jack, and the royal one of George (during the reign of “the four Georges”) twice outnumbered the Toms, yet Tom Johnson, Tom Paddock, Tom Sayers, and Tom King—the ultimus Romanorum—make up the mystic number of Seven Champions bearing that designation, while Jack Broughton, John Jackson, and John Gully are the only three to be credited to the far more numerous family of “Johns.”

The first to shy his wide-awake into the ring was Tom Paddock, who was loudly cheered. He was attended by Jemmy Massey and that accomplished master of the art Jack Macdonald, and looked as red as beet-root, and as strong and healthy as though he had never in the course of his life assisted at the ceremony of turning off the gas. His demeanour was the same as ever, that of extreme confidence, and the smile on his mug was more that of one who had merely come out to enjoy a little gentle exercise than of a candidate for honours preparing to meet the Admirable Crichton of the P.R. There was, however, nothing of bravado about him; he merely took the affair as a matter of course, which would soon be over. He was not kept many minutes before he was joined by his opponent, who, attended by Bill Hayes and Harry Brunton, was also received with a complete ovation of applause. Tom, like his brother Tom, also looked in rude health, but his good-tempered mug struck us as if anything too fleshy, and in this we were confirmed when he stripped, for it was then apparent that he was some three or four pounds heavier than he should have been under such a tropical sun. The lads shook hands good-humouredly, and while they were completing their half-finished adornments, the betting round the ring was of the liveliest and heaviest description: £25 to £20, £50 to £40, and similar odds to smaller sums upon Sayers were offered and eagerly accepted in all quarters, and it was as much as the stakeholder could accomplish for some time to collect and enter the names and amounts of perhaps some of the heaviest investments for many years.

We feel it incumbent upon us here to perform an act of justice to Alec Keene, which speaks volumes for his kindness of heart, and without which our account would be incomplete. After the men had been fighting about twenty minutes, Alec, who had followed the belligerents in a tug from Gravesend, made his appearance on the ground, and, finding that things were not going altogether smoothly with Tom Paddock, at once betook himself to his corner, offered him the hand of fellowship, and throughout the remainder of the fight stood by him, to afford him the benefit of that experience and advice which he is so capable of imparting.

THE FIGHT

Round 1.—Both came grinning to the scratch, and manœuvred for a brief space for an opening. Paddock looked, as usual, big and burly, but it was evident he was no longer the active, fresh man we had before seen. His mug was more marked with age, and there was a dulness about his eye we never remember in former days. His condition was good and he was in good health, but still he looked only Tom Paddock in name. Sayers was more fleshy than he should have been, but this was the only fault to be found with him. His eye was as bright and clear as a hawk’s, and the ease of his movements was a picture to behold. His attitude was, as usual, all readiness for a shoot or a jump. Paddock, instead of rushing, as had been expected, steadied himself, and felt with his left for an opening. It was not long before he attempted it, but Sayers stopped him easily. He made a second attempt, and Sayers stepped back, shaking his noddle and laughing. After a little sparring, Paddock tried again, and got on Tom’s brow, but not heavily. Again they dodged, and at length two counter-hits were exchanged, each getting on to the proboscis. After this Paddock again reached Tom’s nozzle rather sharply, but was stopped in another attempt. Another bit of cautious sparring eventually led to very heavy exchanges, in which Sayers left a mark on Paddock’s left cheek, and napped a warm one over the right peeper, slightly removing the bark, and giving Paddock the first event. Several rapid passes were now made on both sides, but they were evidently mere trials to find out what each intended. After a pause Sayers tried his favourite double, which he succeeded in landing on Paddock’s cheek, but not very heavily. More sharp exchanges followed, the advantage being with Sayers, until they both retreated and stood to cool themselves, the heat being intense. After a few seconds thus employed, they again approached one another smiling, and after a dodge or two they exchanged slight reminders on the side of the nut, broke away, and then got at it again, when heavy counter-hits were exchanged, but Sayers was first, and inflicted a cut on Paddock’s left brow, calling forth the juice in abundance. Paddock landed on the cheek, but not heavily. After this slight exchanges with the left took place, and they again stood, Sayers awaiting the onslaught, and Paddock puzzled. At last the latter dashed in, and was easily stopped twice in succession. He rushed after Sayers, who ducked under his arm, and, as Paddock turned round again, nailed him very heavily over the left peeper, renewed the supply of carmine, and then got out of harm’s way. Paddock, nothing daunted, dashed in, but Sayers stopped him most beautifully, and then, putting in his double, got well on the old spot. Paddock once more bored in, and was neatly stopped, but, persevering with his usual gameness, heavy exchanges ensued, all in favour of Sayers, who was as straight as a die, and got heavily on the left cheek and brow. Paddock, wild, rushed after him; Sayers ducked, and then planted his left on the left cheek, another hot one, and then on the snout, renewing the ruby. As Paddock bored in, he made a cannon off the cushion by putting his double heavily on the mark and nose without a return, and Paddock then rushing after him, bored him down. This round lasted fifteen minutes, and at its conclusion the backers of Sayers offered 2 to 1—an offer not accepted by the Paddock party, who looked indigo. It was patent to all good judges even thus early that Paddock was only Paddock in name, and that all the steel was out of him; and he has since informed us that he felt tired and worn out, and that he had no chance from this time. His gameness, therefore, in persevering so long and so manfully against his own conviction is the more commendable.

2.—Both came up grinning, but while Sayers was almost scatheless, Paddock’s mug showed that Sayers had been there. Paddock, nothing daunted, rattled in, and got on to the top of Tom’s nob. Sayers returned, but not heavily and sharp counter-hits followed, Sayers on the damaged ogle, and Paddock on the left cheek. After this, Sayers got home his dangerous right on the side of Paddock’s nob, and the latter fell.

3.—Paddock seemed slow, while Sayers was as fresh as a daisy; Paddock attempted to lead, but was very short. He, however, stopped Tom’s return. Heavy exchanges followed, Sayers receiving on the left cheek, and getting heavily on Paddock’s damaged squinter. Paddock, nothing daunted, made several desperate efforts, but Sayers got away with the greatest ease, and at length, as Paddock persevered, he once more countered him on the old spot, drawing more of the red port, and stopped Paddock’s return. Twice again did Sayers repeat this visitation, and get away from Paddock’s kindly intentions. Sayers then tried to lead off, but was well stopped. He made another attempt, and lodged his favourite double on the mark and nose, and then stopped Paddock’s return. Paddock now endeavoured to force the fighting, but Sayers danced away under his arm, came again, and, as Paddock rushed in, delivered a tremendous left-hander on the cheek, by the side of the smeller, drawing more home-brewed from the fresh cut. Paddock, angry, made several desperate efforts, but was well-stopped. At length they got close, and in the heavy exchanges, Sayers got his right heavily on the side of the nut, and received on the mouth. Paddock now dashed in, and although Sayers pinked him on the nose and eye, he persevered until he forced Sayers down.

4.—Paddock’s physog. seemed a good deal out of the line of beauty, while Sayers had scarcely a mark. Paddock still smiled, and attempted to lead, but the dash and vigour we remember of yore were all gone; his blows seemed but half-arm hits, and did not get near their destination. Almost every time Sayers stopped him with ease, and at last, as Paddock came boring in, he met him heavily on the cheek, producing another streak of cochineal. Still did Paddock persevere but only to be nailed again, and to have the Red Republican once more called forth. After this he got home on Tom’s chest, and then on the cheek, but the blows lacked vigour. Exchanges ensued, in which Paddock removed the bark from Tom’s sniffer, and turned on the main, but it was not a material damage. After a rest, in which both piped for wind, they again got at it, and a tremendous rally took place, in which Sayers was straightest and heaviest; he, however, got a hot’un on the mouth, which drew the Badminton. This was a tremendous give-and-take round, and Paddock caught it heavily on the left side of his nob, while Sayers received chiefly on the hardest parts of his cast-iron canister. In the end Paddock was down, amidst the vociferous cheers of the Sayers party.

5.—Paddock made two ineffectual attempts to deliver, each being short, after which Sayers missed his favourite double. He then stopped Paddock’s one, two, and exchanges followed, in which Paddock reached Tom’s chin, and received with interest on the damaged cheek. Again did they deliver left and right, and Paddock drew more gravy from Tom’s sucker. Paddock rattled to it, but Sayers countered heavily on the snorer, again calling forth the ruby; he, however, napped one on the kisser, which must have shaken his false ivories. After this they piped for wind, the perspiration oozed from every pore, and they were evidently both tired. Paddock retired for a wipe, and after a pause Sayers went to him, and Paddock, seeing this, rushed in but Tom danced away, followed by Paddock, who eventually got a reminder on the cheek, and Sayers, in getting away from the return, fell.

6.—Sayers feinted and dodged until Paddock came to him, when Tom got home a very hot one on the snuff-box, turning on the vermilion galore. Paddock, wild, dashed at him to deliver the right, but Sayers getting quickly out of mischief, the blow fell on the stake, and evidently caused the poor fellow intense pain. He was not cowed, however, but followed Sayers, who fell, and Paddock’s umpire appealing, the referee desired Sayers to be cautious.

7.—Paddock slow, came up cautiously, and after a few dodges, led off, but was short, and received a reminder on the beak from Tom’s left. Sayers then got heavily on the mark with the left, and stopped the return. This led to heavy exchanges, in which Paddock received on the nose, and lost more juice, while Sayers only got it on the brow. Paddock tried again and again to lead off, but Sayers danced away, or ducked under his arm, and each time nailed him heavily on the nose or left cheek, and, finally, Paddock fell weak.

8.—Paddock’s left peeper was now completely closed, and the left side of his knowledge-box much swollen. He was sent up very clean, however, and again tried to lead off, but Sayers was too quick for him, and got away. Still did the gallant Paddock persevere, but Sayers stopped him with ease, and returned on the damaged visual organ very heavily. Paddock again dashed in, but was short, his blows lacking vigour; and Sayers returned on the mark. Again and again did Paddock make an onslaught, but there was none of the vigour of the Paddock of former days; he was repeatedly stopped with ease, and Sayers caught him again and again on the mark and damaged chop. At last they got close together, and Paddock succeeded in knocking Sayers off his pins by a heavy right-hander on the whistler, which inflicted a severe cut, and drew the carmine (loud cheers for Paddock, who had thus won the two first events).

9.—The blow in the last round had evidently shaken Sayers, who was slow to the call of time, and came up with a suspicious mark on his potato-trap. Paddock tried to follow up his advantage and incautiously went in, when Sayers met him with a beautiful left-hander on the snout, which sent him staggering, and put an end to his rushing for the time. This enabled Sayers to recover a little, and then, as Paddock afterwards came in, he made another call on the cheek, and got cleverly away from the return. Paddock followed him up, and heavy left-handed exchanges took place in favour of Sayers, who afterwards stopped Paddock’s right twice in succession. Good exchanges ensued to a close, and Paddock got down, just escaping Tom’s right.

10.—After slight harmless exchanges, they stood piping, until Paddock took the initiative, but Sayers danced under his arm, and, as he turned round, pinked him on the blind goggle, and then, putting in his double, renewed the home-brewed from the cheek. Paddock tried a return, but was stopped twice in succession, and then got another little ’un on the out-water. After some neat stopping on both sides, Sayers made another call on the cheek, then on the chest, and after sharp exchanges, as Paddock rushed after him, he slipped and fell, but obviously from accident.

11.—Paddock at once rushed to close quarters, but found Sayers nothing loth; they struggled for a brief period, and in the end both fell, it being obvious that Sayers was the stronger man.

12.—Paddock, who was piping and evidently fatigued, tried to lead off, but was miserably short. After a slight exchange they again closed, and, after a short struggle, Sayers threw and fell on his man, amidst the cheers of his admirers. One hour and two minutes had now elapsed.

13.—Paddock, whose mug was all shapes but the right, and whose remaining goggle glared most ferociously, rushed in and missed. Sayers, in getting back, fell, and there was a claim of foul; Massey and Macdonald, according to the custom of modern seconds, neglecting their man, and rushing to the referee. There was not the slightest ground for the claim, Sayers evidently having fallen from pure accident; but the usual complimentary remarks were offered by the card-sharpers and other blackguards, whose only interest was, perhaps, the value of a pot of beer depending on the result, and who were proportionately anxious to win, tie, or wrangle rather than lose their valuable (?) investments. After some time the ring-keepers succeeded in clearing these gentry away, and inducing Macdonald and Massey to return to their duty; and the referee having said “Fight on,” the battle proceeded.

14.—Paddock, to whom the delay had afforded a short respite, dashed in, caught Sayers on the cheek, closed, and both fell.

15.—Sayers feinted, and got on to Tom’s nozzle, drawing more claret, and, in getting away from a rush, crossed his legs near the stakes and fell.

16.—Paddock, who was evidently fast getting worn out, at the instigation of his seconds dashed in, as if to make a final effort to turn the scale; he let go both hands, but was short, and Sayers once more pinked him on the swollen smeller. Paddock still persevered, and more exchanges, but not of a severe description, took place, followed by a breakaway and a pause. Again did they get at it, and some heavy counter-hitting took place; Sayers well on the mouth and nose, and Paddock on the brow and forehead. Paddock then rushed in and bored Sayers down at the ropes. (Another claim of foul disallowed.)

17.—Paddock, desperate, rushed at once to work; and they pegged away with a will, but the punishment was all one way. At last they closed and rolled over, Sayers being top-sawyer. In the struggle and fall the spikes in Sayers’s boot in some way inflicted two severe wounds in Paddock’s leg, and Massey declared that the injury had been committed on purpose; but this every one who saw the fight was convinced was preposterous. Even supposing it was Sayers’s spikes, it was evidently accidental, but so clumsily did they roll over that it is not impossible that it was done by the spikes in the heel of Paddock’s other boot, which spikes were much longer and sharper than those of Sayers. The idea of Sayers doing such a thing deliberately when he actually had the battle in hand is too ridiculous to admit of a question.

18.—Paddock rushed in and caught Sayers on the side of the head with his right, and they closed and pegged away at close quarters until Sayers got down.

19.—The in-fighting in the last round had told a tale on Paddock’s nob, which was much swollen, and the left eye was now beginning to follow suit with the right. At last they got close, and both fell, Paddock under. Massey made another claim that Sayers fell with his knees on Paddock, but it was evidently an attempt to snatch a verdict.

20.—Paddock tried to make an expiring effort, but was wofully short, and Sayers countered heavily with the left on the damaged cheek, then repeated the dose with great severity, staggering the burly Tom, who, however, soon collected himself, and once more led off, but out of distance. He then stood, until Sayers went to him, popped a heavy one on the nose, and the right on the cheek, then closed at the ropes, where he fibbed Paddock very heavily, and both fell, Paddock under.

21 and last.—Paddock came very slowly to the scratch, evidently without the ghost of a shadow of a chance. He was groggy, and could scarcely see; the close quarters in the last round had done their work, and any odds might have been had on Sayers. Paddock tried a rush, but, of course, Sayers was nowhere near him, and as he came again Sayers met him full on the right cheek, a very heavy hit with his left. It staggered poor Tom, who was evidently all abroad, and all but fell. He put out his hands, as if to catch hold of Sayers to support himself, and the latter, who had drawn back his right hand to deliver the coup de grace, seeing how matters stood, at once restrained himself, and seizing Paddock’s outstretched hand, shook it warmly, and conducted him to his corner, where his seconds, seeing it was all over, at once threw up the sponge, and Sayers was proclaimed the victor in one hour and twenty minutes. Paddock was much exhausted, and it was some time before he was sufficiently himself to realise the fact that he had been defeated, when he shed bitter tears of mortification. That he had any cause for grief beyond the fact that he was defeated no one could say; indeed if ever man persevered against nature to make a turn it was he, for notwithstanding the constant severe props he got whenever he attempted to lead, he tried it on again and again, and, to his praise be it said, took his gruel with a good temper exceeding anything we have ever witnessed on his behalf during the whole of his career. As soon as possible after the event was over, the men were dressed and conveyed on board the vessel, where Paddock received every attention his state required; but it was long before he recovered from the mortification he felt at his unexpected defeat. Sayers in the meantime went round among the spectators, and made a collection for him amounting to £30.

Remarks.—Although the above battle tells its own tale, our account would not be complete unless we appended a few remarks, not only upon the contest itself, but also on the general management and other concomitants. From the very commencement it was obvious to us that the fight was out of Tom Paddock. All the devil and determination for which he had been so famous had completely left him, and he was almost as slow and ineffective as the old Tipton. True, he left no stone unturned, and never once flinched from the severity of the punishment administered to him. He took all that Sayers gave with apparent indifference, and although it was obvious his powers of delivering had departed, his extraordinary gifts as a receiver of punishment were fully equal to his olden reputation; and, as we have before remarked, his good temper exceeded anything we have ever witnessed on his part. It was supposed by many that had he not injured his right hand by the blow delivered upon the stake he would have done better; but, as he used that mauley afterwards so effectually as to floor the Champion, and as he admitted to us that he felt his cause to be hopeless previous to that accident, such speculations go for nought. That both his daddles eventually became much swollen and innocuous is true, but that he could have turned the tide in his favour had this not have been the case, we do not believe. It was not the mere hardness of the hammer that was wanting, but the steam for driving the hammer was absent. The principal cause of regret was that he should have been induced, after his severe illness, to try conclusions with one so much fresher, and, as it turned out, stronger than himself; but, however much his physical powers had declined, it was all along evident that his old spirit of daring everything was as strong in him as ever. From the first moment he entered the ring he did all, and more than all, that could be required of him to make a turn in his favour, but in vain. As may be gathered from our account, he once or twice seemed to gain a slight advantage, but it was very short lived. Enough, however, was done by him to convince us that had he been the Paddock of five years ago, the chance of Tom Sayers retaining his proud position would have been anything but “rosy.” The collection made for Paddock proved the estimation in which his gallantry was held by the spectators.

Sayers, throughout the contest, fought with that extraordinary judgment of time and distance which so much distinguished him during the last few years of his career; and from the first it was apparent that any diffidence he might have displayed in his mill with the Slasher had completely disappeared. He abstained, to a considerable extent, from the harlequinade which he displayed in that encounter, and often stood and fought with his ponderous opponent with steadiness and precision. He fell down, it is true, three times, but only on one of these occasions could it be fairly said that it was not accidental, and even then we do not believe that it was a wilful act, especially as it was clear that the tumbling system was farthest from his thoughts, and his great desire was to keep Paddock on his legs.

Tom had now reached the very pinnacle of his fame, for among the not very extensive range of big ones then in the field—Harry Poulson, Aaron Jones, the Tipton Slasher, and Tom Paddock had fallen beneath his punishing arm, while Harry Broome, having struck his flag to Tom Paddock, and Harry Orme (who had also retired) surrendered to Harry Broome—there was a clear title made for the Little Wonder, Tom Sayers, the first ten-stone Champion.

This state of things seemed likely to leave Tom to enjoy in otium cum dignitate the laurels of his many hard-fought days. The year 1858 grew old, when once more “an Unknown” was talked of, who would be backed to try conclusions for the £400 and belt against the redoubted Tom. Again these rumours came from the head-quarters of the erewhile Champion, Harry Broome, in the Haymarket; and to the astonishment of every one who recollected the “lame and impotent conclusion” which, sixteen months before, marked what was supposed to be the first and last appearance within any ring of Mr. Bill Bainge (Benjamin), that worthy was named as the man for the coming fight.

It was urged by himself and his friends that he did not have fair play in his training for his former battle; that he was very far from well on the day of fighting; that these drawbacks, coupled with his novelty of his position in entering the ring for the first time, and going through the ceremony of peeling, &c. before the assembled throng, had quite unnerved him, and rendered him almost oblivious as to what had actually taken place. The weather, too (it was January, and bitterly cold), had a great effect on him, his frame not being accustomed to the exposure in a “state of buff;” and besides all this, he himself asserted that the suddenness and severity of the punishment he received was something that had more paralysed than hurt him. He had felt ever since that a stigma attached to his name, which he felt conscious was not deserved. He believed himself at heart to be no coward, and, being anxious to vindicate himself, he had begged his backer to give him an opportunity of clearing his character, and that gentleman, believing his version of the case to be true, had kindly granted him a new trial. Of course, when Sayers heard of the challenge he was nothing loth, feeling, as he did, certain of victory, while further calculating that what he considered such an easy job would bring him six months nearer to the retention of the belt as his own private property, he threw not the slightest difficulty in the way of settling preliminaries, and articles were signed and delivered at once.

The men did not go into training immediately, as they had nearly six months before them, but Benjamin took every opportunity of gaining such knowledge as might assist him in his undertaking, and acting under the advice of an experienced ring-goer, he lost no time in securing the services of “ould Nat Langham,” whose judgment could not but prove of the greatest assistance. Liberal offers were made to Nat to go down to Shirenewton, where Benjamin was resident, to take the entire management of him, but Nat rightly judged that his own business was such as to require his presence; he, therefore, contented himself with an occasional run down for a couple of days, when he enforced upon his pupil some of his own peculiar style of practice in many a heavy bout with the mufflers. As he could not undertake the whole training, however, Nat recommended Bill’s backer to send a retaining fee to the bold Bendigo, whose country habits, sobriety, vigilance, and judgment he knew could be depended upon, and the appearance of his protégé on the day of battle proved that his confidence had not been misplaced, for his whole bearing was the very perfection of condition. Bendy, however, had a corporation of most Daniel Lambert-like proportions, no doubt much increased by good living, in which he had indulged while superintending his new pupil, and was therefore a curious choice for the trainer to a candidate for the championship.

As to the gallant Tom, he occupied the next four months after the articles were signed in starring it about the country, and exhibiting himself, his cups and his belts, to hosts of admiring friends. He took a benefit here, a benefit there, and a couple of benefits in one week somewhere else, and so on, and was everywhere so well received, that he must have returned to town, prior to his going into work, with a perfect sack full of “shiners.” He further announced at these gatherings his retirement from the Ring, which he had already fixed for June, 1860, when the belt would become his private property.

From the very first Tom held this match extremely light, and had expressed the most entire confidence, a confidence which at one time during the fight now under description we thought was very near proving his downfall, from the fact of his having split on the same rock which has proved fatal to many a good man and true under similar circumstances. We allude to neglect of training. The first portion of Tom’s exercise, which did not extend over more than seven weeks, was taken, as on former occasions, in the neighbourhood of Tunbridge Wells, but about a month later he removed to Rottingdean, another favourite locality of his, for the purpose of sea bathing, and it was during his stay at this place that his practices were anything but conducive to high condition. During his so-called training, Tom, instead of the usual walking, running, &c. was repeatedly seen on horseback in full career after the harriers which meet in the neighbourhood, and during these gallops his falls were anything but few and far between. Had the champion, by an unlucky purl, dislocated a limb or sprained an ankle or a wrist, what a pretty pickle his backers would have been in, and how he would have cursed his own folly! His backers’ money would have been thrown away, his belt would have been forfeited, and he would have had to recommence his career of three years as its holder, in addition to losing the confidence of those who were behind him. As it was, on entering the ring, the general remark was that he was too fleshy, and there were signs of a protuberance in the neighbourhood of his bread-basket which told an unmistakable tale. Many a brave fellow has suffered severely for this reckless despising of an adversary, and has thereby lost a position which he has never been able to regain.

The rumours and speculations anent this match were of the most extraordinary character. Tales of deep-laid conspiracies to rob the public—such as it has never been our ill fortune to see put into practice during our career as chroniclers of this truly British sport—were rife. The croakers and slanderers, who always look at the dark side of the picture, and by listening to the statements of those who attempt to decry the ring by blackening the characters of its members, are always ready to see “a barney” in every match, could not be persuaded to believe that Tom Sayers had far too high a notion of himself to listen to any suggestions on such a subject; and that, even admitting, for the sake of argument, that his principles might give way (which we were confident they would not), his pride and vanity were such as to forbid the supposition. While on the subject of “barneys” we may be permitted to remark, that such occurrences are much more common in the imaginations of some would-be knowing ones, who are literally know-nothings, than in the actual practice of the P.R.; and that we firmly believe, and we state it earnestly and seriously, that there is far less of this kind of thing in the doings of the members of the Prize Ring than in almost any other sport. Besides these rumours about “Mr. Barney,” there were whisperings that Benjamin was in reality an extraordinary good man, and that the winning of the former fight by Sayers was purely a piece of accidental good fortune. How these various “shaves” were received by the general public and by the cognoscenti may be best gathered from the fact that as the day approached no one would take less than 4 to 1 about Benjamin winning, and that many persons laid 5 to 2 that Sayers would win in a quarter of an hour. The betting on the whole, however, was small in amount, the cause no doubt being the preposterous odds demanded, which, as the backers of Sayers said, was actually buying money.

Shortly after eleven o’clock Tom Sayers modestly dropped his castor over the ropes, and then as modestly crept under them himself. He was attended by Jerry Noon and Harry Brunton, and was received with enthusiastic cheers. He had wisely donned his milling boots and drawers, and had therefore only to remove his outer shell. After an interval of five minutes he was followed by Benjamin, who made his entrée in an equally unpretending way. He also was well received. He was waited on by the Bold Bendigo and Jack Macdonald. At this time there were several offers to bet £20 to £5 on Sayers, but there were no takers. Despatch being the order of the day, no time was lost by the men in preparing for action. Benjamin, like Sayers, had taken the precaution to make ready beforehand, so that a very few minutes sufficed to strip and tie the colours in their appropriate places. Sayers sported a pink and white striped brocaded silk of the richest description, while Benjamin adhered to the old-fashioned blue and white spot. By twenty-three minutes past eleven o’clock, under a burning sun, the men were delivered at the scratch and stood ready for hostilities amidst the most profound silence. Benjamin appeared in perfect health and condition; he had a smile of confidence on his mug, and he stood well up in a fearless manner, presenting a wide contrast to his début on the former occasion. He stood well over Sayers, whose height is only 5 feet 8½ inches, and struck us as decidedly the more powerful man. Although Tom was evidently too fleshy, there was a dash and calm self-possession about him which denoted the more accustomed boxer. He moved about in a business-like way, and evidently had no fears for the result.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Benjamin stood well on the defensive, and there was much in his position to remind us of his mentor, Nat Langham. He fixed his eye on Tom, and sparred for a short time to see what could be done. His whole bearing, indeed, was such as to call forth a general remark that he was a different man. Tom dodged in and out in his usual style, evidently trying for his favourite double, but Benjamin was ready. At length Tom dashed in, and delivered his left on the cheek, but was beautifully countered on the smelling bottle, and Benjamin had the honour of gaining “first blood” from that organ, a success which was hailed with much cheering from the Taffies. Sayers seemed pricked at this, and making his favourite dodge, he popped the left on the body and then on the left cheek, knocking Benjamin off his pins, thus gaining the second event, and equalizing matters.

2.—Benjamin, nothing daunted, came steadily to the scratch, and, after a feint, let go his left, which was well stopped. He got away from the return, and after some sparring got home the left on the chest, and they got to close quarters, when the in-fighting was of a heavy description. Each got pepper on the nozzle and whistler, and Sayers also planted heavily on the side of Bill’s nob. In the close at the ropes Benjamin was forced down.

3.—Both came up a good deal flushed, and each seemed blowing. Benjamin looked serious, and was rather cautious. Sayers, anxious to be at work, dashed in, and got home a very straight one on the proboscis, but Benjamin with great quickness countered him on the left cheek, just under the eye. This led to desperate exchanges, in which there appeared to be no best. At length Sayers caught his man round the neck, and holding him tight, pegged away with a will on his dial, and finally threw him heavily, his nob coming with some force against the stake.

4.—Benjamin, desperate, at once rushed to work, and after some tremendous exchanges, each getting it on the left eye, Benjamin fell.

5.—Sayers tried to lead off, but Benjy walked away, in obedience to his seconds. Sayers followed until they got close together, and a magnificent rally followed, in which Sayers drew the claret from Bill’s right brow, and also paid a heavy visit to the conk. Bill got on Tom’s left cheek, but his blows had not the precision and weight visible on the part of Sayers.

6.—Benjamin was evidently shaken by the punishment he had received, which even at this early period was very severe. He sparred, and was evidently in no hurry. Sayers seeing this went to him, but was exceedingly wild in his deliveries. At last he got home on the bread-basket, but without effect, and Benjamin missed his return. Tom now feinted, and just reached Bill’s smeller, but it was a mere flyblow. He tried a body blow, and was well countered on the cheek and mouth. A close and in-fighting followed, in which both were very wild, but in which Tom again turned on the main from Benjamin’s nose. After a struggle both fell through the ropes.

7.—Benjamin looked savage. He lost no time in dashing at his man, and a tremendous round followed. Sayers let go the left at the nose, but Benjy countered him straight and well with the same hand, opening a fresh bottle. Several tremendous counters with the left followed, Benjamin astonishing every one by his calmness, and by the precision with which he timed his hits. Each got pepper on the nose and eyes, and Sayers napped a nasty one on the middle of the forehead. Sayers now missed his left, and Bill returned well on the cheek. They broke away, and after surveying one another again went to it, and more heavy exchanges took place, in which Tom again turned on the main from Bill’s nasal fountain. Benjamin persevered, and again did they dispute the ground inch by inch. Both were blowing, and the confidence of Bill’s friends was looking up. It was plain both men meant to do all they knew in this bout, and that each felt that it was to be the turning point, one way or the other. Sayers now got heavily on the left eye, which began to close, while Bill caught him on the mouth. The fighting was tremendous, and the way Benjamin stood to his man was beyond all praise. Sayers now and then was extremely wild, and had Benjamin possessed more knowledge of the art the result might have been serious, for Tom was evidently tiring fast, but still the greater force of his hitting was evidently telling a tale. As hit succeeded hit Bill’s dial grew more slantindicular; but he was undaunted, and evidently had made up his mind to do or die. At length they got to close quarters, when some heavy fibbing took place, and both fell, Benjamin under.

8.—Bill’s left eye was all but closed, the bump at the side telling of Tom’s powers of delivery. Sayers was much flushed, and puffing like a grampus; he lost no time, however, in going to work, evidently hoping to frighten his man. Benjamin was ready, and after some sharp exchanges in his favour, he retreated. Tom followed, and as Benjamin attempted to plant his left, Tom cross-countered him heavily with his right on the jaw, and knocked him off his pins. He was almost out of time, and it required all the exertions of his seconds to get him round.

9.—Benjamin shook himself, and came up resolutely, but evidently much shaken. He sparred a little, and on Tom going in, he timed him neatly on the middle of the dial, but without much force. Again did Sayers try it with a like result, and Benjamin then dashed in, but was short. Sayers returned with great quickness on the bad eye, and poor Benjamin was again floored.

10.—Benjamin struggled up gamely, although requested to give in; he held up his hands, and tried to counter with his man, but Tom with great neatness got well home on the good eye, avoiding the return, and Benjamin once more dropped. His seconds threw up the sponge, but the poor fellow broke from them, with an intimation that he was not licked, and wanted to prove he was no cur, and commenced.

11th and last.—Benjamin tried to lead off, but it was evidently a mere flash in the pan; he missed and stumbled forward, when Tom gave him a slight tap on the nose, which sent him for the last time to grass. He was conveyed to his corner, and his seconds then declared he should fight no longer. Sayers went to him to shake hands, but Benjamin, who was all but blind, wished to commence another round. This, of course, could not be listened to, and the poor fellow was forced from the ring against his will, Sayers being proclaimed the winner in twenty-two minutes, amidst the enthusiastic cheers of his friends. Benjamin was much exhausted, and his punishment was as heavy as one generally sees in double the time. He took it, however, unflinchingly, never complaining from first to last; and on this occasion, although defeated, his most determined enemy (if he has one) cannot say he was dishonoured. Sayers also was much exhausted, but this arose not so much from his punishment, although in this respect he did not come off scatheless, as from his want of condition telling upon him in a battle which was disputed for some rounds with unwonted quickness and desperation.

Remarks.—Having commented upon the want of condition of Tom Sayers, and having gone at some length into a description of this short but busy fight, it is unnecessary to trouble our readers with many remarks thereupon. That Benjamin succeeded in redeeming his character, and proving that he can receive punishment and struggle hard for victory when properly looked after, is not for a moment to be denied, but that he will ever make a star in the pugilistic horizon we do not for a moment believe. He is, at 34, too old to learn the rudiments of the business; at that age even the limbs of a practised boxer begin to get stiff, and it is therefore extremely improbable that those of a man trained to other pursuits can acquire that quickness and readiness so necessary to a finished pugilist. Had he begun some years ago, we think it not improbable, with such strength and activity as he possesses, he might have hoped to rank in the first division. The desperation with which he contested the seventh round—which was one of the sharpest and severest we ever saw—evidently showed what he might have done; but as it is we think, having fulfilled his mission and proved to his friends that he is composed of more sterling metal than they gave him credit for, the best advice we can give him is to shun for the future the attractions of the P.R., and devote himself to the duties of his station in his own country. We are glad for his own credit sake that he determined to undergo this second ordeal, and equally glad that he came out of it so successfully. It also gives us pleasure to know that he has good and staunch friends at his back, who having witnessed his performance on Tuesday, are perfectly satisfied with him. Of Tom Sayers we have only to say that he did not fight so well on this as on former occasions; and, as we think this was entirely owing to want of condition, we feel we are only doing him a favour in impressing upon him the necessity in future of leaving no stone unturned to retain that confidence which has been hitherto so implicitly placed in him.

Thus ended the second attempt of the Broomes (Harry and Frederick) to wrest the belt from the great little Champion, but there were other “Richmonds” now in the field. Bob Brettle, of Birmingham, could not persuade himself that he was unable to interpose a check to the victorious career of the hardy Tom. Bob had his own reasons, too, for believing in his chance. He had tried conclusions with the Champion with the gloves, and felt assured he had the best of it; and in this, perhaps, he was not far wrong, for it was pretty generally known that Tom was much more at home with his digits in nature’s habiliments, and in a four-and-twenty-feet ring, than when they were muffled in horsehair in the sparring-school. The backers of Tom at first laughed at Bob’s propositions, but he declared he was in earnest, and went so far as to say they would wish they had let him alone before they had done with him. After much palaver Sayers offered to stake £400 to £200, but Brettle then required the belt to be thrown in. This, of course, was rejected, Tom considering that as holder of that trophy he was only bound to defend it on even terms. Brettle was extremely loth to give up his chance for the belt, but still he did not think it equivalent to the extra £200 which Sayers had offered to stake, and eventually he waived all pretensions to the “ornamental,” and closed the bargain on the chance of obtaining the “useful,” which would have sufficed to purchase a belt of double the mere intrinsic value.

At the meeting at Owen Swift’s, where the articles were finally ratified, a friend of the Champion’s treated the match with such ridicule that he ventured to suggest the probability of Bob being licked in ten minutes, whereupon Brettle, in the heat of the moment, offered to bet £100 to £10 against such a contingency. “Make it £200 to £20,” said Tom’s friend, “and it’s a bet.” “Done,” said Bob, and the money was staked in the hands of Alec Keene. All these preliminaries were adjusted before the second fight for the Championship in April between Tom Sayers and Bill Benjamin, it being stipulated that Tom should name a day after that event was decided.

At Tattersall’s, on the previous Monday, September 18th, the event seemed to attract as much attention as the speculations on either of the great handicaps, and in the yard a regular ring was formed, where betting, or offers to bet, went on very briskly. The backers of Tom commenced by offering 5 to 2, at which some few investments were made, but the Brums soon opened their mouths for longer odds, and would take no less than 3 to 1, and at this price again money was laid until the Sayersites in their turn held back, and speculation left off at offers of 5 to 2. In the evening, at the sporting houses, 3 to 1 might have been got in some few instances, and a sanguine admirer of Tom’s actually laid 4 to 1, but we believe he was a solitary specimen.

For at least a month, Mr. John Gideon, one of the most earnest backers of Sayers, had been on the look-out for a scene of action which might be reached with ease and comfort, and which, at the same time, should be so situated as to be beyond the reach of the rough and ready attendants at boxing matches, whose presence is anything but desirable, and also tolerably safe from the too-prying eyes of the powers that be, who do not love a mill, and who will in the most unaccountable manner interfere with the pleasures of the Fancy, on the ground that a friendly boxing-match is a breach of the peace. A few consultations with other managers of excursions, and a considerable expenditure of time and trouble, ended in the perfect success of Mr. Gideon’s arrangements, and not only did he carry the expedition to a triumphant dénouement, but ensured the utmost comfort to all the travellers. Of course the profits of the expedition were equally divided between the backers of both men, and the figure being tolerably high, and the company unusually numerous, there is no doubt each realised a handsome sum. Owing to the distance to be travelled, a very early start was found absolutely necessary, and seven o’clock being the hour named, the “lads wot loves a mill” had to be early afoot; and many there were who having, as usual, devoted the first two or three hours of the morning of the 20th of September to “seeing life,” found some difficulty in opening their eyes in their very first sleep to enable them to get to the starting-post in time. Many a one started breakfastless, and many were the wistful glances cast at the victualling department under the able charge of Mr. Dan Pinkstone, an old and well-known caterer, long before the end of the journey was attained; but as the train could not be stopped there was of course no chance of an issue of stores from the commissariat until the goal was reached—a field near Ashford, in Kent, being the champ clos for combat.

The train comprised thirty-six carriages, every one of which had at least its full complement of travellers, and many were over-full. The start was effected by a quarter before eight, and with the aid of two powerful engines a rapid and pleasant journey was effected to the scene of action, on entirely maiden ground, some sixty miles from the Metropolis, which was reached shortly after ten o’clock. The vast multitude lost no time in clearing out from the carriages, and a pioneer, who had gone on ahead the previous evening, placing himself at the head of the army, proceeded, closely followed by the veteran Commissary and his posse comitatus, to the proposed scene of action. No time was cut to waste in preparing the lists, which were in readiness before eleven o’clock. While these preliminaries were being arranged, a brisk business was carried on in the sale of inner ring tickets, and our readers may judge of the class of spectators and their number when we tell them that the sale realised a sum of £54 10s. for the benefit of the P.B.A. This done, Billy Duncan and his constables proceeded to clear out the ring, and experienced the usual difficulty in persuading the company to seat themselves at a sufficient distance from the enclosure. All were naturally anxious to be as close as possible, and accordingly had seated themselves in compact rows, those in front close to the ropes. The consequence was, that all were crowded together, and many were scarcely able to get a glimpse of the ring. And now as we have brought the men en face, we will say a few words concerning Tom’s antagonist, as we do not purpose to devote space to him in a separate Memoir.

Bob Brettle was born at Portobello, near Edinburgh, in January, 1832, and was therefore, six years younger than Tom Sayers. On the present occasion he just turned the scale at 10st. 4lb., and did not appear in any way too fleshy. By calling he was a glassblower, and it was while he was engaged in one of the larger establishments in the hardware districts that he first became connected with the P.R. His first essay of which we have any record was with Malpas, of Birmingham, whom he fought for £50 a side, on the 14th of February, 1854. There were 80 rounds, principally in favour of Bob, but eventually there was a claim of foul on his part. A wrangle took place; the referee gave two decisions, and ultimately the stakes were drawn. Brettle’s next encounter was with old Jack Jones of Portsmouth, for £100 a side, on the 21st of November, 1854. Jack had only been out of the hospital a few weeks, and was in anything but condition; but still he had the best of the mill, Brettle resorting to the dropping system. Forty-nine rounds were fought in 105 minutes, when darkness came on, and as neither man was much punished, the referee ordered them to fight again on the following Saturday. On that day Jones was at the appointed place, but Brettle did not show, and it being discovered subsequently that he had been apprehended, either through the kind offices of his friends or by his own negligence, the stakes were awarded to Jones. After this Bob was idle until the 20th of November, 1855, when he defeated Roger Coyne, of Birmingham, for £25 a side, in 49 rounds and 48 minutes. Then came his match with Sam Simmonds, for £200 a side, which took place near Didcot, June 3rd, 1856, and was won by Bob very easily in 13 rounds and 16 minutes.

Another year, or rather more, elapsed before Bob made another essay, his next opponent being Job Cobley, dubbed by his patron Baron (Renton) Nicholson, “the Enthusiastic Potboy,” whom he fought for £100 a side, August 4th, 1857. Here Bob’s greater weight and superior strength enabled him to take a decided lead, and Job, finding it too hot to be pleasant, resorted to dropping, and finally lost the battle by falling without a blow in the 47th round, at the expiration of 90 minutes.

On the 25th of January following, Brettle met Bob Travers for £100 a side at Appledore, when, after fighting 42 rounds in 65 minutes, the police interfered. An adjournment took place to the following day, when they met again at Shell Haven, and after fighting 100 rounds in 2 hours and 5 minutes, Bob Travers, who had, like “the Enthusiastic Potboy,” found the earth the safest place, was decided to have lost the battle by falling without a blow.

Bob’s only subsequent encounter was with Jem Mace of Norwich, who, as may be seen in our next chapter, met him, for £100 a side, on the 21st of September, 1858, and at the end of two rounds and three minutes, although with none the worst of it, hid his diminished head, and declined to have any more. This was Bob’s last appearance prior to the present, and it was imagined by most people that he would retire from the Ring, but the temptation of a turn at the Champion was too great for him, and induced him to try a flight at the top of the tree. It is difficult to understand whence he got the confidence to match himself against Sayers, unless it was from his supposed superiority with the gloves—in the case of Tom Sayers an unusually delusive test. This brings us to the eventful 20th of September, 1858, and the ring at Ashford.

So soon as all were seated a cap was seen to fly over the heads of the dense mass, and in a second Bob Brettle, aided by his seconds, Alec Keene and Jem Hodgkiss, of Birmingham, was seen elbowing his way through the crowd. He was vociferously cheered on all hands, and his good-humoured mug brightened up with a broad grin of delight at the hearty welcome. Tom Sayers was not long behind him, and as he entered on the scene, attended by Jack Macdonald and Harry Brunton, he too was greeted with a tremendous ovation, which he acknowledged in a becoming manner, and then shook hands good-humouredly with his opponent. The spectators now began to make their final investments, and several bets of 3 to 1 were made and staked to considerable amounts. The last, however, that we heard was £25 to £10 on Sayers. After the lads had completed their toilettes Brettle came forward and offered to take £150 to £50 from Tom, but the Champion declined, as his money was all on. Bob then held up the note and offered to take the same odds from any spectator, but silence was the only reply, and he had to return the flimsy to his “cly.” Tom’s colour was a very handsome blue and white stripe, with blue border; and Bob’s a dark blue, with a white star. Brettle’s boots having been examined by Tom’s seconds, it was found that the spikes were beyond the regulation length, and had to be filed, but this was so inefficiently done that they were still far too sharp and long for the purpose for which they were intended. Had Sayers’s seconds done their duty resolutely they would have shown them to the referee, who doubtless would have ordered a still further curtailment, but Tom personally requested them to make no bother about it, as, in his own words, he “could give all that in.”

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—On throwing off their blankets there was a great disparity in the appearance of the men, much greater, indeed, than would have been expected from the slight difference in weight. Tom, whose condition was superb, was broad-shouldered, thick-loined, and muscular, the weight being just where it ought to be; while Brettle looked narrow and round on the shoulders, and had not the upright, firm bearing of the Champion. In height, too, there appeared more than the actual difference of a bare inch. Tom’s mug, of the two, was fleshier than his opponent’s, but it looked hard as nails. In point of age it was evident there was a considerable difference in favour of the Brum, whose fresh, fair skin and healthful country appearance contrasted strongly with the Champion’s bronzed but somewhat stale complexion. The wear and tear of fifteen contests, and the gay life he had led, had evidently left their mark. Each had a pleasant, good-humoured smile on his phiz, but the Champion seemed to be more at home than his adversary. Bob looked cunning and shifty, walking round his man with a kind of crab-like, sideway movement, and leering out of the corner of his eye, evidently on the look-out to catch the Champion tripping, and make a dash at him with his right. Tom was awake, however, and though not moving far from the scratch, stepped with his adversary, and contrived to keep continually facing him. At length Bob, finding his man so “fly” to his “little game,” dashed straight at him, and let go the left, which caught Tom very slightly on the nose. Tom nodded and smiled as much as to say, “Wait a minute;” and Bob renewed his journey round his man, who remained in the middle of the ring. At length Brettle again dashed in, and exchanges took place, in which Tom left his mark on Bob’s forehead, the bump being of considerable size. Brettle retreated, came again, and lunging out his left was prettily countered on the mouth, from which “first blood” was instantly visible, the blow being a hot ’un. Some neat exchanges followed on the side of the head; they then broke away, and, as Sayers followed his man, Bob ducked his head, but Sayers caught him a sharp spank on the proboscis, which led to counter-hitting, when Tom got well on the forehead, and Bob fell. A claim of first knock-down for Tom was made but disallowed, as Bob was evidently getting down when the blow reached him.

2.—Bob’s nose and mouth showed that Tom had been there; he, however, dashed in, and heavy exchanges took place, Tom getting on to the left peeper and Brettle the body. Brettle now broke away, and resorted to his cunning peripatetic dodge, but Tom only grinned, turned as he moved, and waited for him. At length Bob dashed in, and got on the chest very slightly, Sayers returning well on the kisser. Brettle, after another pedestrian excursion, came again and let go the left, which was stopped, and he again “walked round and showed his muscle.” Tom stepped with him, and each tried to draw the other, until Brettle at last let go his left, and sharp exchanges followed on the cheek with the left, and Sayers fell. A claim of knockdown for Brettle not allowed, Tom being on the hop, and partially slipping down.

3.—Sayers, on owning up, had a slight mark on the left cheek, which caused the Brums to cheer vociferously. Brettle, seeing it, made a dash to force the fighting, but Tom stopped him by a straight one on the whistler, and then closed. This led to some sharp but very wild in-fighting in Tom’s corner, and at last Brettle was down on his knees with all the worst of it.

4.—The Brum came up blinking with his left eye, which had evidently got pepper in the last wild rally, and seemed as if about to close. It was now discovered that the ten minutes had just expired, and that his bet of £200 was saved. He lost no time in getting to work, but giving one or two sideway steps he dashed in, planted his right on the ribs, and then one or two sharp counter-hits were exchanged. While dodging and stepping in and out, Brettle’s spikes came into dangerous collision with Tom’s shin, and inflicted a serious wound; Tom pointed to the injured spot and shook his head, whereupon Bob apologised, assured him that it was unintentional, and promised to be more careful for the future. The wound was excessively deep, and only shows the extreme danger of using such absurd spikes, which are utterly useless to a man who intends really to keep on his legs. Tom, after a little dodging, got heavily on the nose, and counter-hits were exchanged, Tom getting very heavily on the left peeper, and receiving a hot one on the jaw, which knocked him clean off his legs. (“First knock down” for Brettle, who was enthusiastically cheered as he went to his corner.)

5.—On coming up there was no mark of Bob’s visitation on Tom’s jaw, but the effect of Tom’s blows on Brettle’s mouth and eye was very visible. His nose and left eye were swollen, and the claret was still visible from his mouth. (The backers of Tom offered 4 to 1, but in only one instance was it taken—viz., by Bob Travers, who invested “a tenner” on the Brummagem pet.) Brettle, after a little queer manœuvring, rushed in left and right, and got the latter on the body, but not heavily. He looked serious, and walked round and round, but finding Tom ready he tried a dash, succeeding in landing the right on the body. Tom got heavily on the forehead, and then, counter-hits being exchanged, Brettle got slightly on the neck, and Tom, with his right, caught Brettle very heavily on the left shoulder, and Bob went down in Tom’s corner. Sayers ran after Brettle as he was being carried to his corner, with a curious look of anxiety and alarm on his countenance, evidently thinking that he had inflicted some dangerous injury. Finding, however, that the blow had not had the serious effect he feared, he walked smiling to his corner.

6.—Brettle came up looking very serious, and several times led off left and right, but quite out of distance. Tom then stepped in and tried his left, which Brettle cleverly avoided, and then returned on the chest. They quickly got to close quarters, and after a sharp exchange on the neck, Brettle fell forward on his hands in Sayers’s corner, Tom missing a terrific upper-cut with his right as he fell.

7th and last.—Brettle missed several well-intended lunges with the right, and then walked round the ring; he came again, and tried the left with a similar result. He kept hitting out of distance, as if afraid of Tom’s right, which had already missed him so narrowly. Again and again did he step in and out, and as Sayers tried to catch him on the hop he would point and grin; at last he got slightly on the chest, receiving a little one on the cheek. Brettle retreated, and then hit out with his left most furiously, but missed, and Tom countered him heavily on the shoulder; Brettle immediately put his right hand to his shoulder as if in pain; he, however, shook himself together, and tried to stand and prop his man with his right, but from the expression of his countenance something evidently was amiss, and on Tom’s approaching him he got down in his own corner, apparently suffering considerable pain. Solid Coates, his umpire, at once went to his corner, and on inquiry found that he had dislocated his shoulder, either by the force of his own blow, or from the effect of Tom’s heavy counter; and this being the case, of course he had no option but to resign the victory to Tom Sayers, who was hailed the conqueror in fifteen minutes. Tom at once went to shake hands with his fallen foe, and then resuming his clothes, quickly reappeared among his friends without a mark to show that he had been fighting. A medical friend who was on the ground quickly attended upon poor Brettle, and lost no time in restoring his arm to its position, and the poor fellow, more injured in mind than body, was soon sufficiently recovered to enter freely into conversation with his friends, many of whom believed, and still believe, that he had to the full as good a chance as Tom Sayers at the time so disastrous a termination to the battle occurred. That this was so is, of course, but a matter of opinion; our ideas on the subject will be found in the remarks appended. That Bob’s own opinion did not coincide with that of his friends may be gathered from the fact that he subsequently called upon us to state his intention of retiring from the ring. He says he knows of no man of his weight who is likely to try conclusions with him; that he has no intention of again overmatching himself as on the present occasion, and as he has a good business in Birmingham, he thinks he can well afford to leave fighting alone, at any rate as an active professor of the art. In this resolve we think he is perfectly right, and as he is a thoroughly honest, upright young fellow, and of an excellent temper, we do not doubt of his success.

Before closing this part of our account we should not be rendering justice where it is due did we not mention that Jack Macdonald, one of Tom Sayers’s seconds, on finding the nature of Bob’s injuries, rushed to his corner, and rendered very material assistance to the surgeon in attendance in restoring the dislocated arm to its socket.

Remarks.—Where the battle was of such short duration, it is, of course, difficult to find much to say in the shape of remarks. To every judge of milling who was on the ground, not excluding some of Brettle’s own friends, it was obvious from the very first round that, bar an accident, the victory must lie with the favourite. In fact, in our own hearing, at the conclusion of the first round, where Tom drew the crimson from Brettle’s mouth, and set his sign manual on his forehead, one of the backers of the latter said, “It’s all over; we shan’t win.” It had been anticipated that the Champion, in his anxiety to win the bet of £200 to £20, would at once take the initiative, and that thereby he would throw himself open to the dangerous right-handed counters of Bob; but those who knew Tom Sayers were too well acquainted with his judgment and tact to believe any such thing; hence their confidence and the great odds they so freely laid. From the very commencement it was obvious Tom saw the game he had to play, and the calm way in which he shifted his position so as always to present a square front to the enemy delighted every one. He was, of course, taken by surprise at Bob’s getting home first, but this only rendered him steadier, and convinced him that he must act in a cautious manner. We do not believe he for a moment contemplated going for the bet, although we feel convinced that had one vicious upper-cut got home he must have won it to the greatest certainty. In all his recent fights he has been the one that has fought in the jump-about, dancing-master style, but here he was the steady old stager, quietly biding his time and seldom throwing away a hit. The knock-down blow in the fourth round was indubitably a fair knock-down, but it must not be forgotten that although matters thereby looked favourable for Brettle, the real fact was that Tom in his counter got home much heavier than his opponent, and that had he been stepping in instead of back at the moment he would not have been floored. The proof of the effectiveness of the blow was seen on the men again appearing at the scratch, when Tom showed no mark, while the evidence of his visitation to Bob’s eye was unmistakable. That the battle terminated as it did we cannot help feeling was fortunate for Brettle. Tom’s dangerous right—never brought into play until he has his man “safe,” as he says—was already busy; true, he missed once or twice, but he is not the man to do this often, and had it got home effectively there is no telling what injury he might have inflicted. The actual cause of Bob’s accident it is impossible to fathom. Some aver that it was partly caused by the heavy blow in the fifth round, others that the shoulder was injured by the fall on his hands, but, as he was able to use it so vigorously in the last round, we believe both these suppositions to be wrong. Possibly they may have rendered the muscles weaker than usual, and predisposed the arm for such a contretemps, but our own idea is that Bob, swinging his arm out so very viciously at a distance from his man, and receiving a tap on the collar-bone at the same moment, the joint was jerked out entirely in that manner. That his arm was dislocated there was not the slightest doubt, for we have the evidence not only of the surgeon himself, but also of Jack Macdonald, as to the dislocation being reduced: and even if we had not, the expression of poor Brettle’s countenance and his contortions when in his corner were far too natural to have been put on for the occasion. We should not have thought it necessary to make these observations had we not heard it whispered that a set of idiots, who think everything connected with the ring is “a barney,” or something tantamount to it, have been going about saying that there was no accident at all, and that the statement as to Brettle’s accident was all moonshine. The gentry who make these remarks should look at home, and before throwing mud at persons in a different walk of life, should consider whether in the event of a similar compliment being paid to themselves, there would not be a much larger portion of the sticking part attached to them, and whether they could be as easily whitewashed as their humbler, though perhaps, honester, brethren of the P.R. Of Brettle’s performances we need say but little. He evidently found himself out-generalled from the first; and this being the case, all that remained for him to do was to make the best of a bad bargain, and this we are bound to say he did to the utmost of his ability. Our own opinion was, before the battle, that he had not the ghost of a chance, and that opinion was borne out by the result. We are sorry that he was disappointed in his expectations, which were entirely raised by his underrating his man; but as we do not believe he will be a loser by his defeat, he is, perhaps, not to be so much pitied as some of his less fortunate compeers. He has been always a general favourite, and so long as he perseveres in his present straightforward course he must retain the good wishes of all parties. As we have stated above, we think he has taken a wise resolution in retiring from the Ring, and we hope that no vain flattery on the part of any interested admirers will induce him to change his resolution.

These excellent remarks of the writer, on the readiness of silly persons to impute dishonesty to the losing pugilist, are as laudable as they are just and honest. We shall elsewhere have occasion to remark upon a recent work devoted to the resuscitation and reassertion of these defunct, discreditable, and often dishonest “shaves.”

With this very easy defeat of the Birmingham Pet, Tom Sayers, as was generally supposed, had disposed of the last of his competitors for the belt; but it was not to be so. A breeze, whispering of war, was heard from across the broad Atlantic. Aaron Jones, not long after his defeat by Sayers, had emigrated to the land of the stars and stripes, and being a fine-looking young fellow, of good address, and of quiet and civil deportment, had found much favour as a teacher of the art pugilistic among our Yankee cousins. His anecdotes of British boxers and exemplifications of the English method became fashionable among the young bloods of New York, and the subject of pugilism grew to be the talk of the town. John Heenan had been selected by a party to “whip” John Morrissey, who for some reason had become obnoxious to some of them, and Heenan’s friends made choice of Aaron Jones as trainer and ring adviser of “The Benicia Boy.” Heenan, however, being attacked by illness, was stopped in his work, and thus forced to go into the ring with a stone of superabundant flesh, and suffered defeat at the hands of Morrissey. About the close of the year 1858, distance lending enchantment to the view, the Transatlantic papers told us that Aaron did not think Tom Sayers such a very formidable customer after all, and “Had a mind to return and have a second (third?) shy for the belt.” Rumour added that, failing Aaron, Uncle Sam was about to send over one of his champions, to see what he could do towards humbling the pride of the little Englishman. Early in 1849 rumour ripened into certainty, and a letter reached Bell’s Life office from Mr. Wilkes, inquiring on what terms Heenan could be placed on the rota to have his turn against Sayers. A good deal of astonishment was created at the time by the fact that the defeated man, and not the winner of the American fight for the championship, had been selected; but when it came to be remembered that Morrissey, the winner, was an Irishman by birth, and not a native American, the wonderment ceased, and Heenan was recognised as the proper representative of America. The Editor of Bell’s Life replied to Mr. Wilkes’s letter, intimating that immediately on the receipt of a deposit from Heenan he could be placed on the list. He further stated, however, that, in the event of his winning, he would not be permitted to take the belt back to America, without leaving its equivalent in value or remaining here three years to contest its possession against all comers on the usual terms. By the next mail, after Mr. Wilkes’s first letter, came a second, dated New York, March 29, 1859, which was as follows:—

“Office Wilkes’s Spirit of the Times, New York.

“March 29, 1859.

“Dear Sir,—Enclosed please find a draft for £200 sterling, drawn in your favour on the Bank of Liverpool, which I have been requested to forward to you, on the part of Aaron Jones, in order that you may deposit for him the necessary sum for a meeting with the Champion of England within six months of the date of the battle of the 5th April, between Sayers and Benjamin; and in case the winner of that fight do not accept, you will please hold the money subject to my order. The language with which Jones accompanies this draft is as follows:—‘I, Aaron Jones, hereby challenge the winner of the coming fight for the championship, to fight me in six months from that time for two hundred pounds and the Champion’s belt. The fight to take place near London, and to be governed by the rules of the London Prize Ring.’ Jones also requests me to say to you for him that ‘he would prefer having the forfeit or first deposit to be as much as fifty pounds, as he does not wish to be at the trouble of crossing the Atlantic for nothing, though he is willing to pay his own expenses over and back to get the fight.’ He also hopes that Sayers will, for old acquaintance’ sake, give him the first chance; but this is a consideration which I have no right to press, after having previously consented to lay before you the wishes or the claims of Heenan. Your sense of propriety will find a law for the matter, and will, I hope, likewise permit me to remain, yours, very truly at command,

“GEO. WILKES.

“P.S.—I am also desired by the backers of Jones to say that the stakes will be increased to five hundred pounds a side, if the Champion wishes it.

“G. W.”

To this letter Sayers at once replied, closing with the proposition of Jones, and thus placing that hero first on the list of candidates after his second battle with Benjamin. Hardly had the missive of the gallant Tom been despatched when another letter arrived from Mr. Wilkes—who throughout acted as the adviser and amanuensis of both Jones and Heenan—enclosing a sum of £50, which he had been directed by his friends to stake on the part of Heenan. In that letter he requested the stakeholder, if not contrary to rule, to give Heenan’s claim the preference, as that aspiring youth had been the first to challenge Sayers, and was fearful that if he was not at once placed on the list of candidates, his chance of encountering Sayers might be entirely lost by some unforeseen accident. Inasmuch, however, as Jones, with prudent foresight, had been the first to post the coal, the stakeholder felt bound, according to practice, to give him the priority, and Heenan was compelled reluctantly to moderate his impatience; Heenan, like Jones, offered, if Sayers wished, to increase the stakes to £500 a side.

Shortly after the second defeat of Bill Benjamin, Tom Sayers was called upon to meet Jack Macdonald, who had been delegated by Aaron Jones to act the part of plenipotentiary on his behalf. Another conference was held, and after many pros and cons., articles were signed, sealed, and delivered, under which Jones was bound to fight the Champion early in the current year, a margin of one month being allowed on either side as to the actual day of battle. For this match £50 a side was deposited. It was not long after this that a further communication was received from Mr. Wilkes, requesting the stakeholder to return him £50 out of the £200 he had sent for Jones, to pay the passage of Aaron to Europe, and to transfer the remaining £100 to the account of the match between Heenan and Sayers. He added, that if Jones intended to go on with his match he would have to find the remainder of his money himself, his American friends having some reason to be dissatisfied with him, and being desirous of transferring all their interest to the Benicia Boy. By the very next mail came another letter intimating that Jones would be able to find all his money himself, and therefore the match was still to be considered “on,” and so for several months the matter rested.

In the following October the public were startled at reading the following letter from Mr. Wilkes to the Editor of Bell’s Life in London:—

“Office, Wilkes’s Spirit of the Times, New York, Oct. 7, 1859.

“My dear Sir,—I take pleasure of informing you that Aaron Jones, conceding to the common desire on this side of the Atlantic to see Heenan have the first chance at Sayers for the Championship (after the Unknown), has desired me to have forfeited the £50 which now remain staked for him in your hands against Sayers. Enclosed I send you Jones’s letter authorising me to take this course; and as I represent the money of his backers, your authority for declaring the match “off” will, I suppose, be considered complete. I forget, as I write, whether Sayers has already covered a deposit of Heenan’s for the Championship; if not, please let the same deposit be made and covered in his case (£50) as was made and covered in the case of Aaron Jones. I am very solicitous about this point as, for special reasons, I want Heenan regularly upon the record at as early a moment as possible. I send with this a note to Sayers, directed to your care, in which I apprise him of Jones’s forfeit. Please preserve the note of Jones to me, and believe me to be yours, ever truly, at command,

“GEO. WILKES, Editor Wilkes’s Spirit of the Times.”

This communication was of course made known to Sayers without loss of time, and having now no business on hand, the way was clear for the Benicia Boy, and Tom’s backers being anxious that he should finish his career as quickly as possible, and get into business, at once covered the £50 of Heenan, and signed articles for Tom to fight him on or about the day originally fixed for the fight with Jones, supposing it was the wish of Heenan to step into Jones’s shoes. In this, however, the English managers of the affair had mistaken the meaning of Mr. Wilkes’s letter, for on their writing to him, with details of what had been done, the following reply was forwarded:—

“Office, Wilkes’s Spirit, New York, Nov. 23, 1859.

“My dear Sir,—Your letter of 3rd inst., enclosing copy of articles for a fight between Heenan and Sayers, and signed by the latter, for our acceptance, reached me yesterday, and have been communicated to Heenan. We are all, however, taken by surprise at the proposal that the fight should come off in February next, instead of at the expiration of the regular six months, as was stipulated in the original proposition, and I am requested on Heenan’s part to say, that he expects the usual preparatory term will be granted to him. By reference to his cartel you will find he challenged Sayers to fight him near London for £200 and the Champion’s belt, in six months from the date of his (Sayers) reception of that challenge, or the date of the first deposit under it. This challenge having reached England during the pendency of the engagement between Sayers and the Unknown, was kept in abeyance in your hands, and having been further kept back by the next succeeding engagement of Sayers with Jones, was not recognised or received by Sayers until after he had accepted forfeit from Aaron Jones. Being thus left free of all engagements, he responded to the challenge of Heenan, and on the 26th October (I believe) covered the £50 deposit which you had, for months, held in Heenan’s name. The articles for this new match, however, were not signed by Sayers until the 3rd Nov. inst., and consequently Heenan claims that he is entitled to six months’ preliminary time from either one or the other of those dates. He, however, desires me to say that if there be anything in the rules of the P. R. Benevolent Association which entitles the Champion to reduce the term for meeting on his acceptance of a regular six months’ challenge, he will conform to those rules, and fight Sayers at the indicated time, even though it will leave him deficient of the due preparation; but he utterly repudiates the idea (which the selection of February by Sayers perhaps infers) that his match with Sayers is a continuation of the match with Jones. With this explanation he desires to state that he will be ready to put up his second deposit of £50 at Owen Swift’s in London, on the 15th December next, and if he be not represented at that time by any agent from this country, he begs you will continue your past kindness and again put up the money for him. Waiving no right, but conceding to all rules, he remains your obedient servant, though very respectfully yours,

“GEORGE WILKES.”

At first it was feared this would occasion a hitch in the match, but it was not the case. Tom was nothing loth to let the affair take its course. He had promised to give Heenan a chance, and would not disappoint him. He proposed, therefore, to extend the time to the end of March, and a missive with this proposition was despatched across the Atlantic, together with a proposition from Tom that the stakes should be £500 a side, or as much more as Heenan could get. Before, however, it could reach its destination, a Mr. Falkland had left that country as the representative and forerunner of Heenan, prepared, immediately on his arrival, to do the needful on his behalf. Early in December, Mr. Falkland presented himself at the stakeholder’s, where he was met by some of the friends of Sayers, but as Tom was not present it was agreed that the evening of December 15, which was set apart for staking a further sum of £50 a side at Owen Swift’s, should be selected for coming to terms. At Owen’s, on the night in question, Tom made his appearance, and quickly fraternising with the ambassador of his foe, found not the slightest difficulty in arranging everything on that satisfactory footing upon which the match afterwards stood. Mr. Falkland had instructions not to make the match for more than £200, as Heenan could lay out the remainder of his money to more advantage in bets, the odds being against him. The following day articles were drawn in the approved form, and information was forthwith despatched to Heenan that his presence in the Old Country was at once required.

In the meantime, on the other side of the Atlantic, things had well nigh tended to prevent the consummation of the wishes of the Fancy. John Heenan and his quondam opponent Morrissey had got to loggerheads, and Heenan proposed to fight Morrissey a second time before fighting Sayers. Through the timely diplomacy of Mr. Wilkes, however, the difficulty was solved, by Morrissey promising to give Heenan another chance, in either England or America, for his own sum, should he prove fortunate enough to defeat our Champion. With this promise the “Boy” was forced to be content, and after innumerable hair-breadth escapes from warrants out against him for an alleged breach of the peace, he succeeded (again thanks to the good management of Mr. Wilkes) in getting on board the “Asia,” which brought him to this country, landing at Liverpool on the 16th of January, 1860.

Thenceforward all went serenely and smoothly; the whole of the deposits were made good, and the 17th of April, 1860, was waited for with feverish expectation.

Though it was made known to those who invested their gold in the ticket for “there and back,” that the start must be made as early as four o’clock, this had no effect in diminishing the number of those who resolved to be “thar,” as our Yankee visitors expressed it.

The scene at Owen Swift’s and Harry Brunton’s, where tickets were obtainable, beggars description, the rush was terrific, and many were entirely unsuccessful in getting tickets at all. Nat Langham’s, Alec Keene’s, and other sporting houses were also crammed, but there was not the same difficulty in carrying on the business of the landlord as at the first houses named, where at one time trade was at a standstill. Many of the frequenters of the sporting hostelries evidently determined to make a night of it in order to make a certainty of being up betimes in the morning, and that they carried their intentions fully into effect was plainly visible in their countenances on their emerging into daylight. The more prudent ring-goers, however, took time by the forelock, and early ensconced themselves in their beds until the summons to be up and doing should arouse them.

The scene at London Bridge Station was one of continual bustle for at least an hour before the time appointed for the start, and, judging from the early arrivals, all seemed impressed with the necessity of taking time by the forelock. The precincts of the station reminded us of the crush on the Derby Day, but the effect was far more striking from the circumstance of its being a “midnight flitting.” The company’s arrangements, however, were such as to meet the pressing requirements, and the travellers by the late trains from the provinces, and those who had postponed the purchase of their tickets until the last moment were enabled to provide themselves with the necessary passport at the last moment. Two monster trains were prepared, and as early as half-past three the first, which consisted of thirty-three carriages, was so full that the non-arrival of the men, both of whom were accommodated at private lodgings close by, alone delayed its departure. The Champion arrived first, and his fresh, brisk, and natty appearance indicated a good night’s rest, and especial pains with his toilette. He was soon followed by Heenan, who seemed to wish to avoid recognition, and instantly proceeded to a compartment reserved for him and his seconds. The tickets were then collected, and at twenty minutes past four they started on their journey. By this time night had cast off her sable mantle, and day dawned with that peculiar tint which foretold the brilliant sunny weather with which the expedition was favoured. Throughout the whole of the metropolitan district, which extends for fifteen miles from London, the police, both mounted and on foot, and all armed with cutlasses, were on the look out on each side of the line even at this early hour, but the speed at which the train proceeded at once satisfied those watchful guardians that the mill was never intended to take place within their bailiwick, after leaving which scarcely a soul was to be seen beyond husbandmen proceeding to their daily avocations.

Great preparations were made to “stop the mill” further down, both on the Dover and Brighton lines; but they were unnecessary, as the travellers turned off at Reigate Junction on to the Guildford line, along which the train rattled at a good pace—we may say, “in peaceful serenity”—until within a short distance of the latter old-fashioned country town, where the first stoppage was made for water. In due course the journey was resumed, and in a short time the travellers entered the wild district where the military town of Aldershott is situated, the deserted appearance of which satisfied all that the “pilot” to whom the selection of the locale had been entrusted had made a “happy choice.” It was near seven o’clock when the first train discharged its living burthen at Farnborough station, after a most pleasant journey through one of the prettiest counties in England, which, illumined by a glorious sun, and shooting forth in vernal beauty, must have inspired all with feelings of intense gratification; whilst the Benicia Boy and the numerous Americans present must have been struck with the highly favourable contrast to the miserable pilgrimage which from all accounts preceded their representative’s last appearance in the Ring, when he fought Morrissey in America.

No time was lost in choosing the spot for the ring, which was quickly and well formed by the veteran Tom Oliver and his son, in a meadow adjoining the railway, situate on the borders of Hampshire and Surrey, and within half-a-mile of the Farnborough Station on the South Western line. By this time the second train had reached its destination, and the crowd could not have numbered fewer than twelve hundred persons, both of high and low degree, though compared with former mills the present “congregation” must unhesitatingly be pronounced the most aristocratic ever assembled at the ring side. It included the bearers of names highly distinguished in the pages of Burke and Debrett; officers of the army and navy, members of Parliament, justices of the peace, and even brethren of the cloth; whilst the muster of literati on behalf of the leading metropolitan journals, and the most popular periodicals and miscellanies—to say nothing of the editorial and pictorial staffs of our American contemporaries, Wilkes’s Spirit of the Times and Frank Leslie’s Illustrated News—gave quite a new feature to the gathering, and evinced at the same time the overwhelming interest and excitement this national rivalry had created throughout both hemispheres. The sale of inner-ring tickets (raised to 10s. each on this occasion) produced a large revenue to the Pugilistic Benevolent Association, and Billy Duncan’s speculation in chairs must have been a most successful one, judging from the demand for those conveniences, by means of which the spectators were enabled to “see the fight” with comparative comfort.[29]

JOHN CAMEL HEENAN.

Appearance of the Men.—All being in readiness, and the immense crowd disposed in tolerable order by the exertions of those of the ring-keepers who chose to do their duty, Tom Sayers appeared at the ring-side, and having deposited his hat within the ropes, quickly followed it himself, attended by his old pal, Harry Brunton, and the accomplished Jemmy Welsh, as seconds. The Benicia Boy was not long in following his example, attended by Jack Macdonald and his trainer, Cusick. Tom looked as dapper and well set up as ever, and was full of smiles. “The Boy” (aged 26), whose attire was not quite so fashionable, was also all on the broad grin. They eyed one another curiously for a few seconds, this being, it must be recollected, their first meeting, and then advancing, shook hands most cordially together, each regarding the other with evident friendly feeling. The warmth of the greeting appeared to give great satisfaction to the surrounding multitude, who cheered vociferously. The men conversed for a few minutes, but of course the subject of their interview did not transpire. Umpires and a referee having now been appointed, the signal was given to prepare for the combat. The first ceremony, that of tying the colours to the stakes, was then proceeded with, and no time was cut to waste in doffing their upper toggery. Each had taken the precaution to put on his boots and drawers previous to entering the ring, so that the usual tedious process of lacing the men’s boots was dispensed with. In Heenan’s case, however, there would have been no necessity for this, as his boots were of fashionable make, with elastic sides. He was the first to appear in buff, and a single glance was sufficient to show that his condition was all that could be desired by the most fastidious. Tom’s mahogany bust was quickly after bared to the gaze of the multitude, and here, too, was evidence of strict attention to his work. They had a last rub from their seconds, and now advanced to give the final friendly shake. This was the time to get a fair idea of their respective proportions, and in size it really looked a horse to a hen. Heenan stood full four inches and a half over Tom, and had an immense advantage in length. Every muscle on his broad back, his shoulders, and arms, was well developed, and gave evidence of enormous power. His legs were rather light, but still there was no lack here of wire and activity. His skin was exceedingly fair and transparent, and shone like that of a thorough-bred. His mug was hard, and looked older than we expected, his cheek-bones being very prominent, and now that they had been denuded of much that was superfluous, his tout ensemble was far more like that of his brother professional than on his first interview with us. Tom looked brown and hard as nails: his well-knit frame seemed fitter that we have seen it for years. He looked visibly older even than when he fought Brettle, but, considering what he has gone through, this is not to be wondered at. The only points in which there appeared any advantage on his side were in his loins and his legs, which were cast in a decidedly stronger mould than those of his towering opponent. The contrast between them was far greater than between Tom and the Tipton Slasher, and taking into consideration the fact that the advantage in age on this occasion was t’other way, Tom’s work seemed indeed cut out. That he had the remotest doubt as to the result we do not for an instant believe. He smiled confidently, and had evidently made up his mind to do or die. Heenan seemed to have an equally decided opinion as to the termination of the battle, and, to use an expression of his own countrymen, he was “all thar.” He won the toss for corners, and, of course, placed himself with his back to the sun; and, in addition to this, he had the advantage of being on slightly rising ground, so that Tom had all the way through to fight up hill. The usual ceremony was now gone through by the seconds and men. Time was called at twenty-nine minutes past seven, and they commenced

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Heenan at once threw himself into very fair position, his left well balanced ready for a shoot, and the right across the body. Tom’s position was the same as ever, lightly but firmly planted on his pins. He smiled and nodded, and on Heenan trying to lead off his left got well back. Heenan tried again, his reach being tremendous, but again did Tom get well away. Tom now essayed a draw, but “the Boy” was awake. Each feinted and dodged to find out a weak point, but for a short time each fortress was too well guarded. At last Tom let go his left and right, but out of distance. Heenan shook his nob and grinned, then again tried a lead, but was short. They got gradually to Heenan’s corner, who appeared disposed to fight on the defensive, and the sun being in Tom’s eyes seemed to bother him not a little. At length they came together, and sharp left-handers were exchanged, Tom getting on “the Boy’s” nose, drawing first blood, and Heenan leaving his sign manual on Tom’s frontispiece. Heavy counter-hits followed, Tom again getting on the nose, and receiving on the nob. More sparring ensued to a close, when Heenan seized Tom round the neck, but Tom pegged away at the back of his head until he made him leave that, and Tom fell laughing.

2.—Heenan showed marks of Tom’s handiwork on the back of his neck, and Tom’s forehead was flushed. Heenan kept to his corner, whither Tom went to draw him out; when he thought Tom was near enough, “the Boy” lunged out his left, but Tom stopped him and got back. Heenan tried again, and just reached Tom’s nose. After one or two feints a pretty counter took place, Tom getting on the nose, and receiving a sharp one over the right eye. Heenan then closed, got well hold of him, and threw the Champion, falling heavily on him. Offers to take 2 to 1.

3.—After a little lively fiddling, Tom got too near to the big’un, who instantly slung out his left straight and full on the bridge of Tom’s beak, knocking him clean off his pins. (“First knock-down” for Heenan.)

4.—Tom, on coming up, looked rather astonished, and his eyes blinked in the sun like a dissipated owl. Heenan went at once to him at the scratch, dodged him, and once more planted a heavy spank with his left, this time on the jaw, and down went Tom again, amidst the shouts of the Yankees, who now offered 6 to 4 on Heenan. The Sayers party looked excessively blue.

5.—Tom’s mug showed visible marks of “the Boy’s” powers of hitting. He was cautious, and kept away from his man; Jack followed, and letting go his left on the mouth was well countered by Tom on the proboscis. Heenan now bored in, and after dodging Tom, got again heavily on the sneezer, and Tom fell.

6.—Tom’s countenance, though not swelled, was much flushed, while the Boy was almost scatheless. He was somewhat wild, and tried both hands, but missed. Counter-hits ensued, in which Tom received the full weight of Heenan’s ponderous fist on his right arm, which was driven back against his face. Tom reached Heenan’s left cheek, leaving his mark. Heenan retaliated on the right brow, and Tom fell.

7.—Tom’s right peeper displayed marks of pepper, and it was perceptible that he had sustained severe injury to his right arm, which was beginning to swell, and which he now kept close to his body, as if to support it. Still he went to Heenan in his corner, and that hero delivered his left, but not effectively, on the chest. Tom danced away, and as he turned round napped a little one from the right on his back. He was quickly out of harm’s way, and, coming again, dodged his man until he let fly, when Tom countered him heavily on the right cheek, drawing the claret and raising a considerable bump. The blow staggered Heenan, who stood all of a heap for a moment. Soon did he collect himself, and as Tom came again, lodged a little one on the nose, but was once more countered very heavily on the right cheek, the cut being increased and the bump enlarged. Slight exchanges followed, in which Tom received on the right eye and Heenan on the right cheek, whereupon Heenan went to his corner for a sponge. He seemed in no hurry to come away, and Tom stood in the middle of the ring until Heenan went slowly to him, and tried his left, but it was no go. He tried again, but only just reached Tom’s brow. Tom now feinted and got home on the right peeper, Heenan missing an upper-cut. Tom danced away, came again on another tack, and bang went his left on the sore spot, a heavy spank, and he was instantly out of danger, laughing; Heenan rushed after him, but was well stopped, thrice in succession. Again and again Tom went to him, and baulked his efforts to effect a lodgment, and then Heenan napped another slashing crack on the right cheek, which had the effect of at once closing his dexter goggle. He retreated for a wipe, and was followed by Tom, and some mutual cautious dodging and feinting took place. At last Heenan got on the top of Tom’s smeller, but not heavily, and Tom then avoided another attempt. Once more did Heenan retire to Jack Macdonald for consolation and advice; Tom walking round and eying him in an inquisitive manner, as if admiring his handiwork. Tom, after satisfying his curiosity, went close, and slight exchanges followed, without mischief. Heenan tried his left and was stopped. Both very cautious, and neither disposed to go within gunshot. Heenan now led off and got slightly on the mouth with his left, Tom retaliating on the closed peeper. Mutual taps and stops, and then Tom got his left heavily on the old spot another cracker, whereupon Heenan once more retired into the privacy of his corner, amidst cries of 2 to 1 on Sayers. Tom, after a few turns and a touch of the sponge, went to him, but Heenan shook his nob and seemed disinclined for work. Tom finding he could not draw him, retreated, whereupon “the Boy” came out, and let go his left viciously, which was beautifully stopped. He then feinted, and got well on the bridge of Tom’s snorer as he was retreating, and again knocked him off his pins. Tom rolled over, laughing, and was carried to his corner. This round lasted 13 minutes, and was a fine specimen of stratagem and skill, especially on the part of Tom. His right arm now was much swollen, and so painful that he could make little or no use of it.

8.—Tom slowest to the call of time, but directly he was at the scratch “the Boy” retired to his corner, whither Tom had to follow him. Heenan at once let go his left, but Tom laughed and jumped back. A slight exchange followed, and Tom napped a straight one on the sniffer. Heenan now missed a couple of well-meant shots, and Tom jumped away from a third, and as he turned his back upon Heenan got a right-hander on the back of the neck. Heenan followed him up, but Tom grinned and jumped nimbly away. His activity on his pins was as remarkable as ever. Heenan pursued him, and at last lodged his left slightly on the nozzle, and once more turned on the tap. Tom, however, countered him on the damaged cheek, which caused “the Boy” to retire for the kind offices of Jack Macdonald. On Tom’s going to him he let go his left on the kisser, drawing the carmine, and this led to pretty exchanges at long shots on the cheek. Heenan at this time appeared weak, and the hopes of the Sayers party were greatly in the ascendant. Heenan preferred his corner to the scratch, and Tom had some difficulty in persuading him to leave. This he at last accomplished, and some beautiful stops were made on both sides. Another break away ensued, after which they countered effectively, but Tom was heaviest on the right cheek, which was now swelled as big as two. Heenan’s blow alighted on Tom’s oration trap, and drew more of the ruby. On his trying to repeat this lodgment, Tom stopped him cleverly. Capital exchanges followed, in which Tom was again at home on the cheek very heavily. Heenan rushed at him, but Tom was away, and after once or twice being baulked Heenan again retired to his corner. After Tom had scrutinized him carefully, he rubbed his hands and went to him, whereupon Heenan let fly his left, but Tom got well away laughing; Heenan shook his head and also laughed good-humouredly. Tom now crept in, and pop went his left on the plague-spot, and off went the Champion laughing. More dodging and stopping on both sides, until Tom was once more on the cheek a slogger. Heenan retaliated sharply on the bridge of the snout, but was stopped in a second attempt, and Tom nailed him on the right cheek very heavily and got away. Heenan tried to take the lead, but Tom jumped back. “The Boy,” persevering, got well on the forehead, but was unsuccessful in a second essay. The first was sufficient to leave a bump on the gallant Tom. More sparring until a severe counter-exchange took place, in which Tom got a hot’un on the whistler, which shook his ivories, and turned on a fresh tap. It was a staggerer, but Tom recovered and went to his man, when more severe counters were interchanged, Heenan getting another rum one on the cheek, and dropping his left with effect on Tom’s sneezer. Both now indulged in a wipe, and washed their mouths out. They came again, now like giants refreshed, and each in turn tried a lead, but each was well stopped. Tom’s right arm, from the continual stopping such a heavy cannonade as Heenan’s, was now much discoloured and swollen, and utterly useless for all purposes of hitting, and he was thus deprived of his principal weapon. After a good deal of this another heavy exchange followed, in which Tom was at home on the old spot, and Heenan on the jaw heavily, knocking Tom once more off his pins. This round lasted 20 minutes, and was a splendid specimen of milling on both sides. Tom’s nose and mouth were bleeding, but both his eyes were well open. His arm was his chief drawback. Heenan’s right eye had been long closed, his cheek was fearfully swollen, and his mouth was also somewhat out of straight.

9.—Heenan came up as if he intended to force the fighting. He led off viciously, but Tom got well away. “The Boy” followed him closely, and at last got on Tom’s mouth, drawing more of the juice. He followed suit on the snuffer-tray with a like result, and counter-hits ensued, in which each did mischief. Heenan continued to bore in, and at last Tom, after getting a little one on the back, dropped laughing.

10.—Tom was very slow to the call of time, and appeared to want nursing. It was evidently heavy work struggling against such superior mettle. He stood in the middle of the ring until Heenan went to him, when slight counter-hits were exchanged; after which they closed. Heenan lifted Tom from the ground and threw him heavily with the greatest ease.

11.—Tom, again very much behindhand in coming to time, and the friends of Heenan did not appear in much hurry. When they did come up Tom had to go into Heenan’s corner. After a dodge or two Tom got his right on the good eye rather heavily, but it was not such a right-hander as of yore, and evidently gave him pain. Heenan returned on the chest, and Tom fell.

12.—“Time, Time!” neither too ready. On Sayers at last facing his man, Heenan caught him, but not very heavily, on the jaw, and dropped on the saving suit.

13.—Heenan, first to leave his second’s knee, now went to Tom, and after a dodge or two popped the left very straight on Tom’s nose, once more knocking him clean off his legs. He turned round on returning to his corner, and looking to Mr. Falkland, his umpire, exclaimed, “That’s one for you, Fred!” Offers were now made to lay 5 to 4 on Heenan, but the takers seemed scarce.

14.—Tom, very weak, came up cautiously and slowly, his nose being large enough for two. Heenan, seeing Tom’s state, tried to force the fighting, but Tom got cleverly out of the difficulty. Heenan followed him up, and popped a rattler on the throat, without a return. He paused, and then sent a little one on the scent-bottle, but Tom countered him well and straight on the nose, drawing the crimson in profusion. Heenan, nothing daunted, let go his left, and was stopped. He then swung round his right heavily on the jaw. They got to close quarters and some heavy in-fighting took place, in which Tom was very busy. At length both were down heavily, Heenan under.

15.—Neither seemed in a hurry to leave his second’s knee, but Tom was slowest in answering the call. Heenan at once went to him, got the left well on the proboscis and his right on the jaw, and down again fell the Champion in a heap.

16.—Tom shook himself together, but was very cautious. He sparred as if requiring rest, until Heenan came in, when slight exchanges took place, Tom getting it on the nose, and Heenan on the whistler, but neither very heavily. Heenan then made a sudden dart, and planting heavily on Tom’s mouth, once more knocked him off his legs. (Loud cheers for Heenan.)

17.—Tom did not display many marks from his repeated knock-down blows, but came up smiling, although somewhat tired. Heenan’s mug was decidedly the most disfigured, being so much swelled. Heenan took the lead, but did not get heavily on. He tried again with his right, but the blow passed over Tom’s nob. Counter hits followed on the nose, in which Tom’s delivery was most effective, but Tom was down.

18.—Very slight exchanges, followed by a heavy counter, in which Heenan’s mouth came in for pepper, and Tom got it slightly on the nose, and fell.

19.—Tom slow to time; Heenan not in a hurry. At last, on facing one another, Heenan went in to a close, and, throwing Tom, fell on him.

20.—Heenan followed Sayers, who was on the retreat, and after one or two dodges, caught him on the jaw heavily with his right. He tried again, but Tom jumped back. Still he persevered, and heavy exchanges followed at close quarters, and both were in the end down at the ropes.

21.—Sayers very slow, which Heenan seeing, dashed at him, slung out the left on the nose, and again floored the Champion.

22.—Tom seemed none the worse for this floorer; it rather seemed to do him good, for he came fresher, which Heenan seeing, he retired to his corner. Tom followed and tried to deliver, but missed, and the Benicia Boy dropped him with another straight one on the jaw. Heenan’s left hand was now much puffed, and did not seem to leave such impressions as formerly.

23.—The time was very badly kept on both sides, and there were now complaints that the Benicia Boy was allowed a stool in the ring. An appeal was made to the referee, who at once ordered its removal, as contrary to the laws. Heenan rushed at Tom, who retreated and got one on the back. Tom then turned round and missed his right. They closed, and Tom pegged away merrily on the nose and left cheek, and in the end both down, Tom under. One hour and eleven minutes had now elapsed.

24.—The Benicia Boy, first up, tried his left by a sudden dart, but was stopped. An attempt with the right just landed on the side of Tom’s nut, and he fell. (5 to 4 on Heenan still offered.)

25.—Tom, weak, came up slow, but cheerful. He waited the attack, which was not long in coming, and after getting a little one on the side of his head, Tom popped his left very heavily on the snout, drawing more home-brewed. Heenan, wild, rushed in and bored Tom down.

26.—Tom, fresher, came up gaily, and tried to lead off with his left, but the Boy stopped him prettily. Another effort landed on Heenan’s good eye. Heenan in return planted a rattler on Tom’s jaw with his right, which staggered him, and was all but a knock down. Tom soon shook himself together, whereupon Heenan let fly his left, but Tom was well away. Following up, “the Boy” got on Tom’s chest, but not heavily. Exchanges; Heenan on the ’tato-trap, and Tom on the nose, a smasher, each drawing the cork. Heavy counters followed with the left, and they broke away. Heenan came again, and got on Tom’s snorer heavily with his left, once more staggering him. Twice after this did Tom stop Heenan’s right and they closed. After some slight fibbing Tom fell, Heenan hitting him when down. An appeal of foul was overruled, the blow being obviously accidental.

27.—“The Boy” came up determined and led off, but Tom was away. A second attempt was equally unsuccessful, and as Tom turned his back to dash away, the Boy caught him on the neck, but not heavily. Sharp exchanges followed, Tom on the left cheek and nose, and “the Boy” on the mouth. Heenan then went in and tried his left, but was short, whereupon he retired to his corner, had a wipe, and wetted his whistle, and then went to the middle of the ring. Tom joined issue at once, and some heavy exchanges took place, each on the nose, and Heenan now tried to close, reaching after Tom to catch him round the neck. Tom kept out of harm’s way, but at length “the Boy” bored him down at the ropes.

28.—Both much fatigued, wanted all the time they could get. After some sparring, Heenan ran at Tom, who darted away. The Boy rapidly pursued, and they got together, and in the fibbing Tom was busy on Heenan’s good cheek, while he caught it on the mouth. In the end Tom was down.

29.—Tom still slow to time. The Boy at once went to him, and got heavily on the top of his nut. Tom countered with effect with his right on the left cheek, and then popped his left on the proboscis. Heavy exchanges followed in Tom’s favour, who met “the Boy” very straight and effectively on the nozzle, opening a fresh bin. A break away, followed by slight exchanges, led to a harmless close, and Tom slipped down.

30.—Heenan’s other eye was now quickly closing, and he had evidently no time to lose. He was strongest on his legs, but his punishment was far more visible than Tom’s. He tried to lead off, but Tom met him neatly on the nose, turning on the red port. “The Boy” rushed at Tom, and literally ran over and fell on him.

31.—After standing some time in his corner, Heenan was fetched out by Tom, who had now recovered a little. A short spar was followed by another retreat, after which Tom went in and got a little ’un on the left cheek, but it lacked steam. More sparring, and Heenan again retired. Tom stood and examined him with the eye of a connoisseur until he came out, when good exchanges took place, Tom getting heavily on the mouth, and Heenan on the nose. A break away; more sparring for wind; Heenan again to his corner. On Tom going at him he slung out his left heavily on the nose, and prone once more fell the brave Champion.

32.—Tom all alive, dodged, and caught “the Boy” on the chin. He turned to retreat, and “the Boy” nailed him on the body, but not heavily. Heenan then tried repeatedly to draw Tom, but the latter would not go into Heenan’s corner. “The Boy,” therefore, had to go out, and some rapid hits and stops followed, without any apparent damage; each, however, got a small tap on the mouth. Heenan having taken another rest in his corner, came out, and got a hot one on the left cheek for his pains, which all but shut up the other eye. This brought on exchanges, each on the mazzard, and then Heenan reached Tom’s nose. Heavy determined counter-deliveries on the note ensued, after which Heenan floored Tom by a right-hander on the cheek. The betting was now even, Sayers for choice. It was obvious that, strong as Heenan was, unless he could make a decided change, he must in a very few minutes be blind.

33.—The Benicia Boy, feeling he had no time to lose, rushed in, but only just reached Tom’s chest. Both seemed fagged, and they stood a few seconds, and then went to close quarters, where Tom, as usual, was busy on “the Boy’s” frontispiece, until he let him slip through his arms on to the ground.

34.—Heenan again tried to force the fighting, but Tom got away. They then stood and sparred until Heenan let fly his left, which did not reach its destination. He retired for counsel, and then came at Tom and tried his right at the body, but without success. Steady exchanges led to close and rapid in-fighting, and both fell, Tom under. Heenan’s eye all but closed up.

35.—The Benicia Boy dashed viciously in, and caught Tom on the snout, but the blow was without powder. Tom retreated from the vigorous onslaught; Heenan followed and got home on the jaw with the right, still with no effect. Tom now turned and ran, Heenan after him, when, on turning round, Tom napped one on the nose. He, however, landed another little pop on the good eye. Sharp exchanges at close quarters ended in the downfall of Tom. Two hours had now elapsed.

36.—The Benicia Boy’s face was a spectacle to behold, while Tom was very weak. The Boy rushed to a close, and caught Tom round the neck, dragging him to the ropes. At this time, the police, who had been gradually making their way to the ring, began a violent struggle to get close and put a stop to hostilities. “The Boy” tried to hold Tom, but the latter slipped through his arms and fell.

37.—Tom was first up, and seemed the better man; he made his left twice on Heenan’s eye, and the latter at length caught him round the neck at the ropes and there held him. Tom’s efforts to extricate himself were vain, but he administered severe punishment to Heenan’s face. The police at this time got closer, there was a rush to the ropes from all sides, and we, in company with others, including the referee, were completely shut out from the view. We are informed that the round ended in both going to grass at the expiration of two hours and six minutes. We had hoped that the men would now have been withdrawn, as the referee had been forced from his post, and the police were close by. The battle, so far as it may be called a battle, was for the time over, and the men should have been taken away. However, although the referee sent orders for a cessation of hostilities, five more so-called rounds were fought, with pretty equal advantage. Heenan’s right eye was fast closing, his left being in complete darkness. The ring was half full of people, however, and neither man had a fair chance. Much do we regret the unpleasant duty that now is imposed upon us, of finding fault with the Benicia Boy for conduct which was not only unmanly, but quite against the rules of the Ring, and had the Referee been present, would inevitably have lost him the battle. We can ourselves declare, as an impartial eye witness of the mêlée, that in the fourth of these supplementary rounds, while Sayers was on his second’s knee, Heenan rushed at him in a very excited state, let fly left and right at Tom’s seconds, floored them, and kicked at them when on the ground in desperate style, after which he closed with Sayers, and after a wild rally, they fell together. The final round was merely a wild scramble, in which both fell. The referee by this time was able to get near again, and ordered the men to desist from fighting. Immediately after this Heenan rushed away from the ring, and ran some distance with the activity of a deer, proving that as far as strength was concerned, he was as fit as ever; but he had not been away from the ring many minutes before he was totally blind. Tom Sayers, although a little tired, and suffering from his arm and the desperate hug in the 37th round, was also strong on his pins, and could have fought some time longer. The blues being now in force, there was, of course, no chance of the men again meeting, and an adjournment was necessary. It was found that the authorities were up in arms in all directions, so that it would be mere waste of time to go elsewhere. Backward home was therefore the word, and the men and their friends returned to the Metropolis shortly after three o’clock. The whole time occupied, up to the men’s leaving the ring, was two hours and twenty minutes.

Remarks.—Up to the unfortunate departure of the referee, this was decidedly the very best Championship fight we ever witnessed. It was to the time aforesaid fought out with a manliness, a fairness, and a determination on both sides worthy of the highest commendation. Without any attempt at shifting, each scorned to take a mean advantage, and loudly and repeatedly was each of them cheered. The game displayed on both sides was remarkable. The gluttony and bottom of Tom Sayers are too proverbial to need further comment at our hand; but as certain rumours had been flying about to the effect that Heenan was destitute of those qualities, we deem it right to express our belief that a gamer, more determined fellow, never pulled off a shirt. His punishment was terrible, and yet he took it round after round without flinching, and almost invariably with a smile on his face. We are bound to own that in this, as in his talent, he very agreeably disappointed us; and had we not known his career, we certainly should never have set him down for a novice. He has an excellent delivery with his left, which was as straight as a dart, and early in the fight was very heavy. It appears to us, however, that his hands are not strong, for before half the battle was got through his left hand was so much swelled as to be almost useless; and this, doubtless, was fortunate for Tom, who with his right arm gone, could have made but a poor stand against such a weapon had it retained its original hardness. Of his right Heenan makes but little use. Of his conduct at the conclusion of the battle we cannot speak in too strong terms. We trust it was occasioned by the state of excitement in which he was owing to the ring being broken, and by the fact that, being almost blind, he took the unoffending seconds of his opponent for some other persons. The state of Heenan’s eyesight was shown by the fact that he hit out with both hands at Jemmy Welsh, who wore a red and black striped woollen shirt, mistaking him for his antagonist. Of Tom Sayers we need not say more than that he fought the battle throughout with consummate tact and judgment, and, considering that his right arm (his principal weapon) was rendered almost useless from the commencement, too much praise cannot be awarded to him for his courage and coolness. We are of opinion, even without that arm, that he would eventually have pulled through, had the fight been finished on the day. But it is useless speculating on possibilities or probabilities. On the question of nationality, the only point that has been decided, and the only point in our opinion requiring decision, is that both England and America possess brave sons, and each country had reason to be proud of the Champion she had selected. Both were, doubtless, anxious to have it settled; but for ourselves, were we asked, we should say each is so good that he is deserving a belt, and we would call on our countrymen to subscribe for such a trophy as a reward for Heenan’s enterprise and boldness in coming, as he has done, to face the British Champion on his own ground.

The writer of these lines, having been one of the less than half-dozen sporting writers and reporters who remained among the driving crowd which swayed hither and thither in the broken ring after the departure of the referee, and as several of these, notably The Times reporter, wrote their published accounts from hearsay, feels himself freely entitled to express his unbiassed opinion on the probable result of the battle, and to describe “the occurrents of the fight,” in its last struggles, from the avouchment of his own eyesight.

The fight, which began at twenty-four minutes past seven, was over at a quarter to ten, lasting two hours and twenty minutes.

When the ring was broken in, in the thirty-seventh round, and the referee shut out from view, Heenan, who was fast becoming blind, hugged Sayers on the ropes. The ropes were lowered by Tom’s friends, doubtless, but were not cut. Had the referee been there, he would unquestionably have ordered the round to have been closed. Rule 28 of the Ring Code was as follows, before the Farnborough fight. It has since been enlarged in its scope to prevent similar dangerous practices more effectually:—“28. Where a man shall have his antagonist across the ropes in such a position as to be helpless, and to endanger his life by strangulation or apoplexy, it shall be in the power of the referee to direct the seconds to take their man away, and thus conclude the round; and that the man or his seconds refusing to obey the direction of the referee shall be deemed the loser.” Of this the Yankee scribes chose to be utterly oblivious, though the articles specified the battle to be under the New Rules of the Ring—i.e., those of 1853. The referee, however, so say the American party, sent an order for the cessation of hostilities. This, though since confirmed, was not believed by Sayers’ friends, who, seeing victory within his grasp, thought it a mere ruse to obtain a drawn battle.

Five rounds were thereafter fought, Heenan’s sight being so defective that, in the fourth of these, the forty-first, Heenan rushed from his corner while Sayers was on his second’s knee, and, letting fly at Jemmy Welsh, knocked him nearly over, and kicked at Harry Brunton, if he did not strike him, of which we are not certain. He then hugged Sayers, and they both fell; Tom hitting up sharply in Heenan’s battered frontispiece. A cry was raised that the referee had declared the fight over, whereon Heenan rushed from the ring with great activity, followed by his clamorous friends. We stayed, and found Sayers strong, with his sight good, and in all respects but his injured dexter arm—of little use since the fourth round—able, as he said, “to fight an hour.”

Leaving Tom, we hurried to the carriages, the train standing on the Farnborough embankment, where we saw Heenan, already blind as a bat, lifted into his compartment. Arrived at the Bricklayers’ Arm Station, we accompanied the gallant Champion to the hostelrie of his old friend, Ned Elgee, “The Swan,” Old Kent Road. Here no sooner was the hero seated, for he refused to go to bed, than he inquired after his opponent. His friend and backer (Mr. John Gideon) suggested that the heroes should meet and shake hands, and the writer of this hastened across the road to invite the Benicia Boy and his friends to an interview. He was in a close cab wrapped in blankets—blind, unpresentable, and seemingly unconscious. Tom was soon cheerful, and over a little tea regretted that the doctor’s veto prevented his partaking of the champagne creaming around him to his health and success, amid plaudits to his bravery.

Sayers was next morning at Norfolk Street, at the stakeholder and referee’s office, and a photograph has fixed beyond dispute his condition, which, save his right arm already spoken of, was nothing beyond a tumefied mouth and a few bumps on his hard forehead. Heenan, on the contrary, despite the absurd declarations of his American letter-writer, was not in a condition to see or be seen. For fully forty-eight hours he was in “darkness,” in bed in an upper-room at Osborne’s Hotel in the Adelphi, and for more than that time in a critical condition, as we know from unimpugnable proof. The friends of Heenan pretended to base their great grievance on the fact that, as the contest was not finished on the day, it ought to have been resumed during the week. The answer to this is, first, that this was mere bounce, as Heenan was in no condition to resume hostilities; secondly, that in the condition of Sayers’s right arm he was entitled, by Ring precedents (the fight having been once interrupted) to a reasonable period to recover its use; thirdly, that it would have been contrary to all dictates of humanity—and fairness, which includes humanity, is a prized attribute of British boxing; fourthly, that public opinion was opposed in the strongest manner to the two brave fellows who had so heroically contended, and had been baulked of a result by no fault or shortcoming of either, after such punishment as they had undergone, renewing their interrupted struggle. For these and other cogent reasons, it was proposed by the referee and stakeholder, and—after the subsidence of the American mortification to a better state of feeling—agreed to by both men, that two similar belts should be made, one to be presented to each champion.

We shall not record the ceremonial of this presentation—which was performed on the part of England by Frank Dowling, Esq., editor of Bell’s Life, and on that of America by G. Wilkes, Esq., editor of the New York Spirit of the Times—as the whole affair, speeches and all, savour too strongly of the circus style of bunkum and bombast. The modest paragraph in the Times of May 30th, 1860, though written as an avant courrier, is more to our taste:—

“The Championship Belts.—America and England shake hands cordially to-day. What our greatest diplomatists and engineers have failed to achieve has been accomplished by the Benicia Boy and Tom Sayers, whose fame will descend to future generations, and whose posterity will each be enabled to show a fac-simile of that much desired ‘belt,’ so boldly challenged, so manfully defended. The Atlantic cable has not linked the two nations together, but the good feeling which has been shown by the two gladiators, who on this day receive at the Alhambra their respective ‘belts,’ will be responded to by the two nations on either side of the Atlantic. We have been favoured with a view of the old belt, ‘the belt’ still open to competition, and of the two other belts to be presented to the ‘two Champions of England,’ for such is the inscription upon the case of each. Both are precisely similar in every respect, and the somewhat clumsy workmanship, in frosted silver, carefully copied from the original, is by Mr. C. F. Hancock, of Bruton Street.”

How British admiration of true courage expressed itself in the substantial form of a public subscription, and how Members of Parliament, the Stock Exchange, Lloyd’s, and Mark Lane, clubbed their gold pieces to enable the Champion to pass in peace and competence the remainder of his days, guarded from the stings and sorrows of poverty, have been told in the columns of the contemporary sporting press.

After Mace’s victories over Sam Hurst and Tom King, there was some talk of Sayers coming out from his retirement and having a turn with the Norwich man, but it ended in smoke. As Tom, from the universal interest excited by his heroic display, was an object of interest to the multitude, he received liberal offers from some Yankee circus proprietors, and by the aid of the “rhino” thus earned became first a shareholder, and then proprietor of Howes and Cushing’s Circus, under the management of Jem Myers. The speculation, we suspect, carried Tom out of his depth, and the horses, mules, carriages, &c. were sold off some twelve months after their purchase. Tom’s free living degenerated into excess during this loose and excited life of a travelling showman and exhibitor; for poor Tom, in his simple faith, was by no means an Artemus Ward, and no match for Yankee smartness. There is little doubt that Tom at this time laid the seeds of the inflammatory disease which shortened his days, and cut him off at the early age of thirty-nine.

The kind friends who uncompromisingly stipulated, when Tom’s capital was invested, that he should “fight no more,” did not place any restriction on his re-appearance in the roped arena. When King and Heenan fought, on December 10, 1863, Sayers conformed to the etiquette of his profession, and seconded “the American.” Heenan’s party evidently believed that Tom’s prestige would scatter dismay in the ranks of King’s followers, and help to overwhelm the “jolly young waterman” at the outset. Poor Sayers’ descent had, however, commenced, and when he stepped into the ring, in Heenan’s corner, it was plain he was there more for dramatic effect than anything else. Attired in a fur cap, a yellow flannel jacket, and jack-boots, he was vociferously applauded when he commenced his duties in attending to Heenan’s toilette. Even then people said, “How are the mighty fallen,” for poor Tom was no more equal to his onerous task than a child. During the fight at Wadhurst he looked in strange bewilderment at King and Heenan, and when the “Benicia Boy” required assistance, his second was perfectly helpless. Still the gladiator quitted the scene in a graceful and generous manner, in having stood esquire to the opponent who was instrumental in bringing out that steel, courage, and pluck of which the first of English pugilists was composed.

As it no doubt will prove interesting to all those who have admired the wonderful pluck and endurance of the greatest gladiator of modern times to know something of the progress of that insidious disease which gradually but surely did its work, we append a few particulars. Since the memorable battle of Farnborough—when Sayers appeared in the ring the picture of health, and the result proved that his physique could not have been improved upon—he now and again showed symptoms of the hectic flush which is the precursor of an affection of the lungs. This was brought on by the course of life he subsequently chose, or rather by the force of circumstances under which he was placed. Unable to fall back upon the pleasures of a cultivated mind from want of education, Tom became the idol of his fellows; he cast off all those restraints which had secured for him health and victory, and plunged into excesses of living—late hours and dissipation. Nature’s laws are not to be broken with impunity, and in the beginning of 1866 he fell into a very low condition, and betrayed symptoms of consumption, aggravated with diabetes, for which Mr. Adams, F.R.C.S., attended him on February 20, at his sister’s, Mrs. King’s, 16, Claremont Square, Pentonville. His robust and healthy frame exhibited a great change for the worse, and the doctor then feared, from his having wasted away so much, coughing frequently, and losing strength fast, that he was sinking into a decline. He was ready to acknowledge his physical weakness, but when told of the serious nature of the disease then apprehended, he became as docile as a child, and obeyed the injunctions of his medical adviser, who, we may remark in passing, expressed to us the melancholy pleasure which he experienced whilst Tom was under his care. However, the dreaded enemy was stalled-off by careful watching and nursing, and he recovered sufficiently to take a trip to Brighton about the middle of April. When there, he appeared strong and robust, and like his former self. This, however, was not to last long, for at the end of August he returned to his sister’s, in Claremont Square, and in a consultation held there between Dr. Adams and Mr. Brown, they came to the conclusion that actual and absolute disease of the lungs had set in, and that he could not survive many weeks. He took a fancy to go to his old friend’s, Mr. Mensley, High Street, Camden Town, on October 16, and there he stayed until he died. For the satisfaction of Dr. Adams himself, that gentleman called in Dr. Gull to consult, but they both agreed that nothing more could be done to save him. A reaction took place in his condition after being a fortnight at Mr. Mensley’s; he seemed to get fresher and stronger, and for a week remained in a doubtful state, giving hopes to his friends that he would survive the illness. A relapse came on, and with it unconsciousness, and for the last few days he had only a few intervals of consciousness. Mr. Litten, assistant chaplain of St. Pancras, attended by desire of Sayers, and administered the consolations of religion. He passed away at six o’clock on Wednesday evening, November 7th, in the presence of his father, with his two children at hand. For upwards of four-and-twenty hours before his death he was in a state of semi-insensibility, and could only recognise his friends on being aroused and appealed to. But the great change came with comparative peace at last, and when nature compelled him to “throw up the sponge,” he left the world, let us hope, without that pain which no man feared less when he stood up in defence of his reputation as the Emperor of British boxers. Many were the inquiries made for the health of poor Tom, and it is satisfactory to know that he was visited by some who had taken a part against him in the battle-field, and that he bid them, each and all, a peaceful farewell.

The amount of money subscribed for Sayers by his personal admirers and the public was £3,000, which sum was invested in the names of trustees, Tom to receive the interest during his life, providing he never fought again; and, in the event of his fighting again or dying, the interest was to go to the children until of age, when it was to be divided between them. Tom left only two children—young Tom, then at boarding-school, and fourteen years old, and Sarah, in her seventeenth year. Independent of the interest in this sum, Sayers left a considerable amount of property in plate and other valuables. Some of his backers have treasured up souvenirs of him. Mr. John Gideon, Tom’s earliest “guide, philosopher, and friend,” has the boots in which Sayers fought Heenan, with the Farnborough grass and earth attaching to the spikes, just as the great gladiator left them.

Those who remember the personal appearance of the departed Champion will have his bronzed, square, and good-humoured, lion-like phiz in their mind’s eye; those who did not see him in the flesh must imagine a round, broad, but not particularly thick-set man, standing 5 feet 8½ inches in his stocking-feet, with finely turned hips, and small but powerful and flat loins, remarkably round ribs and girth, and square shoulders. His arms were of medium length, and so round as not to show prominently the biceps, or even the outer muscles of the fore-arm, to the extent often seen in men of far inferior powers of hitting and general strength. Indeed, the bulk of Sayers was so compactly packed that you did not realise his true size and weight at a cursory glance, and it was this close and neat packing of his trunk—excuse the pun—that doubtless was an important ingredient in many a “long day” in which Tom’s lasting powers were the admiration of every spectator. Tom’s head was certainly of the “bullet” shape, and it was supported by a neck of the sort known as “bull,” conveying the idea of enduring strength and determination to back it. We have no phrenological examination of Tom’s “bumps” before us, but we doubt not those of combativeness and amativeness were fully developed. Tom’s fighting weight began at 10st. 6lb.; in his later battles it was 10st. 10lb. to 10st. 12lb. The photographs which figure in the print-shop windows do not convey a fair idea of Tom’s good-tempered and often merry expression: he seems to have been taken when filled with the contemplation of the seriousness of the position of having one’s “counterfeit presentment” multiplied and sent forth to the world. From the hips downward Tom was not a “model man.” Though round in the calf, his thighs were decidedly deficient in muscular development; yet no man made better use of his pins in getting in and out again, as witness his up-hill performances with the six-foot Slasher, and the ponderous and more active Benicia Boy. It was to Tom’s excellent judgment of time and distance that the severity of his hitting was due, and to his mighty heart—a bigger never found place in man’s bosom—that his triumphant finish of many a well-fought day is to be attributed. No man ever fought more faithfully to his friends or bravely with his foes in “the battle of life;” and therefore is the tribute of a record of his deeds due to Tom Sayers.

His remains were consigned to their parent earth, on Wednesday, November 15th, 1866, at the Highgate Cemetery, attended by an immense concourse of the sympathising and curious. A committee of friends, the admirers of true British courage, raised a monument over the spot where—

“After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well.”

Of this monument we present a faithful delineation.

It would be an unpardonable omission were we to conclude the biography of Tom Sayers without appending the remarkable poem, attributed to the pen of William Makepeace Thackeray, which appeared in Punch, April 28th, 1860. We need hardly say that it is a paraphrase rather than a parody of Lord Macaulay’s legend of “Horatius” in the “Lays of Ancient Rome.”

THE COMBAT OF SAYERIUS AND HEENANUS.

A LAY OF ANCIENT LONDON.

(Supposed to be recounted to his Great-grandchildren, April 17th, A.D. 1920, by an Ancient Gladiator.)

Close round my chair, my children,
And gather at my knee,
The while your mother poureth
The Old Tom in my tea;
What while your father quaffeth
His meagre Bordeaux wine—
’Twas not on such potations
Were reared these thews o’ mine.
Such drinks came in the very year—
Methinks I mind it well—
That the great fight of Heenanus
With Sayerius befell.[30]

These knuckles then were iron,
This biceps like a cord,
This fist shot from the shoulder
A bullock would have floored.
Crawleius his Novice,
They used to call me then
In the Domus Savilliana[31]

Among the sporting men.
There, on benefit occasions,
The gloves I oft put on,
Walking round to show my muscle
When the set-to was done;
While ringing in the arena
The showered denarii fell,
That told Crawleius’ Novice
Had used his mauleys well.

’Tis but some sixty years since
The times of which I speak,
And yet the words I’m using
Will sound to you like Greek.
What know ye, race of milksops,
Untaught of the P.R.,
What stopping, lunging, countering,
Fibbing, or rallying are?
What boots to use the lingo,
When you have lost the thing?
How paint to you the glories
Of Belcher, Cribb, or Spring—
To you, whose sire turns up his eyes
At mention of the Ring?

Yet, in despite of all the jaw
And gammon of this time,
That brands the art of self-defence—
Old England’s art—as crime,
From off mine ancient memories
The rust of time I’ll shake.
Your youthful bloods to quicken
And your British pluck to wake;
I know it only slumbers,
Let cant do what it will,
The British bull-dog will be
The British bull-dog still.
Then gather to your grandsire’s knee,
The while his tale is told
How Sayerius and Heenanus
Milled in those days of old.

Y Fyghte.

The Beaks and Blues were watching
Agog to atop the mill,
As we gathered to the station
In the April morning chill;
By twos and threes, by fours and tens,
To London Bridge we drew;
For we had had “the office”
That were good men and true;
And saving such, the place of fight
Was ne’er a man that knew.
From East, from West, from North and South,
The London Fancy poured,
Down to the sporting cabman,
Up to the sporting lord;
From the “Horseshoe” in Tichbourne Street
Sharp Owen Swift was there;
Jem Burn had left the “Rising Sun,”
All in the Street of Air;
Langham had out the “Cambrian,”
With tough old Alec Reid,
And towering high above the crowd
Shone Ben Caunt’s fragrant weed;
Not only fighting covies,
But sporting swells besides—
Dukes, Lords, M.P’s., and Guardsmen,
With county Beaks for guides;
And tongues that sway our Senators,
And hands the pen that wield,
Were cheering on the Champions
Upon that morning’s field.

And hark! the bell is ringing,
The engine puffs amain,
And through the dark towards Brighton
On shrieks the tearing train;
But turning off where Reigate
Unites the clustering lines,
By poultry-haunted Dorking
A devious course it twines,
By Wootton, Shier, and Guildford,
Across the winding Wey,
Till by heath-girded Farnborough
Our doubling course we stay,
Where Aldershot lay snoring
All in the morning gray,
Nor dreamed “the Camp” what combat
Should be fought here to-day.

The stakes are pitched, the ropes are rove,
The men have ta’en their stand;
Heenanus wins the toss for place,
And takes the eastward hand;
Cussiccius and Macdonaldus[32]

Upon “the Boy” attend;
Sayerius owns Bruntonius
With Jim Welshius for friend.[33]

And each upon the other now
A curious eye may throw,
And from the seconds’ final rub
In buff at length they show,
And from their corners to the scratch
Move stalwartly and slow.

Then each his hand stretched forth to grasp
His foeman’s fives in friendly clasp;
Each felt his balance trim and true—
Each up to square his mauleys threw—
Each tried his best to draw his man—
The feint, the dodge, the opening plan,
Till right and left Sayerius tried—
Heenanus’ grin proclaimed him “wide;”
Then shook his nut—a “lead” essayed,
Nor reached Sayerius’ watchful head.

At length each left is sudden flung,
We heard the ponderous thud,
And from each tongue the news was rung,
Sayerius hath “first blood!”
Adown Heenanus’ Roman nose
Freely the tell-tale claret flows,
While stern Sayerius’ forehead shows
That in the interchange of blows
Heenanus’ aim was good!
Again each iron mauley swung,
And loud the counter-hitting rung,
Till breathless both, and wild with blows,
Fiercely they grappled for a close;
One moment in close hug they swing,
Hither and thither round the ring,
Then from Heenanus’ clinch of brass,
Sayerius, smiling, slips to grass!

I trow mine ancient breath would fail
To follow through the fight
Each gallant round’s still changing tale,
Each feat of left and right.
How through two well-fought hours and more
Through bruise, and blow, and blood,
Like sturdy bull-dogs, as they were,
Those well-matched heroes stood.
How nine times in that desperate mill
Heenanus, in his strength,
Knocked stout Sayerius off his pins,
And laid him all at length;
But how in each succeeding round
Sayerius smiling came,
With head as cool, and wind as sound,
As his first moment on the ground,
Still confident and game.
How from Heenanus’ sledge-like fist,
Striving a smasher to resist,
Sayerius’ stout right arm gave way,
Yet the maimed hero still made play,
And when “in-fighting” threatened ill,
Was nimble in “out-fighting,” still—
Still did his own maintain—
In mourning put Heenanus’ glims,
Till blinded eyes and helpless limbs,
The chances squared again.
How blind Heenanus, in despite
Of bleeding face and waning sight,
So gallantly kept up the fight,
That not a man could say
Which of the two ’twere wise to back,
Or on which side some random crack
Might not decide the day;
And leave us—whoso won the prize—
Victor and vanquished, in all eyes,
An equal meed to pay.

Two hours and more the fight had sped,
Near unto ten it drew,
But still opposed—one-armed to blind—
They stood, those dauntless two.
Ah, me! that I have lived to hear
Such men as ruffians scorned,
Such deeds of valour “brutal” called,
Canted, preached-down, and mourned!
Ah! that these old eyes ne’er again,
A gallant mill shall see!
No more behold the ropes and stakes,
With colours flying free!

*   *   *   *   *

But I forget the combat—
How shall I tell the close?
That left the Champion’s belt in doubt
Between those well-matched foes?
Fain would I shroud the tale in night—
The meddling Blues that thrust in sight—
The ring-keepers o’erthrown;
The broken ropes—th’ encumbered fight—
Heenanus’ sudden blinded flight—
Sayerius pausing, as he might,
Just when ten minutes, used aright
Had made the day his own!

Alas! e’en in those brighter days
We still had Beaks and Blues—
Still canting rogues, their mud to fling,
On self-defence, and on the Ring,
And fistic art abuse!
And ’twas such varmint had the power
The Champions’ fight to stay,
And leave unsettled to this hour
The honours of that day!
But had those honours rested—
Divided as was due,
Sayerius and Heenanus
Had cut the Belt in two.

And now my fists are feeble,
And my blood is thin and cold,
But ’tis better than Old Tom to me
To recall those days of old.
And may you, my great-grandchildren,
That gather round my knee,
Ne’er see worse men, nor iller times
Than I and mine might be,
Though England then had prize-fighters—
Even reprobates like me.

[29] There were numerous pictorial representations of the battle both in England and America; some of them amusingly imaginative. The large, coloured engraving, published by Newbold, and its smaller American piracy, are faithful as to the men and the field of action. The object in view in these pictures—that of giving recognisable portraits of most of the pugilistic, and many of the sporting, and a few of the literary notabilities of the day, of course destroys all truthfulness or reality of grouping, as in so many works professing to represent great battles, festivals, or public commemorations. Our frontispiece, from a contemporary sketch, is less pretentious, and therefore more realistic and truthful.

[30] An allusion to “Gladstone claret;” cheap, thin French wines being admitted first at low duty in 1860.—Ed.

[31] Domus Savilliana—Saville House, on the north side of Leicester Square, where sparring exhibitions and bouts with the gloves were frequent in those days. See also Pugilistica, vol. i., page 19, for a notice of Saville House.—Ed.

[32] Cusick, Heenan’s trainer, and Jack Macdonald (still living, 1881).

[33] Harry Brunton, now host of the “Nag’s Head,” at Wood Green. Jemmy Welsh, late of the “Griffin,” Boro’.—Ed.

CHAPTER II.

JEM MACE, OF NORWICH (CHAMPION).
1855–1864.

None who have witnessed the public appearances of this accomplished boxer will dispute that he was one of the cleverest, smartest, and most skilful pugilists that have sported buff in the 24-foot. Indeed, had Jem appeared at an earlier and better period than the latter days of the failing and moribund P.R.; and (another if) had he chosen honestly and manfully to exert his powers, the fame that accompanies the championships of the two elder Jems—Jem Belcher and Jem Ward—might have shone on the career of Jem Mace. As we have already more than once said, such as the patrons of the Ring (or, indeed, of the turf and any other sport) are, such will the character of its professors or exponents be. If horse owners are mere mercenary speculators, can we expect jockeys to go straight? When the patronage of the P.R. had fallen from noblemen, gentlemen, and the admirers of courage and fair-play into the hands of the keepers of night houses, “hells,” and even resorts yet more detestable, whose sole object was to fleece the dissipated and unwary by the sale of high-priced railway passes for “special excursions,” and bring customers and victims to their dens of debauchery and robbery, could it be expected that boxers would remain honest and brave? The encouragement of bravery and skill being as nothing to these debased speculators. This, we regret to say, was the degradation into which the Ring had fallen, or was fast falling, when Jem Mace first became known as a boxer, and to these influences some of the “shady” incidents of his career are easily traceable.

JEM MACE, of Norwich (Champion) 1855–1864.

Jem, who was born at Beeston, near Swaffham, in Norfolk, made his first appearance on the stage of life in May, 1831, and, like St. Patrick, “came of dacent people.” His “forebears,” as transpired incidentally in evidence at the Commission de lunatico inquirendo known as “The great Windham scandal,” which was tried at Gray’s Inn, in 1861, seem to have been tenants on the Windham estates for more than a hundred years. We have mentioned this fact, as a general impression prevailed, from Jem’s nomadic antecedents and propensities, that he was a born Bohemian; indeed, we more than once read in newspapers that he was of gipsy extraction. Of Jem’s youth we know nothing, except that he “growed,” like Topsy, and we should say rather wild; for when we first heard of him he was proprietor of a travelling booth, wherein, at fairs, races, and public gatherings he not only played the violin—on which he is a tolerable performer—and supplied refreshments, but was acknowledged as a skilful professor of the art of self-defence. Indeed, he had not long been in this line of business before Jem Mace’s booth was the resort of numerous admirers of glove-practice, and Jem himself was famed for his readiness and success in polishing off any aspiring yokel who might desire to try a bout with the mittens. As Jem’s youthful weight did not quite balance ten stone he was of course often “overweighted,” though never overmatched in these encounters, and as he was always ready “to accommodate” without regard to size or avoirdupois, Jem’s early career taught him how to deal with “big ones,” as his after-fights with Tom King and the gigantic Sam Hurst bear witness.

Jem was not a precocious pugilist, having attained his twenty-fourth year before engaging himself to strip with a local boxer, bearing the formidable name of Slack, in October, 1855. Of this “illustrious obscure” we need only say that Fistiana has but one line chronicling his defeat by one Jack Baston (fighting as Mace’s Novice) in September, 1857, when Slack broke his arm. Mace’s fight with Slack, which took place at Mildenhall, October 2, 1855, was a one-sided affair, Jem snuffing out his adversary’s pretensions in nineteen minutes, which included the 9th and last round, and leaving off without a mark of punishment. From this time, for more than a year, Jem pursued the even tenor of his way, increasing his fame as a fistic practitioner and professor, when the rumour of his “gift” of hitting reached the great metropolis, and with it came an announcement that Mace would be happy, upon finding a suitable customer, to exhibit his talents in the London Ring with any 10 stone practitioner, and give a few pounds.

Bill Thorpe, a fine made and well-proportioned 10 stone man, standing about 5 feet 9 inches in his stocking-feet, had crept into favour with some “over-the-water” sporting circles by his defeat of a man named Bromley, in the same ring in which Dan Collins (Sayers’s early opponent) beat Patsy Daly, on September 28, 1856. Thorpe, being on the look-out for a job, was considered a fit match for Jem Mace, and his friends placing him in the hands of Dan Dismore, the articles were drawn and signed to fight on the 17th February, 1857, for £50, neither man to exceed 10 stone. This limitation of weight suggests a rather curious reflection as to the remarkable manner in which some modern pugilists may be said to have increased in weight by “leaps and bounds.” Jemmy Massey, who fought at 8st. 10lbs., could not latterly scale under 10 stone. Sayers increased from 9st. to 10st. 12lbs., yet he was twenty-four years old when he fought Dan Collins; Harry Broome in two years grew from 10st. to 12st.; he, however, began unusually young, while Jem Mace, who was twenty-six when he first appeared in the London ring, increased from 9st. 10lbs. to 11st. 4lbs. just as Tom Sayers did. The affair came off, after a shift from the Kentish marshes, on Canvey Island, and although the men were termed novices, there was a better muster than usual of the patrons of the ring, owing to the popularity of Dan Dismore and Keene, who severally backed the men. The weather was genial and more like a May day than February, and a pleasant voyage was followed by an easy debarkation, and well-kept ring. Thorpe first threw in his hat, esquired by Jemmy Welsh and Tom Sayers—the appearance of the latter bearing testimony to the wonderful strength of his constitution, one week only having elapsed since his renewed and tremendous battle with Aaron Jones! Mace was not long in following Thorpe’s example, being accompanied by the accomplished Bill Hayes and a Norwich amateur. At three o’clock, all being in apple-pie order, the men and seconds crossed hands, and the former were left face to face to begin

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—As Mace threw himself into attitude there was a general expression of admiration among the best qualified judges at the style of “the countryman,” and the easy grace with which he moved in and out, as if measuring his opponent, without the least hurry or nervousness. Thorpe, who, as we have already said, is a fine straight young fellow, stood with his right leg foremost à la Bendigo, and by his steady coolness showed he too was a practitioner in the sparring school, and not easily to be got at. Mace, however, filled the eye as a longer and altogether bigger man, though there was but three pounds difference in their weight. Thorpe, as his opponent tried to draw him, declined the temptation and retreated, closely and warily followed by Mace, who, at length seeing an opening, instantly planted a right-hander on Thorpe’s nob with a swiftness that completely astonished the Londoners. Thorpe did not shrink, but tried to cross-counter Mace’s left, when dash went in Jem’s mauley such a spank on Thorpe’s proboscis, that the Londoner was hit clean off his legs, a fair and indisputable “knockdown,” thus scoring the first event. On being carried to his corner, Thorpe was seen to be distilling the crimson from his olfactory organ, and “first blood” was also awarded to the member for Norwich. Thus early the odds were offered on Mace, but no response was made even to an offer of 6 to 4, followed by 2 to 1 from a Norwich speculator.

2.—Mace lost no time in getting to work; he lashed out his left before he was well within distance. Thorpe retreated, but Mace did not get near enough for a prop, and Thorpe appeared to be confused at the manner in which his antagonist had planted on him in the opening bout, and was by no means desirous to have a second dose. In his tactics, however, he did not display science, for he neither hit with precision nor judgment. In his former battle with a 12st. opponent Thorpe fought with steady resolution, but the quickness and cleverness of Mace seemed to unnerve and puzzle him, and he hurriedly missed both hands, while after a little manœuvring, Mace let fly left and right in rapid succession on the head, and then got cleverly away. Thorpe, after following his man up, dashed out wildly with the right, and just missed getting home a stinger. Mace, in returning the compliment, again delivered a rattling spank on the nose, when Thorpe went down.

3.—Thorpe, acting under the instruction of his seconds, led off, but was neatly stopped. Determined not to be denied—Jemmy Welsh seeing that out-fighting would never do, urged his man to go in, and go in he did in an impetuous manner, just reaching Master Jem on the top part of the cranium. In the counter-hitting, Mace had all the best of it, and after a scrambling kind of rally, they closed at the ropes, when both went down, Mace rolling over his opponent.

4.—The countryman administered a pretty one-two on the front of his opponent’s nob, who did not appear to have the least idea of how to stop these telling visitations. In returning the compliment, Thorpe hit out wildly, and succeeded in getting slightly on Jem’s brain canister. This brought the combatants to a close, when Mace threw his man and fell on him; the London division looked blue at this proof of superiority at close quarters, and the “Norwich novice” was pronounced a “stunner,” by more than one good judge.

5.—The Londoner led with the left and right, but without precision. Mace, in the countering, planted the left on the cheek, and in a bustling rally fought his man to the ropes, when Thorpe succeeded in getting home a heavy spank with the right on the top of the knowledge-box, and Mace slipped and went down.

6.—Bill, in opening the ball, tried the right, but again missed. The London party vociferously encouraged their man, declaring the countryman was “half-licked.” Mace retreated as his antagonist came dashing in; but Thorpe was not to be denied, though, in the exchanges that ensued, he had all the worst of it, for Mace delivered the left and right full on the os frontis, when Thorpe went down in the middle of the ring, bleeding profusely.

7.—On coming up, Thorpe displayed considerable marks of punishment, having a cut over the left peeper, and one under the right, a proof that his antagonist was a hard hitter, as well as a quick and rapid fighter. Bill again tried to take the lead, and to put in a hot ’un on the nob with the right, but the intended compliment was not within the mark. Mace, as Thorpe dashed to him for in-fighting, sent both mauleys full in the middle of the Londoner’s dial, but, in stepping back, slipped, and partly went down on his knees. On the instant, however, he recovered his equilibrium, and, after some spirited exchanges, in favour of the countryman, they closed, when Thorpe went down against his will.

8.—Thorpe was unsteady on coming up; Mace had no sooner been met by his antagonist than he delivered the left with telling force right on the mark, following it up with a one-two on the nob, and then, to avoid his opponent’s rush, being near the ropes, went down cunning.

9.—The supposed success of Thorpe in fighting down his man in the last round led to encouraging cheers from his partisans, who declared the countryman was “cutting it.” Thorpe, after leading off with little or no effect, closed, and got home a heavy thwack on the side of the head with the right, when, after a little fibbing, Mace broke ground, and went down.

10.—Mace came from his corner with a smiling countenance. Thorpe had all the will to be dangerous, but lacked the judgment, for, in commencing the attack, he was again out of distance. Mace, when he had worked his way well to his man, administered the left and right once more on Master Bill’s damaged pimple, and then, as Thorpe rushed in for the close, went down easy.

11.—After two or three ineffectual attempts, Bill went in resolutely and got home with both mauleys on the side of the nob; Mace, after returning the compliment, with a slight addition by way of interest, closed with his opponent, and both went to grass, Thorpe under.

12.—Thorpe with the left got home slightly on the head, but in trying to improve upon this he was well stopped. In a wild rally the Londoner fought his man to the ropes, when the countryman with both the left and right gave him an additional dose of punishment on the nob, drawing another supply of claret. After these exchanges the men closed and fell.

13.—Thorpe, after leading off, napped a stinger on the side of the nob, when he immediately closed with his opponent. Some half-arm fighting ensued, all in favour of Mace, and both were down.

14.—Bill, in a wild impetuous manner, went dashing in at his man, but in the counters did little or no execution. Mace, after steadily planting both mauleys on the head, retreated, and in breaking ground slipped and fell.

15.—The Londoner made an attempt with the right, but was well stopped. As Mace broke ground, Thorpe followed him up with much gameness and resolution, and in the exchanges delivered a tidy spank with the left on the side of the head, when Mace went down to avoid the close, with more prudence than pluck.

16.—Mace, who had been allowing his opponent to do all the work, now saw he had him in hand; with great quickness and precision he let fly with both hands at the head, and repeated the dose without a return. Thorpe rushed at his man for the close, when Mace went down laughing.

17.—Thorpe met his antagonist with much resolution, and with the right planted a stinger on the side of the head. Mace, in retreating, slipped and went down, but on the instant he was again on his pins, and renewed the battle. In the counter-hitting he got home with telling effect, and in retreating from his man he again slipped and went on his knees, but instantly jumped up and faced his opponent. Bill, though, as usual, receiving all the punishment, stood his ground manfully, until they closed, when, after some little fibbing, Mace went down.

18 and last.—Mace in this bout gave his antagonist the coup de grace in the most off-hand and masterly manner. Thorpe came up desperate, and Jem, after stopping the opening shots of his opponent, delivered his left and right with stinging force on the middle of Master Bill’s nob, the last hit with his right being full on his nasal prominence. This immediately sent Thorpe to grass, and when “time” was called, it was found that he was in no condition to renew the contest. Hereupon Jemmy Welsh throw the sponge up in token of defeat, the battle having lasted twenty-seven minutes.

Remarks.—There was but one opinion among the cognoscenti as to the winner—namely, that he was one of the best boxers that we have seen for many a day. He is a quick and rapid fighter, and hits with judgment, precision, and remarkable force, as the condition of poor Thorpe’s head strikingly manifested. The Londoners knew by repute that he was considered to be a good general; but we are confident that they never for a moment imagined that he was anything like the man he turned out. As will be seen by our description of the rounds, he fights remarkably well, and when in danger has the ability to get out of it in clever style. From first to last he had the battle entirely in his own hands, Thorpe never having the remotest chance of winning, for he was out-fought and out-manœuvred in every round. Mace at the weight is a strong-made, powerful man, and if his pluck and bottom are in any way equal to his other qualifications, we can only say that it will require an opponent of first-rate ability to beat him. This tournament, however, is by no means a fair criterion of those qualities, for he had the fortune and skill to get in no way punished, absolutely winning the contest without so much as a black eye. Thorpe, the unfortunate loser, is, there can be no doubt, a very game man, but he will never be able to obtain a front position in the P.R. It must, however, be borne in mind that, as a game and determined fellow, he did his best, and it is to be hoped that he will not be forgotten either by his friends or by the winners. All being over, the company returned to the metropolis, which was reached before seven o’clock in the evening.

The money was given to Mace, at Mr. G. Smith’s, King Street, Norwich, on the following Thursday, when several matches were talked of, but nothing came of them. After a sparring tour, we find our hero in London, making Nat Langham’s his headquarters, and offering to do battle either with Mike Madden or Bob Brettle, of Birmingham, at 10st. 3lbs., for £100 a side. He was also “nibbled at” by Job Cobley (nicknamed by Baron Nicholson “the Elastic Potboy”) whose victories over Webb, Bob Travers (the black), and George Crockett, had brought him into the front rank of middle-weights; Cobley’s engagement with Mace going off, owing to the former being matched against Bob Brettle. Some pourparlers with Jack Grant also ended in talk, until, early in the month of September, Mace having left a deposit in the hands of the Editor of Bell’s Life, Mike Madden covered the same, and articles were signed for a fight for £50, to come off in the Home Circuit, on the 20th of October, 1857.

Mace was now in business as a publican, keeping the Swan Inn, Swan Lane, Norwich; and at the final deposit at Nat Langham’s on the previous Thursday we heard an ominous whisper to the effect that there would be “no fight;” while, per contra, we were assured by both parties that each meant fighting and nothing else. On the Friday Mr. Lockwood, of Drury Lane, on the part of Madden, and Langham, on the part of Mace, attended at the Editor’s Office, and were there informed, as that gentleman could not be present, he should exercise the power vested in the stakeholder by the articles of naming the referee, and further that he should appoint Dan Dismore to that office, to which neither of the parties made the slightest objection. On the Monday the men went to scale at Mr. Lockwood’s, and here there were loud complaints on the part of Mace’s friends about Madden’s style of weighing, they stating him to be overweight, also that he jumped off the scale before the balance was fairly ascertained, and, putting on his clothes, refused to return. On the other hand Madden and Co. averred that Mace never meant fighting, that after the weighing he went out of the house in his shirt sleeves, and did all in his power to attract the attention of the police; and that in the evening he went to Gravesend, where he ostentatiously paraded himself, and even proclaimed the whereabouts of the coming mill.

On the Tuesday morning, on reaching the ground, we found an excellent ring, which was quickly surrounded by a large number of Corinthians and other Ring patrons, prepared to witness what many expected—a real good battle. To their disappointment and surprise, however, when all other preliminaries were arranged, Mace and his friends stepped forward, and formally objected to Dan Dismore as referee, on the ground that he had money on the fight. Dan instantly replied that he had not a shilling on the result, and that he should not have been present had he not received the letter appointing him referee. Mace’s party persisted in their objection, and various propositions were made, among others one by Mike Madden himself, who said he was willing to fight with two umpires and without any referee; but to this Mace objected, as “contrary to the articles.” Several gentlemen were proposed for the onerous and thankless office, who either declined or were objected to; so at last what was to have been the second fight (between Clamp and Gibbs) was got off amidst disgraceful confusion, Clamp proving himself the best man in one hour and thirty minutes. Both Madden and Mace remained in or at the side of the ring while the men were fighting, and after some more discussion of the vexed question of a referee, all returned to London. On the Wednesday, after a patient hearing of both sides, the stakeholder declared that Mace having refused to go to the scratch, when called upon by the duly-appointed referee, had thereby deliberately violated the articles and forfeited the stake, £100, which in due course was handed over to Madden. An unusual amount of irrelevant correspondence, statements as to shares of stake-money, training expenses, unpaid bets, promises and defalcations, from Mace, Madden, and Messrs. Lockwood, Hayes, Dismore, Keene, &c. followed. Finally, after six months’ quibbling, a new match was agreed on, and the 10th of March, 1858, named as the day of battle.

Well do we remember the early muster on that spring morning at the Eastern Counties Railway terminus at Shoreditch. There was “old Mike,” whose deafness, solidity, and stolid look had already earned him the prefix of “old,” though he numbered but thirty summers; he was buttoned up to the chin, in an old-fashioned drab box-coat, with a deep-red neckerchief, and a sealskin cap, the ears of which completely covered his ears and cheeks. He was anxiously inquiring of the group around for his “friend the enemy,” as the time for starting was near. We entered the station. Could it be true? We had the word of the traffic station-master for it. After a brief conversation on the platform, in which some “d—d kind friend” inopportunely alluded to the lamentable result of “ould Mike’s” last battle—that with Jack Jones, of Portsmouth—Jem, with a nod of the head and a cheerful expression, left his friends, and seating himself in an Ipswich carriage just about to steam out of the station, coolly waved a “good-bye” to the astonished group! Another account states, that after Madden and Co. had gone down by the appointed train, Mace was found in a neighbouring coffee-house, whither he had taken refuge from an impending arrest by the police! It is not of much consequence which is the correct version, as the claim of Madden to forfeit from the absence of his opponent was made and fully admitted.

That the pugilistic qualifications and cleverness of Mace were still believed in by some of the best judges of boxing is shown by the fact that “George Brown’s novice,” as Jem was now called, was thought good enough to back against Bob Brettle of Birmingham, whose conquests of Roger Coyne, Sam Simmonds, and Bob Travers were then fresh in the memory of Ring-goers. George Brown, Billy Richardson, and Jack Macdonald were sponsors, and these knowing ones declared that the 21st September, 1858, would show “the coming champion.” Nevertheless, serious misgivings haunted the public mind, not only when the last deposit of the £200 stakes was “tabled,” but even on the short railway journey which preceded the voyage per steamer to Shell Haven, odds being taken that there would be “no fight that day.” Great, therefore, was the satisfaction when it was found that Mace was on board the boat, not only well but cheerful, and apparently confident. After a pleasant run down the river, a fitting spot was selected on the banks of the Medway, where Tom Oliver and his assistants pitched an excellent ring on a lovely piece of greensward.

The Champion of the Midlands was first to cast his beaver into the ropes, amidst hearty cheering, Alec. Keene and Jem Hodgkiss attending as his esquires. Mace soon after showed, advised by Jack Macdonald and Jemmy Massey. It wanted ten minutes to twelve when the men shook hands, the seconds retired to their corners, and the men threw themselves into position for

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—There was very little time lost in manœuvring, both men surprising their friends by an almost nervous eagerness to get at it. Mace at once made play, and let go both hands in the style that had so disconcerted Thorpe; Brettle, however, making a good stop or two, and returning wildly, getting two or three severe cracks, one on the ear so specially heavy that the blood appeared from his auricular organ, and the first event was scored to Mace. After a short rally Brettle closed; Mace hit up sharply, but Bob got the crook and fell over him. The friends of Mace thought their man meant fighting, and the odds which had been offered—5 and 6 to 4 on Brettle—subsided to evens.

2.—The men threw themselves into good form; Brettle tried to lead off with the left, but was stopped neatly, and after another offer and a shift, Jem landed his right smartly on Brettle’s left ear. Again there was a stop or two, and Mace got home slightly; Brettle retreated, and measuring his man as he came in, let go his right on the left side of Mace’s head, on the temple; down went the Norwich man, and the round was over. Alec Keene claimed “first knock-down” for Brettle, and the referee awarded it. Mace was picked up by his attentive seconds, when a strange commotion was seen in his corner; he glared round for a few seconds, then suddenly swooned in Jack Macdonald’s arms. Mac and Massey shook him, and the latter bringing a stool into the ring, tried to seat him thereon. In vain: his legs fell about like Mr. Punch’s, or the nether limbs of a fantocchino, and his toes determinedly found their way under the ropes. The syncope was so determined that the Brums began to roar and jeer, and the Eastenders to swear; when the enraged Mac administered such a vice-like pinch to his man’s ear, that he roared lustily, but the next moment was as insensible as ever to all outward things. “Time” was now called, and “Time!” was repeated by the referee. Jem was set up in a perpendicular position, but those recalcitrant legs sent up their heels, and Jem would have assumed a devotional attitude, but that the “stunted lifeguardsman” held him up by main strength, while his head fell sideways on Macdonald’s shoulder. “Time!” the eight seconds’ “grace” were counted. “There are none so deaf as those that won’t hear,” was once more verified, and Bob Brettle was declared the conqueror, the actual fight having lasted three minutes. On the boat it was observed that Brettle’s last hit had raised a very blue mouse on Jem’s cheek-bone, but that it had knocked him out of time—credat Judæus Apella—indeed we are sure no Sheeny from Houndsditch would believe it.

The elation of Brettle’s friends at this victory led them into a mistake. They matched their man against Tom Sayers, and on September 20th, 1859, in a short quarter of an hour, seven rounds disposed of the Brum’s pretensions, as may be fully read in our last chapter.

Mace’s next match remains a yet-unexplained riddle. He was backed on this occasion by Bob Brettle—the man who had defeated him with such apparent ease—against one of his own townsmen, Posh Price, at 10st. 10lbs., for £50 a side. Price was a boxer of proved game and no mean capabilities. The deposits were posted by Brettle in the name and on the behalf of a man called in the articles “Brettle’s Novice,” and it was not until the last deposit that it was declared that Jem Mace was the “Novice” thus described.

On the 25th of January, 1859, after the gallant battle between Dan Thomas (the Welshman) and Charles Lynch (the American), in which the former was victorious, a special train having conveyed the spectators and combatants from London Bridge to Aldershot Common, the ring was cleared and re-formed by Fred Oliver and his assistants. No sooner, however, had the ropes been tightened, and the stakes driven firm, than, to the chagrin of the expectant assemblage, a detachment of the rural constabulary made their appearance, and a move into the adjacent county of Surrey became imperative. The transit was quickly and safely effected, and no sooner was the ring adjusted, than “Brettle’s Novice,” attended by his backers, tossed his cap into the ropes in token of defiance, and stood revealed to all as Jem Mace of Norwich. His condition and bearing not even the most prejudiced could find fault with. The men went to scale on the previous day at George Brown’s, “The Bell,” Red Lion Market, both being well within the 10st. 10lbs. Posh Price, who was born in 1832, and won his first victory in the Ring at eighteen years of age, was as yet unbeaten. He had successively defeated Mush, Boucher, Leighton, Benson, Holland, Liddy, and lastly the once renowned Ben Terry, who fought a draw with Harry Broome. In all these battles he had borne himself bravely, and showed no mean amount of skill. It was not, therefore, to be wondered at that Price was favourite in the betting at 5 and 6 to 4. The Birmingham man was seconded by Sam Simmonds and Joe Wareham, while Mace had behind him Jem Hodgkiss and Brettle. Price, whose age was twenty-seven—Mace being one year older—was all his friends could desire in point of condition, and his hardy, good-natured mug wore a smile of confidence in the result of

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—On the retirement of their seconds the belligerents at once threw themselves into attitude, the superior freedom of Mace’s style being quite evident to the initiated. He played round his man, watching him keenly; Price looking somewhat puzzled how to begin. Presently Posh broke ground, and retreated, keeping a good guard; Mace followed his man closely, and, getting well within distance, popped in his left on Price’s mazzard, but was countered by Price’s left on the forehead. Mace stuck to his work, and caught Price right and left in the head. Posh fought determinedly in the exchanges, but Mace drove him back, planting the left on Price’s right eye with such severity that the ruby streamed down his cheek. (First blood for Mace.) After a break and a little wincing they again got within striking distance, when some heavy exchanges ended in Price being on the grass.

2.—The men went at once to work, and some slashing exchanges followed, in which Mace, partly from a hit, and partly from a slip, was down. In an instant he was on his feet again, and as the Brum, somewhat surprised, retreated before him, followed him close. Near the ropes Posh made a stand, and hit out with both hands. After some fine two-handed fighting in favour of Mace, Price was on the ground, Mace walking smilingly to his corner.

3.—Mace forced the fighting. He led off with astonishing rapidity, doing terrible damage to the Brum’s dial and cranium. Posh stood to his guns like a man, but Mace’s metal was too heavy for him. Nevertheless, in the exchanges, Price got in a hot ’un on Mace’s jaw, and another on his neck, that made Master Jem look serious, and although the odds had changed, the Brums took heart from the general opinion of Mace’s deficiency of game. In the close both were down at the ropes.

4.—Mace led off rather short, and as he got nearer Price planted his left in the middle of his opponent’s nob. (Tremendous cheering from the Brums). Mace drew himself together, and fighting rapidly, got heavily on Posh’s eye and mouth. The gallant Brum paused a moment, then dashed in, and after a magnificent rally, in which Mace astonished the spectators by the straightness and rapidity of his hitting, Price went down against his will.

5.—Jem lunged out his left, delivering an enlivener on his adversary’s brain pan, and getting cleverly away from the Brum’s returns. After a little sparring, Mace got again within distance, and in some clipping left-handed exchanges got with tell-tale force on the Brum’s dial. Posh, scorning to retreat, stood his ground, and fought up. In the fall both were down, Price undermost.

6.—Mace opened the ball with a shot from the left, when the Brum retreated. Jem followed, and again got in the left with telling effect. They closed at the ropes, when Posh, who was catching pepper, got down.

7.—Heavy counters, each doing execution on the head. As Price retreated, Mace followed, and as the Brum turned on nearing the ropes, Mace caught him a terrific right-hander on the head, just behind the ear, opening a cut from which the carmine ran copiously; Posh, who appeared dazed by the effect of this rasper, went down on his knees in the middle of the ring.

8.—Price came up slowly but steadily; in an instant Mace dashed in with electric rapidity, right and left, in his opponent’s damaged frontispiece; Price was, however, by no means idle, and stuck to Mace in the counter-hitting. In a rally Posh was down.

9.—Mace came with alacrity from his corner; he was almost unmarked, while poor Posh’s countenance was out of shape in every feature. Still he kept his form—such as it was—and tried to stop his man, too often ineffectually. Mace drove him to the ropes, and would have screwed him up for fibbing, but Posh slipped down through his hands.

10.—Posh made a desperate attempt to lead off, but Mace stopped him artistically, and caught him a smasher on the proboscis for his temerity; Posh in turn retreated, when Mace followed him. Price, to avoid a heavy right-hander, ducked his head, and in doing so caught his foot in the grass and fell.

11th and last.—The combatants came up readily. The Brum seemed determined upon a last effort to stem the tide, and the Norwich man at once accepted the attack. The exchanges were effective and sharp, and while the men were thus fighting, Mace hit his man a terrific blow on the left arm, which caused Price to drop his hand, and stagger to his corner. A swelling on the fore arm was instantly visible, and it was stated that the small bone of the limb was fractured. Sam Simmonds stepped forward and declared that his man was disabled, and he would not permit the game fellow (who had risen to his feet to renew the contest) to fight any longer. The sponge was accordingly thrown up, and Mace hailed the winner, the battle having lasted exactly 17 minutes.

Remarks.—We do not remember to have seen such severe and cutting punishment administered in so short a time in any battle of modern times. Mace, in this contest, not only justified the high opinion of his scientific quality which we always entertained, but displayed a steady resolution for which none had given him credit. True, he was never in danger of losing the fight, and as round succeeded round his superiority became more manifest. He fought throughout with wonderful quickness; and that his hitting was as hard as it was precise poor Posh’s battered mug and bruised carcase fully testified. Of the gallant Brum, we can only say he was out-classed, out-generalled, stopped, foiled, and punished at all points; and, as he did all that became a man, he deserves the respect of all who admire pluck and resolution; and it should not be forgotten that at last his defeat was due to an unfortunate and disabling accident, not to a surrender. The £100 was given over to Mace on the Tuesday following, at Bob Brettle’s “White Lion,” Digbeth.

Mace was now a publican, hanging out his sign at the Swan Inn, Swan Lane, Norwich, and exhibiting his talents almost nightly at the “Baronial Hall,” West End, Norwich. In the early months of 1859 we read, “Jem Mace, wishing to try his hand once again in the London P.R., will fight any man at 10st. 7lbs., in four months from the first deposit, for £100.” This was answered by Job Cobley; but for a time the friends of the “Elastic Potboy” hung back, and George Crockett offered himself at 10st. This weight was simply preposterous as a limit for Mace. Dan Collins, too, Sayers’s first opponent, proposed; but, doubtless fortunately for himself and friends, the match went off upon a question of amount of stakes.

At length in November, 1859, Bob Travers (then known as “Langham’s Black”) responded to Mace’s cartel, and articles were drawn to fight on the 21st of February, 1860, for £100 a side.

The character and antecedents of Travers left no doubt in the minds of the patrons of pugilism that Massa Bob would fully test the stuff of which Jem Mace was really composed. With the exception of a solitary defeat by Job Cobley, Travers’s reputation had been well won. In his first battle, October 29th, 1855, he beat Geo. Baker, in two rings (after an adjournment from October 19th) in twenty-three minutes, for £25 a side, at Tilbury. In February, 1856, he conquered Jesse Hatton, at Combe Bottom, in 76 minutes, during which 39 hard rounds were fought. George Crockett succumbed to his arm at Egham, in 37 rounds, occupying 114 minutes, on May 13 in the same year, in which also (he was fighting too often) he suffered his first defeat by Job Cobley, after a tremendous battle of 3 hours and 27 minutes, in which 110 rounds were fought. In January, 1857, he beat Cleghorn for £100 a side, on the Medway, in 36 rounds, 87 minutes, and in May 13th of the same year defeated the accomplished Bill Hayes, in 3¾ hours (!), the stakes being £100 a side. Beaten by Bob Brettle (Travers fell without a blow), January 27, 1858, he received a forfeit of £90 from Johnny Walker, who did not show, on the 25th May, 1858; and in April, 1859, beat the game and unflinching Mike Madden in 45 rounds, 97 minutes, at Ashford, Kent; and this brings us to his present engagement.

With such a deed-roll Travers’s chance was booked as a certainty by the circle at the “Cambrian,” where Massa Ebony was a “bright, particular star,” especially as many persisted in asserting the visible “white feather” in Mace’s plumage.

The men injudiciously delayed their departure from town until nine o’clock, and after a long journey by rail much time was lost before the excursionists got on board the “City of Rochester” steamer. John Heenan, the Benicia Boy, was among the voyagers, attended by Jack Macdonald, and was, as may be imagined, “the observed of all observers.” After a long water trip a debarkation was attempted in Essex, on an oft-visited spot, and there the ring was pitched, and all in readiness, when the police came in sight, and all were compelled to go on board again. After another steam trip of five miles a landing was effected in Kent. Travers, who won the toss for choice of corners, had for seconds Jerry Noon, and, to the mystification of many, Jem’s whilom patron Bob Brettle, with whom a feud had arisen. Bos Tyler and Jack Hicks attended upon Mace. Travers at the opening was an immense favourite, 2 to 1 being offered on him. It was five minutes to five o’clock when the men’s toilettes were completed and they stood up for

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—As they faced each other there could be no doubt that the condition of the combatants was faultless. Travers’s skin shone with an unmistakable lustre, resembling a dark piece of fine old Spanish mahogany. His massive and deep chest and broad lines displayed a grand development of muscularity, denoting the possession of exceptional strength. The only circumstance that detracted from his general appearance was his legs, and the looseness with which, like most niggers, he was put together. He looked all over smiles and grins, and as if perfectly confident he must be the winner. Mace, possessing the superiority in height and reach, with his keen eye, symmetrical frame, and graceful freedom of attitude, looked from head to foot an athlete to whom, if the heart were there, anything might be possible. His friends declared that he had “screwed his courage to the sticking place, and could not fail,” and the event proved their trust to be well grounded. Travers, after a little manœuvring round the ring, tried to lead off with the left, but was short. Mace was awake, and as Bob jumped back, Mace followed him, and Bob again hitting out, Mace nailed him with the left on the cheek, and then with the right on the left peeper. In the close, after a smart dose of fibbing, they struggled for the fall, when Mace threw Bob, but not cleverly. There was an attempt to claim first blood for Mace, but it was not admitted.

2.—The ice being fairly broken, the men were no sooner up than at it. Bob again led off, out of distance, with the left, then retreated with rapidity; Mace followed him up, and some sharp exchanges followed; the Black getting home on Jem’s mouth, while Mace was home with both hands on the Woolly-one’s nob. In shifting position, Travers got with his back on the ropes and rolled down.

3.—Both men came eagerly from their corners, and at once sparred for an opening. The Black, who was as lively as a young kangaroo, hopped about the ring; Mace kept to him, so at last, after hitting out without effect, Travers got down. (Disapprobation.)

4.—The combatants came up smiling. As yet there had been little harm done Travers, as usual, opened the ball, planting the right on the body; in return, Mace timed his man with fine precision, landing both left and right effectively, the latter on the point of the chin, when the Black went down on his hands and knees.

5.—After manœuvring and breaking ground, the men got to the ropes in Travers’s corner; the Black, after slight exchanges, getting down cunning. (There was an appeal of “foul,” which the referee disallowed, saying “Go on.”)

6.—As the Darkey, in somewhat ungainly fashion, was dancing about the ring, Mace went to him, and at the ropes planted both mauleys on the head with rattling precision. In the close Travers had his back on the ropes, when Mace tried to put on the hug; Travers got down.

There was here a general cry of “Police!” and a posse of these unwelcome intruders came to the ropes, when Bob, in his anxiety to “make tracks,” nearly ran into the arms of the Philistines. Jerry Noon had also a narrow squeak for it, and had he not jumped into the river and swum to a boat, he would certainly have been nailed, as the Bobby who had singled him out did not give up the chase until up to his middle in water. The escape so pleased several of the lookers-on who had reached the steamer in boats safely, that a subscription was made to “dry Jerry’s clothes,” and liberally presented to him when on board. The battle thus interrupted had lasted 21 minutes, and as darkness would soon come on, the steamer’s prow was directed homewards, and the referee ordered a meeting for the next day.

At an early hour on Wednesday morning, the men and their backers were on board, and at a few minutes after nine Fred Oliver announced all to be in readiness. Mace was first to throw his castor in the ring, which action was immediately followed by Travers, who entered with the same grin of nonchalance as on the preceding day. Mace had scarcely a visible mark, while the black’s ebony complexion concealed all but a cut over the left eyebrow. A rumour was spread that Mace’s left arm was partially disabled; but this proved a canard, no doubt flown to influence the betting, the Black still being backed at 2 to 1. The seconds were the same as on the first day.

THE RENEWED FIGHT.

Round 1.—Just before the commencement of hostilities, Travers proposed to back himself to any amount at evens, and produced a roll of notes about as thick as the steamer’s shore-rope for that purpose; but Mace politely declined, regretting that his exchequer was not so flourishing as to permit him to indulge in such speculation. Travers, in taking the initiative, broke ground with more haste than judgment. Jem again followed him, got home with both hands, and, after a close at the ropes, the Black slipped down anyhow.

2.—After a little sparring Mace got home beautifully on Bob’s black-letter title-page, when Travers retreated, hitting out wildly. Mace counter-manœuvred and followed, when Bob paused a moment, then rushed in hand-over-hand, but did not get home. Mace planted his left with fine judgment, following it with a job from the right; there was a little fibbing in the close, and both down by the ropes.

3.—Travers again led with the left, the blow alighting on Mace’s breast, when Mace caught him on the side of the head. Bob retreated, and went down to avoid. (Bos Tyler here appealed to the referee, who declined to notice the get down. “Go on.”)

4.—The Black, all activity, was all over the ring, Mace watching his gyrations keenly and following him close up. After a little fiddling, Mace got near enough, and planted his left sharply, but Travers, ducking his head at the instant, caught the blow on the top of his impenetrable skull. The Black tried to take a lead, but did not get home; Mace, getting to distance, planted a sharp left-hander in Bob’s face, who fell immediately in the middle of the ring. (Loud cries from Mace’s partisans of “Stand up! remember the 13th rule!”)

5.—Both men went eagerly to work, Mace got on a stinger over the left eyebrow; after some wild exchanges, in which Jem peppered the nigger handsomely, both were down, Travers first to earth.

6.—Travers dashed to in-fighting, when Mace again propped him beautifully, and after a scramble in the close, Bob got down anyhow.

7.—Travers, leading with the left, again reached Mace’s breast, when Mace stepped back and recovered guard. As Bob now broke in turn Mace followed as usual, and taking exact measure, popped in his left on the Darkey’s thick lips; Bob again sidled and skipped about the ring and as Jem was letting go a straight one the Black fell, as a bystander observed, “with the wind of the blow.”

8 to 14.—Similar in character, and an appeal by Hicks to the referee followed by a “caution” to Travers from that functionary. From the 15th to the 30th round Travers pursued the same dropping tactics, getting home with little effect at the opening of each round, but unable to prevent Mace’s stinging deliveries, from which his left eye was now fast closing, besides other serious disfigurements. Loud disapprobation was expressed at the Black’s shifty tactics, and in the 32nd round the referee got into the ring and went to Travers’s corner to warn him of the danger he was incurring. Bob assured him his fall was accidental, from the state of his shoes and the ground.

33.—Travers fought his man foot to foot in a fine rally, the hitting all in favour of Mace, and both down.

34.—Bob tried to lead once more, but Jem countered him beautifully, and the Black in getting away fell.

35 to 40.—Travers at the old game again, leading off, getting home slightly, and then scrambling or slipping down to avoid the consequences of standing up to his man. That Mace was winning as fast as his opponent’s shiftiness would allow was manifest. In the 57th and last round, after hitting out, the Black shifted his position, and as Mace was delivering his blow deliberately threw himself down. The referee now decided the battle against him, and Mace was hailed the victor at the end of one hour and thirty-one minutes. A scene of disgraceful confusion followed; Travers’s friends assailing the referee with the foulest abuse, and refusing to accept his decision. Travers shed tears, and declared he was ready to fight on, refusing to shake hands with his opponent. Travers was severely punished; Mace’s bruises were unimportant.

After some acrimonious disputation and letter-writing, the referee’s decision was properly upheld by the stakeholder, and the money handed over to Mace at Mr. Smithers, “Golden Cross,” Charing Cross, Norwich, on the ensuing Friday week.

We have already noted the fact of the disruption of friendly relations between Mace and his quondam conqueror and subsequent friend and patron Bob Brettle. In the early months of 1859 this ill-feeling took the form of a challenge from Mace to Brettle, and some haggling between the disputants on minor details and conditions. Mace’s last two exhibitions had so far restored the much-shaken confidence of his admirers as to satisfy them, however otherwise inexplicable his “in and out running” might be, that, at his weight, none could “live with him,” when he really meant “to stay.” So they listened to his solicitation to give him a second trial “with the only man who had ever beaten him, and that by a fluke”(?). In reply to Jem’s challenge for £100 Brettle replied that being now a “bung” in a good way of business it would not pay him to train under £200. Holywell Lane and Club Row, and a “voice from Norwich” preferred a bigger stake, so the prelims. were soon settled. The 19th September, 1860, was named as the day, and Oxfordshire, as (half-way between London and Birmingham) the locus in quo. Accordingly, the London division took their departure from Euston Square, meeting Brettle and Co. at Wallingford Road; there all alighted, and, under the pilotage of a local amateur, a charming spot was selected. Many of the older Ring-goers, however, expressed doubts as to the judiciousness of the selection, and foreboded an interruption, which came all too soon. No time, therefore, was lost, and at a few minutes before noon the men shook hands, and began.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—As the men toed the scratch it was clear to all that they were both all that could be wished in point of condition. Mace had three or four pounds’ advantage in weight, and also a trifle in height and length. Brettle, who looked rounder, bore a smile of self-satisfaction on his good-natured mug, and as he swung his arms in careless fashion, and raised his hands, he nodded to a friend or two, as if quite assured of the result. Brettle tried to lead off, but Mace stopped him coolly, and tried a return, which was prettily warded off by Brettle, who shifted ground. Bob offered again, but was stopped, and Jem popped in a nose-ender in return which drew Bob’s cork, and established a claim of “first blood for Mace.” Bob shook his head as if annoyed, and in he went ding-dong; the exchanges all in favour of Mace, who hit straightest, hardest, and oftenest. Brettle closed, and Mace was under in the fall.

2.—Brettle exhibited some red marks indicative of Mace’s handiwork, while Mace showed a mouse under the left eye. Bob again opened the ball, but he was baffled, and as he persevered Jem popped him prettily on the nose, and then on the mouth, Brettle, nevertheless, giving him a rib-bender with the right, and on Mace retorting on his kissing organ Bob got down.

3.—Brettle’s countenance bore increasing marks of Mace’s skill as a face-painter, but he lost no time in going to work; Mace stood to him, and sharp counter-hits were exchanged; Mace on Brettle’s left eye, Brettle on Mace’s jaw. Exchanges and a close; the men separated, and Mace, in getting away, fell.

4.—Brettle was more cautious. He waited, and tried to draw his man. After a little manœuvring Brettle, amidst the cheers of the Brums, dropped on Mace’s conk a rattler, producing the ruby. Jem looked rather serious, and the Brums were uproariously cheerful. Bob tried it again, but failed, for Mace was first with him with a smasher on the mouth. Brettle bored in, but Mace threw him cleverly, and fell on him.

5.—Brettle slow, being shaken by the blows and fall in the last round. Mace waited for him, delivering right and left straight as an arrow, and getting away cleverly from the return. Bob followed him wildly, getting more pepper; and in the end Brettle was down in the hitting.

6.—Brettle’s left daylight was nearly obscured, and the right showed a distinct mouse. His mouth too, was out of symmetry, and his nose, naturally of the Roman order, resembled a “flat-fish.” Notwithstanding, he went in, and got it on the nose and mouth, returning in a wild and ineffective fashion, until a hot left-hander brought him to his knees in anything but a cheerful condition. At this point a cry of “Police,” was followed by the appearance of a posse of “blues,” headed by a magistrate from Didcot. Hostilities were immediately suspended, and all returned to the train. On a council being held, the “manager” who had deprecated this landing, declared that there was now no hope of pulling up at any part of the line; so there was nothing for it but to order the men to meet the referee on the following morning. “Book agen” was the mot d’ordre, which was doubly vexatious for the Birmingham division, who nolens volens had to journey to London, with very doubtful prospects of getting back their money at the next meeting.

After some discussion, all parties agreed to a renewal of the combat on the 20th of the month. The day proving exceptionally fine, the men and their friends started at an early hour from Fenchurch Street, concluding the rail part of the journey at Southend, where a couple of steam-tugs were in waiting, and a voyage to ground on the sea-coast of Essex, never before visited by the Fancy, was chosen. The odds on Mace were not taken, Brettle’s friends being few, and lacking confidence. At five minutes to one, all being in order, the men stood up.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Brettle had not entirely got rid of the marks of the previous week’s encounter; besides a cut under the left eye, the right optic was “deeply, darkly,” but not “beautifully blue,” and his face looked somewhat puffy. Mace had no more than a skin-deep scratch or two. No sooner had Brettle toed the scratch, than instead of forcing the fighting he stepped back, as if to try whether an alteration in tactics might change the fortune of war. Mace appeared fora few seconds doubtful, then drawing himself together, he slowly followed his man. Getting closer, Brettle let fly his right, and got home on Mace’s head, too round to be effective, while Jem’s counterhit caught him flush on the dial. Brettle broke ground, Mace after him; Bob got home on Mace’s body, but fell at the ropes in retreating.

2.—Mace came up smiling, and was met cheerfully by the Brum. Mace was no sooner within distance than he made his one two on the nose and eye, Brettle’s returns being short and ineffective. As Bob shifted position he slipped down on one knee, but instantly rising renewed the battle. In the struggle at the ropes, Mace was under, and a “foul” was claimed, on the allegation that Brettle had tried to “gouge” his man. The referee said “Go on.”

3.—Mace came up with a slight trickle of claret from his proboscis. Brettle’s face looked as if Mace “had been all over it.” Brettle fought on the retreat, but Mace was too clever at long shots for him to take anything by that manœuvre. As Bob broke ground, Mace nobbed him so severely that his head nodded like a mandarin, and on a second visit down went Bob, staggering from something very like a knock-down.

4.—The Brum came up bothered; yet he faced his man boldly—it was observed that he hit with the right hand open. Mace timed him with a straight prop and retreated. The Brum bored in; the men got across the ropes, when Brettle, lest Mace should fib him, slipped down, as quickly as he could.

5th and last.—Brettle came up quickly, but Jem, perceiving he had got his man, stood to him, and delivered both hands with marvellous rapidity. Bob hit away desperately, fighting his opponent to the ropes, where Jem delivered two more punishers, and Bob was down “all of a heap.” His seconds carried him to his corner. “Time” was called, when Mace sprang rapidly from Johnny Walker’s knee. Brettle’s seconds were still busy at their man, until, the given eight seconds having expired, Jem Hodgkiss threw up the sponge, and Mace was hailed the conqueror; the second fight having lasted seven minutes, the first twelve—nineteen minutes in all.

Remarks.—These shall be as brief as the battles. From first to last Brettle was out-classed, over-matched, and out-fought, Mace fully proving that once on a winning track, at a winning pace, he was not to be beaten.

In the summer of 1860, a gigantic Lancashire wrestler, 6ft. 2½in. in stature, and balancing 15 stone, put forth a claim to the Championship, and to do battle with this Goliath no better man was found than the once-hardy Tom Paddock, now on his last legs. They met on November 5th, 1860, when poor Tom was knocked out of time by the clumsy Colossus in the 5th round (see ante p. 307). With Sam Hurst—having formed a very low opinion of his boxing capabilities—Jem was most anxious to try conclusions, rightly estimating that a triumph over such a “man mountain” would dissipate any lingering doubts in the public mind of his personal pluck and prowess.

Accordingly, articles were drawn for a fight for £200 a side, Waterloo Day, the 18th of June, 1861, appointed for this interesting combat, and a trip down the river agreed to by both parties. It was determined that, to avoid interruption, an early start should be effected, and so well was this arrangement carried out that at a quarter before nine o’clock the queerly-matched pair stood facing each other in a marshy field on the river-shore, in the centre of a well-surrounded ring; Bos Tyler and Woody being entrusted with the care of Mace, Jem Hodgkiss and Jerry Noon nursing the North Country “Infant.”

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The old comparison of “a horse to a hen,” was not so fully verified as might be supposed, there being five stone difference in their relative weights, though the discrepancy in size was certainly remarkable. There was another point of contrast which, to the eye of the initiated, was fully worth consideration in any calculation of the chances of victory, and that was, the condition of the men. The Norwich champion’s compact symmetrical figure, well set-on head, bright keen eye, and finely-developed biceps, with tendons showing like knotted whipcord, muscle-clothed shoulders, square bust, flat loins and rounded hips, the whole supported by a pair of well-turned springy-looking pedestals, looked a model gladiator. Hurst, on the other hand, loomed big, heavy, clumsy, while a slight lop-sided lameness, the result of a broken leg, which accident had befallen him since his battle with Tom Paddock, did not improve the naturally ponderous slowness of his movements. His skin, though clear, seemed loose in parts, and the flesh looked flabby on his back and sides. There was an ungainliness in every movement, too, which suggested a second edition of the Tipton Slasher, considerably enlarged. His face, however, was tolerably hard, and he had a look of determination which augured well for his own opinion of success. His friends depended much upon the effect of any single blow he might get in in the course of the mill, feeling a kind of confidence that any damage he might incur from Mace he would put up with without a murmur, and that he certainly possessed an amount of game which, had it been backed by an ordinary share of the other attributes of a pugilist, must have rendered him invincible. On taking position Hurst at first stood well, with his left rather low, and, if anything, his elbow a little too close to his side; his general attitude, however, was good, and all fancied he had improved since his appearance with Paddock. This, however, lasted for a very brief period. Mace appeared steady, serious, and cautious, and fully aware of the difficulties he would have to face. He sparred round his man, in and out, feinting with all the skill of a perfect master of the art, but for some time did not venture near the gigantic arms of Hurst which swung like the sails of a windmill. At last he crept up, and after a quick feint led off on Sam’s left eye, but not heavily. Hurst made a chop in return, but out of distance. Jem again crept near, feinted then hit Sam heavily, left and right, on the cheek and nose, without a return. Hurst, not liking this, lumbered after his man, and a sharp exchange followed, Mace on the cheek and Hurst on the ribs. Mace retreated, looking serious, walked round his man, jobbed him swiftly on the nose, and got away laughing. Hurst tried another rush, and made one or two chopping hits which Mace easily avoided and then planted a straight right-hander on the nose, gaining “first blood,” amidst the uproarious cheers of his friends. Hurst still bored in, but only to receive another smack on the left eye; he just succeeded in reaching Jem’s lips, and the latter fell, laughing.

2.—Sam came up with the claret trickling from his nose, and his left eye swollen and discoloured; he commenced business at once by rushing at his man, slinging out his arms with no sort of precision. He caught Mace on the ribs and back, close to the shoulder, rather heavily with his right, which made the latter look very solemn, and caused him to retreat awhile, stopping right and left, and avoiding close quarters. At length he shook himself together, and again playing round, put in a heavy hit on the left cheek, and then got home with great force on the nose, drawing more blood; this he followed with a straight job in the mouth, drawing the ruby from the giant’s lips. The spectators were astonished at Sam’s inertness. Hurst let go both hands, when Mace with ease stepped between his arms, and delivered both hands with the quickness of lightning, and with tremendous force, upon the nose and eye. Again and again did he do this, and then step away, inflicting fearful punishment, and laughing defiance at Hurst’s ungainly attempts at retaliation. Hunt, who was clearly a mere chopping block to Mace, seemed bewildered by the severity of the hitting, but still persevered, only, however, to be jobbed heavily on the mouth, nose, and left eye, which latter was quickly shut completely up. Still the game fellow persevered, until it seemed perfectly cruel to let him go on. Mace did exactly as he liked without a return, and at length in a close both were down. It was a dog fall (side by side), but it proved that Hurst’s supposed superiority of power was destroyed, probably by the weakness of his leg. Mace was almost scatheless at the end of the round, while Hurst, as may be imagined, was fearfully punished.

3.—Hurst, notwithstanding his injuries, was first to the scratch, his left eye closed, and the whole of the left side of his cheek bruised and cut; his nose too was swollen and bleeding. Mace, with the exception of a slight scratch on his mouth, was little the worse for wear. Hurst, in desperation, immediately rushed at his man, but Jem met him with a stinger from his right on the nose, drawing a fresh stream, and jumped back, covering his head completely. Sam, furious, persevered, but the more he swung out his arms the more did he lay himself open to an attack. He hit round, he sawed the air, he chopped, and, in fact, did everything that a perfect novice would do, but it was only to expose him to more attacks from his artistic foe. At length he succeeded in planting a heavy blow on the jaw, which almost knocked Mace down, but Jem steadied himself, and returned desperately on Goliath’s mouth. Mace got away, stepped quickly in again, and hit Hurst severely in the face, left and right, without a return. Hurst, thoroughly confused, tried another rush, but Mace retreated all round the ring, repeatedly jobbing him with impunity as he lumbered after him. At length Jem caught his foot against a stake, and fell, but was up in an instant, and after a feint or two got home on Sam’s good eye twice in succession. Hurst’s returns were ridiculously short; in fact they were not like blows at all, and never seemed to come from the shoulder. At length he got a little right-hander on the body, but received two heavy left-handed hits in quick succession on the cheek. Sam, in rushing in, here stepped on to Mace’s toe, the spike in his boot entering the flesh, and inflicting a severe wound. Jem drew back his foot in pain, and pointed to it, but Hurst shook his head, as if to say it was unintentional. After Mace had inflicted a little more punishment he slipped down; poor Hurst, who was completely blown by his exertions, panting like an overdriven dray-horse, stood in the middle of the ring. Some influential friends of Hurst’s wished him here to give in, but his principal backer would not bear of it.

4.—Jem merely showed a slight bruise under the left arm, while Hurst was awfully punished about the face, but was still strong. He rushed at his man at once, who laughed, got away, and then, after leading him a dance, turned, and delivered another tremendous hit on the blind eye. Again and again did Hurst follow him, and as repeatedly did Mace hit him with stinging effect in every direction. Mace at last seemed tired of his exertions, and stood for a short time with his arms down. Hurst also rested a little from sheer exhaustion; at length he made another rush, and Jem, in getting away, slipped down. Hunt pointed at him, as much as to say it was deliberate, but Jem was up at once, and offered to resume the round, but Hurst’s seconds took him away. Thirty minutes had now elapsed.

5.—Sam, whose face was coloured all over, made another rush and got slightly home on the body, when Jem again slipped down. Once more he jumped up to renew the round, but Sam walked away to his corner at the call of his seconds.

6.—Jem made the fighting, and planted heavily on the cheek and nose, getting quickly and easily away. Again did he do this, and then again, hitting Hurst with stunning force in the middle of the head with both hands, until the poor fellow turned away completely bewildered. Nevertheless, he quickly rallied, and again tried his rush, but only to get into more difficulties, until everybody round the ring cried “Take him away!” (Hodgkiss here appealed to his backers to be allowed to throw up the sponge; they refused, indeed, it was evident that Sam himself would not yet consent to own that he was licked.) Sam made another rush, and after slight exchanges, closed; a brief struggle took place, when both fell, Hurst undermost. It was claimed by Mace’s friends as a cross-buttock, but it scarcely amounted to that, although Jem certainly had the advantage in the fall.

7.—Bob Brettle now appealed to Sam’s backers to give in, but in vain. Bob tried to get into the ring, and did throw up his hat, but was forced away by Sam’s backers. Mace offered to shake hands, and seemed unwilling to inflict more punishment, feeling that it was useless cruelty. Sam would not hear of surrender, but made his rush, and succeeded in getting home his right on the body, when Jem fell.

8th and last.—Hurst came up staggering, his face much disfigured; Mace also seemed rather tired. Sam made a final effort, letting go both hands, but was short, and received two more very straight hits on the cheek and nose, drawing claret in fresh profusion. Sam blundered in almost blind, and Mace pushed, rather than hit him, several times in the head, looking at him steadily and stepping back after each delivery. The “big ’un” was evidently powerless, and Jem was commendably forbearing. Another attempt was made by Brettle to throw up the sponge, and the referee stepped into the ring to remonstrate with Sam’s principal backer, but neither he nor Hurst would listen to reason. The consequence was that Jem was reluctantly compelled to hit him again, which he did with perfect impunity; and finally Jem Hodgkiss, finding it useless to reason with either Sam or his backer, took the responsibility upon himself, and threw up the sponge, forcing the unwilling giant to his corner, where Mace went up to him, and shook hands, although sorely against Hurst’s will, who could not even now reconcile to himself his defeat by one upon whom he looked with contempt. Mace was then proclaimed the victor, after fighting for fifty minutes. He bore his honours modestly, and as soon as possible went round with the hat, and collected the sum of £35 for his unsuccessful antagonist.

Scarcely was this done, when the police made their appearance, fortunately too late to prevent a satisfactory conclusion.

Remarks.—Volumes could not prove more demonstratively the value of skill in the art of boxing as turning the scale against mere weight and strength, than this one-sided contest of Mace and Hurst. Poor Hurst, who had been trained by Turkish Baths, instead of hard work, ought not to have fought this battle. Apart from his want of condition, however, it was quite manifest he was not cut out for a fighting man. He had little knowledge of the art of self-defence, could not hit straight from the shoulder, and it was obvious that a man of his build and gait—even when endowed with the uncommon powers he displayed as a receiver—cannot hope to contend with success against extraordinary cleverness and activity, even though possessed by a man of far lighter calibre than himself. The unfortunate Sam was, however, a remarkably straightforward fellow, and from the first it was clear he had the interests of his friends more at heart than his own, and the greatest credit is due to him for his manly perseverance. No credit, however, is due to those who allowed him to go up after every possible chance of success had vanished.

As to Mace, his fighting was faultless; he was not called upon to display any great amount of gameness, though the mere facing such a giant and exchanging shots at close quarters involves a confidence and coolness that shows no small amount of personal courage. As to Mace’s attack and defence, they were in every respect indicative of the master. It redounds to his praise that he abstained from making a more rapid finish, as he certainly might have done, unless restrained by a desire to spare his almost helpless antagonist. This battle elevated to the Championship of England one of the most finished boxers who had ever gained the title.

Jem Mace was now on the pinnacle of success, and as—

“Envy doth merit as its shade pursue,

And by the shadow prove the substance true,”

so the newly fledged Champion was carped at, criticised, challenged, and unfavourably compared with all sorts and sizes of preceding and even contemporary heroes of the Ring. As to the unconquered little Champion, who had, after his great battle with John Heenan, in April, 1860, finally bid farewell to the fistic stage, he had left no immediate successor; so “the world seemed left” for Jem Mace “to bustle in,” and the question of the cynical Cassius was for a time unanswered—

“When went there by an age since the great flood,

But we were famed with more than with one man?

When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome,

That her wide walks encompassed but one man?”

“Time and the hour,” however, never fail to bring “the man,” and in these latter days of the Ring he came, in the person of Tom King, whose first appearance in November, 1860, and subsequent career, will form the subject of the concluding chapter of our history.

The form displayed by King in his first two battles, although neither of his opponents stood high in the pugilistic roll, was thought to give promise that the belt might again revert to a Champion of the traditional 12-stone calibre and stature.

There can be no dispute that after the retirement of Tom Sayers, the public sympathy with the Ring and favour with its professors had completely faded away, just as, in the preceding century (in 1760), after the defeat of Slack by Stevens “the Nailer,” the title of Champion was dragged through the dirt by a set of unworthy “knights of the dirty cross,” until its restoration by the brave Tom Johnson. At a later period came its reestablishment in more than its former renown by John Jackson,[34] George Humphries, Mendoza, John Gully, the Belchers, Tom Cribb, and Tom Spring, and their successors, who live only in these pages which record its “decline and fall.”

To return from digression, we may state that the challenge of Tom King, and the signing of articles for £200 a side, for a meeting on the 28th of January, 1862, excited but faint interest even in those circles where a struggle for the Championship was wont to set all upon the qui vive. Indeed, those who were anxious that a change for the better should take place, and a removal of the disgraceful disorder which had driven from the ring-side those on whom both pugilism and pugilists depended for their existence, were fain to confess that pugilism was dead—dead by the hands of its own pretended friends, and the misconduct of prizefighters themselves. Still a few of “the old guard” rallied round the colours; and the good character of Tom King, with the now well-earned reputation of Mace, gave them hopes of a revival of honesty, manliness, skill, and “a fair field and no favour” for both men.

The morning of the 28th of January, 1862, dawned—if such dim light as struggled through the dense masses of dark clouds deserved the name of dawn—wet, cold, cheerless and miserable, and to add to this unpromising look-out, there were added unpleasant rumours that the “authorities” of half a dozen home counties had taken sweet counsel together how to frustrate the fight; that the magnates of the railway boards had been notified and communicated with on the subject of sinful “specials,” and the complicity of conveying company to the field of blood; that every police inspector and superintendent had been put on his mettle by the solemn warnings of “My Grandmother,” the Record, Watchman, and a host of “unco guid” newspapers and puritanical preachers, of “the awful responsibility to God and man” they incurred in not “stamping out” this “national sin.” We quote from a Sheffield print and preacher, who thus charitably described a fair and manly contest for the belt—the symbol of skill and courage in the exercise of the most humane mode of often unavoidable encounter between man and man, especially among the lower orders. We name Sheffield, because it was not long after infamous for the “organised assassination” council of Messrs. Broadhead and Co.; whilst its “public instructors” were denouncing and suppressing an art which certainly does not include ginger-beer bottles charged with blasting-powder placed under the beds of the wives and children of obnoxious parents; cylinders of dynamite thrown through the fanlights or windows of humble dwellings; the use of loaded bludgeons and fire-arms from street corners or behind dead walls; the splitting of grindstones; or the cutting of driving-bands, as modes of settling personal or popular disputes. Yet from all these murderous and treacherous cruelties the anti-fistic teachings of the Reverend Mr. Lilyliver failed to wean and guard his “lambs.” We return from this digression to our own “muttons,” whom, we opine, even in their last and worst days, were as unlike “lost sheep,” and perhaps less like “goats,” than their saintly slanderers.

Thus pleasantly forewarned by the croaker pessimists, the “managers” prudently declined to give any hint of the “whereabouts” until the Monday night previous to the encounter (January 28th), when tickets were purchasable at Jem Mace’s house (Jem was now landlord of the “Old King John,” Holywell Lane, Shoreditch), and at Nat Langham’s new house, the “Mitre,” St. Martin’s Lane, merely conveying the facts that the rendezvous was at London Bridge, and at the unusually early hour of six o’clock. The difficult point of choosing a referee was also judiciously arranged for. Arrived at the terminus of the South Eastern, we found a more numerous gathering of the “right sort” than we had anticipated; a proof that “still in their ashes lurked their former fires,” and that a well-conducted mill had yet attractions for the legitimate patrons of the sport. The last two championship battles (those between Tom Paddock and the Staleybridge Infant, Hurst, and Jem Mace and the same clumsy giant) were not, viewed as battles, anything but exposures of the lamentable lack of good men; while the disgraceful confusion, and double interruption of the police, of the yet more recent fight between Bob Brettle and Rooke, almost extinguished the last hope of the survival of the Provincial Ring.

It was nearly seven when the bell rang for departure, and the train steamed away on its journey. Owing to the excellent arrangements of Nat Langham, who acted for King, and Mr. Moss Phillips, who attended to the interests of Mace, all parties were duly deposited at their destination at a little after eight o’clock, Mace attended by Jack Hicks and Bob Travers the Black, his late opponent, and King by Bos Tyler and Jerry Noon. King, who had trained at Mr. Packwood’s, at Hammersmith, was in first-rate fettle; nor was Mace, who had taken his breathings near Norwich, and latterly near Newmarket, one whit behind him in respect of condition; each was “fit to fight for a man’s life.” “It is a long lane that has no turning,” and as we looked at the orderly array of the inner and outer ring, and the attentiveness of the ring-constables, armed with their brass-bound whips and their badges, we flattered ourselves for a time that the turning-point had been reached, and that “a fair fight and no favour, and may the best man win,” might once again be a phrase with a meaning. Thus dreaming, as “hope told a flattering tale,” we addressed ourselves to the duty of observing the fight we here chronicle.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Having gone through the customary friendly salutation at the scratch, each man drew back and threw himself into position. There was at this moment a silence that might be felt, and the eager glances directed by all toward the combatants evinced the interest with which every movement was being watched by those surrounding the ring. There was undoubtedly much to rivet the attention of the patrons of the art; for though both were unquestionably fine fellows, yet there was that disparity between them which could not fail to impress itself even on the uninitiated. Mark the towering height of King, standing a clear 6 feet 2 inches in his stockings, and, as he faces his opponent with attentive watchfulness, but without a sign of nervousness or anxiety, how immense and preponderating appear the advantages in his favour. Tom, we were informed by Langham, when he last scaled, pulled down 12st. 8lbs., and taken for all in all must be declared a model man, although some judges of athletes declared his loins too slender for a man of his height Tom, like Mace, has a bright, keen eye, but he lacks the square-out jaw bone and hard angular contour which some judges of “points” declare to be always found in the “thoroughbred” boxer. Be that as it may, King’s length of reach, firm, round muscle, skin ruddy with the glow of health, and cheerful, courageous aspect gave promise of a formidable opponent, even to the scientific Champion, Jem Mace. As to the Champion, who pulled down 11st. 4lbs. on the preceding Monday, he was “all there,” and as he himself said, felt “fit as a fiddle.” After keeping on guard a few seconds, during which Mace was keenly scrutinising him, Tom dropped his hands, resting his left upon his left thigh; Jem, being out of range, and seeing that Tom had lowered his daddles, followed suit, and the position of the pair at this moment caused some astonishment. Tom rubbed his left forearm with his right hand, and Jem, who also felt the chilly effects of the morning air on coming out of his flannels, rubbed his breast with his right palm. Tom, in shifting, had got nearer his own corner, when Jem advanced, and, from the manner he gathered himself together, evidently intended mischief; his left was admirably poised, while his right played with firm elasticity, ready as a guard, or, if occasion presented itself, a shoot. Tom, however, was on the alert, and Mace, after putting out a feeler or two, sprung back to tempt Tom to follow. King, who at first seemed a little puzzled, smiled and retreated, cool as a cucumber in an ice-well. There was more than one repetition of the movement we have here described, the men shifting, changing position, and manœuvring all over the ring without coming to business. King had heard so much of the ability of Mace that he felt he was standing before the best tactician of the day, and would not lead off. Mace, on the other hand, with the perception of a practised general, found that he had before him a dangerous and determined antagonist; one whom it would not do to treat in the style he had made an example of big Sam Hurst. At length, after a display of almost every sort of drawing and defensive tactic, Mace got well in, delivering a neat nobber with the left, stopping the return, and getting away. King dashed at him, his height enabling him to hit over Jem’s guard, and Tom got one in on Mace’s head with the right; the men closed and fibbed, then getting on to the ropes, both went down. The seconds were instant in their attendance, Bos Tylor claiming “first blood” for King, which was admitted, as the cochineal was trickling from a cut on the Champion’s shin. King’s partizans were in ecstasies, and “Who’ll lay 2 to 1 now?” met no response.

2.—The cold rain now came down in earnest, and did not much abate throughout the rest of the mill. With ready alacrity each man came from his corner and scratched simultaneously with his opponent. Mace, who was still bleeding, looked flushed. After a little sparring, Mace popped in his left. His second hit was prettily countered, but notwithstanding King’s length, Jem’s blow seemed hardest, reaching home a “thought” before his adversary’s poke. Another exchange, Tom getting on the side of Mace’s head, but not severely, and Jem’s smack in return sounding all round the ring. In the close both were down.

3.—The ball had now been fairly opened, and each bout improved the spirit of the performance, on which even the pitiless rain could not throw a damper. Jem, on coming from his corner, was still distilling the elixir vitæ from the old spot, which as yet seemed the only mark made. King went dashing in to force the fighting, and the hot haste of the onslaught marred the pretty position of Jem. Tom, who seemed to hit from the forearm rather than the shoulder, got home his left on the jaw, and then, with the right, reached Jem’s head; his superiority of length of reach being fully demonstrated. Jem, however, quite balanced accounts by two severe props in the nob; King closed, and Mace got down easy.

4.—The rapidity of King’s fighting seemed somewhat to surprise Mace, and he moved right and left in front of his man, his point well covered. Tom dashed in left and right, and went to work, his counsel advising the forcing principle; King, in hitting out, had his left hand partially open; Mace cross-countered with the left a smasher, but a second attempt passed over King’s shoulder. Jem broke away, and in retreating got to the centre stake. Tom, following, dashed out his right, when Mace ducked his head and slipped down, thereby escaping a rasper.

5.—Mace first to scratch, King promptly facing him. As Tom tried to lead off with the left, Mace showed how well he was fortified by his left-hand guard, and then retaliating with the right. King, in turn, retreated. Tom, in shifting, got to the ropes, when Jem weaved in, getting both hands on head and body. Tom lashed out both hands defensively, but could not keep Jem off until he chose to retire to his own corner, where he got cleverly out of difficulty and was down.

6.—King had evidently got home at the close of the last round, for Jem came up with his proboscis tinted with the carmine. Tom dashed at his man with more determination than judgment, hit from the forearm without doing execution; Jem, hitting up as he made the backward break, gave Master Tom a straightener, who, persevering, got his man down at the ropes; no harm done.

7.—Jem advanced to the scratch with a firm step and determined bearing, as if the difficulties of his position had only produced a concentration of the resolute “I will.” The men stood eyeing each other in the pelting rain; Jem rubbed his chest, which had a large red mark as though a warm plaster had recently been removed. After manœuvring round the ring, Mace got to range, delivering a well-aimed shot on King’s cranium. As Jem broke ground he nearly lost his equilibrium from the slipperiness of the grass, but quickly steadied himself. After a feint or two, they got well together and countered splendidly, Mace sending home his left on Tom’s right cheek, King getting his right on the Champion’s left peeper, raising a small bump, and causing him to blink like an owl in sunshine. The men, with mutual action, broke away, and manœuvred all over the ring. At last Jem, measuring his man accurately, gave him such a left-hander on the snuff-box that claret du premier crû was copiously uncorked. As Mace retreated after this smack Tom went in rather wildly, and closing, got his left leg between Mace’s and threw him. (Cheers for King.)

8.—Tom no sooner faced his man than he made play, and got his right arm round Mace; he then tried to lift him by main strength for a throw, but the Champion put on the head-stop, with his hand on Tom’s face, and King had to let him go down an easy fall.

9.—King, by the advice of his seconds, again forced the fighting, slung out both hands, and closed, when Mace cleverly put on the back heel, and down went Tom undermost.

10 to 14.—The ropes had now got slack, and Puggy White busied himself in driving the stakes deeper, and tightening them. In this and the following four rounds, King still led off, and though his hits did not seem severe, he had got as often on Jem’s eye and nose, that his friends were confident of his pulling through.

15.—The odds seemed melting away like butter in the sun, and the backers of the Champion were just becoming “knights of the rueful countenance;” while Tom’s partisans were as merry and chirpy as crickets; Jerry Noon, especially, dispensing an unusual and unseemly store of chaff among the despondent patrons of Mace. King once again went at his man, and both were down at the ropes. King’s seconds claimed the battle for a “foul,” alleging that Mace had tried to force his fingers into King’s eye in the struggle at the ropes; the referee crossed the ring to caution Mace, who indignantly denied any intention of so unmanly an action.

16.—King seemed determined to lose no time. He rattled in, and Mace, nothing loth, stood up and hit with him, certainly straightest and swiftest. In the close both were down at the ropes.

17.—In sparring, the combatants changed positions, and paused in the centre of the ring. King had been fighting very fast, and wanted a breathing time. On resuming, he went in, and after some exchanges Mace got down easy at the ropes.

18.—Sharp exchanges, left and right, on the cheek, mouth, and jaw, when Jem, in shifting, dipped down. His seconds ran to him, but he motioned them away, resumed his perpendicular, and beckoned Tom with a smile to renew the bout. The challenge was cheerfully accepted, and fighting into a close both were down.

19.—The men were admirably seconded in both corners, and both came up clean and smiling, though each had the contour of his countenance seriously altered by his opponent’s handiwork. In a close both fibbed away merrily and both were down.

20.—There was an objection by Jerry Noon that Mace had some “foreign substance” in his left hand, King opened his hands before the referee, and Mace, following his example, merely showed a small piece of paper in his palm, which, however, he threw away. Mace’s left hand seemed somewhat puffed, and Tom’s leading counsel, observing this, told King that his adversary’s “left was gone,” which it was not, for Mace, this time, took the initiative, and landed the left sharply on Tom’s cheek. As Mace broke ground Tom followed, and when near the stake he landed a round hit from the right on Jem’s left jaw that sent him to grass—a clean knock-down blow.

21.—Tom, eager to be at work, went in, but he did not take much by his motion; after several exchanges, Jem retreated. Mace slipped and got between King’s legs in a defenceless position, holding himself up by the handkerchief round Tom’s waist. King gallantly withheld his hand, threw up his arms and smiled, walking to his corner amidst general cheering.

22.—King was now the favourite, odds being offered on him of 6 to 4, but no takers. King, as before, began the business, and Mace was down to close the round.

23.—This was a harmless bout. King bored in; Mace missed as he retreated, backed on to the ropes, and got down.

24.—Both men came up with alacrity, despite the pelting rain which streamed down their faces and limbs. King was evidently slower, and Mace tried a lead. He did not, however, get quite near enough, and Tom pursued him round the ring until both were down, Mace undermost.

25.—A curious round. Tom dashed at Mace, who stopped him, then twisted round and got away. Tom followed, and Mace propped him; at the ropes, when down, both men patted each other in a good tempered manner.

26.—Mace came up determinedly, but exhibited ugly punishment off the left eye and mouth. Still he was steady, and met Tom’s onslaught cleverly. King closed and tried to hold up Mace, but he slipped through his hands.

27.—Tom administered a right hander on the jaw, and down went Mace against his will for the second time.

28.—Mace recovered from the effects of his floorer in an amazing manner. Tom had now a serious bump on his right eye the size of a walnut, and had otherwise lost his facial symmetry. His friends were, however, more than sanguine, and urged him to keep his man at it. Tom tried to do so, but got nothing at it, and in the fall hit the stake.

29.—King got a round right-hander on Mace’s back of his head, and both were down—a side fall.

30.—Mace seemed wonderfully steady, and in good form. King, as before, made play; the ground was so soddened, cut up, and pasty, that a good foothold was impossible. Tom sent in his right, and Jem, with well-judged precision, returned with both mauleys, when King embraced him, but Mace put on the back-heel, and threw Tom cleverly on his back; as Mace rose first from the ground he patted King in a good-tempered manner, amidst cries of “Bravo, Mace!”

31.—King, as he sat on his second’s knee, seemed much distressed. His sides heaved like a forge-bellows; his seconds were most assiduous, and sent him up clean and fresh. Tom came slowly from his corner; not so Jem, who advanced quickly to the scratch, and then tried to entice his man to lead off. At last he did so, and gave King as good as he sent, when Tom forced Mace to the ropes. The latter turned himself round, reversing their positions, and, after a short wrestle, threw Tom with the back-heel a fair fall.

32.—Exchanges; King on the body, Mace on the head, and both down.

33.—King still forcing the fighting; Mace as lively as a grasshopper. After some pretty exchanges, Mace got home the left on his opponent’s right cheek—a cutter—a close, some fibbing, and both down, King over the lower rope, and partly out of the ring.

34.—Mace first from his corner, but had not long to wait for his opponent. Tom hit out with better intention than judgment, and failed to do execution. A close, Mace again got King with the back-heel, and threw him heavily.

35.—The sun of success was brightening in the East, though the clouds were pouring heavily. King was suffering from his protracted exertions, and “bellows to mend” was the case in his corner. His heart was good, and he fought gallantly into a close, catching pepper; Mace, after delivering a flush hit, falling in the middle of the ring.

36.—After a little manœuvring, the men got on the ropes, when King slipped down by a pure accident. As King’s friends had objected to Mace’s style of getting down, there were derisive counter-cheers and cries of “foul!” followed by enthusiastic cheers for both men.

37.—Tom’s seconds found that their plan of forcing the fighting had miscarried, and now gave opposite advice. King waited for Mace, who manœuvred and feinted, until Tom let go his left, and was countered artistically. Mace then stepped in and delivered his left full in King’s dial and in an exchange both were down in the middle of the ring.

38–40.—King, finding Mace his master at out-fighting, resumed his plan of going to work just as he was getting second wind. The rounds again were of the old pattern; King got the larger and heavier share of the hitting, and both were down, Mace choosing his own time to end the round. In the 40th round, King complained of Mace using him unfairly, but the referee saw nothing calling for his notice.

41, 42, 43 and last.—King was visibly distressed in the first two of these three final rounds. In the last of these bouts the combatants closed in the middle of the ring, when Mace, who had delivered a heavy thwack on King’s neck, struggled with him for the fall. In going down, King, who was undermost, struck the front of his head with great force on the ground. Tom’s seconds had him in his corner in an instant, as the position was critical. The die was however, cast. “Time!” was called in vain. Mace, who was eagerly watching his opponent’s corner, advanced to the scratch. The referee entered the ring, watch in hand. The eight seconds were counted; but King was still deaf to the call of “Time!” and Mace was hailed the winner, after one hour and eight minutes of rapid fighting on both sides. Scarcely had the fiat gone forth when a posse of police made their appearance, who, to do them justice, seemed glad that the affair was over before their arrival.

Remarks.—The principal point to be noted is the admirable manner in which both the loser and winner fought out this gallant contest. The superiority of Mace as a scientific pugilist alone enabled him to contend with and finally defeat his brave, powerful, and in size and physique formidable antagonist; while to Tom King, the loser, the credit must be awarded of doing all that man could do towards victory, and yielding only to absolute physical incapability to continue the contest. Although, however, the majority were satisfied that the best man won, there was one who entertained the opposite opinion, and that was Tom King himself, as we shall presently see.

In April, 1862, some curiosity was awakened in fistic circles by the return of John Heenan to England, preceded by an annonce in the American newspapers that he had “gone over to fetch the old belt, and to fight Mace, the so-called Champion.” Hereupon Messrs. Moss Phillips and John Gideon waited upon Heenan, on Mace’s behalf, offering to find £500 or £1,000, if needful, to make a match. Heenan repudiated the newspaper buncombe, saying that he had come over with the sole object of fulfilling an engagement with Messrs. Howe and Cushing’s Circus Troupe, and that he had “cut pugilism,” at least for the present. Jem, who was now a London “pub.,” and host of the “King John,” in Holywell Lane, was also on tour with Ginnett’s Circus, while in Bell’s Life he declared his readiness to “meet any man for £1,000, barring neither country, colour, nor weight.” In reply to this, Bob Brettle, still sore from defeat, and, as he declared, “the ungrateful conduct of Mace,” undertook to back “an Unknown” for £200 and the belt against the Champion, and this Mace accepted. Hereupon King came out with a statement that Mace had requested him not to challenge him “at present,” for reasons which he gave, but now, as he had accepted a challenge, he (King) claimed first turn. It may be proper here to remark that King had joined Mace, at his request, in a sparring tour early in 1862, which lends strength to King’s statement. Mace’s backer having offered Brettle’s “Unknown” £25 to indemnify him for his forfeit and expenses, articles were signed at Nat Langham’s, on June 18th, for a fight for £200 a side and the belt, to come off within six months, the precise day not to be divulged until the night before the battle, which was to take place in November or December. How Tom King reversed the former verdict in 21 rounds, occupying 38 minutes, on the 26th November, 1862, may be read in the Memoir of King in the ensuing Chapter.

King having publicly declared his retirement from the Ring, Mace resumed the style of “Champion,” with whatever honours might still attach to that tarnished title.

In December, 1862, Joe Goss, of Wolverhampton, an unbeaten pugilist, weighing 10st. 10lbs., boldly offered himself to the notice of Mace for “any sum from £200 to £500 a side;” and although the Wolverhampton man waived any claim to the belt as the result of the battle, it was said by his friends that they did not see why, if Mace alone barred the way, their man should not claim the trophy. The match, though made in December, 1862, had a most unbusiness-like aspect in some of its details. The time of meeting being named as “nine months after date”—a most suspicious period of gestation for such an affair—September 1st, 1863, was the day. Nor was the amount of stakes less calculated to tax belief, £1,000 being set down in the book; Mace to post £600 to Goss’s £400, of which the Norwich’s man’s backers were to table £330 to Goss’s £220 at the final deposit.

Match-making, at this time, appears to have got “considerably mixed.” In May and June, Bill Ryall, of Birmingham, a twelve-stone man, “seeing that Goss, though articled to fight Mace, did not pretend to the Championship,” offered himself for “the belt and £200 a side, to the notice of the Norwich hero,” after he had disposed of Goss. Mace assented, and articles were signed, but before the decision of the affair now under notice. Ryall’s friends appear to have repented of their rash engagement, and forfeited the £25 or £30 down, as the penalty of their indiscretion. The Brettle party’s choice of Ryall as the man to lower the pretensions of Mace will seem the more surprising when we state that Goss had beaten Ryall on September 24th, 1860, and had fought him to a stand-still in a drawn battle for £100, February 11th, 1862. We will now return from this brief digression to the first encounter of Mace and Gross.[35]

On the making good of the last deposit of £330 to £220, and the announcement that it was duly “banked” in the hands of the Editor of Bell’s Life, the almost dormant interest of many of the incredulous was awakened, and crowds of anxious West End inquirers thronged to the “Mitre” (Nat had shifted from the “Cambrian”), the “Three Tuns,” the “Horseshoe,” the “Rising Sun,” the “Queen’s Head,” and the “Blue Boar’s Head;” while the East Enders were as eager in their endeavours to obtain the “straight tip” by looking in at Harry Orme’s, Joe Rowe’s, Jemmy Welsh’s, Jem Cross’s, Jem Ward’s, Billy Richardson’s, and the Champion’s own crib in Holywell Lane, Whitechapel.

Mr. Tupper having won the toss for Goss, the men went to scale at his house, the “Greyhound,” Waterloo Road, when both were found within the stipulated 10 stone 10 lbs., and, as we can safely affirm, from ocular demonstration, in the perfection of condition.

In the face of a vigilant and hostile magistracy and police, the managers necessarily adopted unusual precautions to confine the knowledge of the time and place to none but “safe men.” Accordingly, not only was the day kept secret, but it was not until the overnight that even the line of rail and amount of fare were disclosed to intending “excursionists.” When the “office” was given to those who were prepared to invest £2 2s. in cardboard, the rendezvous was stated to be the Paddington terminus of the Great Western, and the time two o’clock a.m., on the morning of St. Partridge, September 1st, 1863; and thither, at that unreasonable and unseasonable hour, did the “sheep destined for the shearing” eagerly repair.

Unhappily for the fortunes, nay, the very existence of the P.R., it had become the practice of the floating fraternity of thieves, mobsmen, and “roughs”—the latter too often combining the two former in the same ruffianly individual—to stream to the railway station whenever they got scent of a Ring “excursion,” instinctively knowing that there plunder might be perpetrated. As where the carcase is, there will the birds of prey be gathered, so on this 1st of September in the darkness and gloom of a cloudy morning, a riot was got up outside the entrances to the noble building, and many persons hustled, robbed, and occasionally personally ill-treated, by a disorderly crowd which, we can of our own avouch declare, did not comprise in its whole body one single known pugilist. Yet more than one of our “best possible public instructors” informed the public that “a mob of prize-fighters and other ruffians robbed and maltreated the intending travellers with lawless impunity.” Passing the baseless imputation that “prize-fighters and other ruffians” were personally engaged in this nocturnal mêlée, we must declare that of all the scenes of riot and disorder we have witnessed, that at Paddington was the most disgraceful, and marked the lowest stage in the downward journey of the Ring, unless we accept the wrangles and rows of the partisans of the men at some minor fights as exemplifying the Miltonic paradox—

“Beneath the lowest deep a lower still.”

At the hour of four the train steamed out of the station, and it was currently stated that Wootton Bassett, in Wiltshire, about five miles below the great engine-works at Swindon, was our destination. On arriving at Didcot Junction it was perceived that the Oxfordshire constabulary were awake, like Johnny Cope, “Sae airly in the mornin’;” but their only exercise of their function on this occasion seemed to be to wave us a courteous farewell as we steamed off, with the addition of a few “’Varsity men” (in masquerade) who had become possessed of “the secret,” and joined our party. At Swindon we “watered” our iron horse, and about five miles farther the brakes were on, and all soon alighted. After some little refreshment of the inward man from the stores of a well-plenished hamper, the “meynie” getting what they could at a neighbouring public, we tramped a mile of a dirty lane, until it opened on a spot where the Commissary (Fred Oliver) and assistants had laid out an excellent ring. And now began the customary squabble between the “clever ones” on each side about the choice of a referee. The Editor of the chief sporting journal, for nearly forty years the consistent and able advocate and supporter of the Ring, had finally refused the now dangerous position, and had recently, in consequence of disorderly defiance of the representative of the paper, forbidden his reporter to officiate, unless in circumstances he might consider exceptional. Thus much valuable time was cut to waste. Finally, the reporter of a new sporting paper consented to act, was enthroned on the judge’s straw truss, and the men quickly made themselves ready. As they stood up Joe looked “as hard as nails,” while Mace’s elegant position, as he stood awaiting the anticipated onslaught of his opponent, was pronounced by more than one judge to be “beautiful.” To the surprise of all, however, after some not very graceful squaring of elbows and half-steps left and right, never venturing beyond the scratch, Joe retreated, and shaking his head with a grim smile invited his adversary to approach. Jem did not seem to perceive the advisability of this, so he smiled and nodded in return. Presently, after a shift or two right and left, Mace advanced, resolved to open the ball. Joe retreated, covering his points well, when from the outer ring rose a warning cry, and ere its cause could be asked, half a dozen “prime North Wiltshires”—not cheeses, but policemen—rolled into the ring. Mace darted under the ropes and skedaddled into a thicket, his retreat covered by his seconds, bearing his outward habiliments; while Joe had nearly rushed into the arms of one of the “rurals,” but luckily gave him the go-by, and “made tracks” in another direction. Meantime the “bobbies,” with the utmost good-humour, surveyed the flight, and, without interfering with the Commissary, left him to reload his light cart with the impedimenta of the ring, then, slowly following the discomfited company, saw them safely down the road on their return to the train, which soon returned at the appointed signal from a “siding” where it had been temporarily located. Once on board, though the day was yet young, the victims were politely informed that no more could be done that day, and that the “Company’s” obligation to the “train charterers” would be discharged by the delivery of the “excursionists” at their starting-point at Paddington. “But,” added the referee, in an immediate conference, “I shall order, as I am empowered by the Rules, the men to meet again this day, at Fenchurch Street Station, and go down to Purfleet. When there, we must be guided by circumstances; but we will have the fight off to-day if possible.” That this was “gall and wormwood” to sundry persons who looked to another “special” rather than a “result” might easily be seen. They did not, however, dare to do more than prophesy disaster and obstruction, and propose “a meeting at the stakeholder’s,” or anywhere else, to procure postponement, which was properly and peremptorily negatived.

Arrived at Paddington, the neighbouring cab-stands were quickly cleared of their yawning waiters, whose glee at this unexpected and profitable “call” was certainly heightened when they “twigged,” as one of the cabbies told us, that they were “a-helping some of the right sort out of a fix.” At Fenchurch Street conveyance to Purfleet was quickly arranged for, and at 3h. 30m. the men, materiel, and company were duly delivered at the riverside. Here it was resolved, and prudently, that a transit to Plumstead Marshes should be made, as suspicious movements of an “Essex calf” were observed. Long Reach cost many no less a sum than ten shillings for the ferry; but this did not stop those who could command the best and least crowded boats, and at five o’clock, in a well-formed and certainly select ring,

THE FIGHT

Began with Round 2; for we suppose we most pay the compliment to the four and a half minutes of “fiddling” at Wootton Bassett, as counting for Round 1. As before it was expected that the “terrific Joe” would force the fighting, and show that game and hard hitting must tell against mere skill, with a slight and apparently ineradicable suspicion among the provincials from the North Midlands that Mace had a “soft place” which Joe was the very man to find out. Nevertheless, the Londoners offered 6 and even 7 to 4 on Mace. Again Joe retreated, and as Jem followed got away again and again, though in anything but a graceful style. His intention to fight a crafty battle was apparent, and did not seem to please his country friends. At last the men came to a stand, Joe having his back to the ropes. Jem let go his left sharply, but was prettily parried. Mace drew back, when Joe, plunging at him, got home his left straight on the body, getting, as might be expected, a rattling smack on the mouth in return. Goss licked his lips, and dodged about; Mace got closer, and, swift as thought, planted a cutting left-hander on the left eyebrow. It was a caution, and the crimson instantly following, “first blood” was awarded to Mace. Joe in jumping away from Mace’s advance slipped and fell.

3.—Long and tedious sparring and manœuvring prefaced this round. Goss, to the dissatisfaction of many, being determined to avoid close quarters, and Mace equally resolved not to give a chance away at long shots. When they got closer, Mace sent in his left, and then his right slap in the middle of Joe’s head, when a couple of slashing counter-hits followed, Mace again delivering with precision on the head, and Goss on Mace’s forehead and chest. More sparring, Joe looking quite vicious, and twice missing his shifty adversary, until the latter accepted a rally, and some extraordinary counter-hitting took place to the advantage of Mace, he reaching Joe’s head, while the latter got home on the chest or shoulder. Joe was driven back, and as Mace pressed on to him slipped down.

4.—The men seemed warming to their work, and lost no time in the useless dodging which marked the previous rounds. Mace led off and jobbed his man severely through his guard, following his first smack with another, and then getting away. Goss, though quick in his returns, was hurried, and twice missed his right by Maces’s quickness in shifting. Mace worked round into the centre of the ring, when Joe bored in, in what his friends called his “own old style.” In the exchanges Joe dealt Mace a tremendous hit on the right eye, which instantly left its mark. Mace broke ground and retreated with his hands up in good form. (Vociferous shouting from the Gossites, “The Young’un wins! The Young’un wins!” and the excitement was immense at the Wolverhampton corner.) Mace steadied himself, and, after a short pause, Goss tried to get on to him again, when, after some two-handed fighting not remarkable for effectiveness, Mace caught his adversary such a well-distanced left-hander on the head that Joe went clean down against his will. (First knock-down for Mace, being the second event scored.)

5.—On appearing at the scratch the swollen state of Mace’s right eye told how heavily he had been hit in the preceding round. Goss, urged by his seconds, dashed in left and right, but was beautifully stopped. Joe tried to play round his man, but Mace stepped in, gave him a heavy hit in the mouth, then, after a few quick exchanges, closed and threw him.

6.—Both men were now much marked, showing how heavy the hitting had been. Goss moved all over the ring as before, leading off, but ineffectively, being either out of distance or easily stopped. Eventually they got close, and exchanged heavy left-handed hits. More chasséeing about the ring by Goss, till Jem got close, and brought on more counters, Jem planting swift and hard in the face with both hands. Goss returned left and right on the head, and went down on his knees at the ropes. Jem was about to deliver a stinger, but checked himself, laughed, and walked away.

7.—Goss led off, but out of distance, as was often the case when he attempted out-fighting. A long series of movements with no great merit in them followed, till Mace got in with his left, and then fine counter-hits came, Goss certainly hitting straighter than he had done in some preceding rallies. A little more manœuvring, and then Joe went at his man, and brought on some stunning exchanges—very heavy left-handed counters, Mace on the right cheek, Goss on the forehead. Goss, in getting away, fell.

8.—Joe appeared at last to be tired of the scientific and waiting business, and went pluckily at Mace. He was certainly first in the hitting, planting heavily left and right on the head. Jem returned a couple of smashers on the front of the head, and in some severe exchanges his length and straightness of delivery gave him the pull. The men closed, and after a good wrestle, in which Goss displayed great muscular power, he got the best of the fall, Mace being under him. (Great applause for Goss, who was evidently fighting up hill.)

9.—Once more Joe tried to lead off, but he was out of distance, and Mace could evidently make the fighting as he chose. At last they closed near the ropes, when they got a mutual hold, and some severe fibbing took place, both men getting it hot until they fell together.

10.—Goss, instigated by his seconds, tried a rush. He was neatly stopped, and seemed perplexed as to his next move. Jem drew back and Joe followed, got home his right on the body slightly, and was away. Mace stepped on to him, dealt him a left-hander on the head, and Joe slipped down.

11.—Mace now tried to make the fighting. He stepped in upon Goss, who retired and shifted round in the clear corner of the ring; at last Jem pinned him a stinger in the mouth, and then as he jumped sideways caught him a second crack with the same hand on the head; Goss rushed in, delivering both hands, and Mace slipped down amidst some hisses from Goss’s partisans.

12.—Some tedious sparring. Mace, who now evidently meant fighting, tried to induce Goss to lead off, but he would not. At length, Joe being, as Mace thought, pushed in a corner, in he went, and a spirited rally ensued. Mace got home on Joe’s damaged left eyebrow, but Goss gave him a couple of rib-benders, and, closing, proved his strength by bringing down the Champion a sounder on the turf, and falling on him. (Deafening cheers—“Joe’s waking him up!”)

13.—It was fully expected that Goss would now go to work in the “finishing” style that had earned his fame; but no! He again resorted to that clumsy yokel craftiness which could never beat a man of Mace’s skill and resource. He dodged about until Mace, seeing he had got him, dealt him a sounding spank on the head with the left, and then as he shifted about gave him a straight punch in the mouth with the same hand. Joe, stung with these visitations, went in too late, for though he got in a round hit on the side of Mace’s head, the latter clinched him and threw him.

14.—Goss, in performing his usual dancing steps around the ring, caught his heel against a stake and stumbled; Mace dashed at him, when Joe got down somehow. (A claim of “foul” was preferred by Mace’s seconds, but overruled)

15.—Goss was urged to “rattle in,” but he declined the experiment, and moved round his man, then, lunging out heavily with both hands got the left well home on the side of the head. Mace got quickly close, hit Joe severely in the mouth, and Goss fell in hurriedly getting back.

16.—Mace measured his man carefully as they stood sparring in the centre of the ring, and then swiftly sent in a stinging left-hander. Joe shifted again, and Mace, pressing him too closely, received a couple of good hits on the head. Goss away as before; Mace worked close to him, dealt him a crack on the head, and as he stepped in again Goss slipped down. (Disapprobation.)

17.—Goss all over the ring, but Mace pressed after him more sharply than hitherto. He fixed him at last, and delivered both hands like lightning on the head. A slashing rally, the best in the fight; Mace planting with amazing quickness and force, left and right, going home with severity. Joe stuck to his work, and lashed out desperately in return; but though he certainly hit his man heavily, Mace must have felt he had the superiority for good and all in this rally. The men closed, exhausted by severe exertion, and after a short struggle fell together.

18.—Goss came up bleeding freely from the left brow, nose, and mouth. His punishment was certainly severe; Mace was also marked. After some sparring Joe lashed out viciously with both hands, Mace slipped back, and Joe, overreaching himself, fell. No mischief done, but the Gossites looked blue.

19th and last.—Both slow to time. Mace, cool as a cucumber, seemed to be taking stock of his adversary, as if beginning a fight. Goss worked about, stepping first to one side, then the other, as if nervously anxious to begin “business.” Mace worked him slowly backwards, till close on the ropes, then, as Joe was about to break away, he delivered a tremendous right-handed lunge, straight from the shoulder; the blow landed on the left side of Goss’s left jaw, and at once hit him clean out of time. Poor Goss fell forward insensible, and all efforts of his seconds to rouse him proving vain, Mace was proclaimed the victor. Time, 1 hour, 55 minutes, 30 seconds.

Remarks.—Notwithstanding the heavy hitting which came at intervals, we must pronounce this a bad fight; indeed, it could hardly be otherwise. Goss was entirely over-matched in science, length, and weight, and evidently felt it early in the fight. His dodging and clumsy wiles to steal a march on so perfect a practitioner as Mace were often almost ludicrous. His game, indeed his only chance, was to have forced his man to desperate rallies, and have trusted to his own hardihood, courage and endurance—though this, we do not believe, could have altered the final result. Mace, on the other hand, was, considering his manifold advantages, over-cautious. He not only would not risk a chance, but he continually gave a chance away by being too guarded. At the same time, we must admit that Mace’s mode of winning the battle on the line he had marked out exhibited consummate skill.

As a “side-light” may often elucidate a “dark corner,” we may remark, that within a few weeks of this £1,000 victory we learned in a disputation, that a neighbouring publican, and backer of Mace, declared that Jem’s was a “bogus” proprietorship, and that the Norwich “Champion” was heavily indebted to him.

At this period a wave of cant was passing over the country. The Morning Star, a London daily long since defunct, in which John Bright, the pugnacious Quaker, was largely interested, was furious in its denunciations of the authorities for what it called “their connivance in the brutalities of prize-fighters.” Contemporary with the scripturally named Morning Star, was a yet more straightlaced and puritan print, rejoicing in the title of the Dial, whose mission, as we learned from its prospectus, was to “purify the daily Press” by excluding from its columns not only racing reports and “so-called sporting news,” but even cases from the police-courts, divorce-courts, actions for slander or crim. con., and we know not what else of the doings of this naughty world. The Dial, after threatening to supersede the Times (and all other dailies), spent nearly all its capital in a very weakly issue, and finally threw the balance of some thousands of pounds into the coffers of the Morning Star, which therefore contracted a marriage, and added the words “and Dial” to its title. We need not observe that marriage in the newspaper world invariably means the death of the weaker vessel; and so the Morning Star and Dial, positively treated its readers, after a few flourishes of condemnation, with a full, true, and particular account of “this horrid prize-fight.” Surely hypocrisy and the eagerness of saints to “turn a penny” could not further go? On the other hand, the Saturday Review, a journal of manly independence, and a sworn enemy of cant, published in its impression of the succeeding week a life-like sketch from the pen of a scholar and a gentleman, of his adventures in going to and coming from the fight, with his impressions of what he saw thereat. Those who can refer to the number will thank us for the reminder: here we can only find room for the closing reflections.

“Looking dispassionately at this fight, and without admitting or denying the truthfulness of the descriptions of other fights that we have read, our conclusion is, that the epithets ‘brutal,’ ‘barbarous,’ ‘disgusting,’ and so forth, are quite uncalled for. There are people who don’t like fights, and there are people who view them as displays of skill and fortitude. Yet much that is objectionable in the acts of the supporters of the Ring and the practitioners of the art would disappear if respectable society, so called, dared to look less unkindly upon it and them. At any rate, we see no sufficient reason why magistrates and police should display such excessive zeal in hunting down a fight in such an out-of-the-way place as Plumstead Marshes, and are glad they did not finally succeed on Tuesday, September 1st, in disappointing the hundreds of people who had travelled 200 miles to see the battle between Mace and Goss.”

So far as the history of the Prize Ring is concerned we would here gladly close our record, leaving only the second combat of Tom King and John Heenan for its finale; but a page or two of the suicidal doings of its professors and destroying patrons must be added to complete its story.

In the first month of 1864 a challenge, as in 1860, came across the Atlantic. This time the cartel was in the name of one Joe Coburn, an Irish American, and was responded to by Mace, whose backers proposed a stake of £500 a side; and on May 27th, the challenger, accompanied by Cusick, known aforetime as the companion and trainer of John Heenan, and a Mr. Edwin James,[36] who described himself as Editor of the New York Clipper, arrived in London to settle the preliminaries.

The articles as finally drawn were to the effect that Mace’s party were to post £600, to £400 on the part of Coburn, and that at the last deposit £100 was to be handed to the latter as expenses; that a referee should be agreed on the day previous to the fight, which should take place in Ireland, over 20 and under 100 miles from Dublin; the money to be made good in ten fortnightly deposits.

On the occasions of these diplomatic protocollings, which were conducted with a Yankee ‘cuteness and cavilling that were suspiciously suggestive of knavery rather than straightforward honesty of purpose, we saw a good deal of Mr. Joe Coburn, and the more we saw of him the more assured were we that the astute “managers” of the affair must have had some other design in view than a fair fight for a thousand with such a man as Jem Mace. Joe Coburn, who stood about 5 ft. 8½ in., was a well-built fellow, something under 11 stone, and tolerably good-looking; his countenance was the reverse of pugilistic in formation or outline, his nose being decidedly of the Roman arch, and the bony contour of his face and nob rather of the “hatchet” than either the “snake” or the “bullet-headed” type. He told us that he was a native of Middletown, County Armagh; that he was in his 26th year, having been born July 20th, 1838; and that his parents took him to America at an early age. At first his “business matters” were entrusted to the care of the experienced Nat Langham, but “Ould Nat” was soon thrust aside by the loquacious Hiberno-American “agents,” “secretaries,” “friends and advisers” of Mr. Coburn, who, of himself, appeared quiescent, modest, and taciturn. And here a word on the wretched hands into which, in these latest days, the interests of the Ring and pugilists had fallen. In times of old, but yet within his memory, the writer has witnessed or been cognizant of conferences at Tom Spring’s “Castle,” at Jem Burn’s, at Limmer’s Hotel, at Tattersall’s, and especially in the editorial sanctum, the front parlour of No. 5, Norfolk Street, Strand, whereat Honourables, M.P.’s, and gallant Guardsmen—such patrons of pugilism as the Marquises of Drumlanrig and Waterford, Lord Ongley, Lord Longford, Sir Edward Kent, Sir St. Vincent Cotton, Harvey Combe—with squires, country gentlemen, and sportsmen, have taken part in discussing the interests of fair and honest pugilism and pugilists, and aiding them by purse and patronage. He may add that in those times Lord Althorp (afterwards Earl Spencer),[37] the present courtly diplomatist and Foreign Minister, Earl Granville (Lord Leveson-Gower), the greatest of the Sir Robert Peels, the Honourable Robert Grimston (brother to the Earl of Verulam), Lord Wenlock, Lord Palmerston, and the now venerable philanthropist, the Earl of Shaftesbury (then Lord Ashley),[38]

with other “brave peers of England, pillars of the State,” did not disdain to sanction and approve, by example, speech, and pen, the practice and principles of boxing, and the peculiarly English and manly Art of Self-defence.

All these had already disappeared, or withdrawn in disgust, and left no successors. Their places were usurped by a clamorous crew of sharp practitioners, loud-mouthed disputants, and tricky match-makers—the sweepings of society in the Old and New Worlds. Those on this side of the water were backed by the ill-gotten gains of the keepers of low gambling hells and night-houses, those on the other side by the proprietors of bar-rooms, drinking-saloons, and the large crowd of loungers, loafers, and rowdies who hang on the skirts of the Sporting World of the Great Republic and are its disgrace and bane. The cardinal principle of these worthies, like that of the “welshers” of our own race-courses, being “heads I win, tails you lose,” it was certainly a trial for an Englishman’s patience and gravity to hear and read it urged, as a reason for choosing Ireland as a battle-ground, that our Hiberno-American cousins (or cozens) were afraid their man “would not get fair play” in England. But we must proceed.

No sooner had the conditions been duly published to the world in the sporting papers than the “high contracting parties” set off upon their provincial tours, with the summer all before them. With Coburn’s progress his “secretary” kept the newspaper press au courant; we were told, from week to week, how he put on the mittens with Joe Goss, Bill Ryall, Jack Rooke, Reardon, and others, at Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool, Glasgow, and Dublin, and of course “bested” them. Those who knew how these things were arranged, took them with the needful “grain of salt,” and we coupled them with the significant fact that three of the pugilists named each separately expressed to us his envy at Mace’s good luck, and his regret that he was not in his place to “try conclusions” with the newly imported “champion.” Mace, too, was not behind in travelling the “circuits,” having for his “agent in advance” and “secretary,” Harry Montague, well known, even up to 1881, as secretary to “Myers’s Great American Hippodrome and Circus.”

We skip over the months until we come to September 24th, at which time, strange to say, not a single detail seemed to have been arranged by either party, and when, at the last deposit at Harry Brunton’s, Barbican, the £1,000 was declared to be made good, and the £100 cheque of the stakeholder thereafter handed over to Coburn and Co., we must confess we were much exercised in mind to know what would be the next move in the kriegspiel. We were soon enlightened. Coburn’s representatives having won the toss, communicated that the rendezvous would be Mr. Woodroffe’s, “Cambridge Arms,” Island Bridge, near Dublin, on Monday, October 4th. Accordingly, to “mak’ siccar,” we booked ourselves, on the previous Saturday, by the “Wild Irishman” for Holyhead, and thence by the swift mail-packet, the “Scotia,” landed early on Sunday morning at Kingstown, suffering some delay from a tremendous south-wester in the Channel. Here we found our Irish friends all alive, and as full of questions and eager inquiries for news as if they had been ancient instead of modern Greeks. More Hibernico, too, we soon found that they could tell us more than we knew about the matter; for by way of a secret we were informed in the street, before we had landed six hours, that “Joe” (Coburn) “shure was in Limerick, and that the foight ’ud come off nigh hand there, at Goold’s Crass,” which, if thus publicly known, made us sure that it would not. We stood on the pier watching the arrivals. By the Liverpool packet came a large accession to the English division; among them Jerry Noon, Bos Tyler, Welsh, Hicks, with Fred Oliver, the Commissary, and his henchman, Puggy White, and not a few familiar faces from London, Birmingham, Manchester, and the North.

In Dublin we found not a few “London particulars” of the Press: the editor of Bell’s Life (Frank Dowling), with young Holt as his aide-de-camp, the editor of the Era, ditto of two new penny Sportsmen, with half a dozen penmen of the London dailies and weeklies, all seeking pabulum for their “special correspondence” from the Irish capital. At “the Imperial” we met an American party, which included John Heenan, his “secretary (!)” Mr. Hamilton, Cusick, and the literary and artistic representatives of a New York “illustrated” journal. Here, too, we met our friend Shirley Brooks (the editor of Punch, in posse), looking fair, fresh, and pleasant, and more resembling a smart Meltonian fresh from “the shires” and following the brush across a grass country than a London Press-man just escaped from the consumption of the midnight gas. To him, as one of the “uninitiated,” we imparted our confidence, that he had better enjoy himself in the pleasant circles of Dublin society, than set out on any such “pig-shearing” expedition as the contemplated journey must in all probability prove.

Monday morning came, and we strolled down Dame Street. We were quickly hailed by a car-driver, “Would we like jist a dhrive to Monkstown? Shure an’ Mishter Mace is up there, at the Salt Hill hot-el, he is; an’ there’s lots o’ gintry as he’s a shtrippin’ an’ showin’ hisself to—shure I seen him mysilf through an open windy, yesterday marnin’; an’ by the same token he a-runnin’ a quarter race like a shtag, an’ batin’ his man, a rig’lar paydesthrian too. Will I dhrive yer hanner?” Yes; but not to Monkstown. At this moment we were accosted by an old, very old acquaintance, none other than the erewhile host of the “Blue Boar’s Head,” Long Acre, a renowned English “paydesthrian,” Drinkwater, better known in sporting circles by his alias of “Temperance.”[39] This worthy relic of a better period and better men, had been for some years located in the Irish capital, in a confidential employment in an extensive commercial institution, and, as he was among the curious, we mounted the jolting jaunting-car, and away we went for Island Bridge.

The scene here was curious, and quite novel to an English eye. Groups of people, consisting of men with a large sprinkling of slatternly women and barefoot children, were thickly scattered on the roads and river-banks, while vehicles of every description, and some of no possible description, rattled through the crowds amid cheers, shouts, and now and then objurgations and cries from the assemblage. Hard by, to complete the oddity of the picture, stood a squad of active, good-looking, and apparently good-humoured constabulary, each carrying his handy rifle-carbine and sword-bayonet, and all seemingly on the best of terms with Paddy and Shelah, and the “gossoons” who formed the holiday gathering. Making our way into the house we there found, that though the much-talked-of Goold’s Cross was the appointed champ clos, that not only was there, up to this time, no train or other mode of conveyance thither even suggested, but that the “assembled chiefs” were only about to discuss the nomination of a referee, as provided by the articles. Had this matter been left to Harry Brunton on behalf of Mace, and “Ould Nat” as the representative of Coburn, no doubt that matter would have been quickly and amicably settled. That this did not suit the “managers” was quickly apparent. We found a meeting much resembling, on a smaller scale, a Yankee “caucus,” or an assembly of French communards at Belleville, gesticulating, shouting, swearing, and all talking at once, while in the midst our deaf friend, Harry Brunton, Old Nat, Mr. Edwin James, and half a dozen Hibernian amateur counsellors in vain tried to obtain a hearing. Finally, as nothing could be done here, an adjournment took place to a more private apartment. Here the squabble was renewed. For referee, after various names had been assented to by Brunton and rejected by the Coburn party, the latter declared, that they would fight under the refereeship of no man but a certain Mr. Bowler, of Limerick, a person utterly unknown to any one present, and of whom no one could certify that he had the slightest acquaintance with the rules of the Ring, or the duties of the office thus proposed to be thrust upon him. At this time, too, it was truly reported that a body of 100 constabulary were posted near Thurles, and that a man had been just arrested at Goold’s Cross on suspicion that he was Coburn, who, however, was stated to be safe at a place called Ballangella, twelve miles from Limerick. Brunton now put his foot down in refusing the mysterious Mr. Bowler, and as Messrs. James and Co. were equally obdurate, the dispute as to whether either party meant fighting went on until the clock struck three, when the match, according to the articles, was actually off. Hereupon Harry Brunton declared his intention of not trusting his man to the forbearance of the Irish police, and, unless a fair referee were agreed on, he would wash his hands of the whole affair and return to England. Harry then left the house, and embarked on board the Holyhead packet, Mace also leaving at nine o’clock. And now came the concluding scenes of this Irish comedy. The Coburn clique loudly proclaimed their intention of claiming the £900 in the hands of the stakeholder. They would go down to Goold’s Cross—and they did so—and then and there summon the “runaway” to meet their man. Resolved to see out the farce, we took tickets. On the platform were a hundred greencoats armed with carbines; and a ruddy-faced young rustic, whose name proved to be Ryan, as unlike Mace as could be, having been pointed out by some practical joker as Mace, was forthwith arrested as the redoubted English champion, but soon set at liberty. The ring, consisting of four posts and a rope, having been pitched at a place called Pierstown, Kilmana, and the police being assured that there being but one man there could be no fight, stood laughing by, while proclamation for the appearance of the English champion was made and the stakes duly claimed, and so the curtain fell.

The scene shifts to England, where the stakeholder, after innumerable criminations and recriminations, declared “a draw” of the battle-money by each party as the only possible verdict. Of course the Mace party, and Harry Brunton especially, were seriously out of pocket by the fiasco, in travelling, training, and other expenses, beyond the £100 disbursed to Coburn and Co. The editor of Bell’s Life thus sums up the case:—

“Looking at the matter calmly and dispassionately, we are led to think that Mace has been treated harshly. Of Coburn we have formed this opinion, that he never had the slightest intention of fighting; that he had not even trained; that he was a mere instrument in the hands of others, and believed the match would be turned to account by some trick of Yankee juggling, without the peril of exposing his cutwater countenance to the active props of Mace’s handy digits. Taking the affair as a whole, it has been one of the greatest and most fatal blows to pugilism within our memory, and will tend more to estrange and disgust true patrons of the Ring than any event of our time. We have not heard any more appropriate name bestowed upon any great disappointment than that invented by the sporting editor of the Morning Advertiser, when he described the no-result as ‘the collapse of a gigantic wind-bag.’”

While on the subject of the Press, we cannot refrain from a pleasant episode in relief of so much chicanery and knavery.

No one can deny the native humour of our Irish fellow-countrymen, and their keen sense of the ridiculous, hence some Irish wag turned this affair of Mace and Coburn to laughable account. A certain portion of the “unco’ guid” Puritan and eminently pious Catholic press of Dublin was loud in its outcries of horror, and its denunciations of the unhallowed incursion of “fighting men” into the peace-loving “island of saints.” It called loudly for the strong arm of the law to preserve intact the holy soil, miraculously cleared by St. Patrick, from a renewed invasion of foreign “vermin.” Some sly wag (the hoax was worthy of Theodore Hook himself) accordingly indited the following “pastoral” from the Cardinal Archbishop of Dublin, which, being forwarded to the leading Irish papers, found ready insertion and approving editorial comment:—

“Dublin, Feast of the Angel Guardians, 1864.

“Very Reverend Brethren,—My attention has been called by some respectable gentlemen to a report now widely circulated, that this city, or its vicinity, is to be made the theatre of a signal combat between two foreign pugilists, who are about to expose their lives to imminent danger for a certain sum of money. This report must be the subject of great regret to every one who is imbued with the spirit of Christian charity, and who recognises in his fellow-man the image of his Creator. It is not necessary for me to call on you to use all your influence to preserve this Christian country from an exhibition so disgraceful, and so well calculated to degrade human nature. I shall merely request of you to publish, as soon as possible, from your altars, that such combats, in which human life is exposed to danger, are prohibited under the severest penalties by the Holy Catholic Church. Passing over the decrees of the Council of Trent, it will be sufficient to state that the learned Pontiff Benedict XIV. excommunicates the principal actors in such fights, their seconds, and all who encourage them, and all who designedly become spectators of such unworthy scenes. If you denounce these penalties from the altar I am confident that the faithful of this diocese, who are so devotedly attached to Holy Catholic Church, and so obedient to its laws, will listen with contempt to the invitation of those who would implicate them in the misdeeds of foreign gladiators, and will abstain from countenancing or encouraging anything condemned by our holy religion, and contrary to the dictates of the Gospel.

“PAUL CULLEN.”

The absurdity of the date of this “pastoral,” and the satirical retort on Lord Lyndhurst’s celebrated speech, in which he characterised the Irish as “aliens in blood, in language, and religion,” by describing Mace and Coburn as “foreign gladiators,” might have aroused suspicion. But no; with the godly, when they attack the wicked, on fait flêche de tout bois; so the Puritan and Methodist prints actually praised the anti-combatant zeal of the Cardinal, and the “pastoral” was reproduced with approbation in a paper containing two savage assaults—in one of which a man’s nose was bitten off—and four other outrages of the “foinest pisanthry” with weapons, in two of which the victims were left senseless and apparently dead!

That the English newspapers took the hoax au sérieux is hardly to be wondered at, but the two following specimens, one ridiculing, the other approving, the ingeniously fabricated “pastoral,” are really worth preserving as curiosities of newspaper literature.

(From the Manchester Guardian, October 5, 1864.)

“THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE PUGILISTS.

“To the Editor of the ‘Examiner’ and ‘Times.’

“Sir,—I perceive from your journal of to-day that Archbishop Paul Cullen has issued a pastoral to his clergy against the great fight that was to have come off in Ireland, in which country it is well known that fighting is the very last thing the inhabitants ever resort to for the settlement of differences. As the men are not going to fight, there will be little difficulty in obeying the injunction of Cardinal Paul. Had it been otherwise, I am afraid a few of ‘the faithful’ would have been congregated in the outer ring, and perhaps some few (who of course could not read or had not read the Pastoral) might have got up some little independent shindies of their own, even as young buds surrounding the inner red roses, or noses. But are we quite sure the Archbishop really alludes to the same thing as we do? He describes the projected fight as between ‘two foreign pugilists.’ Now I understand Mr. Coburn is not an American, but an Irishman. Mr. Mace is undoubtedly from Norwich; and although, in a certain sense, that Quaker, crape-weaving city may be described as in partibus infidelium, yet letters from Limerick to Norwich are not yet forwarded viâ Ostend. I fancy what the Archbishop means is this, that in the case of real native Irishmen—take the Belfast Catholics and Protestants, for example—fighting could not possibly occur, and that he wishes to show that only individuals ‘not to the manner born’ could import so dangerous a custom or practice into that peaceful land. A ‘foreigner’ from London or from Oldham might possibly come to fisticuffs in the county of Wicklow, but they would receive no countenance or encouragement from the peace-loving natives, who, refusing to hold their hats or coats, or to mop off any casual claret, would avert their eyes, and, like the soldier in the song, ‘wipe away a tear.’ I have no interest in the two persons called ‘foreigners’ by the Archbishop, but I think in so designating them his Eminence has administered a severer punishment than the occasion required. I should not like to retort upon the Archbishop or call my Irish fellow-citizens ‘foreigners’—writing a paragraph for your journal, for instance, to the following effect—‘Two foreigners, named Dennis Blake and Patrick O’Rafferty, were brought before Mr. Fowler for fighting in Deansgate. O’Rafferty, who spoke with a strong foreign accent, said “Blake tould me, plaze yer hannar, he’d jist bate the soul out o’ me in a brace of shakes, an’ Oi——” Mr. Fowler, “I’ve evidence enough. You are ’aliens in blood, in language, and in religion”—I am quoting an eminent jurist—and you must pay a fine of —, or go to prison.’

“It must, however, be a great consolation and relief to the minds of Mr. Mace and Mr. Bos Tyler that the Archbishop ‘passes over the decrees of the Council of Trent,’ and merely throws the ‘learned Pope Benedict XIV.’ at their heretic heads. It seems to me that one of the Pope ‘Bonifaces’ would be more appropriate in a case of ‘pubs,’ and prize-fighters, for a ‘stinger over the left.’

Faithfully yours,

“J. F. T.

“Manchester, October 5, 1864.”

An extract from that immaculate journal The English Churchman, culminates the joke:—

“THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE BOXERS.

“‘No good thing is without its attendant evil,’ is a platitude as old, at least, as the time of Lucretius. Old, however, as it is, and platitude as it has become, it is a truth, notwithstanding. The intercourse and intercommunion of nations is an undoubted good. It has, however, we are reminded, its repulsive as well as its attractive aspect. An international Congress may be useful. International Exhibitions, apart from the boastful self-sufficiency which attends them, may be good. International Copyright is what all authors sigh for, and we can even enjoy the noise and bustle of an International Dog Show. We have, however, advanced beyond this, and have within the last week only barely escaped the disgrace of another International Prize Fight. Amidst the dearth of political news; the stagnation of home scandals; and the absence of our chief notabilities from London, if not from England, Mr. Edwin James—the same person, we presume, who so recently ‘left his country for his country’s good,’ has sought to manufacture telling paragraphs for newspaper editors by getting up an International Prize Fight in the sister island.[40] Happily for the character of Ireland, its police, jealous of all fighting save amongst the native element, and with the lawful and national weapon—the shillelagh—have prevented a repetition of these scandalous scenes and gatherings; and the English Champion has had to return to London re infecta. With the squabbles of the would-be combatants and their friends—with the recriminations of Yankee sharpers and English blackguards, we have nothing to do. We leave the patrons of the Ring to settle the important question of the stakes among themselves. Nor are we about to try the patience of our readers with either a defence or an attack upon the immunities of the Prize Ring. What we desire to chronicle is the worthy attitude assumed by the Roman Catholic Archbishop of Dublin, who addressed the following letter to the clergy within his jurisdiction. [The letter will be found elsewhere.] This letter we gladly publish as worthy of the position of the writer. If successful, as but for an accident it might have been, it would have afforded an encouragement to the author, as it will be a valuable precedent to himself and to the rest of his brethren, and will, we have no doubt, lead them to ‘announce’ the same ‘penalties’ of excommunication against the midnight assassin, watching to take the life of his landlord; so that the pugilist and the hired murderer alike will before long both be sought for in vain in the peaceful ‘Isle of the Saints.’ With the fact of the publication of such a document we are too gratified to attempt to cavil at its language. The emphasis laid on the circumstance that Mace and Coburn were two ‘foreign pugilists,’ and that they were two ‘foreign gladiators,’ seams at first sight a covert way of claiming the monopoly of fighting for the faithful and non-alien portion of the community, and is hardly consistent with the fact that one of the would-be combatants was born in the county of Armagh, which is usually considered a part of Ireland. We have, however, no doubt that these words, though not literally correct, were judiciously thrown in by the Archbishop, in order to enlist the patriotism and national feeling of those to whom this letter was addressed, and with the hope that those Irishmen who might be indifferent to the wishes and orders of ‘Paul Cullen,’ would readily follow the directions of the writer when they were fortified by the belief that the two invaders of the peace—the two gladiators—were, after all, only ‘foreigners,’ and hence undeserving of the honour of an Irish audience.”

At the “settlement” of accounts—Messrs. James and Co., receiving a cheque of £400—a funny little incident of modern practice oozed out. Harry Brunton, among other liabilities, had made himself responsible to a silk-mercer for Mace’s “colours,” and now asked to be reimbursed. In olden times, when a pugilist distributed his colours, it was with the honourable understanding, on the part of the recipient, that in the event of victory the man should receive a guinea (subsequently a “sov.”), and nothing if he lost. This was the understanding; not as a sale, but, as the newspapers say of correspondence, “as a guarantee of good faith.” In modern times, however, as Molière’s Quack Doctor assures Géronte, “Nous avons changé tout cela,” and the gallant and generous dispenser insists on the prepayment of a guinea—we suppose “as a guarantee of good faith”—on the part of his patron. Indeed, we do not see how he could safely do otherwise, as the looms of Spitalfields and Coventry would hardly suffice to supply the demands of silk kerchiefs on “a promise to pay,” while the deposit of a sovereign each (not returnable), for a few dozen of handkerchiefs, invoice price 5s. 6d., most have a certain consolation in case of a draw or a lose.

Accounts being squared, Mace, as he said “to clear his character,” offered to fight Coburn anywhere in England for £100 or “on his own terms.” Bill Ryall, Joe Goss, Jack Rooke, also, were all “ready to meet Coburn.” The latter responded that he was ready to fight Mace, in “any part of Her Majesty’s dominions in America, for £1,000, but not in England with a mob at his back.” Brunton published a list of Mace’s backers, “to whom their money had been returned;” a similar document of the deposits made on behalf of Coburn might have proved a curiosity. Our sole apology for treating at such length these later doings is, that we look upon them as the concluding chapter in the downfall of the Ring, and as the elucidation of a question often put to us, “Do we consider its revival possible?” to which our reply has uniformly been, “Not only not possible, but not even desirable; ‘other times, other manners:’ its revival would be an anachronism.” Yet did the old bull-dog spirit die hard, and several good battles were contested in the years 1863–70. In November, 1864, a new big one, Joe Wormald, claimed the Championship, when he was answered by another big ’un, hight Andrew Marsden. Mace sent forth a challenge to meet the winner, who proved to be Wormald, who received the belt. The day of battle was named for November 1, 1865, for £200 and the Championship; but a severe accident disabling Wormald, Mace received the sum of £120 forfeit.

The year 1866, opened with another “train-swindle.” A second match “for £200 and the belt” had been got up with Joe Goss, and Tuesday, May 24th, appointed for its decision. About four hundred tickets having been disposed of by industrious touting, at two guineas first class, and £1 10s. 6d. second, the company started at half-past five on the appointed morning, on “an excursion there and back,” as the card-board expressed it. At 6h. 13m. we passed Farningham Road, and at 6h. 35m. slackened speed and disembarked at Longfield Court, near Meopham, Kent, where a ring was formed, and after the customary ceremonies, Jem Mace and Joe Goss—after much waiting for the police, who came not—stood up face to face, at a respectful distance, for the first and only round of the

NO FIGHT.

Round 1.—Mace would not lead off, but nodded and beckoned to Joe, who, however, declined his invitation and nodded and grinned in return, squaring his elbows and stepping first to right and then to left, in an ungainly manner, but never trusting himself within what Mr. Gladstone calls “a measurable distance” of a knock; Mace, also, politely preserving an interspace in all his manœuvres. As minute after minute dragged on, and it was clear neither man meant to fight, the referee stepped into the ring, and warned the men, unless blows were struck he would declare “a draw.” The announcement was received with the utmost indifference by both the principal performers, who walked about during the discussion, chafing their arms and breasts with their hands, and exchanging recognitions with acquaintances and friends. Again the men faced each other, and again alternately advanced and retreated; fifty minutes, one hour elapsed, and not a blow was struck. Again and again did the referee remonstrate. He might as well have “whistled jigs to a milestone.” At the end of 74 minutes he leaped into the ring for the last time, and amidst the laughter and hisses of the spectators, declared it “a drawn battle;” whereupon the unscathed gladiators shook hands, grinned, and put on their clothes, Mace coolly informing us, that he had “sprained his ankle severely a few days before,” and that “he was not fit to fight;” though how that ensured Goss’s forbearance was left unexplained. So all returned to town—the sheep and their shearers.

“Hope springs eternal in the human breast,”

and so, in the hope of witnessing a fight at last, Mace signed articles once again for £200, and to ensure that the men should get closer together this time, a ring of 16 feet was agreed upon. In this, on August 6th, 1866, Jem Mace displayed indisputable superiority by giving Master Joe an exemplary beating in 21 rounds, occupying one minute over the half-hour.

The bubble of 1866–7 was the appearance of a new “Irish giant,” standing 6 ft. 4½ in., first dubbed O’Baldwin, and afterwards Ned Baldwin—a name familiar to Ring history. Having beaten one George Iles, O’Baldwin claimed the belt, and Mace (who had retired) backed “an Unknown” against him. This “Unknown” Mace afterwards declared to be Joe Goss; but Mace having got into trouble over a battle between Holden and Peter Moore, at Derby, and Joe injuring his shoulder in his Bristol fight with Allen, Mace was allowed (for a consideration) to name Joe Wormald in his stead, and to postpone the fight for a fortnight, and yet farther to Saturday, 23rd April, 1867, so as not to clash with the Two Thousand Guineas Stakes. Will it be believed that 300 persons travelled that morning by the South Eastern Railway to find that “the Giant” had somehow mistaken the terminus, and by a misdirection was sitting in a four-wheeler, doubled up like a pocket-knife, under a dry arch in Tooley Street, while the special steamed off without him, and so Joe Wormald received the £200 forfeit?

To console the confiding public, Mace now offered himself to the notice of O’Baldwin on the usual terms, to meet on October 15th, 1867. The £400 was made good, and Jem was ordered from Newmarket, where he was training, to Woodford, Essex, when it was communicated that the officers were after him, and he crossed over into Surrey. Here, at Herne Hill, he was arrested by Sergeant Silverton, of the Metropolitan Police, together with Pooley Mace, his cousin, brought before Sir Thomas Henry, at Bow Street, and duly bound over to keep the peace in sureties of £300. At the examination, Inspector Hannan stated that the tickets were, to his knowledge, sold at two, three, and four guineas. So each man, as we were told next week, “drew his stake,” on the ground of “magisterial interference.” Again Mace had retired, and Joe Wormald being disabled by illness, O’Baldwin was left, like the Giant Blunderbore, “King of the Castle.” The reader has already, in this Memoir, had the opportunity of forming an opinion of the pugilistic pretensions of Sam Hurst, “the Stalybridge Infant.” Yet Sam Hurst was dragged from his obscurity, and it was thought a good thing might be made of the gobemouches by a Championship fight between the giants! This was, however, too utterly preposterous, and it broke down. In December, 1867, Joe Goss and Wormald were matched, which ended in a forfeit, and Wormald, O’Baldwin, and Co. were announced as departing for America!

Here, in 1868, as we learn from the Transatlantic journals, Joe Wormald and the prodigious O’Baldwin were matched “for 2,500 dollars and the Championship of the World.” They met at Lynnfield, Massachusetts, when, after a scramble of ten minutes in a single round, the “sheriff and his merrie men” interfered and stopped further proceedings. Thereafter, we are told, the “stakeholder having ordered Wormald to renew the fight,” and he not complying, that functionary handed the money to “the Irish champion,” a proceeding which, in the words of Lord Dundreary, “no fellah can understand.” After returning for awhile to England, Mace sailed for the Antipodes, and by the latest accounts was a prosperous publican in Melbourne.

Our tale is well-nigh told. In 1870, Jem Mace, being in America, met Tom Allen for 2,500 dollars a side. They fought near New Orleans, on May 10th, when Jem polished off the Birmingham bruiser in style in 10 rounds, 44 minutes.

As the design of “Pugilistica” is to supply a reliable and honest history of the British Prize Ring and the deeds of its worthies, we shall here drop the story of New World rowdyism. The Ring had finished its career—had died in the country of its birth; its last expiring flicker had sputtered out, and exit in fumo, exiled for its misdeeds to a land where its true merits and principles never had an existence. Having thus traced it to its ignominious end, we return, for a single chapter, to the doings of Tom King, whom we have already styled “Ultimus Romanorum.”

[34] See Pugilistica, vol. i., p. 33, et seq.]

[35] The career of Joe Goss shows that even in the last days of its degeneracy the P.R. had brave men who would have gone straight, had they not been warped from the direct course of honesty by knaves who sought only to make the pugilist the instrument of their own nefarious ends. Goss’s birthplace was the file-making town of Wolverhampton, on the 16th of August, 1838; and he made his début at the age of twenty-one, in a battle with Jack Rooke, of Birmingham, for £25 a side, on the 20th September, 1859. His defeat of Rooke in 1 hour and 40 minutes, after 64 sharp rounds, was a promising first appearance, seeing that that boxer had recently beaten Tom Lane—brother to the renowned “Hammer” of that ilk. His next match was with Price, of Bilston, a 12 stone man, who has been often confounded with Posh Price, of Birmingham—also, at a subsequent period (1862) beaten by Goss. This battle ended in a forfeit by Goss, he being arrested at the instance of his father when going to scale, November 9th, 1859. Joe was determined not to be baulked, and at a meeting between himself and Price, the latter offering to fight him for £10, as a solace for his disappointment, the money was posted, and the men met on the 10th of February, 1860, near Wolverhampton. Joe’s activity, power of hitting, and fearless style soon brought his opponent down to his own weight; and in the short space of 25 minutes, in which 15 rounds were fought, Price was consummately thrashed. Bodger Crutchley, who was in high esteem for his victories over George Lane, Sam Millard, Bos Tyler, Smith (of Manchester), and who had last fought Posh Price a drawn battle (interrupted by the police), was Joe’s next opponent. They met near Oxford, July 17th, 1860, for £100 a side, when, after a gallant struggle of 120 rounds, lasting 3 hours and 20 minutes, Goss was hailed the victor. On September 24th, 1861, Joe met and defeated Bill Ryall, for £50 a side, in 2 hours 50 minutes, during which 37 tedious and shifty rounds were fought; and on the 11th of February, 1862, Joe a second time faced Bill Ryall for £100 a side (on the Home Circuit), for three hours and eighteen minutes, when, as neither man could or would finish, the referee declared “a draw.” This brings us to his battle with Mace for £1,000, detailed above. On December 16th, 1863, Goss entered the ring with Ike Baker for £100, whose pretensions Joe disposed of in 27 rounds, lasting 80 minutes, the punishment being all on one side. Joe’s next two matches were defeats by Mace. On March 6th, 1867, Goss was matched for £100 a side with Bill Allen, of Birmingham. This was a remarkable muddle; after fighting 34 rounds in three different rings, time inclusive 1 hour and 54 minutes, darkness came on, and “a draw” was declared. Soon after Allen sailed for America, landing at New York, July 21st. Joe, who considered he had been treated unfairly, and robbed of the fair reward of his milling superiority, followed him, and, notwithstanding his voyage, issued his challenge to Allen on the 8th of April, six days after his arrival. This was promptly accepted, and the match made for 5,000 dollars (£1,000), to be fought for on the 7th of September. We need hardly remind the reader that the Irish newspaper Press of the United States is in the hands of expatriated Irishmen, whose buncombe and bombast is only exceeded by their prejudice and ignorance. These worthies magnified the contest into a battle for “the Championship,” but as Goss had been two and a half times beaten by Mace, and Allen had done nothing in England beyond drawing the stakes in a forfeit with Posh Price, and failed to do the same in his draw with Joe Goss, it would puzzle “a Philadelphia lawyer” to know how this could be a “fight for the Championship of the World,” except of Irish America, to which title they are both welcome. The “Cincinnati Fight” ended by a “foul” blow, Tom Allen hitting Goss when on the ground! Sic transit, &c.]

[36] We need not say that this gentleman was not the ex-recorder of Brighton, ex-member for Marylebone, and ex-Q.C., who about this period had left this country for the New World.—Ed.

[37] See Vol. I., Preface, pp. viii. and ix.

[38] No doubt many of the weak-kneed brethren, the disciples of a flabby, invertebrate pseudo-humanitarianism, will feel surprised, if not scandalised, at this claim of Lord Shaftesbury as a patron of pugilistic practice. His lordship’s Christianity, however, has always been practical, and of the order called “muscular.” Witness his gallant successful efforts to emancipate the poor little white slaves in our factories by his glorious Ten Hours Bill, and other humane legislation—legislation, let it never be forgotten, opposed by John Bright and the Gradgrind social reformers of the doctrinaire and politico-economical kidney. The friend and benefactor of the Street Arab, the Shoe Black, and the founder of Ragged Schools bore outspoken testimony of his admiration of boxing only a few weeks since in a speech at Exeter Hall, at the Young Men’s Christian Association, wherein he recommended sparring with the gloves as a gymnastic exercise of high value, and recalled, at eighty years, the days when he was himself accounted no mean antagonist, and “reckoned a good boxer among those who were judges of the art.” His style was worthy of a Homeric hero—a Nestor of the Ring.

[39] Some who remember “old times” and “the Kentish Town match,” may like to hear that on his annual visit to England, in December last, we smoked a pipe and recalled faded scenes and memories over a cheerful glass with “Temperance” Drinkwater; his activity, mental and bodily, being phenomenal for a man in his 77th year.—Ed.

[40] The clerical Editor’s “presumption” is equal to his gullability. We have already pointed out that these gentlemen are “two Dromios.”—Ed.

CHAPTER III.

TOM KING (CHAMPION).
1860–1862.

The brief history of the last legitimate champion of the British P.R. is, in many respects, a consoling contrast and relief to the chicanery, trickery, and moral or physical cowardice which marked the “latter-day” professors of pugilism, and their yet more disreputable and despicable patrons. If Tom King fell short in scientific attainments and the intuitive fighting gifts which were so conspicuous in Tom Sayers, Tom Spring, Jem Belcher, Dan Mendoza, John Jackson, and Tom Johnson, he nevertheless exemplified through his brief but bright pugilistic career the boldness, honesty, and fairness which are the accompaniments of true courage; and, whether winner or loser, won or lost upon his merits.

TOM KING (Champion), 1863.

From a Photograph.

Tom King first saw the light on the 14th of August, 1835, in Silver Street, in the “maritime district” of Stebonheath, or Stepney; an East London parish in which, by an ancient popular tradition, all children born on the high seas have their “settlement.” Among the amphibious population of this region of docks, wharfs, stairs, and jetties, Tom’s earlier days were passed, and here, with “a brother Tham,” he grew in due time to the stature of six feet two inches in his stockings, and the weight of twelve stone and some odd pounds; as active and straight and “pretty a piece of man’s flesh” as a recruiting sergeant ever cast eyes on, and tempted with the “Queen’s shilling” to become a bold dragoon or a stately grenadier. But Tom’s inclination by birth, parentage and education, was all towards “the sister service,” and at an early age he was a “sailor bold” on board of one of Her Majesty’s ships. In this capacity he made a voyage to the coast of Africa, and subsequently another in a trading vessel. On his return his good conduct and character obtained him a position as foreman of labourers at the Victoria Docks, and here, among a very rough class of fellows, Tom, though a giant in stature, and of the mild behaviour which so often accompanies size and strength, could not escape insult. In fact, our hero, instinctively brave, exemplified the wise precept of Laertes’ father:—

“——Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in,
Bear it that th’opposed may beware of thee,”

and so soon found some of the long-shore men who presumed on Tom’s easy temper and mildness of manner. The mode in which, on one particular occasion, he disposed of a half-drunken bully, known in Wapping by the odd nickname of “Brighton Bill,” whose pugnacious propensities and violence had made him a sort of standing terror to his fellow-labourers, got quickly noised abroad, and coming to the ears of Jem Ward, who at this time kept the “George,” in his old quarter of Ratcliffe Highway, the ex-champion sought him out. The pair were quickly on friendly terms, and the scientific Jem, after a few trials of the youngster’s quality with the gloves, in which he quickly perceived the excellent material, in pluck and good temper, he had to work upon, introduced King to some staunch patrons of boxing. Hereupon a notification was published early in 1860, that “’Jem Ward’s big ’un,’ who had never fought in the P.R.,” could be matched for £50 a side against any comer “catch weight.” Of course this modest price was utterly beneath the notice of modern P.R. professors, who condescended to nothing less than five hundreds and thousands, or—save the mark—five thousands and ten thousands when they came to reckon in dollars. So nobody nibbled at the chance, save one Clamp, of Newgate Market, who had fought and won a battle in the London Ring, in October, 1857. A friend of Clamp’s, calling on Jem, posted a “fiver” on his man’s behalf; but, being of an inquisitive turn, Mr. Clamp presented himself at Ward’s sparring saloon, being personally unknown, and put on the gloves, as a casual customer, with the “young sailor.” The result being a “receipt in full” in a single round, the “fiver” was quickly forfeited, Mr. Clamp retired from the public gaze, and Tom was again adrift without an engagement.

As our hero’s fame was principally spread among long-shore men and “the Salts,” Tommy Truckle, of Portsmouth, found friends to back him for a trial with “Jem Ward’s big ’un.” Truckle’s local fame in disposing of dockyarders and fighting “blues” at the great naval port and arsenal was good, and the £50 a side was duly tabled, November 27th, 1860, being the day of battle. King on this occasion was placed by Mr. Richardson, who became his money-finder in the later deposits, under George Woody, the trainer, at Mr. Lyon’s, the “White Hart,” Romford. The “Young ’un” had certainly an alacrity in making flesh, for we were assured by Woody, that when he took him in hand, he drew all 14 stone; but that such was his docility and steady determination in training that he had him down in four weeks to 12st. 10lbs. with great improvement in stamina and activity. Tommy Truckle, a hardy fellow, seemed always in condition at about 12st. but fought at 11st. 6lbs., and his 5ft. lOin. of stature seemed long enough for anything. He trained at Portsmouth, under the watchful eye of George Baker. On this occasion Truckle started from Mr. Tupper’s “Greyhound,” Waterloo Road, and his colours, a black kerchief with puce and gold border, seemed to be pretty liberally taken by his friends. An early morning trip per rail conveyed the travellers to the water-side, below bridge, where a steam tug was in waiting, by which the principals and their friends were conveyed to the Kentish marshes, where a good ring was quickly formed by Fred Oliver and Co., a large accession of spectators arriving by another tug and numerous row boats.

On the men entering the ring, King being first to show, they were warmly greeted; King being attended by Jem Mace (then called the “coming Champion”) and William Richardson; while Truckle was waited on by Bob Travers (the Black) and Walker, of Stony Stratford. King, who had completed his toilette long before his opponent, whose boots seemed to give great trouble, loomed large as he walked about enveloped in a rug, until, the word being given, Truckle stood up, and King, throwing away his blanket and stripping off his under shirt, displayed a bust and general figure which surprised and delighted his partisans. Truckle, when stripped, looked small and somewhat stale, though hardy and resolute, as he confronted the youthful and symmetrical giant.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—As the men stood face to face King looked the pink of condition, and not only did he stand over Truckle, but his attitude was decidedly the more artistic and unconstrained. Truckle stood firmly, his left well out, and his right fore arm covering the mark, so that there was little of the novice in his position. Both men seemed anxious to begin work, and manœuvred in and out when after a few offers on each side, they mutually stepped back, looked earnestly at each other and rubbed their arms. King threw up his hands and advanced, when Truckle cleverly propped him with the left flush in the nose, and drew the carmine. (Cheers, and “first blood for Truckle.”) King again stepped in, and this time got home us right a sounder on Truckle’s ribs, when Truckle got away and down.

2.—Each sparred for an opening. Truckle feinted and tried to draw the Young’un, but it was no go. King smiled and shook his head. Exchanges: Truckle on King’s neck, while, on getting near, King again visited Truckle’s ribs a sounder. Truckle, in trying to get back, slipped, but recovering himself, closed, when King, weaving away, fought Truckle clean through the ropes in his own corner.

3.—As yet little mischief was done on either side, and on coming up each man eyed his opponent confidently. After sparring and manœuvring a bit, each trying to find a weak point in his adversary’s defence, Truckle broke ground and retreated, King boldly following him step by step, when Truckle sent in his left at King’s drinking fountain, which at once answered with a crimson spurt; King, without a check, delivered his right sharply on Truckle’s head, and down went the Portsmouth hero; a sort of staggering fall.

4.—On coming to the call of “Time,” Truckle’s left daylight seemed to have a half shutter up. After some rather pretty sparring, Truckle tried his left, which was neatly stopped by King, amidst some applause; the next moment the Young’un let go both hands straight as a dart, visiting Truckle’s kissing and olfactory organs with a one, two, which tapped the homebrewed copiously. Again he invested on Truckle’s left ear with the right in a heavy exchange, and bored Truckle down in the hitting at the ropes.

5.—Truckle came up bleeding from nose and mouth, and some sparring took place for position, the sun shining brightly in King’s face. They, however, soon got together, Truckle leading off, and getting his left on to King’s mouth, inflicting a cut on his lower lip, which compliment the Young’un returned by another crack on the left listener, which was also cut, and the Portsmouth man found his way to grass in a hurry. (7 to 4 on King.)

6.—Truckle, first to the scratch, led off, but was short; King went in with both hands, and Truckle fell on both hands and one knee, looking up at King, laughingly; it was a bid for a “foul,” but “no go,” as King withheld his hand, nodded, and walked away to his corner, amidst applause.

7.—A very short round. King, as soon as his man faced him, let go both hands, which alighted heavily on Tommy’s cheekbone and kissing-trap, and Truckle went down to escape a repetition of the dose. (2 to 1 on King.)

8.—After a short spar the men rushed to a close, embraced, and Truckle tried to bring his man over. He did not succeed, for King shifted his hold and threw him.

9.—Both up together, when King cleverly ducked his head aside, and avoided Truckle’s left, then rushed to a close, during which he administered some rib-roasters to his adversary’s corpus, and ended by throwing him cleverly, not, however, without getting some sharp half-arm punches about the head and body from the Portsmouth man’s busy right.

10.—The fighting had up to this time been unusually fast for big ones, yet both were active and spry as ever. King went to his man resolutely, and after two or three exchanges with little attempt at stopping, Truckle went down, King standing over him.

11.—King seemed determined to give his opponent scant breathing-time. No sooner was he at the scratch than he went across the ring, and let go both mauleys on his man’s os frontis, who slipped down at the ropes.

12.—Truckle popped his left sharply on King’s peeper as he came on; King immediately closed, and tried to get on the lock, but Tommy slipped through his hands, and was on the grass. (18 minutes only to these 12 rounds.)

13.—King’s left came in contact with the left side of Truckle’s knowledge-box. Tommy retorted on King’s mouth, but next moment went down with a flush hit on the forehead, falling partly by his own consent.

14.—Tommy short with his left, when King measured him and dropped his right, a wax melter on his man’s left auricular, which was already badly swollen. In the close both were down side by side. This was the first time, as yet, that King had measured his six foot length on the ground.

15.—King, who had certainly been making all the fighting, seemed a little blown, as they sparred for a few seconds, and Truckle feinted with the left; King once again got on a rattler on Tommy’s nob, and Truckle got down. (An appeal was made to the referee, that the Portsmouth man had fallen without a blow, but the fiat was “Fight on.”)

16.—Good counter-hits. King on the side of the brain-pan with his right; Truckle on King’s forehead, raising a visible bump. The men closed, when King forced Truckle down. (Some confusion, and a cry of “Police.” It was a false alarm.)

17.—King got home his left on Truckle’s mazzard. Truckle rushed to an embrace and seized King round the waist, but he could not throw him, and got down without harm on either side.

18.—King first at the mark. Truckle sparring, tried his left, but, as usual, was short. King avoided Truckle’s second delivery by throwing his head aside, caught Tommy on the ribs, and the Portsmouth man got down somehow.

19.—King with the left on the mark, and the right on the jaw, received two ineffective returns. Truckle slipped on his knees and hand, and looked up as if expecting a “foul,” but the blow was not delivered.

20–28.—Similar in character, except that King twice threw Truckle.

29.—King got twice on to Truckle’s head, whose returns were wild and ineffective. (Another appeal on Truckle’s style of getting down. “Fight on,” was the renewed order.)

30–40.—Of similar character. More than one appeal from King’s umpire, but disallowed. Truckle receiver-general, and apparently getting more and more “abroad” in each succeeding round.

41.—Truckle game as a pebble, but without a chance of turning the tide of battle; King hit Truckle so sharply on the ivories that he drew a fresh supply of Chateau Margaux, and Tommy fell as if shot.

42–47.—King strong and fresh; Truckle sinking under repeated doses of punishment; in the last-named round King hit poor Tommy clean off his feet with the right hand. “Take him away;” but Tommy refused to strike his colours, and came up for Round

48.—When the Young’un sent him to grass with a right-hander on the jaw. Still he would come again for Round

49, and last.—As Tommy stood at the scratch, in a somewhat puzzled condition, King dropped into him left and right, which brought Truckle forward. His head came against King’s cranium with some force, and Truckle immediately saluted his mother earth. George Matthison, who was one of Truckle’s backers, here stepped into the ring and, by consent of Tommy’s seconds, threw up the sponge, as his man had not the remotest chance of winning. King was accordingly hailed the winner of this hard-fought battle after a bustling contest of one hour and two minutes.

Remarks.—There was but one opinion on both sides, that, for novices, both men had acquitted themselves in a first-rate manner. King is undoubtedly the finest made young fellow it has been our lot to behold for many a long day. He is, in our opinion, far finer and more symmetrical in frame than Heenan, not being so clumsily legged as the Yankee Champion, and his weight (ordinarily 12st. 12lbs.) more proportionately distributed; and we cannot help thinking, if ever they should come together (and it is reported that Heenan challenges the belt) that our “novice” is just the sort of man to give a good account in a passage of arms with that redoubtable and over-boasted gentleman. King does not use his left in leading off, as more practised pugilists do, but that is a fault he has full time to amend, and as his pluck, endurance and presence of mind, seconded by undebauched wind and a fine constitution, were fully demonstrated in this trial, we do not know where to look for his master. Throughout the battle the Young’un behaved in the most manly manner, refusing to fall on his antagonist on several occasions, when he had clearly the right to do so, and resisting the temptation to deliver a blow, though sorely provoked by his opponent’s shifty getting down. Truckle has little pretensions to science; but is a rough and ready fighter. It must be admitted that, from the first round to the last, he tried his utmost to get a turn in his favour, but was overmatched and outfought at all points. His friends must have been satisfied that he only succumbed to a superior man in all respects, and then only when nature could do no more. A subscription for the beaten man was collected on the spot by the winner, which was added to at the giving up of the stakes. King exhibited on the following Monday night, at the Rotunda, Blackfriars Road, at Tom Paddock’s benefit (after the latter’s defeat by Sam Hurst), showing but trifling marks of his recent encounter.

Early in 1861, there was much tall talk of a match with Heenan, whose intention of returning to England and claiming the championship from Sam Hurst, the holder of the new belt, was loudly boasted, but all ended, as it had begun, in mere talk.

The tough and gallant Harry Poulson, of Nottingham, was proposed as a competitor, and articles were signed in February, to fight for £100 a side, May 23rd being fixed for the encounter, and £12 a side posted; but the backers of the veteran Harry took second thoughts, and at the second deposit (of £20) failed to put in an appearance, and King pocketed the forfeit.

After the defeat of Sam Hurst by Jem Mace, King lost no time in challenging the new champion, for the “regulation stake” of £200 and the belt, which trophy had been duly handed over by Hurst to the stakeholder. A match with Young Broome, however, intervened, and came off in October, the championship battle being fixed so far forward as January 31, 1862.

Of the way in which the Ring, even when the Championship itself was involved, was made subservient to the quackery of benefit gaggery, the puffery of the Circus, and the gobemoucherie of the gaping rustics and sightseekers, the following from a leading contemporary sporting paper will show:—

“The deposit this week of £15 a side, making £130 a side down, was duly posted yesterday, and another of like amount must be staked on Friday next. The big event for the belt does not excite much interest, from the fact of the Young Big’un (King) having a previous engagement with Wm. Broome (Young Evans), on the issue of which, we need hardly say, must rest his claim as a competitor for the belt and its contingent honours. Young King, we can say, is taking every care of himself for the approaching encounter. Jem Mace is still starring it in the provinces with Pablo Fanque’s circus, but on Monday week he will re-appear in one of his superior qualifications at Birmingham, he having matched himself to run ten miles within the hour for a bet of £100 to £50, on Monday week, Oct. 21st. The ex-champion, Tom Sayers, we are informed, has also entered into business on his own account as a circus proprietor, having bought (?) the three well-known circuses, including Messrs. Howe and Cushings’, and Jem Myers’s Great American Circus (!). Tom intends commencing his tour this day, &c., &c., &c.,” [We omit the rest of the “gag.”] “Mr. Edwin James (not the Q.C.), a New York gentleman, called at our office on Wednesday last, immediately after his landing, and informed us that, owing to the war, business is almost at a dead standstill in the United States; nevertheless, J. C. Heenan, the gallant competitor of Sayers, is driving a lucrative trade in his profession (?). Heenan repudiates the fulsome praises of himself and the absurd tirades against Sayers inserted in several of our Transatlantic contemporaries.”

To return to the “trial fight” between Young King and William Evans (known as Young Broome), which came off on Monday, October 21st, 1861, on a spot not far from where the International Contest was left undecided in 1860, we may say, in partial contradiction of our quotation, that there was a lively interest in pugilistic circles, whether “a line” could not be drawn from the event as to the capabilities of the “Novice” to wrest the laurel from the brow of the scientific Jem Mace. Immediately after the match was made King was placed under the fostering wing of Nat Langham, who took him out of town, and placed him at Tom Salter’s, “The Feathers,” at Wandsworth, where he had the combined advantages of the river and the road, and from time to time the preceptorship of “Ould Nat” in imparting “wrinkles” from his own practical experience. His walking and rowing exercises were carefully superintended by John Driver, and the condition of King was a credit alike to himself and his trainer.

We must here devote a paragraph to the boxer who was thought good enough to risk 50 sovs. and expenses upon, as a “trial horse” for Young King.

William Evans (whose Ring alias was “Young Broome”) was born in August, 1836, stood 5 feet 10 inches, and, on this occasion, weighed 11st. 2lb. He had fought twice before in the P.R.—viz., with a gentleman of colour, called Kangaroo, whom he defeated, for £15 a side, 18 rounds, 30 minutes, down the river, on March 13, 1858. He next fought and beat Tom Roberts, for £25 a side, in 30 rounds, 50 minutes, down the river. He afterwards received £10 forfeit from Tyson, who could not get to weight; and £10 forfeit from Joe M’Gee; but, on the other hand, forfeited £10 to Joe Goss. Young Broome, having expressed a depreciatory opinion of King’s pugilistic capabilities, and finding some friends who shared his views, challenged the Young One to fight at catch-weight for £50, which was accepted, and Broome, after getting his patrons to rally round him, went to train at Mr. Packwood’s, the “Boileau Arms,” Hammersmith Bridge, at that time weighing about 13st., which bulk was reduced by hard work to 11st. 2lb. Dando, the well-known trainer of Tom Paddock, looked after Broome, and most certainly did his duty to his man. Alec Keene had the management of Broome, who showed the night previous to the fight at the “Three Tuns,” Moor Street, Soho, from which he took his departure in the morning.

There was but little betting on the event, only a few speculations being made at 2 to 1 on King. A very early hour was arranged for the departure, which was made from London Bridge with unusual quietness and absence of bustle; and, after a pleasant trip by rail over about sixty miles of ground, by no means in a direct line, a spot was found in the county of Surrey fit for the amusement. No time was lost in the ring being formed, by Fred Oliver and assistants, when Broome was the first to throw in his cap, attended by a well-known retired pugilist, and Bob Travers. King quickly followed suit, with Joe Phelps and Bos Tyler as his attendants. As both parties meant business, the referee was quickly chosen, and the colours tied to the stake, Broome sporting a salmon-coloured handkerchief, with a narrow magenta stripe and border, for his flag. King had for his standard a chocolate handkerchief, with white, blue, and yellow lozenge, and blue border. During the progress of the toilets of the men, a large number of the neighbouring farmers and gentry assembled on horseback, and, altogether, the gathering was of a superior order. The ring was well kept by Billy Duncan, the P.B.A. Inspector, assisted by Young Shaw, Tom Paddock, and Dan Collins. At length, all the preliminaries having been arranged, the men stood up at 9h. 44min. for

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—King was, of course, the first to attract the eye of the cognoscenti, and his condition was immediately a moot point, many, who are by no means bad judges, stating that he was some pounds too heavy; while others thought that he was in very good trim, but no doubt without the polish which could have been shown had his finishing touch been given by a first-rate proficient. As King placed himself in attitude, his commanding height showed to great advantage, while the free play of his shoulders and arms indicated that, whatever artistic skill he might be deficient in, still there was propelling power sufficient to compete with a greater amount of talent than was generally credited to his opponent. The Young’un certainly exhibited a wide spread of shoulder, combined with great development of the muscles on the back; his chest well arched, showing that there is plenty of room for the play of his lungs when in work; his loins are rather narrow, while his legs are worthy the proportions of the upper part of his frame. His attitude was very erect, his right hand well across his chest, and the left well advanced, but low. Young Broome looked, in comparison, small, but, on scanning his proportions, a great amount of power could be discovered in the muscles, which stood out fairly developed, each as sharply defined as in an anatomical study. His attitude was rather stiff, with the left well in front, but with no forcible action, the position of the right rather showing a determination for mischief with that weapon. The way in which Broome stood as he sparred, prepared the spectators for an exhibition of “trotting,” of which they were most pleasingly disappointed. No time was lost in sparring, for, both being in the mind for serious business, hostilities were commenced at once, by King getting close to Broome and feinting with his left, but Broome was “wide oh,” and got out of danger. Broome, who was more than eager, dashed his left at the head, but, in consequence of his great hurry, he was short. King, who would be busy, got his left fairly on the front of Broome’s head, receiving on the chest. This led to good exchanges, in which both fought very last, until Broome went down.

2.—On time being called Broome came up first, amidst the cheers of his friends, who were taken by surprise at his cleverness in avoiding punishment. King, who appeared determined to finish the affair off-hand, went straight to his opponent, who, nothing loth, met him, and they fought right and left with both hands, King getting well on the nose and forehead, Broome landing on the chest and neck, the “pepper-box” being freely handed from one to the other. This bout was finished by Broome getting to close quarters, when King picked him up in his arms, and by sheer strength threw him, after a good struggle, and fell upon him.

3.—Both came up piping when time was called; nevertheless, they commenced as soon as they were within distance by right and left deliveries, Broome getting fairly on to King’s neck and forehead; King delivering his left on the nose and jaw; Broome getting his left on the neck heavily, grazing the skin and drawing the blood. King at the same time landing his left on Broome’s forehead, made the first event (first blood) equal. They then closed, and exchanges took place until Broome went to grass.

4.—As Broome came up, the effects of the blow delivered by King upon his forehead were very apparent, there being a lump with a cut, while King had his right cheek and chest flushed. Broome, who evidently thought he had only to go in and win, fought very fast, which tactics met the ideas of the candidate for the championship, for they fought furiously with both hands, until Broome was knocked down by a right-hander on the jaw. The quick fighting that had taken place, and the eagerness of the combatants, can be well explained by stating that the time occupied in the four rounds was only four minutes.

5.—Broome, who appeared to have had the worst of the previous round, came up smiling, and, in point of fact, forced the fighting by leading off with his left at the head, which was rendered ineffective by King getting home with his left on the nose. This brought on some heavy exchanges with both hands, King getting well on the forehead and nose, receiving on the chest and cheek until they got to the ropes, where the same tactics were pursued until they closed, when King proved himself much the stronger man, as he picked up Broome, and, after a short struggle, threw him, landing his right on the chest as Broome fell.

6.—When time was called, both came up with a determination to settle the matter “off-hand,” which was evident from the manner in which rapid exchanges were delivered on both sides. King landed his mauleys on the nose, forehead, and right ear; Broome getting well on the cheek and chest twice, and falling from the force of his own blow at the finish.

7.—Both were blowing as they left their seconds’ knees; nevertheless, the game was kept alive by their simultaneously delivering their left on the face and chest, King having the best of the exchanges. Broome missed a couple of well-intended right-handers, for which mistakes he was fought down, after a good rally.

8.—The same tactics were pursued as in the previous rounds, the right and left exchanges being of the same character. Broome, after breaking away, got his right on King’s jaw twice, steadying the rush of the “big ’un,” who reached Broome’s forehead with his right. This forced a rather wild rally, in which King missed one or two well-intended shots with the left. Broome, who got on a right-hander on the forehead, fell from the force of his own blow.

9.—Broome, who was first up, was blowing very freely, and had a cut on the left eyebrow. King had no prominent mark, with the exception of his right cheek being slightly swelled. No time was lost in sparring, for they commenced proceedings as soon as they met. Both being eager for work, they closed, and some fast and wild exchanges took place, Broome getting on the cheek and forehead, King on the nose and cheek; they then closed, and after a short struggle, were down side by side.

10.—The equal fighting of the previous round had decidedly roused the energies of both, as they missed their first deliveries, being too eager to get on. On steadying themselves they countered neatly with the left, Broome getting upon the cheek, but King more effectively on the nose. Broome, who was determined to make the pace good, tried to land his right twice, but without avail, getting at the third attempt on King’s neck, who retaliated by sending his left on Broome’s nose; the latter hit out at a venture with his right, which reached the side of King’s head, and Broome went down rather suspiciously from the “wind” of King’s right hand.

11.—No sooner were the opponents at the scratch than they commenced proceedings by countering with the left flush on the front of the head, after which King got his left on the cheek; Broome, in retaliation, sent his left on the jaw, and popped his right under the left eye. Exchanges followed, in which King proved himself the stronger by forcing Broome down in his own corner.

12.—Broome was first up, and as King faced him, took the initiative by leading off with his left, which was rather short, landing on the chest. King, who was equally eager to try conclusions, rushed in, delivered a couple of heavy blows on the nose and shoulder, receiving a right-hander on the forehead, a left ditto on the cheek, which was followed by Broome delivering a fair smack with the right on the eye, which forced King backward against the ropes. (Offers to take 7 to 4 that Broome would prove the winner.)

13.—Broome, when time was called, came up bleeding from the cut under the eye, administered in the previous bout, but, nothing loth, met King with great determination, and, both being equally bent upon mischief, the exchanges which took place were wildly delivered, until they closed, when Broome twisted King off his legs, who, nevertheless, was uppermost when they reached the ground.

14.—Both again eager, were up on time being called; King showing with a lump on his cheek, which was open under the left eye; Broome had his nose sadly out of shape and his forehead swelled. No time was lost in sparring, each commencing by sending out his left, and each missing from over impetuosity. Broome, who tried his left and missed, got down cleverly.

15.—This round was remarkable for the quickness of the exchanges, both getting it on the head and chest. When they closed, King held Broome by sheer strength, and got on his right three times, twice on the nose and forehead, and the third time on the shoulder. King stumbled against the stakes, and Broome went down.

16.—This round was commenced by each sparring for wind, King putting his hands down and walking round the ring. Broome, who was advised by his seconds to force the fighting, went to work resolutely, got his left well on the mouth, catching it in return on the nose. He, nothing daunted, rushed in, and got his right on the cheek, then fell, apparently from the force of his own blow.

17.—A cry that the police were coming was raised, and both men being confident and eager to settle the business, they commenced by delivering counters on the eye and nose, which led to exchanges at close quarters, Broome receiving on the nose, King having one on the same spot—“a hot ’un.” This stirred the Young One up, and he sent his right straight on the mark, Broome planting in return on the cheek. They then closed, and some very heavy exchanges took place, Broome twice visiting King’s head, but not heavily, while King, who was very busy, planted his left between the eyes, cutting to the bone, then taking hold of Broome, he delivered three straight right-handers nearly on the same spot, and Broome was eventually fought down. Twenty minutes.

The alarm of the arrival of the police was now realised. Several of the county blues appeared at the ring side, but were waiting orders from their superiors, who had not kept pace with them. The men and seconds skedaddled from the ring, and the spectators moved off. They passed across the border of the county, and there the attentive escort left them. In twenty minutes after, as this invasion was unexpected, a ring was formed in a retired spot, and at half-past ten the men were in position for

THE RENEWED FIGHT.

Round 18.—On the men again appearing, Broome had his nose strapped with a bit of adhesive plaster, his mouth was swelled, and his left eye discoloured. King had his jaw swelled, and a cut beneath his left eye; but seemed as strong as at the commencement. Broome, who still looked confident, commenced the proceedings by leading off with his left at the head, getting it on the nose in return. This led to exchanges, both delivering heavily on the head and chest, until Broome was fought down in his own corner.

19.—King came up with alacrity, and commenced proceedings by planting his left on the sore spot, receiving on the forehead. Broome succeeded in planting his left on the cheek and neck, receiving some heavy returns on the nose and right ear, and was finally fought down at the ropes.

20.—The battle from this time took a decided turn in favour of King, who, notwithstanding the pace at which they had been fighting, was as fresh as at the beginning of the battle. Broome, who was suffering from repeated visitations on the nose, tried all he could to turn the tables, but without avail, as, on his forcing the fighting, King hit him away; and notwithstanding all the left-hand visitations of Broome, succeeded in delivering severe right and left blows; the round was concluded by King knocking down Broome with a right-hander on the jaw.

21–30.—The fighting in these rounds was of precisely the same character; notwithstanding all the game and determined efforts of Broome, who never at any time flinched, and in several instances surprised his backers and the spectators by the manner in which he struggled against the fate, which, though slowly, was surely declaring against him. In the last of these rounds Broome tried to get away from the repeated visitations of King, and cleverly slipped him; but King followed him closely, and finally knocked him down with the right. Time in the second ring, fourteen minutes.

31.—Broome, as game as man could be, came up bleeding from the cut on the nose, and with his ears much swelled from the blows administered by King, who had few marks except some red patches on the ribs and shoulders, and the left eye nearly closed. Notwithstanding the punishment Broome had received, he persevered to turn the tables, and met the determined onslaught of King as well as he was able. It was evident at this time that his (Broome’s) left hand was going or gone, as he several times gave his head in an attempt to bring the battle off in his favour by a cross-counter with the right. King forced the fighting, and some good exchanges took place in favour of King, who, after a spirited rally, fought Broome down.

32–34.—The same tactics were displayed by both opponents, King, now by far the stronger man, forcing the fighting as fast as he could, and the seconds of Broome sending him up to fight, knowing that it was only a matter of time, unless their man could land the victory by an accident This he most strenuously endeavoured to do by getting his right on the jaw; but King bored Broome down in each round until the 34th, when Broome landed his right on the temple, which staggered King, who fell on his knees.

35.—Broome, who came up resolutely, but weak, met the rush of King with great determination, but was, as before, the chief recipient of the punishment. His left hand could not be administered with effect; nevertheless, he closed, and, after a good rally at the ropes, threw King, but not heavily.

36.—The cheers and encouragement given to Broome, as he came up, had decidedly nettled King, for, the instant he had left his second’s knee, he rushed to close quarters, and, despite all the efforts of Broome, fought him down at the ropes.

37.—Broome, who came up slowly, was bleeding from the cut between the eyes, which were fast closing, and, with his mouth, much swelled. Despite his weakness he was resolute, and did not flinch from the onslaught of his opponent, who sent his left on to the old spot. Broome sent in his right well upon the ribs, but King, not to be stalled off, bored in, and fought Broome down in the latter’s corner. Time in second ring, twenty minutes.

38.—Broome came up this round apparently better than heretofore; he was quicker on his legs than in the last eight rounds. King rubbed his ribs as he came up, and, getting within reach, rushed to close quarters, when some very heavy hitting took place; King fighting at the head, and Broome at the body. On breaking away, Broome landed his left on King’s nose, for which he was fought down at the ropes, despite all his endeavours to “hold his own.”

39.—Broome, in this round, slightly revived the failing hopes of his friends, as, on King missing his left, he planted his left neatly on Tom’s nose, and his right immediately afterwards on the jaw, King dropping on his knees.

40.—It was but a transient gleam of hope. Despite the turn in his favour in the last round, it was apparent that Broome was fast falling weak from exertion and loss of blood. The seconds of King, seeing the state of the case, cried out to him “to go in and win,” and he fought Broome down in his own corner.

41–43, and last.—In each of these rounds Broome only came up to be hit down. In the last but one he was knocked down as he came game, but staggering, to meet his opponent. In the last, King walked straight to Broome’s corner, as the latter retreated before him, and, delivering a spank on the head, Broome fell forward on his face. His seconds, finding it was useless to prolong the contest, threw up the sponge in token of his defeat, Young King being hailed the conqueror, after fighting forty-two minutes in the two rings.

Remarks.—The resolute and unflinching manner in which this splendid contest was carried out from start to finish, invested the forthcoming encounter for the Championship with greater interest. The manner in which King put up with the right-handed deliveries of Broome (which were by no means light), raised him in the estimation of all who witnessed the fight, and already speculation on that event has commenced. King has improved in his fighting greatly since his encounter last autumn with Truckle, of Portsmouth, and no doubt he has learned a lesson or two in this encounter with Broome. He is too impetuous in his rushes, in one of which he got the cut under the left eye, as well as several right-hand props, which at all times are dangerous, a chance blow having, in many instances, brought off a battle when all chance was apparently gone. That he is thoroughly game there can now be no question, and his steadiness in training, &c. is a certain proof that he will in the eventful contest for the Championship be as fit as man can be possibly trained. Young Broome, although defeated, is by no means disgraced, and his friends, to a man, are satisfied with his performance, which has taken even his warmest admirers by surprise. Rumours had been flying about respecting Broome’s gameness, and he having heard of the same, stated his determination to be game on this occasion; that he most faithfully kept his word, a perusal of the above account must prove. After the sponge had been thrown up, Broome was carefully attended to by his seconds, but, notwithstanding all their attention, he soon became blind. On reaching the first convenient domicile, he was put to bed, when, despite the usual remedies, he was attacked with a severe fit of cold shivers, which could not be subdued for some time. At a late hour of the afternoon he was recovered sufficiently to take his departure for town, where, on his arrival, he met with a hearty reception. His friends expressed their intention to pay him for his colours the same as if they were winning ones, and a benefit was arranged for as a solace for his defeat. King left for town at an earlier period than his opponent, and passed the evening amidst his friends at the east end, but little the worse for the encounter.

Both Broome and King rapidly recovered from the effects of their battle, Broome being able to visit Aldershot, on the Thursday, with Alec Keene. He was also present at the deposit for the Championship, which took place on Thursday, when he received some substantial recompense for his gamely contested fight.

The stakes were given up to King on the ensuing Tuesday, at Joe Phelps’s, the “Blakeney’s Head,” High Street, Islington, when a few admirers of Tom King ventured to lay evens on their pet for the great event in perspective; though 5 and even 6 to 4 was the price in the east as in the west.

King trained for the great encounter at Hastings, Mace near Norwich; the latter coming to town to be present at the fight between Bob Brettle and Jack Rooke, on the 31st December, 1861, for £200 a side and a bet of £300 even,[41] the moderate sum of £1,000 being dependent on the issue.

“Time and tide speed on their course, and wait for no man,” and the month of January, 1862, had reached its 28th day, when, on as cheerless and miserable a winter’s morning as combined damp, drizzle, mizzle, snow, sleet, and marrow searching cold could mix up, our bold aspiring young sailor met the practised and scientific Norwich boxer. How his “greenness,” despite his gameness, fell before superior skill, tact, and experience, may be found fully set forth in the preceding chapter.

As we have already said, there was one person, and that one a most important factor in the question, who thought he was beaten by an accident—his name was Tom King. Tom maintained, without any intention of disparaging for one moment the credit due to Mace for his skill and also his courage, that he felt convinced, if his friends would stand to him, he should be able to reverse the first verdict, or, at any rate, he would then acknowledge that Mace was the better man.

After the long and undecided battle between Joe Goss and Ryall, Goss was brought forward by his Wolverhampton backers, as a competitor with Mace for the belt. In April also, “the Benicia Boy” arrived from America, bringing with him a brother “Jem,” who was said by some Yankee paragraphists to have come “to pick up the belt.” We have already noted, in our life of Mace, that Heenan repudiated this newspaper bounce; and here, to avoid repetition, the reader is referred to the memoir of Mace for the circumstances under which the second match between King and Mace was brought about and carried to a conclusion.

Mace, at the time the articles were signed, was making hay after the manner of Tom Sayers, in travelling with an equestrian circus—that being the only ring in which he appeared to have a chance of a job. This employment he kept up for some time after the match was made. King, too, for a few weeks was tempted to “do the mountebank” with a travelling company; but Tom did not take kindly to the business of “busking,” and threw it up, returning to his London patrons.

As the time drew on, each man found it expedient to mingle more decidedly in sporting circles, and thus create a greater interest than had heretofore been exhibited, and this wise discrimination gradually had the desired effect. The match began to be talked about in all quarters, flocks of admirers followed the rival champions on every race course, or at any place of public resort, and soon the discussion of their respective merits led to a comparison of their deeds and their appearances with those of the heroes of the old ring.

The nearer the time approached the mystery observed as to the actual “where” tended not a little to foster anxiety, many of the intending spectators being kept in a ferment of funk lest they should be thrown over at the last. It was known it must be either at the end of November or the beginning of December, and as the fights between Hicks and Gollagher and Dillon and Reardon, both for high stakes, were fixed for about the same time, the chance of being put on a wrong scent, and arriving at the wrong ring side, redoubled the fears of the fidgety. The men themselves even were not made acquainted with the actual day until within a week of the time, and so well was the secret kept, that, until the previous Monday, we believe the number of persons “fly” to the arrangements might be numbered upon the fingers of the two hands.

Both Mace and King being sober, steady fellows in their habits, and both being pretty well in their prime, and accustomed to hard work, there was no inconvenience felt by either in their training in consequence of the uncertainty as to the day of milling—both being well up to the mark, and, indeed, almost fit to fight before they went into training, which they did some seven weeks before the eventful Wednesday; Mace at Newmarket, at the old training quarters of Tom Sayers, under the care of Howard, the Bradford jumper; and King at the “Baldfaced Stag,” near Woodford, Essex, under Harry Harris. It is creditable to the respective mentors of the men, that nothing was left undone which could ensure the respective champions being in a meet state for the arduous task they had set themselves.

Although there was so much excitement, and so much pleasurable anticipation of the mill, it cannot be concealed that mixed up with it was a taint of suspicion that all was not quite serene and square, arising from the fact that the respective backers of the men had changed sides since January, and that King, formerly an Eastern sage, and then an enlightened West Ender, had relapsed into his original form; while Mace had, after a fall from West to East, once more started Westward, and was backed from the Haymarket, with at any rate a side wind help from his former patrons. Some people imagined that nothing could be square under such circumstances as these. They shut their eyes to ascertained facts, and then, by a series of winks and knowing grins, strove to create a prejudice which spread, no one knows how, and finally gained for the Ring and its protégés that pleasing character they labour under among those who at all seasons, and on all possible occasions, do all they can to decry the old manly sports of their country.

The acting representatives of the men on this occasion were Mr. Richardson, of the “Blue Anchor,” Church Street, for King, and Mr. Coney, of Panton Street, for Jem Mace, who was partly backed by some old fanciers. To these diplomatic managers the stakeholder in due course communicated the actual day he had determined for the fray, but he declined to fix a scene for the performance, as he considered an arena could be better settled by the agents themselves, who could consult other parties likely to have a finger in the pie, and without whose aid there would certainly be no getting to the rendezvous, and without whose judgment that rendezvous could not be determined on without great risk. The plan turned out a wise one, and thanks to the energy and discrimination of those concerned, all was satisfactorily arranged without let or hindrance.

We have alluded already to the difficulties which beset the managers of Ring affairs at this period, and on the Monday morning Messrs. Richardson and Coney received the unwelcome information, that the officials of a certain railway company, with which they had made all pleasant for the “excursion,” had decided to cancel the arrangements, and that no special train would be provided. Here was a pretty fix for the executive. An alternative line was immediately decided on. All ticketholders would be conveyed by ordinary train to Thames Haven, where two commodious steamboats would be ready for the conveyance of the voyagers to a terra incognita. While these arrangements were perfecting on the Monday and Tuesday, the uncertainty added to the excitement, and telegrams flew over the wires from every point of the compass from “country cousins” seeking the “straight tip,” and town friends anxious to communicate the same. The sporting houses, East and West, were thronged, reminding some of the olden days when “Le Boxe,” as Alphonse calls it, was an “institution.”

As we have given an instance of “clerical” interest in Ring sports, on another occasion, in the sister island, we may here note that a high Anglican Church authority entered itself among the “tipsters” on this; the Record giving a prominent place to the following paragraph:—

“The fight between James Mace and Thomas King is to take place on Tuesday next in the neighbourhood of Aldershot.”

We hope the “tipster” who so egregiously sold the reverend editor, as to day and place, did not add dishonesty to his pious fraud. At any rate we fear, as we did not see him in his accustomed position, that our right reverend friend, “the Bishop of Bond Street,” may have been misled by ecclesiastical authority; we believe the police were—of course we were not.

By four o’clock on Wednesday morning the approaches to Fenchurch Street were alive with intending excursionists, who on arriving at the station found the entrance crowded by a strong posse of roughs and thieves, always to be found at their posts on such occasions. These gentry had a good time of it, and so strong and daring were their forces, that the few ring keepers engaged to protect the public were completely overpowered, and, in many instances, eased of their own property. Bob Travers, among others, was attacked and forcibly deprived of all he had about him. Many lost their tickets, and many gentlemen were so intimidated that they declined facing the ordeal, and returned home. The scene was, on the whole, disgraceful. The managers of the undertaking were great sufferers, and were loud in their complaints that the conduct of these roughs prevented their reaping the harvest they had anticipated. Although the company commenced assembling at four o’clock, it was fully seven before there were any signs of a start, and the impatience of the early birds, although extreme, was fully justifiable. There was no help for it, however, as all was in the hands of the railway officials.

Fortunately the ring forces when concentrated were strong enough to exclude most of the undesirables from the platform; still some few managed to penetrate the ranks of the officials, and by their presence caused considerable annoyance, although the force of ring keepers was sufficiently strong to prevent their attempting any combined mischief. At length at seven o’clock the whistle sounded, and we were off for the appointed spot, where two vessels were found in waiting, and on board these the travellers, nearly 300 in number, at once repaired. It was now suggested that it would be well to try and get the fight off on the spot, instead of going further afield, where the Bobbies might be in force. This recommendation was accepted with promptitude, and while the Corinthians were luxuriating in a hot and comfortable breakfast on board, provided in admirable style by their old caterer, Dan Pinxton, the ring was pitched, and soon after eight all was in readiness. Through the exertions of Billy Duncan and his pals such admirable arrangements were made for the comfort of the inner ring ticket-holders that all were seated without difficulty, and, so far as we could perceive, the whole thing was carried out in a manner to reflect the highest credit on all concerned. As soon as the office was given by Fred Oliver the men approached the magic circle; Mace being the first to drop his castor within the ropes. He was attended by his old opponents Bob Brettle and Bob Travers, while King, who was somewhat behindhand, was waited on by Bos Tyler and Macdonald. Both men were welcomed with loud cheers from their partisans, which each acknowledged in a suitable manner. There was a good deal of lively betting at 6 and 7 to 4 on Mace, and his backers, we believe, would have gone on to any extent at that figure. A brisk business was done by the sale of inner ring tickets, but by no means to the extent we have known on former occasions. The sum received was nearly £37. Among the spectators were Tom Sayers, Heenan, and many other fistic celebrities, who eyed the tourney throughout with curiosity. And now the men stand up, approach each other and grasp hands, then separate; the seconds retire to their corners, and all eyes are fixed upon them as they upraise their daddles, and square their elbows for

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The moment so fraught with interest and excitement to the partisans of the belligerents had now arrived; the busy and careful work of the seconds was at last completed to their entire satisfaction, and the men were delivered at the scratch. While their toilettes were being arranged, the “making ready” had been eagerly watched by all with almost breathless silence. As Jem turned to face his opponent, he gave a momentary glance at the sky, whose dull, cheerless aspect was anything but calculated to enliven the combatants. Both advanced to the scratch with that firm, confident step which denotes the action of well-drilled practitioners. Perhaps the first thing that riveted the attention of the spectators, as the men stood front to front, was the striking difference in height that existed between them. It had been confidently stated Mace had never been in better condition; certainly as he stood thus confronting his antagonist there was nothing in his appearance that even the most fastidious could for a moment find fault with, and in all things he looked a far superior man to what he did at their former meeting. In weight Jem, when he last poised the beam, pulled down 11st. 4lb., and with inward confidence beaming in his every look, he stated it was impossible for a man to feel better, and this assurance there can be no doubt had great weight with his admirers, many of whom from over-caution had waited for this “opinion” from Mace himself before they had ventured to “put it on.” If condition of itself could alone endow a man with the requisite “resin” to tune the first fiddle in such a grand pugilistic overture, Tom might well put the thing down as a “certainty,” for it must be admitted he was all the most critical could desire, and spoke of the result with a confidence devoid of anything in the shape of braggadocia. The moment the men had been “set” by their seconds, there was perceptible that twitch and shrug of the shoulders which denote a disapproval of the morning air. Jem having put up the prop in proper order drew from range, and of his position it may be said the skill of the master was at a glance displayed, for he was well covered at all points. Tom also stood remarkably well, and although by some good judges he is stated to be a little too fine about the loins, and by no means deep set enough in the jaw and neck, yet we think it was conceded by all impartial persons that he looked a most formidable opponent. Mace, as he manœuvred, looked at his man with a sharp, penetrating glance, as though he was mentally summing up “the King’s affairs.” The result seemed satisfactory, for Jem gave one of his well-known jerks of his nob, as much as to say, “Tom, I intend to give you another dressing.” King smiled at his man, as to intimate, if he really imagined he was capable of dressing him again he would oblige by being quick about it, as there needed something in the shape of excitement to warm up the system. After a little sparring, Mace drew from range and dropped his mauleys, and then with his right rubbed his breast and arms. King imitated his action, as he felt numbed about the arms, and thought it necessary to do the burnishing to promote the circulation. Jem, with a cautions step, drew into range, and then by way of a feeler slightly let go the left, but Tom, who was decidedly quicker on his pins than we had found him in any of his preceding battles, got well away with the back step, thus showing that these efforts on the part of his opponent to draw out his guard were not likely to be successful. As Mace broke for the purpose of getting from distance, King dashed at him in a most impetuous manner, and missed administering a fine right-handed shot from the fore-arm. Mace, as Tom came on for the purpose of forcing the fighting, retreated, but just opposite the referee and umpire the men closed, when Jem, finding he was likely to get in an awkward position, ducked his head and went down, King looking at him. Both men were loudly cheered, and as there was just a shade of commotion among those who formed the uprights of the outer circle, Professor Duncan, attended by the “faculty,” promptly administered a mild dose of his efficacious remedy for disorder—the “syrup of whips”—and the cure was instantaneous.

2.—At the call of “Time,” both men, with the eagerness of swimmers for the first plunge, rushed simultaneously from the knees of their seconds, and threw up their hands at the scratch. After toeing the mark each again drew back from range, and began rubbing himself, looking meanwhile at each other like two game-cocks. Mace then led with the left, but did not get it home, as King got well from range. Tom now dashed at his man, and delivered the left on the top of the head, and put in another from the fore-arm on the mouth, which had the effect of producing a slight show of the crimson. (“First blood,” as on the former occasion, for Tom.) Jem, after getting home slightly with the left and right on the face, closed with his man, when, finding he was likely to get into an awkward position, he slipped from him and got down, there being so far not much harm done on either side, King fighting with remarkable fairness; his opponent decidedly more crafty and shifty, though, as Jack Macdonald said, “We’ll give him all that in.”

3.—Jem was the first from his corner, but no sooner did the busy seconds of King see that his antagonist was on the move than they gave the office, and with that impetuosity of action so characteristic of him, he at once advanced to the scratch. After shifting, changing position, and taking fresh ground, King went dashing at his man for the purpose of forcing the fighting, and, getting partly over Jem’s right cross-guard, planted the left on the right cheek, and with a wild, slinging round hit from the right also got home on the side of the knowledge box. Mace, in the counter-hitting, administered one with his stinging left on the jaw, when, as Tom was not to be kept out, they closed. In the struggle for the fall King got his right arm round his man, and they went down near the referee in a curious, awkward fall, Mace, who had his head bent down, hitting the top part of it against the ground. It was imagined by many at the moment that Jem might have received some severe harm, but they were soon convinced to the contrary, for when the men had become disentangled and Jem with his usual agility had righted, he looked up with a broad grin, as much as to say, “Don’t be uneasy, I’m all right.” There was in the excitement again a slight manifestation of pressure in “Court,” the “special jury” being the least bit inconvenienced, but Duncan, as head usher, brought up his efficient corps to point, and the weight of this legal element was on the instant sufficient to restore matters to their proper balance, and the business of this admirably kept ring went on as smoothly as ever.

4.—While the combatants were in their corners every movement of their seconds was watched with the utmost minuteness, and it was a treat to observe in what fine order they sent them up to the mark. Tom was the first to present his towering height at the scratch, but was almost on the instant met by his opponent. Bos Tyler pointed at Mace, in a good-humoured manner, as much as to intimate Jem had had some of the burnishing powder. Mace feinted with the left, but, finding he could not get in with artistic effect, he did not let it go freely from the shoulder. Tom, for the purpose of taking better range, followed up and with the left got home on the right cheek, and also put in one from the right. As Mace broke to get away, Tom hit out with both mauleys, but did no execution, as Mace threw the left off well with the right guard. After slight sparring and manœuvring Tom led the left, but it was not sent sufficiently well in to be effective, nor did he meet with any better success in following up with a wild hit from the right, for Jem drew well out of range. On again coming to distance, King worked with his right arm backwards and forwards, as though he intended to let it go, but did not. As Jem shifted Tom followed, when Mace got home a fine left-handed hit on the jaw. The combatants in the most spirited manner fought across the ring, Mace administering some of the cayenne with both mauleys. In the close both struggled for the fall, when Tom got from his man and went to grass in his own corner.

5.—Mace was the first to come from his corner, but he had not long to wait before Tom faced him. Both men were considerably pinked, and their physiognomies now possessed more touches of beauty than are to be found in their photographs in George Newbold’s collection of celebrities. Jem, as he came from his corner, bent his head forward, as though he was mentally debating in what new manner he should try to get well at his man, who by the rapid style in which he had been fighting, had given proof that he was a dangerous antagonist. King, the instant he had put up his hands, went dashing to force the fighting. With the left he administered a stinger on the right cheek, and followed up with a half round hit from the right. Mace, as his opponent rushed at him to close, drew out, but Tom, not to be denied, followed up, when, in a rally, Jem pegged away with both mauleys, left and right, with astonishing rapidity, doing a great deal of heavy execution. In the close they struggled for the fall, when Mace threw his man in clever style, near the ropes. (The friends of Mace were in ecstasies, and long odds were offered on their pet.)

6.—Tom in the first two or three rounds had unquestionably had a shade the best of it, from the style in which he had gone dashing at his man, and the quickness he had displayed. Mace did not exhibit that steadiness in his practice he afterwards did. Now, however, that Jem had got the true measure of his man there was a total change in his tactics, and the manner in which he now fought proved that he was in all respects superior to the “big-’un” in science. Both, on presenting themselves at the mark, bore evidence of having been by no means idle, for Jem was swelled about the ivories in a very conspicuous manner, while King, from the appearance of his left peeper, gave unmistakable proof of having been warmed up; he was likewise slightly bleeding from the nose. Still there had been no serious damage done on the part of either. After some little manœuvring, the combatants changing and shifting position, King dashed at his antagonist in his usual style, getting home left and right on the head. Mace met his man as he came with the rush on the milling suit, and, in one of the finest rallies that could be witnessed, the combatants fought right across the ring; there was something delightful to the admirers of boxing in Jem’s style of fighting his man with both hands, left and right, at the nob. These blows were delivered with a rapidity that was quite electrifying, being sent ding dong, straight home, so that Jem was all over his man in an instant, the blows making an impression as though Tom had been stamped with a couple of dies. Tom was by no means idle, but also pegged away at his man with the left on the head and the right on the body in merry fashion. In the close they got on the ropes, when Jem for the moment touched the top cord with his right hand, but Tom having shifted his position, the men struggled for the fall, when Tom, as a termination to this well-fought round, was under.

7.—As the battle progressed, so did it increase in interest, for there was a marked speciality about the manner in which it was being fought that could not possibly fail to enhance its importance among the admirers of bold and genuine boxing. There can be no disputing, both men had been from the commencement fighting remarkably well, and the battle, as will be seen, had already presented two striking and prominent features; for though, until Jem had thoroughly got the measure of his man, King had in the opening bout been considered to have a slight lead, yet the style in which Mace was now performing was sufficient to convince all that there had not been the slightest mistake made in his merits as regards milling excellence. The combatants came simultaneously from their corners. Tom, as he stood at the scratch, opened his mouth and rubbed his hands, and then, on again putting himself into position, drew out and retreated to his own corner, Mace following. Both, as they again drew to range, steadied themselves, and in a fine counter with the left got well home, Jem doing execution on the snout, Tom on the top part of the cranium. Mace, on breaking, got to the ropes, when, as Tom came boring in to close, he slipped from the embrace of the young giant and got down.

8.—From the manner in which the tints had been rubbed in it was apparent the colours had been well worked up, though this was much more conspicuous on Tom’s dial than his opponent’s, for King’s left peeper had a small lump on the side of it, while the nose and mouth looked a good deal puffed. Tom, as usual, taking the initiative, lunged out the left, but did no execution, as he was not well to distance. Mace, after King had opened with this wild hit, took up fresh position, and in doing so, as he was followed by his antagonist, he hit the back part of his head against the stake. As Tom pressed in, Jem pulled himself together, and after some fine left-handed counter-hitting, in which Mace delivered very heavily on the middle of the head, they closed and went down, Mace through the ropes. The battle had now lasted 22 minutes, and it had been nothing but downright hard fighting and no mistake.

9.—King made another dash at Jem, “on hostile thoughts intent,” and got home apparently a hot-’un on the right eye, but there was no sign of injury, evidently owing to Jem’s excellent condition. Jem instantly returned a severe prop on the dial with the left, and then countered a second effort on the part of King, who essayed his right. Tom, desperate, now dashed in with headstrong determination, and bored his man through the ropes, to the delight of the Kingites, who, however, declined to take 6 to 4, freely offered by the backers of Mace.

10.—Mace, the instant the signal was given, came forth with the utmost alacrity to renew the struggle. King, as an opening to the attack, lunged out the left, and administered a telling spank on Jem’s right jaw; and then, as Tom came dashing on, the men fought in a fine two-handed rally right across the ring, when King got his man’s nob for an instant in the right arm lock, and pegged away in the fibbing beautifully. Jem, like a good tactician, extricated himself; and after some severe milling, in which Mace got in the most telling manner on his man’s mouth, cheek, and nose—going, in fact, all over the dial with his clenched digits in a rapid and surprising manner—the men closed at the ropes right opposite to the umpire and referee, when Jem got his man in position, and gave him a fair back-heel fall. Immense cheering for Mace.

11.—King’s left eye looked worse than ever, while his good-looking mug was knocked out of all symmetry. Nevertheless he was again first to begin the attack, and in leading got home the left on the right cheek, following it in with one from the right on the side of the pimple. Jem, who timed his man beautifully, administered another tremendous left-hander on the mazzard, when Tom’s nob, from its effect, went waving back. On the instant, however, he pulled himself together and dashed in to renew the struggle, when Jem met him, and delivered a tremendous left-hander on the nose, which produced a copious flow of blood. As Mace took fresh ground Tom again dashed in, and they fought a regular ding-dong, slogging give-and-take to a close. Tom, with his usual style of bending his head slightly forward, went dashing at Jem, and got more than one straightening prop. They again fought in regular ding-dong to a close, when Tom, while receiving Jem’s props on the dial, made use of the right once or twice in a very efficient manner on the body, upon which Mace got from his man and went down. The referee here called the attention of Tom’s seconds to the fact that their man had struck Jem while he was down, which was true; but Mace was just on the go, and King could not help the hit, which was evidently unintentional, and no harm was done.

12.—Another splendid rally in this round, Mace again in a telling manner doing execution with both mauleys, but evidently forced back by King’s irresistible advance. The men, who had fought right across the ring, closed in Mace’s corner, when Jem got down, Tom falling on him. During this round the referee had several times to caution the seconds, who, in a most reprehensible manner, followed their principals as closely as frequently to be in the way of the combatants.

13.—The men again went to work in a spirited and determined manner. Jem, with his left, got well home on the front of his man’s dial, and jumped back; when Tom, with his right, administered some sounding spanks on the ribs. As Jem broke to get away, King followed him up, and Mace went down to end the round.

14.—Mace commenced operations by getting well in range and delivering a pretty left-hander full on the nose, knocking Tom’s head round as though it had been shaken off its connections; nevertheless Tom again tried to force the fighting, when, after some merry exchanges, they closed, and in the fall went down together in the centre of the ring. King’s friends cheered him heartily, as he fully deserved.

15.—Some sharp fighting, rather in favour of Mace, who, in the end, went down in the hitting, and King fell over him.

16.—Tom dashed in viciously, and after a fine exchange of compliments, in which each did execution, they closed, and Jem, who had had the best of the exchanges, fell under.

17.—Tom again forced the fighting, but though he delivered with his left, he was a little too round with his right to be effective. Mace, after countering with his antagonist, and getting well home with the left in the middle of the head, and following up at half measure with the right, got cleverly away from his man. As Jem took fresh position, Tom followed him up, and the men in a rally fought to the ropes. In the close both got under the top rope, and fell nearly out of the ring.

18.—Such a certainty was the battle looked upon by some of Jem’s admirers that Johnny Gideon here offered £30 to £5 on him, but there were no takers. Indeed, Tom’s umpire, a good judge, said that, bar accident, Mace could not lose. After some more severe fighting, in which Mace again delivered in a telling manner on Tom’s dial with both mauleys, Tom made a slip in getting from his man, and fell on his knees. On the instant the game fellow recovered his perpendicular, and as Jem noticed this he beckoned him to renew the round. King was willing, but his well-skilled seconds, seeing the fast work he was doing, refused to allow him.

19.—It now seemed “all over, but shouting,” to the partisans of Mace, who called out any odds, without response. As the men came up it was easy to see that Jem, thinking himself already victorious, was anxious to finish off the business, lest the appearance of the police, which had been rumoured, should rob him of his conquest at the last moment. He worked in with both hands in weaving style to get well to distance, and as he took up his position he got into a slight hollow of the ring. Jem, who had repeatedly tried to land a clipping cross-counter with his right, had just opened himself for the purpose of trying it on, when Tom, who stood firmly to his guns, met him with one of the most tremendous hits we ever saw. It was a cross-counter on the left cheek with his right hand—a blow that seemed to go all over Jem’s face with crushing effect. Jem, bleeding from the mouth and nose, reeled and staggered from the effect of this visitation, and then, to the consternation of friends, fell in the middle of the ring all of a heap. So sudden a change in the aspect of affairs had hardly ever been witnessed in the memory of the oldest ring-goer, and Jem’s seconds were working with a zeal which told how serious was the position. Down came the odds. “The Champion’s licked,” said twenty voices in a sort of stage whisper, and all eyes were strained in the direction of the busy group in Mace’s corner.

20.—King walked up to the scratch, watching the referee with ill-concealed anxiety to hear the call of “Time.” When, however, that functionary had twice repeated his summons, Mace, who had by no means recovered from the settler he had received, came unsteadily from his corner. Tom walked up to him, and Mace tried a wild delivery with his left, Tom retorted with a hot blow on the nose, and Mace, in getting away, went down close to the referee’s seat like a lump of lead. There was now the greatest commotion and excitement all round the ring. It was now as clearly King’s victory as it had previously been Mace’s. Brettle and Travers worked with a will, doing for their man everything possible, and he gallantly seconded their efforts, resolutely refusing to allow them to throw up the sponge.

21 and last.—Before Mace left his corner Tom was waiting for his man, and no sooner did Mace come up than King went to him, and, with a slight push on the head, sent him down. Jem, who was weak and exhausted, and who had the right side of his phiz swelled in an extraordinary manner from the effects of King’s right-hander, was now clearly hors de combat, and his friends, seeing he had not the remotest chance of winning, threw up the sponge in spite of his protests. This token of defeat was hailed with loud shouts by Tom’s friends, who were, of course, doubly delighted at the bravery and good fortune of their man, and they crowded enthusiastically round King to hail him as the last addition to the roll of brave men who have borne the proud title of Champion of England. The battle lasted exactly thirty-eight minutes.

Remarks.—There can be little question as to the fact that King’s decisive victory was more immediately due to the tremendous hit to which Mace laid himself open by his over-eagerness to plant what he considered a sort of coup de grace on his gallant adversary. His skill in administering, as well as avoiding punishment, had given him an apparent best, but he had not reduced the courage and confidence, nor exhausted the strength of his dangerous antagonist. The “hit” that King “had left in him,” was, as Jem found to his cost that day, worth the Championship of England. That this is no disparagement of King’s victory all must admit, and a more gallant display of skill and bravery could not have been witnessed in any day present or past. King’s fairness of style in the finish of several rounds, when the lead trembled in the balance, shone conspicuously, and was warmly acknowledged by the spectators.

At the giving up of the stakes, on the Thursday night week, King once again announced his intention of not contesting the Championship. This was generally understood as owing to obligations of another description in which a “ring” also had a part, and not a few of Young Tom’s intimates drank a toast to his matrimonial felicity, in the old formula of “The single married, and the married happy.”

A curious telegraphic contretemps, which may serve as a caution to the over-clever, occurred on this occasion. Mr. William Wright, of Fulwood’s Rents, who was at this period an immense authority, had arranged with his London clerks that, to prevent surreptitious use of the earliest intelligence, for which he had incurred a large outlay, his telegram would give the losing man as winner, and they were to read it and manifold it accordingly. Having therefore sent off, at the earliest possible moment, “Mace beat King,” with the number of rounds, &c. the telegraph clerk on the spot, thinking he knew to the contrary, innocently set the message right, and, out of kindness, sent over the wire, “King beat Mace;” whereon the clerks dutifully followed their instructions, and the wrong result was extensively circulated to clubs, subscribers, &c. and for some hours a bewildering uncertainty prevailed.

The Young Sailor, however, had excited too great an interest in the public mind to be allowed to sink quietly into oblivion. He had distinctly stated that he did not seek the distinction, if distinction it was, of the Championship, and he resigned the belt into the hands of the Editor of Bell’s Life. Heenan, however, having made some good friends among gentlemen of the turf by his civility, intelligence, and good conduct, intimated to several of these, that if there was any “big one” desirous to try conclusions with him, he was ready to make a “quiet match” for not less than £500, and he had friends who would make it £1000 if required. This was formally communicated to the Editor of Bell’s Life, with a wish that no bouncing or offensive challenge should be inserted. The Editor at once put these facts in circulation in proper quarters, and the proposition, like most American notions, “a big thing,” made some of Tom King’s friends prick up their ears. Mace was engaged “two deep,” and moreover was not “their man.” A conference was held at Owen Swift’s, to which Tom King was invited, and he, with ready gallantry, declared the opportunity was most inviting and welcome. Money was forthcoming on both sides, and as both sides meant business, the paper subjoined was soon formulated—

“Articles of Agreement entered into this 17th day of March, 1863, between John Camel Heenan and Thomas King. The said John Camel Heenan agrees to fight the said Thomas King a fair stand-up fight, according to the new rules of the ring, by which the said John Camel Heenan and the said Thomas King hereby agree to be bound. The said fight shall be for the sum of £1,000 a side, and shall take place on the 8th day of December, 1863, within 100 miles of London. In pursuance of this agreement, £100 a side are now deposited in the hands of Mr. John Coney, who shall transmit the same to the Editor of Bell’s Life, who shall be final stakeholder; the second deposit, of £50 a side, shall be made at Mr. W. Richardson’s, “Blue Anchor,” Shoreditch, on Thursday, March 26; the third, of £50 a side, to be made on April 9; the fourth, of £50 a side, on April 23; the fifth, of £50 a side, on May 7; the sixth, of £50 a side, on May 21; the seventh, of £50 a side, on June 4; the eighth, of £50 a side, on June 18; the ninth, of £50 a side, on July 2; the tenth, of £50 a side, on July 16; the eleventh, of £50 a side, on July 30; the twelfth, of £50 a side, on August 13; the thirteenth, of £50 a side, on August 27; the fourteenth, of £50 a side, on September 10; the fifteenth, of £50 a side, on September 24; the sixteenth, of £50 a side, on October 27; the seventeenth, of £50 a side, on November 5; and the final deposit, of £100 a side, on November 26, at Mr. W. Richardson’s, “Blue Anchor,” as above, when the men shall mutually agree to the place of fighting. The said deposits to be made between the hours of eight and ten p.m. on the days and at the houses named; either party failing, to forfeit the money down. The houses at which the deposits shall be made shall be named by each party alternately, and to be made in London. The place of the next deposit to be named as the staking of the previous one, Heenan having to name the place of the third deposit. The men to be in the ring between the hours of ten a.m. and one p.m. on the day named, or the man absent to forfeit the money. But, in the event of magisterial interference, the referee shall decide the next place and time of meeting, the same day, if possible. The expenses of the ropes and stakes shall be borne mutually. Mr. Dowling, the Editor of Bell’s Life in London, to be referee. Two umpires to be chosen on the ground; and, in case of dispute between them, the decision of the referee to be final.

“In pursuance of this agreement, we hereunto attach our names—

“John Camel Heenan.

“Charles Bush, for Thomas King.

“Witness: H. A. Reed.”

The match made, each man at once proceeded to make trading capital out of it by travelling the provinces, and this at first led to a belief that the match would never come to anything, but was merely got up for this purpose. On the other hand it was asserted, that the match was sure to come off, but the result had been cut and dried; that the backers of the men intended to make a trading speculation out of the “Special” which was to convey the belligerents to the scene of action. It was known that a sum of more than £1000 had been divided between Sayers and Heenan out of the profits of the train for their match, and the supposition was, perhaps, not unnatural that £500 would be very good interest upon £100 for a few months, setting aside the off chance of something else turning up into the bargain. As the day approached for the men to go into training fears as to the affair not being genuine quickly subsided, and in racing circles the match created much interest, numerous bets of 6 to 4 being laid on the Benicia Boy, whose appearance at Newmarket during the October Meetings fully justified the confidence reposed in him. Heenan took his breathings almost entirely at Newmarket in company with his own brother Jem, and Macdonald, but required very little, if any, looking after. His feats as a pedestrian during his work were something extraordinary, six miles and a “bittock” did he generally turn in ordinary walking, and many a spin and a tie up did he give to some of our crack jocks, among whom are to be found no mean specimens of fair toe-and-heel walkers. Jack’s spins at the top of his speed, too, not a little astonished the Browns, and we have been credibly informed he could on a pinch do his quarter in 56 seconds—not bad for a 14 stone man, standing nearly 6 feet 2 inches. When stripped his frame was a model for a sculptor. Every muscle was developed to a gigantic size, every tendon and sinew was distinctly visible; and, taken altogether, we doubt whether such a specimen of a Hurculean frame has been witnessed in the British P. R. for very many years. That Heenan possessed every confidence in himself may be gathered from the fact that some three weeks previously he sent a message to the stakeholder, requesting him to state that if he did not lick King the public ought to stigmatise him as the greatest impostor who ever entered the Ring. The Editor tells us that he declined to insert this statement at the time, as not being fair to either party, and considering that should the result justify the observation it would be time enough to make it when the battle was over. Heenan, as may be recollected, was born in 1834, at Troy, United States, of Irish parents. His fighting weight on stripping on the present occasion was, as near as possible, 14 stone 2lb.

As the time of battle drew near the difficulties of a mode of transit to the ground increased. One after another refusals of accommodation were returned, the powers and authorities having experienced the disorders which seemed inseparable from the gathering of such a crowd as had now made it a custom to gather on such an occasion. During Saturday, Monday, and Tuesday, the offices of the sporting newspapers, to say nothing of the “houses of call” for sporting men, were besieged by questioners; but beyond the fact that tickets at three sovereigns a head were procurable, no definite tip was to be had.

Tuesday evening was a night of festivity at all sporting pubs. The public fully believing that on the following morning the mill would come off, and all being agog to get the necessary tip. It was not until well into the small hours that many would believe that Wednesday was not the day. The same scene was repeated on Wednesday, with the exception that delay had doubled the excitement, and the houses, which on Tuesday were crammed, were on the following night well nigh overwhelmed, and the ordinary business could scarcely be transacted. At Owen Swift’s much anxiety was expressed as to whether a bet of £600 to £400 appointed to be put down the night before the fight would really be forthcoming, certain half-sceptics pinning their faith on this ceremony as calculated to prove the genuine nature of the match. It was also expected it would materially affect the betting, many considering that the staking would show such confidence on the part of King’s backers as would justify his being backed for money.

On our arrival at London Bridge Station a few minutes before five in the morning, we found that the “rasping” division had dwindled away to an insignificant few. The fact is, the busy tongue of rumour had sent them so often to the various stations on a Will o’ the Wisp errand, that the detrimentals were completely tired out, and, after the lesson of Tuesday and Wednesday nights, without anything turning up, they denounced the whole affair as “a sell,” and stayed at home. Never was a secret of such a kind better kept, and the wide-awakes who “knew the exact spot to a yard,” found themselves neck deep in the mire, after a fashion they little calculated on; the cut-purse family wiping the frosty icicles from their noses in the west, when they should have been looking out for squalls in the South Eastern horizon. The delightful result was that the congregation of the fistic art passed through the thin dark line of worn and weary snapper-badgers. The arrangements of the legitimate “conveyancers” were most excellent; everybody was comfortably “taken in and done for,” whilst the presence of the ring-constable volunteers set the foot of authority down with a crash upon all attemps at “rigging the market.” In fact, one might have thought that he was going to see an early ploughing match, whilst the “Yahoo” business didn’t rise as high as the song of an old tea-kettle. Indeed, that ugly element was wise in the course it was constrained to adopt; had it done otherwise there was force enough present to have brought every atom of it to grief. Both the men reached the ground in good time, and both had their fair quantity of supporters, who would persist in blocking up each carriage door, so that the entrance of a breath of air was almost next to an impossibility.

The train consisted of thirty carriages, in each of which, to use a theatrical phrase, there was not standing room. We were “horsed” by two powerful engines, and, at about a quarter past six glided out of the station without the least confusion, and with the greatest regularity. The morning stars were just beginning to show signs of that glimmering faintness which indicates the approach of daybreak. Once the train got in motion, not a sound was to be heard save the outburst of some occasional hearty laugh at the jocularity going on inside. But even this was of the mildest possible character, and there was an entire absence of that reprehensible boisterous outpouring which has too often awoke the slumbering people along the route, filling their half-dreamy imaginations with the horror that the Philistines were upon them. We were more than half afraid that the new plan of paying at the doors would have been productive of the direst confusion, but our apprehensions were agreeably dispelled.

On casting a quiet running glance through the interior of each carriage, before we started, we found the genuine patrons of our national manly “trial by battle” in very strong force indeed. We heard one and all join in a universal chorus of satisfaction at the way in which we had been “got off.” On and on we rolled through the fair county of Kent, and as the grey dawn of morning rose eastward on our track the mild fresh breeze played upon our half-sleepy faces, waking us up to a sense of life and activity that was as agreeable as it was invigorating. The morning was beautiful and mild, and away now to our left the bright blue-tinged light of early day could be seen breaking gently and softly, widening and lengthening as it imperceptibly spread over the landscape in a manner that would have excited the admiration of a Gainsborough or a Creswick. Still on and onward we go through deep cuttings and over high embankment; anon the iron horses slacken their speed, and the next instant the reverberating sounds of our whirling wheels tell us that we are passing through the bowels of mother earth. On emerging from the tunnel into open country our ears were saluted with voices that unmistakably marked the owners as denizens of the aristocratic regions west of Regent Street. Speculation made itself heard, and 6 and 7 to 4 on the Benicia Boy seemed to be the chorus of the song. Just as we could distinguish houses and buildings sufficiently, the train glided noiselessly into Reigate Junction, where we were “regaled” by the sight of a strong covey of early “blue birds” belonging to the Surrey County Constabulary. It is needless to say that they were not there on our invitation. We considered them more free than welcome, and following the prudent and time-honoured example of those philosophic predecessors of theirs, Masters Dogberry and Verges of blessed memory, we stole ourselves out of their company with all possible alacrity and despatch. A thin white frosty veil of mist floated over the landscape as we again got in full swing, whilst the leaden coloured clouds as they lay heavy and motionless overhead gave us cause for grave anxiety, but, as our fears were rising to an uncomfortable grade on our nervous thermometer, in we rushed to another tunnel. When we issued forth we made a series of weatherwise surveys all round us, and were joyed to find the dark curtain lifting evenly and gradually up on our right, whilst on the opposite side bright broken patches encouraged our most earnest hopes, Another turn of the steam valve, and away we sped at over forty miles an hour; wood and dell, hamlet and village, cottage and mansion flew by like the magic of the kaleidoscope, and the question of our journey’s end took the place of other topics for the moment. A few miles further on and we shot by Tunbridge Wells. By this time we could see that the “bold peasantry” were discussing their breakfast, but as we rattled on at the rate of a mile a minute and a half, we did not take particular notice of what they ate. At length we drew up in a secluded and well-selected spot, where we got out, yawned, stretched ourselves, and gulped in the sharp morning air most voraciously. On account of the extreme softness of the ground it was some time before a decent place could be found. At this hour, about a quarter past nine o’clock, the sun was shining out as magnificently as on a fine May morning, and as we toiled some mile and a half up a steep clayey hill, the “stuff” was taken out of many. At length a chosen spot was taken possession of, and the ring pitched in a field at Wadhurst, near Frant, below Tunbridge Wells. King first dropped in his castor, amid loud cheers, accompanied by Jerry Noon and Bos Tyler, and was immediately followed by Heenan, who was similarly received, being esquired by Jack Macdonald, and, for the sake of theatrical effect, Tom Sayers. Colours were now unfolded on both sides, and the combatants began to dress. The choice of ground was won by Heenan, and then came the referee. Some wrangling here took place in respect to that functionary, during which the betting went on with offers at 40 to 20, &c. on Heenan, but there did not seem to be any takers. Confusion now became the ruling element, wasting away precious time on the top of a hill that could be seen for twenty miles around. There were the men and their seconds ready, while the referee was expected to come from the clouds. Three quarters of an hour was spent in this way before matters were finally closed, and the referee originally proposed was ultimately agreed to. The men then began the important duty of the toilet, and in the hands of their respective valets that operation was soon completed. The ring was then cleared, and the men showed themselves ready in battle array. Heenan was the first to exhibit, mid the loud cheers of his admirers, and was instantly followed by King, for whom another salvo rose up from the throats of his party. Exactly at ten o’clock the men were delivered at the scratch, shook hands, and prepared to commence

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—As the men advanced towards the centre of the ring the first glance seemed to show how great were the physical advantages of Heenan, who looked quite the stone heavier man he really was—King being comparatively a fair-skinned stripling; but a closer inspection revealed a jaded appearance. He looked clumsier altogether than when he fought Sayers. King, on the contrary, was as well as ever he could be, and there was a bloom and healthfulness about him, which spoke not only of steady training, but of an unvitiated constitution. He had not altogether the cut of a professional pugilist, but would rather be described as a fine, fresh, good-looking young countryman. The men threw themselves into attitude, and opened the round with a little sparring, but there was a hurried, not to say nervous, manner about each of them, which indicated that the scientific display would not be very prolonged. Heenan led off once or twice, but was not close enough. King was equally out of distance in trying to return. At last they got nearer, and exchanged good counter-hits. A couple more heavy hits were given, and King was drawing back to take up fresh ground, when Heenan plunged desperately at him, and got his left arm round his neck; the impetus of his rush carrying them both to the ropes. Here Heenan sought to fix his man in the dangerous manner he had practised with Sayers, but King’s strength enabled him to wrench himself up, and, locked together, they wrestled back to the centre of the ring. Here Heenan hung upon his man, squeezing him tightly, and trying to force him down. King, whose arms were at liberty, hit him heavily about the body left and right, until he fell, dragging Heenan with him, but the Yankee was uppermost. (The referee here entered the ring and cautioned Heenan as to his “hugging” system, which was certainly an unsightly mode of attack.)

2.—Both men were somewhat flushed about the head from the previous round, and King appeared a little distressed from the severe struggle. He was urged to be first with his man, and led off directly he came to the scratch. He got well home on Heenan’s head; the latter countered, but without much precision, and some wild but heavy exchanges took place with both hands, King dealing the Yankee a severe blow on the mouth. Tom was pressing his man, when Heenan made a dash at him, and showing great superiority in strength, after a few seconds of squeezing, threw him heavily, a very dangerous fall, coming with all his weight upon him. (First blood was here given to King; Heenan’s lips being cut and bleeding.)

3.—King seemed anxious to keep away from his man spar; there was no doubt that he was already considerably shaken by the severe falls he had received. Heenan appeared more anxious to seize a favourable chance to grasp his man than to hit him. After a moment’s pause they got together, and lashed out heavily with the left, each getting home. This led to some more exchanges, desperately heavy, it is true, but made in a wild style, and not like two finished boxers. Heenan again plunged in, King meeting him heavily as he came, but he grappled Tom, and again brought him down with shattering force across the lower rope, which was pressed to the ground. Luckily the ground was not hard. (Unpleasant as was Heenan’s style of fighting, he was considered to be getting the best of the battle, as King evidently could not resist his rush and clinching throw.)

4.—King’s left eye was marked with a mouse, but otherwise he did not show much signs of punishment. The rounds were all short ones, Heenan forcing his way in upon King, a few slashing exchanges; then King was once more caught in the hug, and thrown a desperate fall. (Great disapprobation of Heenan’s style of fighting—if fighting it could be called. His hugging and squeezing was far worse than even in Sayers’s fight.)

5.—King was as ready at the call of “time” as his antagonist, yet evidently felt the falls he was receiving, and sparred a bit for wind. Heenan was distressed also, and glad of a pause. They worked round a bit until they got near, when King, with the swiftness of lightning, dealt the Yankee a terrific hit in the middle of the head with his right, almost knocking him off his legs, and drawing streams of claret from a cut on his mouth. It was nearly a floorer, and on Heenan trying a return, King cross-countered very heavily on the side of the head. Heenan was for a moment at a standstill, and King led off again, but was out of distance, and the Yankee again “clinching”—we must borrow an Americanism which expresses more than our word “closing”—succeeded in once more putting on the “hug” and throwing King heavily; though he pitched over him so far as to strike the ground with his own head.

6.—The fighting had been wild enough before, but in this round there was no attempt at precision or steadiness. The men punched—or punched at—one another wildly, King getting the best of what hitting did tell, till Heenan closed, and, getting his regular grip, flung King a burster.

7.—The men went to work directly they faced each other, and in a slogging rally some really terrific hitting was given and taken. They broke away, but only for a few seconds, when they got together with more tremendous exchanges, yet still to the advantage of King, who allowed what little science was exhibited, and hit straightest. By a desperate snorter with his right, during this rally, he drew a fresh burst of crimson. Heenan closed in the hitting, hugged his man viciously, and then threw him one of the heaviest cross-buttocks seen for many a day. It was a crusher, and King lay for a few seconds until his seconds picked him up and bore him to his corner.

8.—King, to the delight of his friends, came up promptly; although he was piping a little, he seemed marvellously little hurt by these continuous throws. Heenan was ready to fight to improve his supposed advantage, and the men exchanged stinging counters directly they faced each other, and heavy exchanges followed. Heenan dashed in as usual to seize his man, but on this occasion he was foiled, for King caught him in his arms; and, after a moment’s struggle, threw the Yankee heavily and fell on him. (This was a fair, unmistakable back fall and the cheering for King was tremendous.)

9.—Heenan looked vexed as he came up; he had plainly made up his mind to recover his wrestling superiority, and tried for an opening. King was with him, and met him left and right; then, getting away again, planted on him with tremendous effect as he came in, catching his man well in the middle of the head; and now and then, in each of the rounds, giving a home hit on the body. Heenan at last got in, squeezed his man savagely, and again threw him a shattering fall.

10.—The wildest and fastest of fighting still continued, in fact, the rally more resembled a “turn-up” of two angry navvies than the tactics of skilled boxers. The exchanges were of the severest description, although most of the blows seemed given at random. Heenan was wholly bent on throwing, and once more hugged King and threw him.

11.—Heenan showed that the pace was telling on him, and it was doubtful whether he was not taking almost as much out of himself by his desperate struggles to throw King, as he was out of King by the falls. He persevered in his wrestling game, however, for hardly an attempt was made at a blow in this round before he grappled with King, and brought him over.

12.—Tom was a little more on his guard this time, and led off; Heenan returned, and a few seconds of very hard fighting took place, both men being hit severely about the head till they closed, when King again succeeded in turning the tables, and threw Heenan heavily.

13.—Although this round began with some countering which looked very heavy, yet Heenan’s blows did not, as a rule, tell very much; and when his seconds sent him up King looked clean, and comparatively free from punishment. Heenan again gave his man the hug, and threw him. After this round Heenan’s left hand became gradually of less service to him.

14.—Heenan feinted with his left, and threw in a smasher on the head with his right. King stuck to him, but after some stinging exchanges, in which he had the best, he was thrown—one of the most tremendous cross-buttocks ever seen—and so stunned and shaken was King, that but for the tact and presence of mind of Jerry Noon, it is doubtful if he could have come to time.

15.—In spite of the very heavy falls being nearly always in his favour, Heenan was now almost as much distressed as King, and the punishment given was certainly much against him. After a little sparring, heavy counters were exchanged, and then three or four smashing hits left and right, without a semblance of stopping or avoiding. Heenan drew back a little, and then lunging tremendously with his right, nailed King with such terrific force that he staggered and went down. (This was first knock-down blow in favour of Heenan, and was one at the few clean hits he delivered or even attempted to deliver during the fight.)

16.—Although slower than before in answering the call of “time,” King came resolutely up, and did not seem greatly shaken by the knock-down blow. Indeed, Heenan appeared worse from the effects of the last round than did his opponent, as King had planted so heavily on his left eye that it was badly cut and nearly closed. In some more heavy punching—pure slogging give-and-take, without any show of science—Heenan’s eye was quite shut up, and he showed some decided signs of weakness. King dashed in, and, after an exhausting struggle, forced him down.

17.—In this round Heenan again got the fall; but it was for the last time. He was evidently falling off; and when once his superiority in strength or wrestling power was gone he seemed useless and almost helpless as a boxer. King hit him tremendously about the side of the head and on the eyes, and it appeared as if Heenan would soon be blind. However, as just said, he clutched King desperately, and threw him one of the hardest falls in the fight. But it was his last effort, and while he became visibly weaker every minute, King, strange to say, seemed little the worse.

18.—There was at first some fear that the ring would be broken in; for the intense excitement among the outer crowd had induced a rush, which broke through the lukewarm resistance of the constables, and brought the mass up to the ropes. Luckily, however, nothing came of it. Heenan, thinking he had shaken King more than was really the case, and probably feeling that he was growing exhausted himself, rushed furiously at his man to improve his advantage. King, however, who had quickly recovered himself, met him with a couple of hits left and right, stopping the Yankee’s rush, and while he was yet on the stagger King closed, and, giving him the crook, pitched him over, and tell on him with stunning force.

19.—Heenan came up rather hurriedly when time was called, but it was at once seen that he was almost beaten, and was quite groggy. He tried his rush, but it was no longer dangerous, and King stepped back twice, measured his distance, planted on him without a return, and, by a second straight hit, sent him down. In the 20th round King managed to back-heel Heenan. The same description applies to the next two rounds, excepting that in each of them Heenan grew shakier and wilder, and King’s superiority more marked. At the commencement of the 23rd round it was proposed to throw up the sponge, but Heenan would not hear of it, and staggered at his man with the semblance of his former rush. He staggered after receiving a blow, and was thrown by King without a chance of resisting. His backers, seeing that it was hopeless, and that it was only exposing the sinking boxer to punishment, insisted on his surrender, and the sponge was thrown up in token of defeat, after a desperate, but slashing, hugging, and unscientific battle of thirty-five minutes, and twenty-four rounds.

Remarks.—We may well spare any lengthened comment upon a contest the leading characteristics of which were “clinching,” rushing, squeezing, and attempts at strangulating hugs on the one side, and wild, desperate sledge-hammer defensive hitting on the other. Heenan proved beyond doubt or cavil that he did not deserve to rank in the first or even second rank of artistic boxers, and that sheer brute strength, seconded by weight, stature, and a certain amount of mere animal courage were his only qualifications. He seemed to have little idea of sparring for an opening, or as a means of defence; while the use of the skilful feints, well-timed delivery, or accurate measurement of distance, of getting close and then getting away, as practised by professional boxers, he ignored or despised. It was not the fault of Tom King that the fight was so bad. His form and style were far the better of the two, for he did not trust to mere wrestling and hauling his man about, and would have made a better show of tactics with a better man. Those flatterers who told Heenan that he could stand a comparison with King’s former opponent, Jem Mace, must have been grossly ignorant or wilfully deceived themselves. Few who saw this contest but felt, that it was solely the accident which so early in the battle disabled the gallant Tom Sayers’s right arm, had prevented the signal defeat of Heenan on the memorable day at Farnborough. King showed but few marks of severe hitting after the fight, nor was he so seriously exhausted by the falls as might have been expected, considering the weight and stature of both men. On the other hand, Heenan was seriously disfigured, indeed, utterly prostrate, and nearly blinded at the close of the encounter. Altogether, while an honest and game fight, it was an unsatisfactory one; the sole point settled being the entire absence, on the part of Heenan, of those scientific attainments and steady attributes indispensable to the successful practitioner in the Prize Ring. The immense stake, £2,000, so glaringly disproportionate to the merits of the battle, was duly paid over to King. For the circumstance of the appearance of the once formidable Tom Sayers at the ring-side, as second to his former antagonist, John Heenan, the reader is referred to pages 435 and 436 of the present volume.

Again, and for the last time, Tom King announced his retirement from professional pugilism; we shall not, therefore, follow him into private life farther than to say, that he has carried with him the respect he earned by his public career, and that the last we heard of him was that he had earned the peaceful distinction of a prizeman, as a successful cultivator of flowers at horticultural shows, held in the neighbourhood of his suburban dwelling. And here we legitimately close the task we voluntarily imposed on ourself, of committing to the press the history of One Hundred and Forty-four Years of British Boxing.

[41] As an example of the way Ring affairs were managed, we may note that, after 21 rounds in one hour and a quarter, the police really did come; that the men met the next day, January 1, 1862, and the police, after three rounds in 17 minutes, again appeared, there being strong ground for suspicion that they were sent for by telegram. Brettle having sprained his ankle, a postponement was granted until March, and then they met (the bet of £300 being off), and after four rounds, occupying one hour and 40 minutes, the referee gave them 15 minutes to strike a blow; but as one wouldn’t and t’other didn’t, a “draw” was declared, March 11, 1862.

L’Envoy to the Reader.

“Constant Reader!”—for surely he deserves that title who hath borne me mental company through fifteen hundred pages—this is an old-fashioned book, written by an old-fashioned “pen,” recording old-fashioned manners, customs, and pursuits of men in times fast becoming old fashioned; it therefore seems fit that, in the old fashion of the L’Envoy, the Author and the Reader should have a few “more last words” ere they part company.

When Cid Hamet Benengeli, in the ultimate Chapter of “Don Quixote,” apostrophises his pen, he speaks of scribblers “who compile false and idle histories.”[42] Even so does the smaller author of Pugilistica feel as he ceases from his “Story of the Ring.” It would seem from the denunciation of the worthy Cid Hamet that in all times there have been literary fabricators and forgers, and the writer can certify that the History of the Ring in the present day has more than one flagrant instance. Foremost of these is a weekly newspaper professing to be the Argus of the Turf, and the Titan of Tipsters. The “Famous Old Fights” appearing in its columns are pure fiction, grafted on well-known names, dates, and anecdotes procurable from standard works of reference; the details of incidents, of rounds, &c., &c., being the emanation of the lively imagination of the newswriter, who, to our knowledge, and from innumerable instances in his blundering romance, is utterly ignorant and innocent of any acquaintance with the Ring, its professors, or the scenes he so inventively describes. The sole reason for this exposé is, that as, in many instances, these forged accounts of battles purport to be between men whose combats are authentically given in these pages, the reader should be made aware, that no such reports exist in any contemporary publications, of which innumerable proofs might be given, but that we cannot spare the space, time, and trouble to “break a butterfly on the wheel.” Yet do we bear no grudge to the ingenious fiction-writer; and having set the point of truth and accuracy in its true light, we say, as did Uncle Toby, when he released the fly, “Go thy ways, there is room enough in the world for both of us.”

And now for one other topic of our desultory gossip. In the later portions of the Lives of the Boxers, we have had occasion to notice the crusade which cant, cowardice, and hypocrisy successfully carried out to the bitter end against pugilism and pugilists; we shall not here iterate their defence or apology. To render, however, the work more complete as a reference, in times when even the first principles of fair-play to an antagonist, and forbearance towards the vanquished seem to be little more than a memory, and to be fast vanishing out of the minds of a pusillanimous populace, we shall here preserve the text of the latest form of the “Regulations” which governed the practice of honourable combat between professional opponents in the P.R. The old Code, known as “Broughton’s Rules,” are given in volume i., page 25.

RULES OF THE RING, AS REVISED BY THE PUGILISTIC ASSOCIATION.

It having been found that many of the Rules of the Ring are insufficient to provide for the various contingencies which continually arise in prize battles, an entire revision has been determined on, and a committee of gentlemen, members of the Pugilistic Association, undertook the task. When the revision was complete, the laws were submitted to a general meeting of the members of the Prize Ring (being members of the Association) and unanimously agreed to.

Rule 1.—That the ring shall be made on turf, and shall be four-and-twenty feet square formed of eight stakes and ropes, the latter extending in double lines, the uppermost line being four feet from the ground, and the lower two feet from the ground. That in the centre of the ring a mark be formed, to be termed “the scratch;” and that at two opposite corners, as may be selected, spaces be enclosed by other marks sufficiently large for the reception of the seconds and bottle-holders, to be entitled “the corners.”

2.—That each man shall be attended to the ring by a second and a bottle-holder, the former provided with a sponge, and the latter with a bottle of water. That the combatants, on shaking hands, shall retire until the seconds of each have tossed for choice of position, which adjusted, the winner shall choose his corner according to the state of the wind or sun, and conduct his man thereto; the loser taking the opposite corner.

3.—That each man shall be provided with a handkerchief of a colour suitable to his own fancy, and that the seconds proceed to entwine these handkerchiefs at the upper end of one of the centre stakes. That these handkerchiefs shall be called the “colours;” and that the winner of the battle at its conclusion shall be entitled to their possession as the trophy of victory.

4.—That two umpires shall be chosen by the seconds or backers to watch the progress of the battle, and take exception to any breach of the rules hereafter stated. That a referee shall be chosen by the umpires, unless otherwise agreed on, to whom all disputes shall be referred; and that the decision of this referee, whatever it may be, shall be final and strictly binding on all parties, whether as to the matter in dispute or the issue of the battle. That the umpires shall be provided with a watch for the purpose of calling time; and that they mutually agree upon which this duty shall devolve, the call of that umpire only to be attended to, and no other person whatever to interfere in calling time. That the referee shall withhold all opinion till appealed to by the umpires, and that the umpires strictly abide by his decision without dispute.

5.—That on the men being stripped it shall be the duty of the seconds to examine their drawers, and if any objection arise as to insertion of improper substances therein, they shall appeal to their umpires, who, with the concurrence of the referee, shall direct what alterations shall be made.

6.—That in future no spikes be used in fighting boots except those authorised by the Pugilistic Association, which shall not exceed three-eighths of an inch from the sole of the boot, and shall not be less than one-eighth of an inch broad at the point; and it shall be in the power of the referee to alter, or file in any way he pleases, spikes which shall not accord with the above dimensions, even to filing them away altogether.

7.—That both men being ready, each man shall be conducted to that side of the scratch next his corner previously chosen; and the seconds on the one side, and the men on the other, having shaken hands, the former shall immediately return to their corners, and there remain within the prescribed marks till the round be finished, on no pretence whatever approaching their principals during the round, under a penalty of 5s. for each offence, at the option of the referee. The penalty, which will be strictly enforced, to go to the funds of the Association. The principal to be responsible for every fine inflicted on his second.

8.—That at the conclusion of the round, when one or both of the men shall be down, the seconds and bottle-holders shall step forward and carry or conduct their principal to his corner, there affording him the necessary assistance, and that no person whatever be permitted to interfere in this duty.

9.—That on the expiration of thirty seconds the umpire appointed shall cry “Time,” upon which each man shall rise from the knee of his bottleholder and walk to his own side of the scratch unaided; the seconds and bottle-holders remaining at their corner; and that either man failing so to be at the scratch within eight seconds, shall be deemed to have lost the battle. This rule to be strictly adhered to.

10.—That on no consideration whatever shall any person be permitted to enter the ring during the battle, nor till it shall have been concluded; and that in the event of such unfair practice, or the ropes or stakes being disturbed or removed, it shall be in the power of the referee to award the victory to that man who in his honest opinion shall have the best of the contest.

11.—That the seconds and bottle-holders shall not interfere, advise, or direct the adversary of their principal, and shall refrain from all offensive and irritating expressions, in all respects conducting themselves with order and decorum, and confine themselves to the diligent and careful discharge of their duties to their principals.

12.—That in picking up their men, should the seconds or bottle-holders wilfully injure the antagonist of their principal, the latter shall be deemed to have forfeited the battle on the decision of the referee.

13.—That it shall be a fair “stand-up fight,” and if either man shall wilfully throw himself down without receiving a blow, whether blows shall have previously been exchanged or not, he shall be deemed to have lost the battle; but that this rule shall not apply to a man who in a close slips down from the grasp of his opponent to avoid punishment, or from obvious accident or weakness.

14.—That butting with the head shall be deemed foul, and the party resorting to this practice shall be deemed to have lost the battle.

15.—That a blow struck when a man is thrown or down, shall be deemed foul. That a man with one knee and one hand on the ground, or with both knees on the ground, shall be deemed down; and a blow given in either of those positions shall be considered foul, providing always that, when in such position the man so down shall not himself strike or attempt to strike.

16.—That a blow struck below the waistband shall be deemed foul, and that in a close seizing an antagonist below the waist, by the thigh, or otherwise, shall be deemed foul.

17.—That all attempts to inflict injury by gouging, or tearing the flesh with the fingers or nails, and biting, shall be deemed foul.

18.—That kicking or deliberately falling on an antagonist with the knees or otherwise when down, shall be deemed foul.

19.—That all bets shall be paid as the battle-money, after a fight, is awarded.

20.—That no person, under any pretence whatever, shall be permitted to approach nearer the ring than ten feet, with the exception of the umpires and referee, and the persons appointed to take charge of the water or other refreshment for the combatants, who shall take their seats close to the corners selected by the seconds.

21.—That due notice shall be given by the stakeholder of the day and place where the battle-money is to be given up, and that he be exonerated from all responsibility upon obeying the direction of the referee; that all parties be strictly bound by these rules; and that in future all articles of agreement for a contest be entered into with a strict and willing adherence to the letter and spirit of these rules.

22.—That in the event of magisterial or other interference, or in case of darkness coming on, the referee shall have the power to name the time and place for the next meeting, if possible on the same day, or as soon after as may be.

23.—That, should the fight not be decided on the day, all bets shall be drawn, unless the fight shall be resumed the same week, between Sunday and Sunday, in which case the bets shall stand and be decided by the event. The battle-money shall remain in the hands of the stakeholder until fairly won or lost by a fight, unless a draw be mutually agreed upon.

24.—That any pugilist voluntarily quitting the ring previous to the deliberate judgment of the referee being obtained, shall be deemed to have lost the fight.

25.—That on an objection being made by the seconds or umpire the men shall retire to their corners, and there remain until the decision of the appointed authorities shall be obtained; that if pronounced “foul,” the battle shall be at an end, but if “fair,” “time” shall be called by the party appointed, and the man absent from the scratch in eight seconds after shall be deemed to have lost the fight. The decision in all cases to be given promptly and irrevocably, for which purpose the umpires and the referee should be invariably close together.

26.—That if in a rally at the ropes a man steps outside the ring to avoid his antagonist, or to escape punishment, he shall forfeit the battle.

27.—That the use of hard substances, such as stone, or stick, or of resin, in the hand during the battle shall be deemed foul, and that on the requisition of the seconds of either man, the accused shall open his hands for the examination of the referee.

28.—That hugging on the ropes shall be deemed foul. That a man held by the neck against the stakes, or upon or against the ropes, shall be considered down, and all interference with him in that position shall be foul. That if a man in any way makes use of the ropes or stakes to aid him in squeezing his adversary he shall be deemed the loser of the battle; and that if a man in a close reaches the ground with his knees his adversary shall immediately loose him or lose the battle.

29.—That all stage fights be as nearly as possible in conformity with the foregoing rules.

We ask, in the name of humanity, too often taken in vain, a calm and dispassionate perusal of these rules, confident that the appeal will at least induce a more charitable opinion of the men who could frame and act upon them than ignorance or prejudice would form. “It has been constantly urged,” says an experienced writer, “as a ground of objection to the study of the skilful use of the fist that it makes men pugnacious, and more ready to seek than to evade a quarrel, in order that they may display their fancied superiority. Observation and experience do not confirm this view. We have almost invariably found (except with persons who cannot command their temper, and if this be the case, whatever be their acquirements, they will be equally without control) that the consciousness of power inclines men to be less prone to quarrel, and more forbearing against an opponent. Of this abundant proofs are to be found, not only among the ordinary classes of society, but more particularly among professed pugilists, who, with a few exceptions, are the last to invite a quarrel, and the first to seek a reconciliation. Many instances are on record, and have passed under our notice, in which the most respectable members of the Prize Ring have actually submitted to positive insult rather than exercise their athletic powers and take advantage of the weakness of an assailant. This calmness of disposition, joined with perfect self-possession, is in fact one of the most valuable attributes of a British boxer, and one of the best tests of true courage. That there may be and are exceptions to this rule cannot be denied; but all must concur in the proposition, that for the strong to oppress the weak, or the scientific boxer to take advantage of an ignorant and helpless opponent, is an act of cowardice deserving the utmost contempt. The ruffian who would strike a woman is not less deserving of execration than he who, for the mere purpose of displaying his scientific acquirements, would assail another not equally gifted. The great end of pugilistic instruction is, to instil into the mind of the pupil a manly and honourable bearing, combined with personal confidence in the hour of danger; we have no apprehensions, therefore, that its pursuit will lead to the abandonment of those principles of self-respect and fair play which are alike estimable in the minds of all classes.”

And here we will once again ask the question, without fear of a valid retort, “Has the experience of the last twenty years, read by the light of our police reports, and the records of our criminal courts, shown any improvement in the character of what are called ‘offences against the person’?” On the contrary, familiarity with the use of deadly weapons, of the knife in murderous varieties of “the bowie” the “Spanish,” “the Arkansas tooth-pick,” the “knuckle-duster,” the many-chambered revolver, with the stringent repression of all pugilistic conflict by an ever and over-vigilant police, has undoubtedly led to swifter, more sanguinary, more treacherous, and more deadly modes of settling those differences which must arise, especially among the lower classes of society. To this humiliating catalogue of brutality we may add the savage use of the iron-bound clog, and the “running kick,” so fatally studied and practised by a section of the community which in ruder and in better times would have scorned such an unmanly mode of attack, and would not even have permitted it where several spectators were gathered together. But alas! the outcome of the decay and suppression of fair fighting is manifest; the doctrine of assassination is publicly preached in the press and in public meetings, and “the gospel of dynamite” is the latest development of the “superior civilisation” of a people who

“Scorning all treacherous feud and deadly strife,

The dark stiletto or the murderous knife,

Boasted a science sprung from manly pride.

Linked with true courage, and to health allied—

A noble pastime, void of vain pretence—

The fine old English Art of Self-defence.”

Whether fair and regulated prize-battles are destructive of life, and absolutely and directly shorten the period of man’s longevity, may be fairly a subject of inquiry. A few statistics may well give us pause before we decide this point, which an insufficient investigation and popular prejudice would pronounce in the affirmative, while a candid consideration of the following table may prove the negative—that is, as compared with many other gymnastic and sporting exercises. Deaths in the prize-ring, or even as the consequences of pugilistic encounters, do not show a marked diminution of the term of human life, in the recorded instances of the ages of the most celebrated professors and practitioners of the art of boxing:—

AGES OF THE CHAMPIONS FROM BROUGHTON TO TOM KING.
| BORN. | DIED. | AGE.
John Broughton | 1703 | 1789 | 85
Tom Johnson (Jackling) | 1750 | 1797 | 47*[43]
Daniel Mendoza | 1763 | 1836 | 73
John Jackson | 1769 | 1845 | 76
Jem Belcher | 1781 | 1811 | 30*[43]
Tom Belcher | 1783 | 1854 | 71
John Gully, M.P. | 1783 | 1863 | 80
Tom Cribb | 1781 | 1848 | 67
Tom Spring | 1795 | 1851 | 56*[43]
Jem Ward (still living) | 1800 | — | 81
Bendigo (William Thompson) | 1811 | 1880 | 69
Benjamin Caunt | 1815 | 1861 | 46*[43]
William Perry (Tipton Slasher) | 1819 | 1881 | 61
Tom Sayers | 1828 | 1866 | 38*[43]
Jem Mace (living in 1881) | — | — | —
Tom King (living in 1881) | — | — | —
| 880 yrs.
An average of fourteen lives nearly 63 years.

Our last plea shall be drawn from the records of the “collective wisdom” of the nation, wherein we flatter ourselves manly common sense will find little difficulty in discriminating the characters of the meddling, malignant and persecuting preachers of the doctrine of “sweetness and light,” from the generous and tolerant spirits who declined to use the powers of government against the much-maligned Ring, its professors and patrons.

We have noted the wave of puritan cant which for some ten years previous to 1860 had rolled over the land, and the force of which was long after felt. In the last-named year it gave trouble and unrest in the Senate.

On the 13th of April, Mr. Hadfield gave notice, on presentation of a petition, that he would call the attention of the Government to a meditated breach of the peace, by a pugilistic contest to take place between an American citizen and a British subject for a so-called Championship. He added the extraordinary information that “the newspapers had given notice of the time and place (?); “therefore he asked the Secretary for the Home Department whether he intended to take measures to put down such intended disturbance of the public peace and prevent an exhibition so contrary to the religious sense of the country at large—(laughter)—and he would further ask whether the public might rely on his doing his best to prevent so brutal and demoralising an exhibition to the rising generation as the announced contest between this American gladiator and——(Laughter prevented the rest of the hon. member’s question reaching the reporters’ gallery.)

Sir Geo. C. Lewis, rising, said: The contest between these redoubtable champions (a laugh) has been brought under my notice, and I have transmitted the letter to Sir Richard Mayne, who, I have no doubt, will take the necessary steps to prevent a breach of the peace within the metropolitan district. Beyond this I cannot assure my honourable friend; I cannot venture to give any positive promise—for if he is informed of the time and place I am not, and I don’t think they are fixed—it is, therefore, impossible for me to say whether the police will succeed in preventing the “incursion” in question. (Laughter.)

Mr. Hadfield was by no means satisfied with the Right Honourable gentleman’s answer, and should again raise the question.

The fight came off unsatisfactorily, as all the world knows. Punch, in the following week, tells us (in his “Essence of Parliament”):—“Commons. More fun about the fight. Mr. Ewart admitted but deplored the interest taken, and the questions raised upon this matter; but wanted to know what power there was to suppress such doings, except the police power to suppress riot? Sir G. G. Lewis was also at a loss to know how to deal with our modern Dares and Entellus.”

A young Yorkshire noblemen, however, a newly-fledged M.P., Lord Lovaine (now Earl of Beverley) sought to make political and religious capital out of the affair. His lordship opened fire by an attack on the directors of a certain railway company—the South Eastern—for “their conduct in offering facilities for the conveyance of persons to these illegal contests,” and to raise the question, my Lord Lovaine, “moved for copies of any correspondence on this subject, which had passed between the Government and the South Eastern Railway Company.” He also inquired whether the Government had attempted to enforce the law, or whether anything had been done to stop the practice of letting trains for the purpose he mentioned.

To these impertinences, spiced with some personal inuendoes, Lord Palmerston replied in the following terms:—“He would not argue the technical legal question that a fight between two men—not a fight of enmity, but a trial of strength—is, legally, a breach of the peace, and an act that renders the parties liable to prosecution; nor whether the persons who go to witness it are not, technically, involved in the charge. But, as far as they are concerned, they may conceive it to be a very harmless pursuit; some persons like what takes place; there may be a difference of opinion, as a matter of taste, whether it is a spectacle one would wish to see, or whether it is calculated to excite disgust. Some people look upon it as an exhibition of manly courage, characteristic of the people of this country. I saw the other day,” said his lordship, “a long extract from a French newspaper, describing this fight as a type of the national character for endurance, patience under suffering, of indomitable perseverance in determined effort, and holding it up as a specimen of the manly and admirable qualities of the British race (hear). All this is, of course, entirely a matter of opinion; but really, setting aside the legal technicalities of the case, I do not perceive why any number of persons, say 1,000 if you please, who assemble to witness a prize fight, are in their own persons more guilty of a breach of the peace than an equal number of persons who assemble to witness a balloon ascent (laughter). There they stand; there is no breach of the peace; they go to see a sight, and when that sight is over they return, and no injury is done to any one. They only sit or stand on the grass to witness the performance, and as to the danger to those who perform themselves, I imagine the danger to life in the case of those who go up in balloons is certainly greater (hear and laughter) than that of two combatants who merely hit each other as hard as they can, but inflict no permanent injury upon each other (hear, hear). I think there is moderation in all things—moderation in all opinions; and although it may or may not be desirable that the law should be enforced—whatever the law may be—still I do not think any advantage is gained or good done, either to public morals or public feeling, by the sort of exaggerations in which the noble lord has indulged. At the same time the motion is one to which I see no objection, and therefore I do not oppose it.”

Some sparring took place, in the course of which Lord Lovaine taunted the Premier with a love of pugilism, and with sanctioning rather than discouraging these meetings. Mr. Scully also had a fling at the Premier.

Lord Palmerston replied as follows:—“I distinctly stated that it was ruled by legal authorities that such prize fights were breaches of the peace; but I protest, at the same time, against the exaggerated terms in which the noble lord (Lord Lovaine) characterised the conduct of the spectators on those occasions.”

“Colonel Dickson was surprised to hear his hon. friend (Mr. Scully) take the noble lord at the head of the Government to task for the remarks he had made on this occasion, for he (Colonel Dickson) could not understand an Irishman objecting to fighting (a laugh). The noble viscount (Palmerston) had not laid himself open to such taunts. He sat on a different side of the House from the noble lord, and did not often find himself in the same lobby with him on a division, but he would say for the noble viscount that if he had one attribute more than another which endeared him to his countrymen, it was his thoroughly English character and his love for every manly sport (cheers). He (Colonel Dickson) never saw a prize fight in his life; but he would say that the two men who fought on the recent occasion showed qualities of which the whole English race had reason to be proud, our own man in particular (laughter), who evinced powers of endurance and an indomitable pluck which entitled him to the admiration of his countrymen (cheers.) Many men in this country received honours who did not so well deserve them. He did not think Parliament ought to legislate with the view to put down manly sports; and, with regard to the duties of magistrates the law was clearly laid down. Magistrates themselves ought to know when to act and when to shut their eyes (a laugh).”

The returns were then ordered; but whether any such papers existed, or of what use they were to the meddlesome movers, the world is to this day in ignorance. We should say that the whole debate was a peg on which to hang a sanctimonious attack to the glory of the “unco’ guid” assailants. While on this topic we will add a well-authenticated anecdote which was current at the time in the clubs.

While the Home Secretary (Sir G. Cornewall Lewis) was solemnly explaining and admitting the illegality of Ring-fights, a well-known sporting M.P. was collecting a “purse” for Sayers. Lord Palmerston came upon the group, and was instantly arrested by the amateur collector. “My lord, I want a sov. for Tom Sayers.” “A sov. for Sayers? Splendid fellow that; I’ll give you five.” “Thank you, my lord; but the subscription is limited to a single sov.” His lordship, with subdued alacrity, “Well, here it is; but I wish it was five.” There were noblemen then, in soul as in title; in humble life as in exalted. Do they survive, and have they the courage even of their own opinions?

Ah, me that I have lived to hear
Such men as ruffians scorned.
Such deeds of valour “brutal” called,
Canted, preached-down, and mourned!
Ah! that these old eyes ne’er again,
A gallant mill shall see!
No more behold the ropes and stakes,
With colours flying free!
Yet, in despite of all the jaw
And gammon of this time,
That brands the art of self-defence—
Old England’s art—as crime,
From off mine ancient memories
The rust of time I’ll shake.
Your youthful bloods to quicken
And your British pluck to wake;
I know it only slumbers,
Let cant do what it will,
The British bull-dog will be
The British bull-dog still.

Valete ac plaudite: The curtain has fallen!

Wood Green. H. D. M.

[42] “And now, my slender pen, whether cunningly cut, or unskilfully shaped, it boots not much; here, from this rack, wire-suspended, shalt thou enjoy repose to future ages, if no presumptuous and wicked hand shall take thee down, and profane thee by compiling false and idle histories.”—“The Achievements of the Sage and Valiant Don Quixote de la Mancha,” book iii., ch. XXII. Smollet’s translation.

[43] A reference to the memoirs in these volumes will fully show, that in each of the instances of early death, marked with an asterisk (*), extraneous causes account for the comparative shortening of life.—Ed.

INDEX TO VOLUME III.

PAGE
B
BENDIGO. See THOMPSON, WILLIAM.
BENJAMIN, BILL, or BAINGE | 399, 406
BRASSEY, of Bradford (JOHN LEECHMAN).
Fight with Young Langan | 340
Fight with Tass Parker | 344
His death | 351
BRETTLE, BOB.
His pugilistic career | 414
His battle with Tom Sayers | 416
Defeats Jem Mace | 451
Is beaten by Tom Sayers | 452
Is challenged by Jem Mace | 457
Adjourned fight | 458
Is beaten by Mace | 459
BROOME, HARRY (Champion). 1851.
Younger brother to the renowned “Johnny” | 308
Born at Birmingham | 308
Early glove displays | 308
Rivalry of East and West. The Broomes | 309
Fred Mason (the “Bulldog”) | 309
Harry matched against Mason for £50 | 309
A prepossessing “first appearance” | 310
Harry beats the “Bulldog” | 311
A twelvemonths’ rest. Joe Rowe | 314
A trip down the river | 315
Harry defeats Joe Rowe | 316
Tom Spring resigns his post as referee | 319
Second battle of Broome and Joe Rowe | 321
Matched with Ben Terry | 323
A suspicious affair and a “draw” | 324
“The Great Unknown,” Harry and the Tipton Slasher | 325
Broome’s remarkable increase in weight and stature | 325
His fight with the Tipton, and Peter Crawley’s decision, | 327
Negotiations with Harry Orme | 330
Matched for £250 a side | 330
Defeats Harry Orme | 333
The old “Tipton” again | 336
Broome forfeits to the “Tipton” | 338
And to Tom Paddock | 338
Is beaten by Paddock | 338
Retires from the Ring | 339
Becomes a publican at Portsmouth | 339
His death in 1865, aged 39 | 339
Joe Rowe’s “Sultan Stores” (note) | 339
BURKE, JAMES (“the Deaf’un”).
His birth and parentage | 94
Strand Lane Stairs. “Jack-in-the-water” | 95
The Thames in the first quarter of the century | 95
The old “fighting days” | 96
Joe Parish. “the Waterman.” “The Spotted Dog” | 96
Eminent watermen pugilists | 96
The Deaf’un’s first fight | 97
The butchers of Clare Market | 98
An Impromptu mill. Defeats Tom Hands | 98
Defeats a “New Black” for “a purse” | 99
Enrolled in the corps pugilistique | 99
Beats Berridge at Leicester | 99
Matched with Fitzmaurice | 99
Beats Fitzmaurice at Harpenden | 100
Spars with Young Dutch Sam | 100
Is ruptured by an accident | 101
Defeated by Cousens of Chichester | 101
Defeats Girdler at North Chapel, Sussex | 102
“Whiteheaded Bob” and the Duke of Cumberland | 102
High prizes prohibitory of prize-fights | 104
A stratagem. Grabbing the wrong man | 104
Beats Gow at Temple Mills | 104
Bob Hampson’s challenge and defeat | 105
Three battles within six weeks | 105
Beats Tim Crawley | 108
Tommy Roundhead and Frosty-faced Fogo | 109
A Homeric battle; the muses appeased | 110
“The Deaf’un’s” merits as a sparrer | 110
Matched with Birmingham Davis | 111
A disappointment | 111
Defeats Birmingham Davis | 112
Matched with Blissett | 113
Beats Blissett | 114
A dinner at Tom Cribb’s; and a match | 115
Beats old Jack Carter | 115
A “little go.” Lazarus and Jem Brown | 116
An interval and a sparring tour | 116
Beats Yorkshire Macone | 117
Challenges from Cousens and Josh Hudson | 117, 118
Bill Charles, “the Welsh Champion” | 118
Claims the Championship | 118
“Too heavy” for Young Dutch Sam | 118
Sign articles with Simon Byrne | 119
“The Deaf’un’s” courage and humanity | 119
The “Irish Champion” and “the talent” | 119
The day before the battle | 120
The fight and fatal result | 121–125
Verdict of “manslaughter” against Burke and others | 126
Subscription for the Widow Byrne | 126
Trial and acquittal of Burke | 127
Presentation of a service of plate to the Editor of Bell’s Life in London | 128
Challenged by O’Rourke | 128
And by Young Dutch Sam for £500 (!) | 128
And by Jem Ward for £500, but not less than £100 a side, | 128
O’Rourke’s challenge and departure for America | 129
The Deaf’un’s “ancient statues” | 129
Harry Preston and “the Deaf’un” | 130
Plays at Sheffield in “Valentine and Orson” | 131
Burke’s “farewell,” and high stakes for prize battles | 131
A maximum stake of £200 voted | 131
Sails for America | 132
His welcome in the New World | 132
Sails South to meet O’Rourke | 133
Riots in New Orleans, and escape of “the Deaf’un” | 133
Returns to New York | 134
Battle with and defeat of O’Connell | 135
The New York Herald and the P.R. | 135
Burke’s arrival in Liverpool | 138
The “big ones” of 1838 | 138
A general challenge from “the Deaf’un” | 138
The school of “Tom and Jerry;” a trip to France | 139
Returns, and is beaten by Bendigo | 139
“The Lament of Deaf Burke” | 140
The Deaf’un again in the field, and matched with Nick Ward | 141
Beaten by Nick Ward | 141
The Deaf’un’s oratory | 142
Indicted with Owen Swift, Ned Adams, Dick Cain, Lord Chetwynd, and others | 143
The “Battle of Bedford” and Parson Cautley | 143
Address of Deaf Burke to the Grand Jury of Bedford | 144
The trial and its result | 148
Receives forfeit of £15 from the Tipton Slasher | 148
Night-houses in the Haymarket | 149
Bob Castles and “the Deaf’un” | 149
A match between Old Ones | 149
The voyage to Rainham Ferry | 150
The fight. Burke the conqueror | 151
“Triumphant epistle of Deaf Burke to Bob Castles” | 155
Dissipation, disease, and death | 156
C
CASTLES, BOB | 149
CAUNT, BENJAMIN (Champion) 1841.
A native of Nottinghamshire | 47
Hucknall Torkard and Lord Byron | 47
His first defeat by Bendigo | 47
Beats William Butler | 47
Beats Boneford | 48
Second match with Bendigo | 48
A mail-coach Journey to Doncaster in 1838 | 48
The road to the fight | 52
The combatants “interviewed” | 53
Incidents and mishaps | 54
The fight; a magisterial interference | 56
The fight won by a “foul” | 58
Remarks on the battle | 59
Caunt receives the stakes | 60
A new match for £100 a side and a forfeit | 60
Challenges by Brassey and Caunt | 60
“An heroic epistle from Brassey to Caunt” | 61
Estimates of the men | 62
Newmarket and its neighbourhood | 64
A battle of “big ’uns” | 66
Caunt the victor | 69
Claims the Championship | 69
Challenged by Nick Ward | 69
Loses with Ward by a “foul blow” | 70
A second match made | 70
Stratford-on-Avon the rendezvous | 71
The field of battle, Long Marsden | 72
The Champion’s new belt | 73
Caunt defeats Nick Ward | 74
Caunt “Champion,” sails for America with the “Belt” | 77
A “buncombe” challenge | 77
Charles Freeman, “the Giant” | 78
“The Michigan Giant” and “New York Baby” | 78
Returns to England, March, 1842 | 79
Caunt’s “Champion Cup” | 79
Challenges Bendigo, Tass Parker, and the Tipton Slasher, in six months, each for £200 | 79
Bendigo again in the field | 80
Caunt loses his third battle with Bendigo | 80
A dreadful domestic calamity | 80
Caunt and Nat Langham; a silly feud | 81
Matched for £200 a side | 81
Ben’s challenge to Tom Sayers | 83
Misgivings as to Caunt and Langham’s encounter | 84
The battle | 86
A “draw” and a “dispute” | 88
The “dropping” system | 92
Caunt in retirement | 93
His death, Sept. 10, 1861 | 93
H
HURST, SAM (“the Staleybridge Infant”).
His battle with Tom Paddock | 307
Matched with Jem Mace | 459
His battle with Jem Mace | 460
Defeat and retirement | 463
J
JONES, AARON.
His fights with Harry Orme | 253, 262
Ditto with Tom Paddock | 283
Beaten by Tom Sayers | 237, 287
Fight with Bob Wade | 245
Challenges Tom Sayers | 419
A renewed match with Sayers | 431
Surviving in 1881 | 358
K
KING, TOM, (Champion) 1862.
His birthplace, Stepney | 490
Adopts a sailor’s life | 490
Voyages to Africa | 490
A foreman in the docks | 490
His inoffensive character and courage | 491
Disposes of a “’long-shore” bully | 491
Introduced to Jem Ward | 491
A challenge for a small stake | 491
A forfeit from Clamp | 491
Matched with Tommy Truckle, of Portsmouth | 491
Beats Tommy Truckle | 492
Arrival of Heenan | 494
Matched with Harry Poulson, of Nottingham | 494
Challenges Sam Hurst for Championship | 494
Matched with Evans (Young Broome) | 495
The Championship and Circus quackery | 495
Ring performances of Young Broome | 495
King defeats Young Broome in two Rings | 496
Large stakes for little fights | 500
Matched with Mace | 500
A tedious interval | 501
The approaching day—anxiety | 501
A clerical “tip” | 501
The journey to the fight | 505
King defeats Mace for the Championship | 505
King resigns the belt | 509
A telegraphic message corrected | 510
Heenan again in the field | 510
Agrees to meet Heenan | 511
Articles for £1,000 a side | 511
Heenan in training | 512
His pedestrian feats | 512
Difficulties as to the place for combat | 513
Three nights of watchfulness | 513
Scene at London Bridge | 513
The “roughs” at fault | 513
A morning ride | 514
Speculation; arrival at the ground | 514
The ring at Wadhurst | 515
The fight | 516
King defeats Heenan | 516
Remarks | 517
Conclusion | 518
L
LANGHAM, NAT.
His qualities and “unlucky” weight | 234
Born at Hinckley, Leicestershire | 234
His first fight | 234
Comes up to London | 235
An impromptu battle. Defeats Tom Lowe | 235
Challenges Joe Bostock | 235
Beats “Doctor” Campbell | 236
Challenges; matched with Gutteridge | 236
Defeats Gutteridge | 237
Nat receives forfeit from Angelo and Gutteridge | 238
Matched with Sparks the Australian | 238
A trip per steamer and a strategic movement | 239
Nat defeats Sparkes | 240
In want of a customer | 242
Matched with Harry Orme | 242
Beaten by Harry Orme | 243
Goes into business at Cambridge | 243
Alec Keene, Tom Sayers, Harry Brunton | 243
Nat matched with Tom Sayers | 244
A trip per Eastern Counties Railway | 245
A model mill; Nat defeats Tom Sayers | 246
Tom and Nat, rival pubs | 251
A ridiculous match. Langham and Ben Caunt | 251
“A draw.” Nat dies at the “Cambrian,” Sept. 1st., 1871 | 252
L’ENVOY TO THE READER.
The extinction of the Ring | 518
Fabricated accounts of Prize Fights | 519
The Crusade against the Ring | 519
The noble supporters of Boxing | 519
Ages of the Champions from Broughton to Tom King | 524
Parliamentary discussions | 524
Railway directors and special trains | 525
Anecdote of Lord Palmerston | 526
Cant and cowardice versus manly courage | 527
Farewell to the reader. Finis | 528
M
MACE, JEM (Champion).
His merits as a boxer | 444
Degeneracy of pugilists and Ring-patrons | 444
Birth of Mace | 444
His parentage | 445
His travelling propensities | 445
His first Ring fight | 445
Matched with Bill Thorpe | 445
Rapid increase in weight of some pugilists | 445
Mace beats Bill Thorpe | 445
Comes to London. Proposals for matches | 448
Returns to Norwich, and matched with Mike Madden | 449
A dispute and a disappointment | 449
Six months’ quibbling | 450
A new match and a “bolt” | 450
Reappears as “George Brown’s Novice” | 450
Matched with Bob Brettle | 451
Beaten (?) by Bob Brettle | 451
Appears as “Bob Brettle’s Novice” | 452
Matched with Posh Price of Birmingham | 452
Defeats Posh Price | 453
Becomes a publican | 454
Challenges; matched with Bob Travers (Black) | 454
Career of Bob Travers | 454
Beats Bob Travers (an adjourned fight) | 456
Quarrel with Bob Brettle | 457
Match for £200 with Brettle | 458
Beats Brettle in an adjourned fight | 459
Matched with Sam Hurst | 459
The “Staleybridge Infant” | 459
Defeats Sam Hurst | 460
Mace hailed as Champion | 462
Tom King challenges the title | 462
Mace defeats Tom King | 465
Heenan returns to England, 1861 | 468
Mace in business as a publican | 468
Brettle backs “an Unknown” against Mace | 469
Brettle receives £25 from King’s backers to retire | 469
Mace defeated by Tom King | 469
Matched with Joe Goss, of Wolverhampton | 469
Mace stakes £600 to £400 on the part of Goss | 469
Match-making “considerably mixed” | 469
Fighting career of Joe Goss (note) | 470
Precautions against police interruption | 471
Riotous conduct of roughs at railway terminal | 471
An early journey into Wiltshire | 472
The “referee” difficulty again | 472
A police intervention | 473
A disappointment, and return to town | 473
An adjournment “down the river” | 473
The fight on Plumstead Marshes | 474
Mace defeats Joe Goss | 474
A “side-light” on “bogus” stakes | 475
The anti-pugilistic press | 476
The Morning Star and Dial | 476
The Saturday Review: reflections on the fight | 476
A “champion” from the New World | 477
Mace and Coburn matched for £1,000 | 477
Cavilling negotiations | 477
A sketch of Joe Coburn | 477
Edwin James & Co. | 478
Contrast of olden Ring “patrons” and modern Ring “agents” | 478
Lord Shaftesbury an admirer of boxing (note) | 478
Provincial tours | 479
A journey to Dublin | 479
A public “secret” more Hibernico | 479
Press men in Dublin | 480
Irish arrangements | 480
A London celebrity | 481
A scene at the rendezvous | 481
Goold’s Cross, Limerick, named | 481
A shindy, and the match “off” | 482
A farce, and the a stakes claimed | 482
The stakes drawn | 482
Irish humour | 483
An archiepiscopal hoax | 483
Comments thereon | 484
Colours and “good faith” | 485
Mace offers to fight Coburn for £100 | 486
Degeneracy of the Ring | 486
New “big ones” and the Championship | 486
“Train-swindles” | 486
Mace and Joe Goss’s second match | 486
A “no-fight” | 487
A new giant, O’Baldwin | 487
O’Baldwin claims the belt | 487
Mace’s “Unknown” | 487
O’Baldwin and Joe Wormald for £200 | 487
O’Baldwin loses his way | 487
Forfeits £200 to Wormald | 487
Mace offers to fight O’Baldwin | 487
Mace arrested and held to bail | 488
Sam Hurst brought on the stage | 488
Flight of the Champions to America | 488
Their “doings” there | 488
Mace beats Tom Allen at New Orleans | 488
Returns to England | 488
A publican at Melbourne, 1881 | 488
MASON, FRED (“the Bull-dog”) | 309, 311
O
ORME, HARRY.
His birth. Harry an “East-ender” | 253
His brief but brilliant career | 253
Aaron Jones of Shrewsbury | 253
Orme defeats Aaron Jones | 254
Is matched with Nat Langham | 256
Beats Nat Langham | 257
A second match with Aaron Jones | 259
The “ring,” at Newmarket | 259
Hazardous ground. A shift | 260
Fight No. 1 | 262
Fight No. 2. A second interruption | 263
A misunderstanding. Jones refuses a third meeting. The victory awarded to Orme | 266
The stakes given to Orme. Legal proceedings | 268
Orme viewed as the “coming Champion” | 269
Matched with Harry Broome | 269
Defeated by Harry Broome | 269
Becomes landlord of the “Jane Shore,” Shoreditch | 269
His death, June 9, 1864 | 269
P
PADDOCK, TOM.
The Championship at the appearance of Tom Paddock | 271
Tom fought the best men of the day | 271
Born at Redditch | 272
Beats Pearce, of Cheltenham | 272
Defeats Elijah Parsons | 272
Nobby Clarke | 274
Paddock backed against and beats Clarke | 274
Second match with Nobby Clarke | 276
Clarke loses by a “foul” blow | 276
Paddock as Johnny Broome’s Unknown | 276
Loses the fight with Bendigo by a “foul” | 276
Forfeit with the Tipton Slasher | 276
“Draw” with the Tipton Slasher | 276
Receives forfeit from Jack Grant | 277
And from Con. Parker | 277
Is beaten by Harry Poulson | 277
Beats Harry Poulson | 277
Convicted of “a riot,” and imprisoned ten months | 278
Letter from “Lydon” on the affair | 279
A third match with Poulson | 279
Beats Harry Poulson a second time | 280
Is a matched with Aaron Jones | 283
Beats Aaron Jones | 283
Aaron Jones’s qualifications | 285
Paddock challenges the Championship | 287
Receives £180 forfeit from Harry Broome, who is arrested | 287
The late Mr. Vincent Dowling | 288
Renewed match with Aaron Jones | 288
Beats Aaron Jones | 290
Harry Broome’s challenge | 294
Preliminary proceedings | 294
An excursion by the “Eastern Counties” rail | 295
The fight; defeat of Harry Broome | 299
Sympathy for the loser | 302
The Tipton Slasher again | 304
Tom forfeits to the “Tipton” | 304
Challenges Tom Sayers. Alec Keene’s letter | 305
Caunt challenges Sayers | 305
Paddock’s serious illness; kindness of Tom Sayers | 306
Paddock’s recovery. Match with Tom Sayers | 306
Beaten by Tom Sayers | 306
Beaten by Sam Hurst | 307
His death, June 30th, 1863 | 307
PARKER, TASS.
His battles with the Tipton Slasher | 191
His fight with Brassey of Bradford | 347
Ditto with Harry Preston | 351
PERRY, WILLIAM (“the Tipton Slasher”).
His birth at Tipton | 157
The Slasher’s coup d’essai | 157
Beats Tim Dogherty, near Chelsea | 158
Returns to the “Black Country” | 158
Fights and beats Ben Spilsbury | 158
Matched with “the Gornel Champion” | 159
Beats Jem Scunner, and becomes “a lion” | 159
Tass Parker, Harry Preston, &c. | 159
Forfeits £15 to Deaf Burke | 160
Johnny Broome “manipulates” the “Tipton” | 160
Charles Freeman, “the American Giant” | 161
Theatres, the Circus, and the P.R. | 161
A challenge to Freeman by “an Unknown” | 161
William Perry is declared as “Broome’s Novice” | 162
Matched for £150 against Freeman | 162
The Giant “in training” | 163
Description of Charles Freeman | 164
Comparisons of bulk and strength of men | 166
The journey to the field | 167
A contrast | 168
The fight interrupted by darkness | 170
The return and its incidents | 173
The adjourned battle; magisterial interference | 176
Stanzas: “The unfinished fight of the American Giant and the Tipton Slasher” | 177
A trip down the river agreed upon | 179
Freeman’s benefit at the Westminster Baths | 179
The voyage to the fighting ground | 180
Aristocratic Ring-goers: “the Bishop of Bond Street” | 180
“A shave:” Joe Banks, “the Stunner,” Jem Burn, &c. | 181
The fight and defeat of the “Tipton” | 182
The return: Dick Curtis’s benefit | 185
A challenge to Caunt | 185
The stakes given over to Freeman | 186
Death of the American Giant, of consumption; infrequency of deaths from Ring encounters (note) | 186
Johnny Broome and the “Slasher” | 187
Tass Parker and the “Tipton” matched | 187
Unsatisfactory result; police interruption | 189
The adjourned battle | 190
A railway “excursion” | 190
A squabble about the referee | 192
The fight: the “tumble-down system” | 194
Johnny Hannan’s good conduct | 195
The stakes given to the “Tipton” | 196
Third battle with and defeat of Tass Parker | 196
Challenge to Caunt, who declines to fight under £500 a side | 199
Candidates for the Championship (note) | 199
Tom Paddock | 200
A forfeit, and a match with Paddock | 200
A trip per South Western Rail | 200
A day misspent: Wiltshire and Hampshire tabooed | 201
A mill by moonlight | 201
A “pig-shearing” excursion, and a “foul” blow | 203
The Tipton claims the belt | 204
Johnny Broome’s “Unknown” and the “Slasher” | 204
Harry Broome “the Veiled Prophet” | 204
Defeat of the “Slasher” by “Young Harry” | 204
Receives forfeit from Harry Broome | 205
Perry becomes a publican | 205
Rise of Tom Sayers and his challenge of the Championship | 205
Defeat of the “Slasher” by Tom Sayers | 205
Death of Perry, in January, 1881 | 205
R
ROWE, JOE.
His fight with Harry Broome | 314–321
In business, 1881 (note) | 339
S
SAYERS, TOM (Champion).
His birthplace disputed | 359
An Irish pedigree | 359
Born at Pimlico, near Brighton | 359
A bricklayer on the Preston Viaduct, at Brighton | 360
Comes to London. First fight with Aby Couch | 360
Matched with Dan Collins | 360
First fight interrupted by darkness | 361
Tom beats Dan Collins | 361
Various challenges. Matched with Jack Grant | 361
Beats Jack Grant | 362
Matched with Jack Martin | 365
Beats Jack Martin | 366
Matched with Nat Langham | 368
Tom’s first and last defeat | 369
Langham declines a second encounter | 369
Match with George Sims; £50 to £25 | 369
Beats George Sims | 370
Proposes to go to Australia | 370
Harry Poulson of Nottingham | 371
Jem Burn, his backer, and Bendigo his trainer | 371
Sayers defeats Poulson | 373
The Championship in sight | 379
A new belt and its claimants | 380
The Championship in suspense | 380
Sayers and Aaron Jones for £200 | 380
A change of route | 381
A voyage down the river | 381
Sayers fights Aaron Jones | 383
A “draw” and darkness | 386
Renewed battle with Jones | 387
Sayers beats Aaron Jones | 387
Challenges the Tipton Slasher | 392
Excitement in the sporting world | 393
Preliminaries of the battle | 393
Sayers defeats the Tipton Slasher | 395
Challenged by Tom Paddock | 399
Paddock’s illness | 399
Matched with an “Unknown” for £200 | 399
Bill Bainge, or Benjamin | 399
First battle with Benjamin | 400
Recovery of Paddock and his challenge accepted | 401
The “Three Toms” | 401
Anecdote of Alec Keene | 402
Sayers defeats Tom Paddock | 403
Tom Sayers against “the field” | 404
Second match with “The Unknown” for £100 and the belt | 406
Bill Benjamin once again | 407
Sayers announces his intended retirement after his battle with Benjamin | 408
Extraordinary rumours | 409
The second defeat of Benjamin | 410
Bob Brettle, of Birmingham | 412
Sayers fights Brettle £400 to £200 | 412
£200 to £20 that Brettle was beat in ten minutes | 412
Mr. John Gideon’s “arrangements” | 413
A “monster” train | 414
Bob Brettle’s career | 414
Sayers defeats Brettle | 416
Silly imputations on defeated pugilists | 419
Aaron Jones returns to England | 419
Defeat of Heenan by Morrissey | 419
A challenge from America | 420
Negotiations for an international contest for the belt | 420
Aaron Jones in the field. He retires | 420
A match proposed for Heenan and Sayers | 420
Correspondence between New York and London | 421
Arrival of Mr. Falkland. Preliminary arrangements | 423
Heenan and Morrissey. Heenan lands at Liverpool | 423
The day fixed, April 17th, 1860 | 423
A rush for “tickets” | 423
Two monster trains | 424
The journey down | 424
A distinguished company | 425
Appearance of the men | 426
Pictorial representations of the battle (note) | 426
The fight | 427–432
Conflicting reports of the result | 432
Departure of the referee | 433
Return to town | 433
Condition of the men | 433
Humane decision | 434
Two belts ordered | 434
Circus buncombe | 434
Subscription for Sayers at Stock Exchange, Lloyd’s, Mark Lane, &c. | 435
Sayers a partner in a circus | 435
Free living and its results | 435
Sayers’s last appearance in the Ring | 435
The needs of consumption | 436
Last illness | 436
His death | 437
£1,000 invested for his children | 437
Tom Sayers’s personal appearance | 437
His grave and monument in Highgate Cemetery | 438
The Combat of Sayerius and Heenanus—“A Lay of Ancient London” | 439
T
THOMPSON, WILLIAM, of Nottingham (“Bendigo”).
His birth: one of three sons | 5
Nottingham Lambs. Puritanism and Pugilism | 5
Early battles, and first fight with Caunt | 6
Challenged by Brassey (John Leechman), of Bradford, and others | 7
Beats Brassey | 8
Receives forfeit from Jem Bailey | 8
Comes to London | 8
Proposed match with Molyneaux, and forfeit from Flint of Coventry | 9
Defeats Langan of Liverpool | 9
Challenges any 12 stone man in England | 9
Looney’s challenge replied to by Jem Ward | 10
Looney declines Ward and is beaten by Bendigo | 10
Challenges from Tom Britton, Fisher, Molyneaux, &c. | 12
Matched a second time with Caunt | 13
Beaten by Caunt | 13
Caunt forfeits in a new match | 14
Deaf Burke returns from America, his challenge accepted | 14
Burke goes to France and the match falls through | 14
Stanzas from Bendigo to Deaf Burke | 15
Burke returns and articles are signed | 16
Narrow escape of Bendigo | 17
Shrove Tuesday at Ashby-de-la-Zouch | 17
The road to Appleby | 18
Bendigo beats Deaf Burke | 18
Challenges from and to Caunt. Benefit humbugs | 22, 24
Bendigo in London. A serious accident | 24
“The fine old English Pugilist;” a fancy chaunt | 25
Bendigo redivivus appears at Jem Burn’s | 26
Matched with Tass Parker | 26
Arrested at the instance of his brother and held to bail | 27
Caunt returns from his American tour | 27
Renewed negotiations and “A Valentine from Bendigo to Brassey” | 27
Third match with Caunt | 28
Preliminaries of the fight | 29
Bendigo defeats Caunt | 30
Disputed result and decision of “the Old Squire” (Osbaldiston), the referee | 36
Caunt and Bendigo shake hands | 37
Pretenders to the Championship | 37
Bendigo accepts Tom Paddock’s challenge | 38
Defeats Paddock | 39
Receives the battle-money and retires from the Ring | 45
Bendigo’s eccentricities. Takes “the pledge” and becomes a preacher | 45
Beelzebub and Ben Caunt; an anecdote | 45
True etymon of the nickname “Bendigo” | 46
Dies from the effects of an accident, aged sixty-nine | 46
TRAVERS, BOB (Langham’s Black).
His Ring career | 454
Beaten by Brettle | 454
Beaten by Jem Mace | 455
W
WARD, NICHOLAS.
His claims to a place in this “History” | 206
His birth in East London | 206
His maiden battle with Jack Lockyer | 206
Matched with Jem Wharton (Young Molyneaux) | 206
Arrested and held to bail | 207
A journey to Moulsey and a disappointment | 208
A black job: Sambo Sutton | 209
“Nick” is defeated ignominiously | 210
“Brother Jem” backs Nick for a second trial | 210
Misgivings: a “Beak” at Bicester | 210
The Philistines out | 211
Drawing a badger | 212
A fight and a fiasco | 212
Matched with Jem Bailey | 212
A trip to Woking: an interrupted fight | 213
A second match; Nick forfeits to Bailey | 214
A match with Brassey “no go” | 214
Articled to fight the “Deaf’un” | 214
A trip to Stony Stratford | 219
Adventures | 220
Nick defeats “the Deaf’un;” a wrangle | 221
Challenges Ben Caunt | 223
The stakes awarded to Nick Ward | 224
Matched with Ben Caunt | 225
A long journey and its vicissitudes | 226
Hostility of the “beaks” | 227
The fight: a bloodless victory for Ward | 229
A chaunt of the Ring: “Nick Ward and Caunt” | 231
The stakes given to “Nick” | 232
Second fight with Caunt, and defeat | 232
Death of Nick Ward, Feb. 17, 1850 | 233

Transcriber Notes

Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the end of the chapter in which related anchors occur. Inconsistent hyphenation, dialect, obsolete words and misspellings were left unchanged. Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, upside down, or partially printed letters, were corrected. Spacing was adjusted between paragraphs for consistency. Transliteration of one phrase in Greek is provided as an insert; scroll cursor over the Greek and the transliteration will appear.

Comments:

- There are five anchors to Footnote [43].

- Occasional sentences lack a verb.

- Fight rounds occasionally omit some numbers.

- The meaning of one line ending with a hyphen is uncertain: “… and that gentle-
and Orme;…”
The letters, ‘man,’ may have been omitted, or the first word on the following line, ‘and,’ may be a misspelling for ‘man.’

The following items were changed:

- Added final stops missing at the end of sentences.

- Removed duplicate words at line endings or page breaks.

- Capitalized lower case letters at beginning of sentences.

- Removed spurious stops mid-sentence.

- Adjusted mis-matched quotation marks around citations.

- Added spacing between words, crowded by printer.

- Removed misplaced comma preceding a list.

- Changed commas to stops after numbers of subparagraphs.

- Changed stops to commas mid-sentences.

- Added commas unprinted in lists.

- Added missing dashes after fight round numbers.

- Added missing page number in index for first entry of Tass Parker.

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Table of Contents

- PUGILISTICA

- PREFACE TO VOL. III.

- PUGILISTICA: THE HISTORY OF BRITISH BOXING. PERIOD VII.

- CHAPTER I.

- WILLIAM THOMPSON (“BENDIGO”), OF NOTTINGHAM, CHAMPION. 1835–1850.

- CHAPTER II.

- BENJAMIN CAUNT (CHAMPION). 1835–1857.[11]

- CHAPTER III.

- JAMES BURKE (KNOWN AS “THE DEAF’UN”). 1828–1843.

- CHAPTER IV.

- WILLIAM PERRY (“THE TIPTON SLASHER”) 1835–1857.

- CHAPTER V.

- NICHOLAS (NICK) WARD. 1835–1841.

- CHAPTER VI.

- NATHANIEL LANGHAM. 1843–1857.

- CHAPTER VII.

- HARRY ORME. 1849–1853.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- TOM PADDOCK. 1844–1860.

- CHAPTER IX.

- HARRY BROOME (CHAMPION). 1843–1856.

- APPENDIX TO PERIOD VII.

- I.—BRASSEY (JOHN LEECHMAN), of Bradford, and YOUNG LANGAN, of Liverpool, for £100.

- II.—TASS (HAZARD) PARKER, of West Bromwich, and JOHN LEECHMAN (BRASSEY), of Bradford, for £100.

- III.—TASS PARKER, of West Bromwich, and HARRY PRESTON, of Birmingham, for £100.

- IV.—AARON JONES AND BOB WADE (THE DOVER CHAMPION).

- PERIOD VIII.—1846–1863.

- CHAPTER I.

- TOM SAYERS (CHAMPION).—1849–1860.

- CHAPTER II.

- JEM MACE, OF NORWICH (CHAMPION). 1855–1864.

- CHAPTER III.

- TOM KING (CHAMPION). 1860–1862.

- L’Envoy to the Reader.

- INDEX TO VOLUME III.

- Transcriber Notes

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE