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                              PUGILISTICA

                              THE HISTORY

                                   OF

                             BRITISH BOXING


[Illustration:

  FIRST FIGHT OF SPRING AND LANGAN, ON WORCESTER RACE-COURSE, January
    24th, 1824. _See_ page 25.
]




                              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 TWO


                               Edinburgh
                               JOHN GRANT
                                  1906




                                   TO

                    THE HONOURABLE ROBERT GRIMSTON,

              THE CONSTANT AND LIBERAL PATRON AND UPHOLDER

                                   OF

         THE ATHLETIC SPORTS AND MANLY EXERCISES OF THE PEOPLE,

                          THESE RECORDS OF THE

               COURAGE, SKILL, FORBEARANCE AND FORTITUDE

                                   OF

                             BRITISH BOXERS

                     ARE APPROPRIATELY DEDICATED BY

                                                             THE AUTHOR.

 _Wood Green, August, 1880._

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                         PREFACE TO VOLUME II.


The favour with which the first volume of PUGILISTICA has been received
gives the author encouraging hope that the present instalment of his
history will prove yet more interesting and acceptable.

The two periods comprised in these pages embrace the lives of several of
the most skilful and courageous boxers who have illustrated the art of
attack and defence. In the first, we have the battles of Spring (Thos.
Winter), John Langan, Ned Painter, Oliver, Neat of Bristol, Thomas
Hickman, Dan Donnelly, and Carter, with minor stars in an Appendix. In
the second, Jem Ward, Peter Crawley, Tom Cannon, Josh. Hudson, Ned
Neale, Ned Baldwin, Young Dutch Sam, Alec Reid, Tom Gaynor, Bishop
Sharpe, Brown of Bridgnorth, and Sampson of Birmingham. Dick Curtis,
Barney Aaron, Harry Jones, and light-weights forming the Appendix.

The third and concluding volume, commencing with Bendigo (William
Thompson), will include the Decline and Fall of the P.R., with
occasional flickerings of its olden fire, till its final expiry in the
doings of Tom Sayers, John Camel Heenan, and Tom King.


  _Wood Green, August, 1880._


[Illustration:

  THOMAS WINTER (SPRING), CHAMPION.

  _From a Drawing by_ GEORGE SHARPLES _in 1822_.
]




                              PUGILISTICA:

                     THE HISTORY OF BRITISH BOXING.




                        PERIOD V.—1814 TO 1824.
        FROM THE CHAMPIONSHIP OF TOM SPRING TO THAT OF JEM WARD.




                               CHAPTER I.
                    TOM SPRING (CHAMPION)—1814–1824.


A new era in boxing arose about the period of Spring’s appearance and
Tom Cribb’s later battles, of which Thomas Winter (Spring) was the
exponent, and of which school Jem Ward (in the next Period), Peter
Crawley, Ned Neale, Jem Burn, Baldwin, Young Dutch Sam, and others, with
numerous light weights, carried out the exemplification and practice.
This we shall have ample occasion to notice in the coming chapters; for
the present we will address ourselves to the milling career of Thomas
Spring.

Thomas Winter, who adopted the name of Spring on his appearance in the
ring as a professor, was born at Fownhope, Herefordshire, February 22nd,
1795. His fighting-weight thirteen stone two pounds; later, thirteen
stone four pounds; height, five feet eleven and a-half inches.

The relations and connexions of Thomas Winter, at Hereford and in the
neighbourhood, were respectable; and when he tried his “’prentice han’,”
at the age of seventeen, in battle with Hollands, a big countryman of
some provincial repute, he won by science and steadiness. He thus gained
a name is the immediate neighbourhood of Mordeford, where he was in
service with a butcher, who was in after life a firm friend and an
admirer of Tom’s prowess.

Two years afterwards (in 1814), one Henley, a local celebrity,
challenged Tom for three sovereigns a-side. This also came off at
Mordeford, when in eleven rounds Henley was satisfied that he had found
his master in the youth whom he had challenged to the fray.

Spring two years afterwards made his way to the metropolis. Here he met
one Stringer, a Yorkshireman, from Rawcliffe, renowned for its
“paddocks.” Stringer was under the wing of Richmond, and was proposed as
a “trial horse” for the young aspirant Spring. The battle took place at
Moulsey, September, 9, 1817. We take the contemporary report as giving
the first impressions produced on those who did not foresee the
brilliant career of the youthful débutant.

The appearance of Stringer was athletic and big, but by no means fresh,
and his cut of countenance was rough and weatherbeaten. He was an ugly
looking customer in more than one sense. Spring looked boyish, not more
than 21 years of age, and in some points he was thought to resemble the
late Jem Belcher, but on a larger scale. The men, it appears, were about
equal in weight—Stringer thirteen stone seven pounds, Spring thirteen
stone two pounds. Both men were about six feet in height, and formidable
fellows. The stakes were forty guineas and a purse given by the P. C.
(Pugilistic Club). Stringer was waited upon by Richmond and Shelton;
Spring was seconded by Tom Owen and Parish, the Waterman. Two to one was
asked upon Spring; but seven to four was the current betting against
Stringer.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Stringer, on setting-to, placed himself in a better
  attitude than was expected. He also made two feints. Some blows were
  exchanged; in closing, both down.

  2.—In this round the superiority of science was evident on the part
  of Spring. In closing he fibbed his opponent severely, and in
  struggling for the throw, both went down, Stringer uppermost.

  3.—This round was courageously fought. It was curious to observe the
  left hand of Stringer pushing, as it were, against his opponent,
  with his right close upon it. Yorky did not appear wholly without
  judgment, though many of his blows were made at random. Both were
  down. The odds had now risen rapidly upon Spring.

  4.—Stringer rushed in with all the impetuosity of a bull, seized
  hold of his adversary improperly, and sent him down. Loud cries of
  “foul,” “fair,” etc. occurred. But the fight was suffered to
  proceed, it being attributed more to want of knowledge than to
  absolute design.

  5.—Strength, activity, and science were now pre-eminent on the part
  of Spring, and, at this early stage of the fight, it was almost
  certain how it must end. Spring kept hitting his opponent completely
  away, but still he returned desperately, till he was at length hit
  down.

  6.—This was also a desperate round. The men stood up to each other,
  and hammered away like a couple of blacksmiths, but Spring had the
  best of it. The latter nobly disdained taking an advantage when
  Stringer was on the ropes, and let him go down without extra
  punishment. Great applause from all parts of the ring.

  7.—The determination of Stringer was truly astonishing; he bored in
  regardless of the consequences. In passing Spring he got a
  tremendous nobber, and was ultimately sent down.

  8.—Nothing but milling, till they closed, and both down.

  9.—On setting-to Yorky received a facer, which nearly turned him
  round, but he recovered himself, and planted a good hit. In closing,
  Stringer got his arms round his opponent’s body, but he could not
  prevent Spring from administering some heavy punishment. The
  Yorkshireman, however, obtained the throw, and fell with all his
  weight upon Spring.

  10.—Stringer fought with so much desperation that he almost laid
  himself down, he appeared so exhausted.

  11.—The Yorkshireman could not protect his head from the repeated
  shots of his opponent. In closing, both down, but Spring uppermost.

  12.—Both men exhibited severe marks of the other’s handy-work. The
  claret was flowing copiously. Both down. A quarter of an hour had
  elapsed.

  13.—A short but sharp round, till both on the ground.

  14.—Stringer was rather conspicuous in this round. He bored Spring
  to the ropes, where much struggling took place before they went
  down.

  15.—Stringer was hit down at the ropes. Great applause.

  16.—This was as terrible a round as any in the fight. One minute
  passed in hard milling, without intermission, till Spring got the
  best of it, when Stringer went down and fell upon his hands.

  17.—The conduct of Spring was again truly brave. He had Stringer in
  a situation that he might have punished him till he was tired, but
  he let him down amidst the loudest shouts of approbation. Bravo,
  Spring!

  18.—Stringer kept fighting till he fell.

  19.—The game displayed by the Yorkshireman was equal to anything
  ever seen; notwithstanding the severe milling he received, he came
  laughing up to the scratch. But his head was never out of chancery
  in this round. Both down.

  20.—The men upon setting-to went as eagerly to work as if the fight
  had just commenced. Hit for hit were reciprocally given, till, in
  closing, both had enough of it, and went down.

  21.—Equally desperate with any of the preceding rounds. Richmond now
  loudly observed to Stringer “to fight his own way.” The Yorkshireman
  went down covered with claret.

  22.—Spring took the lead in this round in an eminent degree. He
  fibbed Stringer terribly, till he slipped through his hands.

  23.—The courage of the Yorkshireman was truly fine, and had he
  possessed science equal to his opponent the termination of the
  battle would have been doubtful. The men fought like lions, till
  they both fell out of the ropes. Loud shouting.

  24.—Spring again behaved handsomely to Stringer. Many of the
  spectators called out to “take the Yorkshireman away.” (Three to one
  on Spring.)

  25.—A more determined round was never fought. In a rally, both men
  were hit to a stand still; they at length got away from each other,
  when Stringer rushed in and got his arms round his opponent’s body,
  but, ultimately, he was so severely fibbed that he went down
  exhausted.

  26.—On setting-to, Stringer merely exchanged a blow and went down.

  27.—Stringer in endeavouring to bore in upon his adversary ran
  himself down.

  28.—Stringer now made a last and desperate effort. His seconds kept
  as it were urging him forward, telling him “to hold up his head.” He
  continued to fight till he was sent down.

  29th and last.—This round was, in point of execution, the severest
  ever seen. Stringer received so tremendous a hit in his body, from
  the right hand of his opponent, that he was only prevented in the
  act of falling on his face by a quick repetition of it, which caught
  Yorky’s nob, and instantly floored him on his back! He was carried
  out of the ring by his seconds in a state of stupor. The battle
  lasted thirty-nine minutes.

  REMARKS.—A more determined man was never witnessed than Stringer
  proved himself. He put in some desperate blows, and his confidence
  never forsook him; indeed he laughed several times. On being asked
  how he felt himself within the last two rounds, he observed, “he was
  as hearty as a buck!” As a “Receiver-General” he stands almost
  without an equal. It was a truly desperate fight, and might stand
  comparison with the battle between Symonds and George Maddox.
  Stringer was most ably seconded by Richmond and Shelton. His nob was
  completely metamorphosed. Stringer looks like a man of forty, and,
  it would seem, he has commenced pugilist too late in the day to
  attain any celebrity. He is able to beat any rough commoner. From
  the exhibition of Spring in this battle, he bids fair to put all the
  “big ones” upon the alert. It is true, he wants improvement in his
  mode of fighting; nevertheless, he displayed those sound requisites,
  which, when united with experience, must ultimately constitute him a
  first-rate boxer. His strength is unquestionable; his game by no
  means doubtful; and he possesses a tolerably good knowledge of the
  science. Spring was not once distressed throughout the above battle.
  He never bobbed his head aside to avoid the coming blow, but stood
  firm as a rock, and stopped or parried. His generous behaviour also
  to Stringer, in four or five instances, when he might have
  administered additional punishment, was so manly and humane that it
  cannot be passed over, nor ought it to be forgotten. Spring has a
  prepossessing appearance, is well made, and weighs more than
  fourteen stone.[1] Both of the above boxers have stood at the Royal
  Academy, as “studies” for the artists. The frame of Stringer is
  considered to possess great anatomical beauty.


Spring, anxious to obtain a high situation on the milling list, and to
lose his time no longer with rough commoners, without hesitation
challenged Ned Painter for 100 guineas a-side, which was as
unhesitatingly accepted. It was thought a bold attempt on the part of
Spring, and to show more of ambition than sound judgment. This match
occasioned much conversation in the milling circles; but Painter was
decidedly the favourite. Some difficulty occurred in making the stakes
good on the part of Spring, many of his promised backers being found
absent at the appointed time. A gentleman, however, stepped forward and
made up the deficiency, to prevent disappointment.

The sun had scarcely shed his beams over the metropolis, on Wednesday
morning, the 1st of April, 1818, when the roads leading to Mickleham
Downs, near Leatherhead, in Surrey, were thronged with vehicles of every
description, full of amateurs hastening to the appointed spot to enjoy
scientific pugilism, it being the first “big fight” in the season. The
Bonifaces along the road were rather taken by surprise, it being April
Fool-day, but as soon as they got hold of the right scent, the “dashing
system” was put into requisition, and the “cooling article” was most
liberally added, in order to prevent the amateurs from getting the
fever, or over-heating their frames from too copious draughts of ardent
spirits. The “knowing ones” were perfectly satisfied that Painter must
win, and seven to four were the odds sported; but the admirers of youth,
supported by science, strength, and pluck, added to the chance of long
odds, proved eager takers.

The situation of the ring was truly picturesque and delightful,
commanding an uninterrupted view of diversified scenery for sixty miles.
Some fir trees contiguous to it had an animated appearance from the
numerous spectators mounted upon their boughs. At a little after one,
Painter and Spring appeared in the outer ring, and, upon meeting, shook
hands in a cordial and true Englishman-like manner. Spring threw his hat
first in the ring; Painter immediately followed the same line of
conduct. At half-past one the men set-to; Painter was seconded by Tom
Belcher and Harry Harmer; Spring by Cribb and Byrne. Seven to four
current, and two to one against Spring. Gully kept the time.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The attitude of Spring was firm—his body far back, and his
  length of arm rendered him difficult to be got at. They sparred for
  three minutes without a hit being exchanged; Spring appeared tired
  and put down his hands. He then, in planting a blow, hit short; more
  long sparring occurred, when some hits were exchanged, and Painter
  received a blow on the side of his throat that sent him staggering,
  and, in falling, the back of his head and part of his shoulder came
  in violent contact with one of the stakes. The shock was heard by
  all the spectators. This round occupied six minutes—Spring received
  great applause.

  2.—The time-keeper, it appears, from this circumstance, thought his
  occupation was at an end; and Mr. Jackson also deemed it next to an
  impossibility for the fight to proceed. Painter seemed completely
  stupefied from the effects of this accident, and Belcher lifted him
  up with the heaviness of a log of wood; nevertheless he came to his
  time. In fact it appeared more from instinct than meeting his man
  under the influence of intellect. A swelling, the bigness of an egg,
  had now risen on his head, and the skin on his shoulder was cut.
  Spring again hit short, when Painter planted a sharp facer with his
  left hand. More long sparring occurred—some blows were
  exchanged—when Painter received a hit and slipped down. Shouting and
  applause. The long odds at this early stage of the fight were on the
  totter.

  3.—The idea of a smashing fight was now at an end, and the Randall
  and Belasco system seemed to be the order of the day. It was more a
  display of science than of milling. Spring planted a blow and got
  away. Painter made a hit, but Spring followed him over the ring. Two
  sharp counter hits occurred in the body. Spring laughed, and gave
  Painter a nobber, and got away dexterously. Painter made play and
  put in a severe facer; some blows were exchanged—and in closing, the
  latter endeavoured to “weave” his antagonist, but, in struggling,
  the strength of Spring prevailed. He not only held Painter’s hands,
  but extricated himself in gallant style, and planted a hit on him as
  he was going down. Great applause, and the long odds completely
  floored; in many parts of the ring it was now even betting.
  Twenty-one minutes had elapsed. Painter, while sitting upon his
  second’s knee, confusedly inquired, “what is it?” just coming to his
  recollection; having fought the last two rounds in total ignorance.
  Harmer then informed him of the accident he had experienced, when
  Painter complained of his shoulder.

  4.—Long sparring again occurred. Some hits were exchanged. In
  closing, Spring held his opponent’s hand (called Tom Owen’s stop,
  and first introduced by that boxer). Both down, but Spring
  uppermost.

  5.—The forte of Painter seemed to have materially changed. There was
  more of science exhibited than work performed. The claret scorned to
  make its appearance. In closing, Spring threw Painter.

  6.—For “Big Ones,” there was nothing like going to work, and a long
  fight was contemplated by all the spectators. Two severe
  counter-hits occurred. Painter hit short, when Spring returned a
  sharp blow on his mouth. In closing Spring got Painter down.
  Applause. (The first six rounds occupied half an hour.)

  7.—Painter commenced this round by planting a blow on the head, and
  one on the body of his opponent. But in closing Spring fell heavily
  upon him.

  8.—This was also a good round. Painter put in three facers, and got
  away. In closing, both hung on the ropes, and went down.

  9.—This round was the best display by Painter throughout the fight.
  He planted several facers with success, and one was so severe, that,
  had it not been for the ropes, Spring must have gone down. In
  closing, both down.

  10.—Spring hit short several times, and Painter planted a good
  nobber, but, in return, he received some sharp hits, so that he
  turned round and went down. Great applause for Spring.

  11.—The manliness of conduct exhibited in this round by Spring
  received thunders of applause. Painter endeavoured to punish Spring
  in the act of closing; but the latter, instead of holding him up, as
  he might have done, let his man down, and put up both his hands.
  “Bravo, Spring!” and he now became, in a great measure, the
  favourite. The knowing ones began to look queer.

  12.—The same manly conduct again exhibited on the part of Spring.

  13.—Painter hit down.

  14.—Blow for blow, but Painter down.

  15.—Spring slipped, but hit Painter again to grass.

  16.—Spring hit down by a complete body blow. “Well done, Painter,”
  from his friends.

  17.—Painter got a blow on the mouth, when he went down, but appeared
  to slip.

  18.—The left hand of Spring was used with success; and his science
  and length gave him great advantages. Painter down.

  19 to 24.—Painter was evidently much distressed, and went down in
  all these rounds. He frequently hit himself down.

  25.—Spring, although he occasionally hit short, planted some heavy
  chopping blows on the arms and shoulders of Painter, which, added to
  the accident, tended, in a great measure, to disable his efforts.
  The latter, on going in, was hit down, Caleb Baldwin now loudly
  offered five guineas to one on Spring.

  26.—Painter was so weak that he hit himself down.

  27.—Spring’s left hand caught Painter as he was coming in, and the
  latter fell on his face.

  28 to 31, and last.—Description is not necessary for these rounds.
  Painter was completely exhausted, and he resigned the contest in one
  hour and twenty-nine minutes; nothing but the highest state of
  condition could have enabled him to last such a length of time.

  REMARKS.—Spring turned out a much better man than he was previously
  rated; though it was still urged that he was not a hard hitter.
  Painter did not complain of the punishment he received, but of the
  excruciating pain of his head, and the impracticability he
  experienced of using his shoulder to any advantage. The gameness of
  Painter was too well known to need comment. Spring used his left
  hand well, and got away with ease and dexterity; he also displayed
  coolness and command of temper. Spring’s body was rather marked; his
  peepers somewhat damaged; he was also distressed a little at one
  period of the fight, but soon recovered, and kept the lead. On being
  declared the victor, Cribb took him up in his arms and carried him
  round the ring, amidst loud huzzas.


So anxious were the friends of Painter for a second trial of skill with
Spring, that they put down a deposit the same week, and on the 14th of
April increased it to £40, to fight on August 7th, 1818, for 100 guineas
a-side, it being specially named in the articles that the ring should
have only _eight_ stakes.

Spring was now doomed to receive a slight check to his ambition in his
second contest with Painter, on the 7th of August, 1818, at Russia Farm,
when our hero lost the battle. This unexpected defeat weighed severely
on Spring’s mind. (See the life of NED PAINTER, _post_.)

In consequence of the friends of Shelton forfeiting to Spring, a match
was proposed between Oliver and Spring; but the bad state of Oliver’s
hand prevented it. The backers of Spring, it appears, were determined to
give him an opportunity of reinstating himself, and he was matched
against Carter, who had, for two years, challenged all England as
champion. The stakes were £50 a-side, and a £50 purse to be given by the
Pugilistic Club. The odds were high in favour of Carter, and the backers
of Spring asked two to one. The above battle was decided on the 4th of
May, 1819, at Crawley Down, immediately after Randall and Martin had
left the ring. Carter was seconded by Oliver and Donnelly; and Spring
was attended by Cribb and Shelton. Generally speaking, it was thought a
hollow thing; and Carter was estimated so extravagantly that three to
one was betted upon the combatants setting-to.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Carter entered the ring with great self-importance, smiling
  contemptuously upon his opponent, and indicating by his gestures
  that he had a mere nothing to contend with. Both the combatants
  appeared in good condition, particularly Spring. Upon shaking hands,
  Carter did not, as heretofore, let fly with his left hand, and both
  men sparred for an opening. Spring, at length, planted a hit on
  Carter’s right shoulder. All eyes were fixed upon the _soi-disant_
  Champion, to see him go to work, almost expecting him to annihilate
  his opponent. A long pause occurred, and the men appeared more like
  statues than living pugilists in actual combat. Spring broke from
  his position, and planted another hit upon Carter’s shoulder. The
  latter endeavoured to make a blow with his left, which was well
  stopped by Spring, who also fought his way into a close; Carter got
  him on the ropes, where a terrible struggle occurred for the throw,
  and, amidst much hissing and hooting, Carter got Spring down.

  2.—Long sparring, when Spring put in a facer. The intent of Carter
  seemed upon hugging more than hitting, and at the ropes, he
  endeavoured to throw Spring. The latter, however, proved the
  stronger, and Carter was undermost. Loud shouting, and “Well done,
  Spring!”

  3.—Spring made a hit, when Carter got away. The former followed to
  the ropes, and felt for his nob, till the hugging system commenced,
  and both went down. (Hissing.)

  4.—The amateurs were astonished at the bad fighting of Carter, who
  seemed to have no relish for anything but hugging his opponent on
  the ropes till both were down.

  5.—Spring put in several hits; in struggling Carter was undermost.

  6.—Both down; but Spring decidedly the better man; he gave the
  Lancashire hero some sharp hits.

  7.—Spring took the lead in good style, when Carter in a manner
  turned away from the blows, and fell down. Spring pointed at him
  with contempt; the “Champion” was loudly hissed.

  8.—Disgust and murmuring were expressed all round the ring at the
  conduct of Carter. Manliness and courage were displayed by Spring,
  and he hit Carter out of the ring, but fell on one knee.

  9 to 11.—The finish of all these rounds consisted in struggling at
  the ropes, and the backs of the men were scored.

  12.—Spring put in a good nobber without any return, and also threw
  Carter.

  13 to 15.—These rounds were principally hugging; Spring made several
  hits, yet went down weak.

  16.—This was rather a sharp round, and Carter made some return.
  Spring hit his opponent to the ropes, and also broke away from a
  close. He renewed the attack sharply, till both went down.

  17.—Carter made a good hit with the left, and threw Spring.

  18.—It was evident to all the spectators that Spring had rapidly
  improved; he stopped the left hand of Carter with the greatest ease.
  This being the peculiar forte of the Carlisle Champion he could do
  nothing with his right hand, and was foiled. Spring fought manfully,
  planted three good hits, and sent Carter down.

  19 and 20.—Spring took the lead; but in struggling, both down.

  21.—Spring put in a heavy hit on Carter’s nose, with his left hand,
  and also threw him. “Well done, Spring!” and ten to eight offered
  upon the latter.

  22.—Spring hit Carter on the side of the nob, punished him at the
  ropes, and broke away from a close. Spring hit Carter down, who
  instantly got up, but Spring fell from caution or weakness.

  23.—Spring slipped in making a blow.

  24.—The conduct of Carter in this round created great
  disapprobation. It seemed as if he was fighting a bear instead of a
  man. He ran sharply in with his head lowered into Spring’s body,
  when the latter paid him well over the nob for it. But in closing
  the hissing was very loud, and a distinguished amateur called out to
  several persons, that Carter was “going.”

  25.—Spring planted some hits and got away. In struggling at the
  ropes, when Carter was receiving punishment, he exclaimed, “What are
  you at?”

  26.—It was plain that Carter meant to tire his opponent, or win the
  contest by hugging. A terrible struggle occurred, when the ropes
  were broken, and both went down.[2]

  27 and 28—Both down. Spring hit Carter down at the ropes.

  29.—This was a good round on the part of Spring. He planted two
  facers sharply. The claret was now seen issuing from Carter’s mouth,
  and his mug damaged.

  30.—Spring hit Carter on the nob, but in struggling both went over
  the ropes. (Thirteen to five on Spring.)

  31.—The right eye of Carter was rather damaged. Spring hit and broke
  away. He, however, punished Carter down, and fell.

  32.—Carter sat cross-legged upon his second’s knee. Spring hit, and
  followed him over the ring. In struggling at the ropes, Carter
  exclaimed, “Let go.” Both down.

  33 to 35.—Spring worked hard in all these rounds; took the lead from
  his hitting; but went down from his exertions.

  36.—This was a severe round, and Carter was hit out of the ropes.
  Loud shouting; and “Bravo, Spring! Where’s the Champion now?”

  37.—Spring made a good hit, but went down from weakness.

  38.—Carter hit down at the ropes.

  39.—Spring shewed good science; he hit and broke away, and planted a
  blow on Carter’s nose. Both down.

  40.—After some exchanges, Spring was hit sharply, and fell upon his
  head. He was extremely weak, and his friends felt alarmed that he
  was falling-off; the odds got down upon him.

  41.—Spring, in a struggle, fell upon Carter, which appeared to shake
  him to pieces.

  42.—Spring made a hit upon Carter’s nose, but was too weak to follow
  up this advantage. In closing, on the ropes, both down.

  43.—Both down.

  44.—The right eye of Carter was nearly closed; but Spring was still
  weak, and went down from a slight hit.

  45 to 49.—Both down in all these rounds. Hugging was the leading
  feature; but whenever Spring could extricate himself he did, and
  administered punishment to his opponent.

  50.—Spring hit Carter out of the ropes but, to the astonishment of
  the spectators, he got up with the utmost sang froid.

  51.—Carter tried to make a hit with his right hand, but it was
  stopped. After a few exchanges, Spring went down very weak. One hour
  and twenty-five minutes had passed, and severity of punishment was
  not visible, to any extent, on either side.

  52.—Spring now went in, hitting and following Carter closely, till
  he punished him down. (“Bravo, Spring! the Champion’s not in
  Carlisle now.”)

  53.—Hugging again till both down. (Murmuring in all parts of the
  ring; and three and four to one betters lamenting their want of
  discrimination in backing a man who seemed to have no fight left in
  him.)

  54.—Carter nearly received his quietus in this round. Spring hit him
  on the head so strongly that he went down like a shot. [Thunders of
  applause; and a guinea to a shilling offered.]

  55.—Carter came in a tottering state to the scratch, but was hit
  down. Ten to one.

  56.—This was the most interesting part of the combat; Carter, to the
  astonishment of the ring, commenced fighting with his left hand, and
  made two hits, but was sent down. (“Go it, Spring, you have not a
  minute to lose. Give such a Champion a finisher!”)

  57.—Carter again floored.

  58.—Carter struggling at the ropes, where he positively hung by both
  his hands, Spring punishing him on the ribs till he went down.
  Carter never returned a blow in this round.

  59.—Spring went in, and planted a nobber that sent Carter down like
  a log. His seconds pulled him up, and held his head. A hundred to
  five. The burst of applause beggars description.

  60.—It astonished the ring to see Carter come again, and, from his
  recovery, fears were still entertained for Spring.—Carter seemed
  anxious to win, and commenced hitting. He also made a desperate
  struggle at the ropes till he went down.

  61.—Prejudice was aroused against Carter from all parts of the ring,
  owing to the overbearing consequence which he had assumed since his
  “hugging” victory at Carlisle.—Carter commenced fighting, but went
  down from a slight hit; in fact, he almost laid himself down.

  62.—In this round Spring was quite the hero. He nobbed and bodied
  Carter so severely, that the latter could not lift his arms. (Any
  odds.)

  63.—Carter was sent down, with striking marks of punishment about
  his head and body.

  64.—Carter appeared to get round, made a hit, but was sent down.

  65.—Carter put in two left-handed hits, but Spring went in manfully,
  and got him down.

  66.—In closing, both down.

  67.—Carter now tried his left hand; but in closing he received a
  heavy fall. Spring fell on him. “It is all up;” was the cry.

  68.—Carter hit first with his left hand. Both down.

  69.—Spring was now very weak, but he went in and punished Carter in
  all directions, till both went down.

  70.—The fight was now drawing fast to an end. Carter was so confused
  and weak that he was hit to the ropes, where he stood still to
  receive, till he made a trifling struggle, when both went down.

  71.—This was a strange and severe round; Carter endeavoured to make
  some hits; but, in closing, he received such a fall, with Spring
  upon him, that when time was called, he could not come again. One
  hour and fifty-five minutes had elapsed.

  REMARKS.—If Spring had been a _punishing_ hitter, he _must_ have won
  it in half the time. He, however, displayed not only consummate
  tactics in the offensive, but his defensive movements elicited
  general applause. Although never rash, he never shrunk from his
  work, and this triumphant defeat of the braggadocio north-countryman
  placed him on a pinnacle of fame.


Spring, in company with Cribb, now set out on a sparring tour in the
west, in which a friendship was cemented which lasted for life, to the
credit of both parties. Bill Neat (who had beaten the game Tom Oliver in
the previous year, July 10, 1818) was picked out by the Bristolians for
a match with “Young Spring” for 100 guineas a-side, and half-way between
Bristol and London was named as the ground, articles signed, and £50
made good on September 6th, for a fight on the 6th of October following.
But a certificate from Bristol, dated September 19th, 1819, states that
“Neat, from a fall, having broken his right arm, twelve months must
elapse before he will be well.” Spring complained, and justly, of not
receiving forfeit in this case, as he had been put to considerable
expenses, and Neat’s accident (generally supposed not to be a fracture
at all) was occasioned by his imprudently running, for a wager, down a
steep hill, known as King’s Weston.

The friends of Oliver now made a deposit of five sovereigns, but in the
same month of October Spring received that as a forfeit.

On the 20th December, 1819, Spring being at Belcher’s, and Ben Burn in a
depreciatory humour, “my uncle” offered to post £20 and meet Spring at
Wimbledon Common next morning at one o’clock. Both men were there to
time. Eales and an amateur seconded Spring; Richmond and Scroggins Uncle
Ben. The affair was a burlesque, though Ben fought in a most manly
style. Spring was certainly out of condition, and remarkably cautious.
He hit heavily, but seldom, and never gave away a chance. Poor Ben, with
the exception of one slight success in a scramble, when he caught Spring
over the right eye (the same optic that suffered in his fight with
Painter), never got on to his man. On the contrary, Spring hit him when
and where he pleased for eighteen minutes, when, at the end of the
eleventh round, the second big Yorkshireman whom Tom had manipulated,
was thoroughly finished off. Not more than 200 persons were present; but
the Commissary and the stakes, with many of the P. C., were there, and
formed the ring.

A third match with Painter ended in a forfeit on the part of Painter’s
friends, who preferred a match with Oliver for the same amount as a
safer investment.

In consequence of this forfeit “Uncle Ben,” who didn’t at all stomach
his thrashing by a man who, according to some of the connoisseurs of the
old ding-dong school, “couldn’t hit a dent in a pound of butter,” now
determined, for the greater glory of the house of Burn, to match Bob
Burn against his conqueror for £100 a-side. This ended for a time
curiously. Spring was out of health, and, not to give a chance away, his
backers forfeited the £100 rather than risk a contest. A second match
was soon made, and on the 16th of May, 1820, the men met on Epsom Downs.

The morning was stormy, yet the string of vehicles emulated a Derby Day.
The ring was delightfully situated, having the hill on the northern side
of it, from which hundreds viewed the battle without the inconvenience
of a crowd.

Burn had risen in the esteem of the amateurs from a slashing set-to with
Larkin, and some Fives Court displays. Spring also was notoriously
unwell, and a strong prejudice existed against his “finishing” or
“punishing” abilities. These circumstances induced most of the sporting
men to hedge their bets, and take the odds upon Burn. Indeed, in a few
instances, the odds were now laid upon the latter; five to four on the
ground was thinly sported on Spring, the takers snapping at it
instantly.

Burn appeared first, and threw his hat into the ring, attended by his
seconds, Larkin and Randall, and kept walking up and down for some
minutes before his adversary entered the ropes. Spring at length showed,
followed by Cribb and Shelton; when the latter observed to Spring,
“Mind, Tom, that you throw your hat into the ring so that it does not
blow out,” the incident having an evil augury, as several pugilists had
been defeated when their hats had taken flight. Spring took the hint,
and his castor remained firm in the ring. Randall (for Burn) then tied
his colours (green) to the stakes, and the blue kerchief of Spring was
immediately added to them. Upon the Commander-in-Chief ordering the
sports to commence, the two umpires and the referee (an honourable
baronet) wished to impress upon the minds of the seconds and
bottle-holders, “That the watch would be held by them only on the
following consideration:—That upon the men setting-to, the seconds were
to retire to the corners of the ring, and if any one of them spoke to
the combatants, that moment the watch would be thrown down. Much
irritation had been occasioned by such conduct on both sides at previous
fights. It was highly improper, unfair and unmanly; and also in direct
opposition to the rules of Broughton, who was looked up to as the father
of the Prize Ring.” These remarks were emphatically repeated, and
throughout the fight were strictly attended to.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On stripping, we were told that Burn was a stone less in
  weight than when he fought Shelton; his condition was nevertheless
  as fine as art and nature could exhibit. In fact, his proper pitch
  had been ascertained, and Burn flattered himself that he was man
  enough for anything on the fighting list. Spring did not appear on
  the ground till the last minute; and it was thought by many that he
  would forfeit a second time, owing to his not being well. On
  stripping, though he appeared better than was expected from the
  rumours which had gone forth, it was evident that he was not in
  fighting trim. After some little sparring Burn endeavoured to put in
  two hits, right and left, somewhat confidently, which Spring
  scientifically stopped. A pause. Spring very neatly put in a facer,
  and got away. Burn gave two blows without effect. More sparring.
  Spring again gave a nobber, and got away. Some little fighting now
  occurred, and several good hits were exchanged, from one of which, a
  right-handed blow, Burn went off his balance, and fell on his hands.
  (A roar of approbation. “Burn can’t win it!” Seven to four; several
  were bold enough to offer two to one.)

  2.—This round was short, but decisive, and the takers of the odds
  looked blue. Burn thrust out his left hand, pawing, as it were, when
  he was returned upon by Spring right and left. The latter, however,
  got a small taste over his left ogle, and a bump soon rose. In an
  exchange of blows, Burn again went down from a hit on the side of
  his head. (Tumultuous applause, and “The big one can’t fight,” was
  the cry. Two to one nearly current.)

  3.—This round quite satisfied the judges that if Spring had been
  well he must have won the battle in a canter. He hit Burn staggering
  all over the ring, followed him up, and gave the big one pepper at
  the ropes, till he went down. (Another Babel shout, and four to one
  was offered.)

  4.—The claret was plain enough now on the mug of Burn. Spring put in
  a heavy claim on his opponent’s victualling office, and got away
  cleverly. Some sharp exchanges occurred, in which Spring received a
  nobber or two, and not light ones; but Burn was sent staggering and
  staggering, till he ultimately went down. (More betters than
  takers.)

  5.—Spring showed great weakness; but he also showed that he knew the
  advantages of science, and from science alone he could win, and
  reduce the strength of his opponent. Burn planted a most desperate
  hit on the side of Spring’s head; and so keenly did it operate, as a
  sort of scalping touch, that the hair instantly flew off, and the
  place was bare. Spring, however, conked his opponent, when they
  closed, and, in a severe struggle for the throw, Spring broke away
  and hit Burn down. (“Bravo! well done, Spring; it’s all your own.”)

  6.—Burn had been hit or went down in all the preceding rounds; and
  in this Spring fell upon his adversary heavily; after an exchange of
  several blows it was here again asserted that, notwithstanding the
  punishment Spring had administered to his opponent, it might be seen
  he was not a hard hitter, from the little effects visible. Perhaps
  this may be more of a theoretical than a practical prejudice against
  Spring.

  7.—The latter put in a sharp bodier with his left hand, and got
  away; but in an exchange of blows afterwards, Burn gave Spring a
  heavy one on his ear. In struggling for the throw, Burn appeared
  much distressed, but both men fell out of the ropes.

  8.—This was rather a dangerous round to Spring, and he might have
  lost the battle from it, although it was in his favour. Some severe
  blows passed on both sides, when the combatants fought their way to
  the ropes, and got entangled in so curious a manner that it appeared
  so difficult to the spectators that “Go down, Spring,” was the cry.
  The struggle to get the best of the throw was severe indeed; they
  grappled at each other’s hand, and if Shelton had not held up the
  rope, they were so entangled that the men must have been parted;
  however, by a strong effort they got away from this dilemma into the
  middle of the ring, when Spring hit Burn well as he was falling, but
  Spring also fell upon his head. (Loud shouting for Spring.)

  9.—The preceding struggle had distressed Spring so much, that in
  setting-to he put down his hands quite exhausted; nevertheless, it
  turned out a severe round, and Spring jobbed his opponent so
  severely that, in closing, Burn was so confused that he caught hold
  of Spring’s nose. (Great disapprobation.) In going down Burn was
  undermost.

  10.—The left eye of Burn was rather damaged, and Spring made play in
  good style. Burn scarcely ever went to work till he was nobbed into
  it; and then he made some good counter-hits. This was rather a sharp
  round; but in going down Spring was undermost.

  11.—After some exchanges, Spring’s left ear showed marks of
  punishment. Sparring for wind, when Spring got a facer. The latter
  again showed bad condition, and stood still for a short period; but
  Burn did not turn it to account. However, after a hit or two, Spring
  fell down, his head upon his arm. Some slight fears were here
  entertained that the strength of Burn might tire out Spring.

  12 to 14.—In all these rounds the fighting was on the part of
  Spring. Most certainly the latter never fought so well in any of his
  battles as in the present. He put in several hits, and got away with
  great agility.

  15.—In this round Spring did as he pleased with his opponent; Burn’s
  body and head were quite at his service, and it was evident the
  battle must soon end. In going down Burn was also undermost. Any
  odds; but it was all up. Here Burn informed his second that Spring
  was too strong for him.

  16.—In this round Burn was hit sharply; and in going down his left
  leg fell under him, and great fears were entertained it was broken.
  (“Spring for ever,” and twenty to one; indeed it was thought Burn
  would not come again.)

  17.—Burn endeavoured to show fight, but he was again sent down at
  the ropes, and £10 to a crown was offered.

  18 and last.—Burn was soon down, and Spring proclaimed the
  conqueror. Tom walked out of the ring with apparent ease, and with
  very few marks.

  REMARKS.—Although this was pronounced a bad fight, Spring is justly
  entitled to much praise, from his good style of fighting, and the
  skill he displayed in not going “to work” too rashly, from his bad
  condition. Had Spring been as well as he ought, the battle must have
  been over in half the time. It, however, was the general opinion of
  the fancy, that Burn, previous to the contest, could not be disposed
  of in half an hour, and numerous bets were made to that effect. The
  judges too insisted that Spring was not a hard hitter, and they did
  so at the conclusion of this battle; but he repeated his blows so
  often on the nob of his opponent that they ultimately proved
  effectual. Burn, after the first round, appeared to have lost
  confidence. Gameness alone will not reach the top of the tree.
  Spring behaved bravely to his opponent, and was much applauded. He
  had Burn at the ropes in a defenceless state, but he saw the battle
  was his own, and he lifted up his hands and walked away. If it be
  admitted that Spring was not a hard hitter, it cannot be denied that
  he possessed a superior knowledge of fighting, and was too difficult
  a man for Burn to get at.


A match was on the _tapis_ between Spring and Sutton, the Black, but it
went off.

In consequence of some dispute about impropriety of conduct, between
Spring and Josh. Hudson, after the battle of Cooper and Shelton, at
Moulsey Hurst, on Tuesday, June 27, 1820, a purse of £20 was immediately
subscribed by the amateurs for Spring and Hudson to fight. Both men
accepted the offer without the least hesitation; more especially as an
amateur offered £5 to Hudson, if he would only fight one round with
Spring. Five or six rounds, however, were sharply contested, in which
Joshua drew the cork of his antagonist, but on his getting the worst of
it, Hudson pocketed the £5, and Turner judiciously took him out of the
ring. This was the fourth battle on that day. Spring looked upon this
£20 as a sweetener for his recent losses on Shelton, whom he had backed.
The dispute in question, it seems, was owing to Spring refusing to admit
Hudson into the room where Shelton had been put to bed.

During the time Spring was at Norwich, when Painter fought with Oliver,
five guineas a-side were deposited for a match between the Gas-Light Man
and our hero. The backers of Hickman, however, did not come forward at
the appointed time, in London, to make the stakes good, when the £5 was
forfeited to Spring.

The friends of Oliver, anxious to keep the game alive, made a match for
£100 a-side with Spring.

Thus the game Tom Oliver was pitched upon to try to check the upward
career of Spring, and the stakes, 200 sovereigns, were made good over a
jolly dinner at Belcher’s, and the day fixed for February 20, 1821.
Accordingly, as this was the first spring meeting of gymnastic sports
for the year, at daybreak on the following morn the Western Road was all
bustle. It was a prime turn-out of the swells; upwards of nine noblemen
were present; but it was a “big fight,” and that is sure to bring them
to the ring. Salt Hill was the place first named; but a hint from the
beaks removed it early in the morning, and the ring was again formed at
about two miles from Arlington Corner. Here the magistrates again
interfered, it is said, at the request of a lady of rank, whose sons
were great supporters of this British sport, and the “beaks” were not to
be gammoned into good humour, although Oliver had made his appearance in
the ring. The bustle and confusion created to be off instanter was truly
laughable, and the “devil take the hindmost” was the order of the day.
But in a few minutes the scene was truly delightful. It was a perfect
steeple chase. The string of carriages for miles winding round the road,
the horsemen galloping and leaping over the hedges, the pedestrians all
on the trot, and the anxiety displayed on every countenance to arrive in
time, all following the Commander-in-Chief and Bill Gibbons with the
stakes. The surprise occasioned in the villages through which his motley
group passed, the children out of doors at the farm houses shouting, the
“Johnny Raws” staring, the country girls grinning, the ould folks
wondering what was the matter, and asking if the French were coming, the
swells laughing and bowing to the females, and all the fancy, from the
pink on his “bit of blood,” down to the toddler, full of life and
spirits, formed a most interesting picture. At length Hayes was reached,
and the ring formed without delay. Oliver threw his hat into the ring
about six minutes to three, followed by Tom Owen, in his white topper,
and Richmond. Spring appeared shortly afterwards, repeating the token of
defiance, attended by the Champion of England and Painter. The colours,
yellow for Oliver, and blue for Spring, were tied to the stakes. On
meeting in the ring, the combatants shook hands together in true British
style, and Spring asked Oliver how he did? “Pretty bobbish,” said
Oliver, smiling; “very well.”


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On stripping, both men appeared in excellent condition, and
  each asserted he was never better, if so well, in his life. Oliver
  looked rather pale, and Spring had a small flush on his cheeks.
  Oliver made an offer to hit, when Spring got away. Oliver made a
  hit, which Spring stopped neatly. Spring endeavoured to put in a
  blow, which Oliver parried. A pause, and great caution on both
  sides. They smiled at each other’s attempts, as much as to say, “I
  am prepared.” Some little time occurred in sparring, when the long
  reach of Spring enabled him to make a hit. Oliver returned, when
  some exchange of blows at the corner of the ropes produced a
  struggle, and they both went down in a sort of scramble, Oliver on
  his back, and Spring nearly by his side. (“Bravo!” from the
  Westminster boys; “Oliver must win it.” Indeed, Oliver appeared to
  have the good wishes of the old fanciers.)

  2.—Spring missed a hit. A pause. Spring got away from a heavy blow;
  in fact, the latter showed excellent science, and Oliver found his
  opponent a most difficult man to get at. In a close, Oliver was
  completely hit down, from a severe blow on the side of his head.
  (Loud shouting for Spring, and “That’s the way to win.”)

  3.—The mouth of Oliver was cut. Spring got away with great
  dexterity; indeed, it was thought by the real judges of pugilism, at
  this early stage of the battle, that it was likely to be a long
  fight, but that Spring would win it. Oliver again down.

  4.—In closing, a struggle took place, and Spring was undermost.
  (Loud shouting from Oliver’s backers, and the Westminster lads in an
  uproar.)

  5.—Spring got away from every blow in the first part of the round.
  Oliver planted a left-handed body hit. In a severe struggle for the
  throw at the ropes, Oliver caught hold of the rope, but Spring got
  him down heavily, and they rolled over each other.

  6.—This round the fight had nearly been at an end. Spring not only
  took the lead in first-rate style, but put in two heavy body blows,
  and fell heavily upon Oliver. His head lolled upon his shoulder, and
  when time was called, he could scarcely hear the vociferation of his
  seconds, “Tom, Tom! be awake, my boy!” the spectators crying out,
  “It’s all up.” Indeed it appeared so, and many of the anxious
  betters, who had their money upon Spring, and not wishing to give
  half a chance away, thought it a very long half-minute before “time”
  was called.

  7.—The sudden start of Oliver, on recovering his recollection, the
  animated expression of his eyes, and putting himself in an attitude
  to meet his opponent, was one of the finest specimens of true
  courage ever witnessed; he, however, was soon sent down. (“He’s a
  brave creature;” “he’s an extraordinary man;” “he’s the gamest
  creature in the world;” were the general expressions all over the
  ring.)

  8.—Oliver very queer. Spring punished him about the head till he was
  again undermost, and received another fall. (“It’s all over
  now—Oliver cannot recover these falls,” was the general opinion; and
  two to one, or, in fact, any odds.)

  9.—Oliver floored from a severe nobber. Great shouting for Spring.
  The game displayed by Oliver astonished all the ring.

  10.—Oliver again thrown, and Spring fell heavily on him.

  11 to 17.—Oliver recovered, it is true, in some degree, from the
  severity of the fall which he received in the sixth round; but he
  could make no change; in fact, the chance was decidedly against him.
  In this round, Spring punished Oliver till he went down. The truth
  was, Oliver could not get at Spring.

  18.—This was a sharp round, and Oliver exerted himself to win, but
  without effect. It was thought Spring had hit Oliver foul, but it
  was a blow he put in as Oliver was going down. Spring, in finishing
  this round, put in some tremendous body blows, after the quick
  manner of Randall.

  19.—Clark, the friend of Oliver, now thinking that Oliver could not
  win, went into the ring and threw up his hat; but Oliver would
  continue the fight till he was hit down. Oliver might be said to be
  dragged up by his second, Tom Owen, who exerted himself to the
  utmost degree to bring the old Westminster hero through the piece.
  Richmond also paid every attention, but the fight was completely out
  of him, and the persons at the outer ring left their places.

  20.—Oliver went up resolutely to Spring, determined to make a change
  in his favour; but it was only to receive punishment; he was again
  down.

  21.—When time was called, Oliver not coming up directly, Spring was
  told that it was all over, and had got hold of his coat to put it
  on, when Oliver again showed fight, and was terribly hit about the
  head and body, till he measured his length. (“Take him away; he
  can’t win it.”)

  22 and 23.—These rounds were fought in the greatest confusion. The
  ring being flogged out, the time-keeper taking refuge in the rope
  ring, with two or three other swells, till the rounds were finished.
  Oliver was now quite exhausted, but positively refused to give in.

  24, 25, and last.—All these rounds were fought in the greatest
  confusion, and when Spring had got Oliver at the ropes, and might
  have fibbed him severely so as to put an end to the battle, some
  person cut the ropes, which let Oliver down easy. Oliver contended
  every inch of ground, although so much distressed: at length he was
  so much punished that he could not leave the knee of his second when
  time was called. It was over in fifty-five minutes.

  REMARKS.—It is but common justice to Spring to assert, that he won
  this battle three times before it was over. It is true that he had
  no right to give a chance away, either against himself or his
  backers; but he plainly saw that the battle was his own; he fought
  without grumbling, and in acting so honourably, nay, generously, to
  a fine, high-couraged, game opponent, that Oliver should not have to
  say, “that he had not every opportunity to win, if he could.” What
  was more important, however, it prevented any thing like a wrangle
  being attempted. Spring, by his superior mode of fighting this day,
  raised himself highly in the estimation of the Fancy in general; in
  fact, the ring was much surprised that Oliver could do nothing with
  him. The prejudice which so long remained against Spring in respect
  to his not being a hard hitter, was removed in this battle. Oliver
  was most terribly punished; while Spring, on the contrary, had not
  the slightest mark on his face. The bravery of Oliver, and his
  exertions to win, were above all praise. Spring, in the style of a
  true Briton, “when the battle is ended, the heart of a lamb,” called
  to see Oliver, on the Friday after the fight, when they shook hands
  with each other in the same style of friendship as heretofore.
  Oliver then told Spring that he had entertained an opinion, before
  the fight, he was the stronger man; but that Spring was too long for
  him.


On Tom Cribb’s retirement from the arena, Spring considered himself
champion; and soon after his conquest over Oliver, in order that it
might not afterwards be brought against him that he had left the prize
ring silently, he offered, by public advertisement, March 25, 1821, a
challenge to all England for three months. This challenge not having
been accepted, although he offered to fight Neat for £500 a-side, on
August 19, nearly five months after the period stated, he entered into
articles of agreement of a more tender kind, and made a match “for
better or for worse.” We wish that our personal reminiscences did not
unpleasantly remind us that, as regards the lady she was all “worse,”
and never showed signs of “better.” He then commenced proprietor of the
Weymouth Arms Tavern, in Weymouth Street, Portman Square. Spring’s
opening dinner took place on Thursday, the 6th of December, 1821. The
swells mustered numerously round Mr. Jackson, who presided upon this
occasion; and 140 persons sat down to a prime dinner, served up, in
excellent style, by Spring in person. The evening was dedicated to
harmony and good-fellowship.

After the sport at Moulsey, on Wednesday, June 12th, 1822, the great
match was made between Spring and Neat, subject to the following
articles:


                                  “_Red Lion, Hampton, June 12, 1822._

  “Mr. Elliott, on the part of Thomas Spring, and Thomas Belcher, on
  the part of William Neat, have deposited £50 a-side, to make a match
  on the following terms:—W. Neat agrees to fight T. Spring on
  Tuesday, the 26th of November next, for a stake of £600 (£300
  a-side), in a twenty-four feet ring, half-minute time. The place to
  be named by Mr. Jackson, within forty miles of London, on the
  Bristol road, and the umpires to be chosen on the ground. The second
  deposit, upon the above conditions, £100 a-side, to be made at T.
  Spring’s, Weymouth Arms, Weymouth Street, on the 12th of July,
  between the hours of four and eight o’clock. The deposit to be
  forfeited by the defaulter. The remainder of the stakes to be made
  good at T. Belcher’s, the Castle Tavern, Holborn, on the 12th of
  November. Mr. W. S. has received, and is answerable for, the deposit
  of £100.”


On the 12th of November a sporting dinner took place at Belcher’s, to
make the stakes good between Neat and Spring. Belcher, on the part of
Neat, completed the stakes of £200; but Mr. Elliott, the backer of
Spring, did not appear, when the chairman reluctantly declared the
deposit down, £150, to be forfeited to Neat.

At a sporting dinner at the One Tun, on the Friday following, November
16th, Spring informed the company that he would have attended at the
Castle Tavern, on the day appointed, but his backer wished him not to
leave the country on any account, as he might take cold—Mr. Elliott
asserting he would make it all right. He (Spring) was now ready to make
a new match for £200 a-side, for the 10th of December.

At Harry Holt’s opening dinner, at the Golden Cross, Cross Lane, Long
Acre, on Friday, November 22nd, 1822, the president informed Mr.
Belcher, that if the stakeholder of the £150 was indemnified, the
forfeiture of that sum by the backer of Spring (Mr. Elliott) would be
given up to Neat. Mr. Belcher replied, he should receive a guarantee.
The president then observed that the sporting world in general were
anxious to have it decided which was the best man between Spring and
Neat; and that the former could be backed for £200 a-side, to fight in
the course of a fortnight. Mr. Belcher, in reply, stated, that Neat,
since the match had been broken off, had conducted himself more like a
bird out of cage than anything else; the “gaily circling glass” had been
continually up to his mouth; the result was, he could not answer for his
condition, and he would not make the match so soon as a fortnight: it
ought to be, at least, a month. Neat had left London for Bristol, and he
had no doubt, from his gay disposition, was playing the same sort of
game there; but he would write to him immediately, and whatever answer
Neat returned as to time, he would then make a fight.

Spring addressed the meeting and said he was certain that Neat was in as
good condition as himself. He had fretted considerably about the match
being off: and this, added to his participation of “Life in London,”
since his training had been so abruptly brought to an end, it might be
fairly stated that he was on a par with his opponent. But, to show how
anxious he was for a fight, and that the sporting world should decide
which was the best man, he would extend the time to next Tuesday three
weeks: that was meeting Mr. Belcher half-way. (Loud cheers, and “Well
said,” “Manly,” etc., from all parts of the room.) Not a day after that
time would he agree to fight Neat; he should then quit the prize ring
for ever, to attend to his family and business, in order to make up for
his loss of time, and great expenses in which he had been involved,
owing (unfortunately for himself) to the desertion of his backer, when
so many gentlemen who were present at that meeting, had they been
acquainted with the circumstances, would have stepped forward to make
the match.

The Fives Court was well attended on Thursday, November 28, 1823, in
order to give the game Bob Purcell a turn. Carter and Spring ascended
the stage together. The latter pugilist addressed the spectators,
previously to his setting-to, nearly in the following words:—“Gentlemen,
I feel much disappointment in the match being off between myself and
Neat. I hope he will get the forfeit of £150. He is most certainly
entitled to it. It was no fault of mine the match did not take place;
and to show that I meant fighting, I gave a week, then a fortnight,
longer to Mr. Neat than I first intended, and am now ready to make the
match for £200 a-side.” (Applause.) Mr. Belcher observed, “Gentlemen, I
am here for Neat; and all I can say, is this—if any gentleman will
indemnify me for the £150, I will make a match immediately; but on no
other account.” Spring, in reply, stated, “that it could not be expected
he should indemnify Mr. Belcher, but he was ready to put down any sum
required immediately. (“Bravo!—that looks like fighting.”) He, however,
would not make a match after that day—he had lost too much time already,
and he was determined to follow his business in future, and to take his
leave of the prize ring; therefore, the match must now be made, or
never.” “Very fair,” from all parts of the Court. The set-to between
Spring and Carter proved attractive and good.

Three months elapsed in idle reports respecting another match between
Spring and Neat, when the following articles were drawn, which set the
fancy on the _qui vive_:—


                 “_Castle Tavern, Holborn, Wednesday, March 12, 1823._

  “William Neat agrees to fight Thomas Spring for £200 a-side, in a
  twenty-four feet ring, half-minute time. To be a fair stand-up
  fight; to take place on Tuesday, the 20th day of May. The money to
  be placed in the hands of Mr. Jackson. The place and distance from
  London to be left entirely to Mr. Jackson. An umpire to be chosen by
  each party, and a referee to be named on the ground. £50 a-side is
  now deposited in the hands of Mr. Jackson. £50 a-side more to be
  deposited on Monday, the 31st of March, at Mr. Belcher’s, Castle
  Tavern; and the remainder of the stakes of £100 a-side to be
  completed on Monday, the 5th of May, also at Mr. Belcher’s. The
  above stakes to be put down between the hours of eight and eleven
  o’clock on each evening. The above deposit, or deposits, to be
  forfeited, in case of either party not appearing on the specified
  evenings to make the money good.”


T. Belcher signed on the part of W. Neat, and a well known gentleman
amateur for T. Spring. Witness, P. E.

We preserve a little bit of justice’s justice which we think here was
indisputably, impartially, and rightfully administered. Spring went into
training at Brighton; he was accompanied by Tom Shelton, the latter
being under articles to fight Josh. Hudson.

On Friday, April 4, 1823, a fight took place on the Downs, beyond the
race-hill, between Daniel Watts and James Smith, the one a bricklayer’s
labourer, the other a sawyer, and both residing in the place. An immense
concourse of spectators assembled on the ground, which was just without
the boundaries of the parish of Brighton, and in that of Ovingdean.

One of the men engaged in this contest, Smith, having died from
congestion of the brain, Sir David Scott, a local magistrate, issued
warrants for the apprehension of many parties present; and on the
following morning, in consequence of information that Spring and
Shelton, the celebrated pugilists, had borne an active part in the
fight, they were also taken up, and brought before Sir David Scott, at a
special sitting held at the New Inn. Considerable difficulty was
experienced in procuring evidence, every one being anxious to conceal
that he had been present; but at length several persons were found,
whose testimony was in substance as follows:—That there was a person on
horseback keeping the ring, and that Spring and Shelton, on foot,
assisted, with whips in their hands, to keep the people back; and it was
further proved that Spring had also a watch in his hand during the
fight. On the strength of this evidence, Sir David Scott considered them
to be accessories, having both acted in the capacity of ring-keepers,
and one of them in that of time-keeper; he therefore ordered them to
find bail, to keep the peace for twelve months. They both urged that
they had come from London only on Tuesday or Wednesday, and that the
match was made up several days before, so that they were totally
ignorant of it until after their arrival at Brighton. Shelton also said,
that in London, on occasions of this sort, when proceedings are taken
against the principals, the umpires are never affected; but Sir David
cut this argument short, by saying, that he could not consent to be
guided by the practice or decisions of other magistrates, on any case
that might come before him. They were unable to find bail, and were kept
for a few days, at a public-house, in custody of one of the
headboroughs.

Two other men, named Hazledean and Sherwood, one acting as bottle-holder
to Smith, and the other as Watts’s second, were each ordered to find
bail for twelve months.

Spring and Shelton, after being in custody for a week, in default of
procuring the bail required of them, were liberated by Sir David Scott,
on entering into their own recognizances, £100 each, to be of good
behaviour for twelve months.

To all which we should merely say, with the Cornish jury, “Sarve them
right.” They were imprudent, as men in training, and his worship
leniently administered the law.

Tom Cribb had a jolly party at his tavern on Monday, May 3, 1823, as
also had Tom Belcher. Spring was Cribb’s hero; Neat, the attractive man
at the Castle Tavern. The stakes were made good for £200 a-side, and
were deposited in the hands of Mr. Jackson. Spring in the course of the
evening made his bow to the company; he was well received, and his
health drank with great spirit. The same compliment was also paid to
Neat in his absence. Mr. Belcher gave up £15 to Spring, respecting
Neat’s forfeit at Bristol; therefore all disputes concerning money
matters were settled. Spring offered to bet £100, according to Neat’s
challenge; but Belcher said, “he had no authority to put down any money
then; however, on the morning of fighting, Neat should bet him the
£100.” “No!” replied Spring, “I am ready to bet the £100 now; but I
shall have something else to do on the morning of the fight.” Both the
principals were extremely fond of the match, and both Spring and Neat
displayed the highest confidence in the event. Even betting was about
the state of the thing. Spring, within the last few days, got up for
choice. At Bristol the odds were high upon Neat.

Within a few days of the appointed time some of the magistrates of
Berks, Wilts, and Somerset, displayed bad taste by issuing their
documents to prevent an exhibition of this branch of the “fine arts” at
any of the places recited. Mr. Jackson’s “chateau” at Pimlico was
literally besieged by Corinthians on the Saturday previous to the fight,
May 17, 1823; and the whole of the night his knocker was in motion, so
numerous were the enquiries after the mill. At length the mist was
dispelled; the office being given for Weyhill, Hampshire. The inns were
immediately scoured for places by the stage coaches, and, at peep of day
on Monday morning the roads from Gloucester, Newbury, Winchester,
Bristol, Southampton, London, etc., were covered with vehicles of every
description. By five o’clock in the afternoon not a bed could be
procured at Andover, although a sovereign per head was offered. The
“flooring” system was obliged to be adopted by many “downy” ones, and a
carpet was considered a luxury. The principal taverns at Andover were
filled with persons of the highest quality in the kingdom, and men and
horses were obliged to put up with any shelter that could be got for
money. The little towns and villages contiguous to Andover were equally
overflowing with company, and thousands were on the road all night. The
Mayor and Corporation of Andover, it seems, were “ear-wigged” to spoil
the sport, but possessed too much sense to mulct the inhabitants of the
neighbourhood.

Hinckley Down, where the battle took place, is delightfully picturesque.
A hill at the back of the field formed an amphitheatre, not unlike Epsom
race-course, and upwards of thirty thousand spectators had a fine view
of the fight. The ring, under the superintendence of Mr. Jackson, was
excellent. At one o’clock, Neat, arm-in-arm with his backer, Mr.
Harrison, and Belcher, followed by Harmer, threw up his hat in the ropes
amidst thunders of applause. About ten minutes afterwards Spring, with
his backer, Mr. Sant, and Painter appeared, Cribb waiting for them.
Spring very coolly walked up to the ropes, and dropped his beaver within
them. He then shook hands with Neat, saying, “I hope you are well.” “I
am very well, thank you; I hope you are,” was the reply of Neat. Spring
was rather the favourite on the ground. The colours, an orange-yellow
for Neat, were tied to the stakes by Belcher; the blue, for Spring,
placed over them by Tom Cribb. Before the battle, Mr. Jackson entered
the ring and addressed the spectators:—“Gentlemen, I have to inform you
that no persons but the umpires and referee can be stationed close to
the ropes; I have therefore to request that every gentleman will retire
to some distance from the ring; and also, if necessity requires it, that
you will give me your assistance to keep the ground clear, to prevent
confusion, and to have a fair fight. I have refused to be referee, that
I may walk about and attend to the ring.” (Bravo! and applause.) This
address had the desired effect—the gentlemen retired to their places,
the good consequences of which were that every individual had an
uninterrupted view of the fight, and not the slightest disorder
occurred. Oh, _si sic omnes_!


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The interesting moment had now arrived, all doubts and
  fears as to a fight were at an end, and the ability of Spring to
  obtain the Championship was about to be put to the test. Hands were
  crossed and shaken, in token that no animosity existed. To describe
  the intense interest of this vast assemblage is impossible. Spring
  was fine as a star, strong as an ox, light and active as a deer, and
  confident as a lion. His condition was tip-top; and in truth, could
  not be better; his weight thirteen stone, three pounds. Neat was
  equally an object of admiration; his partisans were highly delighted
  with his appearance, and his frame was pronounced to have fully
  answered the good effects of training. Indeed, two finer young men
  could not have been opposed to each other, or a more equal match
  made: Neat having slightly the advantage in weight over his rival.
  Spring, cool, collected, firm, and confident, appeared to meet his
  renowned and formidable opponent, who had obtained so much fame by
  his conquest over the terrific Gas-light Man. Neat, equally
  confident—nay, more so, if his countenance bespoke his mind—thought
  it presumption for any boxer on the list to dispute his right to the
  title of Champion. A pause of two minutes occurred in looking at
  each other—dodging about for two minutes longer—Spring then let fly
  with his left hand, but no mischief done. Neat missed the body of
  his opponent with his right hand. Another long pause. Neat aimed a
  tremendous blow with his right, which Spring stopped in great style.
  (Applause from all parts of the ring.) A pause. Neat again attempted
  his favourite slaughtering hit, which Spring parried, smiling and
  nodding at his opponent. (Loud shouts of approbation from the
  spectators.) Spring put down his hands, but Neat did not avail
  himself of the chance. Spring immediately made himself up in one of
  the finest attitudes for administering punishment ever witnessed,
  and endeavoured to plant a hit with his right hand, which Neat
  stopped in the most scientific manner. (The Bristolians shouting in
  turn, “Bravo, Neat!” in fact applause from all parts of the ring.)
  Neat missed the body of Spring with his left. Spring now went to
  work, some blows were exchanged, but Spring’s hits were so severe
  that Neat turned round. (“What do you think of that ’ere for
  light-hitting?” a Cockney cove observed to a Bristol man who sat
  close to him.) They followed each other over the ring, when Spring,
  in retreating from some well-meant heavy blows, got into a corner
  close against the stake, feeling with his heel whereabouts he was
  situated; (“Now’s the time,” cried Tom Belcher;) but the defensive
  position of Spring was so excellent that he was not to be got at
  without great danger, which Neat perceiving did not get near enough
  to do anything like execution. Spring fought his way out _à la_
  Randall; a close ensued, when Neat had nearly got Spring off his
  legs; but in struggling for the throw, Spring, with the utmost
  agility, turned Neat over in his arms and sent him on the ground,
  falling upon him. Between nine and ten minutes had elapsed. (The
  chaff-cutters from the Long Town were now roaring with
  delight—“Spring for ever—for anything—he can fight for a day and a
  night into the bargain.”) Seven to four on Herefordshire.

  2.—The superiority displayed by Spring in the preceding round rather
  alarmed the backers of Neat. They did not expect it. The
  “lady’s-maid fighter,” as he had been libelled—the “china-man,” as
  he had been designated—the “light tapper,” as he had been
  termed—thus to set at defiance the slaughtering hitter Neat; nay
  more, to turn the scales and take the lead of him, operated severely
  on their feelings. A long pause occurred. Spring stood as firm as a
  rock, Neat unable to get at him; he, however, endeavoured to plant a
  hit, but it fell short. Both men now made themselves up for
  mischief, and counter-hits followed. Spring’s right went in so
  severely over Neat’s eye that the claret followed instantly. Spring
  exclaimed, “First blood, Neat.” This touch confused the Bristol hero
  a little; but he tried to give his opponent a heavy blow, which fell
  short. Spring, in return, gave him so sharp a nobber, that Neat
  looked round, and was nearly going down.—(Disapprobation.) The
  latter collected himself, and showed fight, when Spring fought his
  way into a close, fibbed Neat with the utmost ease, and sent him
  down. (The applause was like the roar of artillery. Two to one, and
  “Neat has no chance—it’s all up with him.” Spring, while sitting on
  his second’s knee, observed to Painter, smiling, “It is as right as
  the day; I would not take £100 to £1, and stand it—he can’t hit me
  in a week.”)

  3.—The only chance now left to save a transfer of the Bristolians’
  coin to the Metropolitan pockets, it would seem, was one of those
  silencing hits by which Neat had acquired his milling fame, so as to
  spoil Spring’s science, reduce his confidence, and take the fight
  out of him. All the backers of Neat were on the gaze in anxious
  expectation to see the “slogger” put in, which was to relieve their
  fears, and produce a change in their favour. Shyness on both sides.
  Spring endeavoured to plant a heavy right-handed hit, which Neat
  stopped cleverly. (Great applause, and “Well done, Neat.”) The
  latter smiled at this success, and Spring observed, “Well stopped!”
  Rather a long pause. The toes of the combatants were close together,
  and Spring not to be gammoned off his guard. Some blows were at
  length exchanged, and Spring received so heavy a hit on his ribs,
  that his face for the instant bespoke great pain, and his arms
  dropped a little; but, in closing, Spring had decidedly the
  advantage; and, in going down, Neat was undermost. (The Springites
  were now as gay as larks, offering to back their man to any amount.)

  4.—Neat, instead of going up and fighting at the head of his
  opponent, where at least, he might have had a chance of planting
  some of his tremendous blows, showed no signs of going in to fight.
  Standing off to a superior, fine scienced boxer like Spring, almost
  reduced it to a certainty, that in the event he must be beaten. In
  his character as a heavy-hitting pugilist his strategy ought to have
  been to smash his shifty opponent. He could not get an opening at
  his length to put in any effective blows; in fact, he could not
  break through the guard of Spring. Neat endeavoured to plant a
  severe blow, which Spring stopped with the utmost ease. (Great
  applause; and “You’ll break his heart, Tom, if you go on in that
  way.”) Neat missed the body of Spring with his left hand. (Laughing,
  and “It’s of no use” from the crowd.) A short rally near the ropes,
  in which Spring had the best of it, and, in struggling for the
  throw, Neat experienced a tremendous fall, added to the whole weight
  of Spring on his body. (Shouting like thunder from thirty thousand
  persons.)

  5.—Neat informed Belcher (while sitting on Harmer’s knee) that his
  arm was broken; it was, however, previously evident to every
  disinterested spectator, that Neat had not a shadow of chance. Neat
  made another stop; some blows were exchanged, and a slight rally
  took place; Neat broke away, the latter gave Spring a slight hit,
  and was going down, but he resumed his attitude. (Disapprobation.)
  Spring, to make all safe, was in no hurry to go to work; another
  pause ensued. Neat, as he was in the act of falling, received a hit,
  when Spring added another one on his back. (The umpires called out
  to Belcher, and told him “It was a stand-up fight; and Neat must
  take care what he was about.” “I assure you, gentlemen,” replied Mr.
  Jackson, “Neat received a blow.” Here Martin offered, in a very loud
  manner, that he would bet £1,000 to £100 on Spring. During this
  round, Belcher came to the side of the ropes, and in a low tone of
  voice told Mr. Jackson, that Neat’s arm was “fractured.” “I perceive
  it,” replied Mr. J., “but I shall not notice it to the other side.”)

  6.—Neat hit short at Spring’s body with his left hand; holding his
  right in a very different position from the mode when the battle
  commenced. The Bristol hero was piping, and betraying symptoms of
  great distress. Neat, however, gave a bodier to his opponent and
  also made a good stop; but in a rally he received several blows, and
  ultimately went down.

  7.—Spring was as fresh as if he had not been fighting; and, although
  it was now a guinea to a shilling, and no chance of losing, yet
  Spring was as careful as if he had had a giant before him. The
  latter got away from a blow. (“We can fight for a week in that
  manner,” said Belcher. “Yes,” replied Painter; “but we have got the
  general.” Neat received a severe hit on his head, and fell down on
  his knees. The shouts of joy from the partisans of Spring, and roars
  of approbation from the spectators in general beggared description.)

  8th and last.—Neat endeavoured to plant a heavy blow on the body of
  Spring, but the latter jumped away as light as a cork. A pause.
  Spring was satisfied he had won the battle. Spring put in a hit on
  Neat’s face; and when the latter returned, he again got away. In an
  exchange of blows, Neat was hit down. When time was called Neat got
  up and shook hands with Spring, and said his arm was broken, and he
  could not fight any more. The battle was at an end in thirty-seven
  minutes.

  REMARKS.—We must admit that, as championship contests, there was
  certainly a different colouring visible in the fights between Gully
  and Gregson, and Cribb and Molineaux; to witness two big ones
  opposed to each other for upwards of half an hour, and no mischief
  done, was not likely to give satisfaction to the old-fashioned
  admirers of milling. But the torrent of opinion was so strong in
  favour of Neat, both in Bristol and London, on account of his
  tremendous hitting, as to carry away like a flood all kind of
  calculation on the subject. Spring was to have been smashed, and
  nothing else but smashed. One hit was to have spoilt the science of
  Spring: two were to have taken the fight completely out of him; and
  the third to have operated as a _coup de grace_. Then why did not
  Neat smash Spring, as he did the Gas? We will endeavour to answer
  the question for the fallen Neat. Because he had a man of his own
  size and weight, a boxer of superior talent to himself, pitted
  against him: one that was armed at all points, and not to be
  diverted or frightened from his purpose. His blows were not only
  stopped, but all his efforts to break through the guard of his
  antagonist were rendered of no avail. Hence it was that the fighting
  of Neat appeared so defective in the eyes of his friends and
  backers. He was out-generalled; and the fine fighting of Spring
  laughed to scorn all the much-talked-of tremendous hitting of his
  opponent. In truth, Neat could not plant a single effective hit. In
  the fourth round, Neat asserted his arm received a serious injury,
  and one of the small bones was broken; but we have no hesitation in
  asserting, that Spring had won the battle before it occurred. Spring
  triumphantly disproved the current libel on his character, that “he
  could not make a dent in a pound of butter.” To give punishment, and
  to avoid being hit, is deemed the triumph of the art of boxing.
  Randall was distinguished for this peculiar trait in all his
  battles, Spring adopted the same mode, and by so doing he did not
  disgrace his character as a boxer: on the contrary, he showed
  himself a safe man to back, and reduced success to a certainty.
  Spring called on Neat after the battle, whom he found in bed, and
  his arm put to rights by a surgeon. The latter said, “I am not
  beaten, but I lost the battle by the accident.” Spring generously
  made Neat a present of ten pounds. Spring arrived in town on
  Wednesday night, but he did not sport the colours of his adversary
  until after he had quitted the town of Andover, and received the
  shouts and smiles attendant on victory from the populace in all the
  towns through which he passed. He had a slight black mark on his
  eye, and his arm in a sling, one of the bones of his right hand
  having received an injury.


The abrupt conclusion of the battle produced sensations among the
backers of Neat not easily described, and such coarse expressions were
uttered by the disappointed ones as we cannot give place to in print.
The Bristolians were outrageous in the extreme; a few of them positively
acted like madmen; others were dejected and chapfallen. Neat was thought
to be invulnerable by his countrymen, and also by the majority of
sporting people throughout the kingdom. A few silly persons, in their
paroxysm of rage and disappointment, pronounced the above event a cross.

We feel anxious for the honour of the ring, and no exertions on our part
shall be wanting to preserve it. Tom Belcher and Neat both courted
inquiry on the subject. It was the expressed opinion of a spectator of
the fight, that “if Neat had possessed four arms instead of two, he
never could have conquered Spring.”

It is utterly impossible to describe the anxiety which prevailed in the
metropolis to learn the event of the battle on Tuesday evening, May 20,
1823. Belcher’s house was like a fair; Randall’s crowded to suffocation;
Holt’s not room for a pin; Harmer’s overflowing; Shelton’s like a mob;
Eales’ overstocked; and Tom Cribb’s crammed with visitors. Both ends of
the town, East and West, were equally alive, and profited by the event.
Hampshire had not had such a turn since the day when Humphries and
Mendoza fought at Odiham. Thus was good derived by thousands of persons
not in any way connected with the event. Several wagers were won in
London after eight o’clock at night on Spring—so high did Neat stand in
public opinion.

At Shelton’s benefit, May 22nd, 1823, after several spirited bouts,
Spring was loudly called for; he addressed the assemblage in the
following terms:—“Gentlemen, I return you my sincere thanks for the
honour you have done me to-day, and I hope my future conduct will
equally merit your kind attention. I promised to set-to with Shelton;
but having met with an accident (his hand was tied up with a
handkerchief), I trust you will excuse me; at all other times, you will
find me willing and ready to obey your commands.” Shelton returned
thanks; and Belcher likewise informed the audience that his benefit took
place on Tuesday, May 27, when Neat would be present, in order to
convince the amateurs that his arm was broken in the fight with Spring.
The latter received from Mr. Jackson the £200 of the battle-money as the
reward of victory. Mr. Jackson also publicly declared, for the
satisfaction of the sporting world, that, in company with two eminent
surgeons, he had seen Neat; and those two gentlemen had pronounced the
small bone of his arm to have been broken.

Spring now paid a visit to his native place. Fortune had favoured him,
and he was not unmindful of old friends. Here he was also not only
remembered, but respected; and a cup, made by Messrs. Grayhurst and
Harvey, of the Strand, was presented to him. This cup, known as “the
Hereford Cup.” The inscription and description are as follows:—

                                 “1823.
                           TO THOMAS WINTER,
                Of Fownhope, in the County of Hereford,
                        This Cup was presented,
                By his Countrymen of the Land of Cider,
         In Token of their Esteem for the Manliness and Science
         Which, in many severe Contests in the Pugilistic Ring,
                           Under the name of
                                SPRING,
                 Raised him to the proud Distinction of
                       THE CHAMPION OF ENGLAND.”

The inscription is surrounded by a handsome device of apples, etc., at
the bottom of which is the representation of two game-cocks at the close
of a battle, one standing over the other. On the other side of the cup
is a view of the P.R., with two pugilists in attitudes. Upon the top or
lid of the cup is a cider-barrel placed on a stand. The inside is gilt;
and it is large enough to hold a gallon of “nectar divine.” It has two
elegantly chased handles, and a fluted pedestal.

About this period a new milling star arose in the west, in the person of
Jack Langan; and during a tour in the north of England some
correspondence took place between them, which is not worth reprinting.
On Thursday, October 23, 1823, at the Castle Tavern, Holborn, Belcher,
on the part of Langan, deposited £50 towards making a match for £300
a-side with Spring. On the articles being completed, Spring offered £100
to £80, p. p., that he won the battle. Monday, December 1, 1823, the
backers of the “Big Ones” dined together at the Castle Tavern, Holborn,
but neither Spring nor Langan showed upon the occasion. However, when
time was called by the president of the D. C., the blunt was ready. The
Ould Champion (Tom Cribb) who attended on the part of his boy, Spring,
said that he had only one hundred pounds to put down; while, on the
behalf of Langan, Belcher insisted that the spirit of the articles
required £150, and he was ready to put down £150 for Langan. The
question was fairly discussed by the meeting; and the president decided
in favour of the majority—that if £100 a-side were put down, the
articles would be complied with. The Ould Champion rose with some
warmth, and said, “He was not particular, and if the other party wished
it, he would make the £300 a-side good immediately; or he would increase
the match between Langan and Spring up to 1,000 guineas. He (Tom Cribb)
was quite certain that Langan meant fighting, and if the latter wished
to increase the stakes, he and his party had an opportunity of doing
it.”

On Thursday, January 1, 1824, the whole of the stakes of £600 were made
good over a sporting dinner at Tom Cribb’s. When time was called,
Belcher showed at the mark on the part of Langan, and put down £150.
Cribb also, for his boy Spring, instantly fobbed out £150. At the head
of the table, before the president, was placed the “Ould Champion’s”
silver cup, and Spring’s cup was also seen before the deputy-president.
The John Bull fighter was present, and, by way of keeping the game
alive, offered to give two guineas to fight Langan, let him win or lose,
for £200 a-side; and likewise, that he would take ten guineas for £200
a-side with Spring. The true courage of Josh. Hudson was greatly
admired, and loudly applauded. The dinner was good, the wines were
excellent, and the company separated well pleased with their evening’s
entertainment. Spring was decidedly the favourite, at two to one; two
and a half to one was also betted; and in one instance £300 to £100 was
laid. In consequence of Langan being a complete stranger to the sporting
world the fancy were inclined to bet the odds, instead of taking them.

The sight at Worcester on Wednesday, January 7, 1824, was beyond all
former example. Upwards of thirty thousand persons were present; nay,
several calculators declared, to the best of their belief, that not less
than fifty thousand people were assembled. Proprietors of splendid parks
and demesnes; inmates from proud and lofty mansions; groups from the
most respectable dwellings; thousands from the peaceful cot; and myriads
from no houses at all—in a word, it was a conglomeration of the fancy.
Peers, M.P.s, yokels of every cast, cockneys, and sheenies throwing
“away their propertish” without a sigh that it cost so much “monish” to
witness the grand mill. The roads in every direction round Worcester
beggared description. The adventures at the inns would furnish subjects
for twenty farces, and the company in the city of Worcester was of so
masquerading a character as to defy the pen; even the pencil of a George
Cruikshank would be at fault to give it effect. The grand stand was
filled to an overflow in every part, with two additional wings or
scaffolds erected for the occasion. Ten shillings were paid for the
admission of each person. The masts of the vessels in the river Severn,
which flowed close behind, moored on each side of the stand, were
overloaded with persons; and even temporary scaffolds, about two stories
high, outside of the wagons, were filled by anxious spectators,
regardless of danger, so great was the public curiosity excited by this
event. Let the reader picture to himself a spacious amphitheatre,
encircled by wagons, an outer roped ring within for the many-headed, who
stood up to their knees in mud. What is termed the P. C. Ring was raised
about two feet from the ground, covered with dry turf, with a cart-load
of sawdust sprinkled over it. The race-course was so intolerably bad and
full of slush that all the scavengers and mudlarks from the metropolis
could not have cleansed it in a week. Outside the wagons the ground
displayed one complete sheet of water; and several lads, who were jolly
enough to save a few yards of ground by jumping over ditches, measured
their lengths in the water, receiving a complete ducking, to the no
small amusement of the yokels. What will not curiosity do? Here swells
were seen sitting down in the mud more coolly than if lolling on a sofa.
Not a place could be obtained in the stand after ten o’clock. The city
of Worcester was full of gaiety early in the day; the streets were
filled by the arrival of coaches and four, post-chaises, mails, and
vehicles of every description, blowing of horns, and the bells ringing.
A Roman carnival is not half so hearty a thing as a prize-fight used to
be when the people’s hearts were in it.

Spring rode through the town in a stylish barouche and four (Colonel
Berkeley’s) about twelve o’clock. The postilions were in red, and
everything _en suite_. He arrived on the ground by half-past twelve,
amidst the shouts of the spectators, and drove close up to the ropes in
a post-chaise. He threw his hat into the ring, accompanied by Tom Cribb
and Ned Painter. He was dressed with striking neatness. At this period
all were on the look-out for Langan, but a quarter of an hour had
elapsed, and no Langan—half an hour gone, and no Paddy—three-quarters
over, and still no Irish Champion in sight. Spring pulled out his watch,
and said, “It is time.” In the midst of the hour, waiting for the
arrival of Langan, the right wing belonging to the stand gave way, and
fifteen hundred persons, at least, were thrown in a promiscuous heap. It
was an awful moment. To give any description of the feelings of the
spectators baffles attempt. Spring turned pale, and said, “How sorry I
am for this accident.” In a few minutes composure was restored, it being
ascertained that nothing material had occurred, except a few contusions,
and some of the persons limping away from the spot. “Thank God!”
ejaculated Spring, “I would not have had it happen while I was fighting
for a hundred thousand pounds!” The John Bull boxer had now become
impatient, and exclaimed, “This is strange! Where’s my man?” “I’ll bet
ten to one,” said a swell, “he don’t mean to come at all.” “I’ll take
it, sir,” said an Irishman, “a thousand times over.” “No,” was the
reply—“I meant I would take it.” The stakes would certainly have been
claimed by Spring, but no precise time was specified in the articles. It
was, as the lawyers say, a day in law—meaning “any time within the day:”
the time had not been mentioned in black and white. Nearly an hour had
elapsed, when several voices sung out from the stand, “Josh. Hudson!
Josh. Hudson! Langan wishes to see you.” The John Bull fighter bolted
towards the place like lightning, and in a few minutes afterwards shouts
rending the air proclaimed the approach of the Irish Champion. He did
not, like most other boxers, throw his castor up in the air, but in the
most modest way possible leaned over the ropes and laid it down. He
immediately went up and shook hands with Spring. The latter, with great
good nature, said, “I hope you are well, Langan.” “Very well, my boy;
and we’ll soon talk to each other in another way.” The men now stripped,
when Reynolds went up to Spring, and said, “I understand you have got a
belt on, and whalebone in it; if you persist in fighting in such belt, I
shall put one on Langan.” Spring replied (showing a belt such as are
worn by gentlemen when riding), “I have always fought in this, and shall
now.” “Then,” replied Reynolds (putting on a large belt, crossed in
various parts with a hard substance), “Langan shall fight in this.” “No,
he won’t,” said Cribb; “it is not a fair thing.” “Never mind,” urged
Spring, “I’ll take it off;” which he did immediately. Josh. Hudson and
Tom Reynolds were the seconds for Langan, and the Irish Champion
declared he was ready to go to work. The colours were tied to the
stakes; and, singular to state, black for Langan, which he took off his
neck and blue for Spring. “This is new,” said Josh.; “but nevertheless,
the emblem is correct as to milling (laughing); it is black and blue;
I’ll take one hundred to one, we shall see those colours upon their mugs
before it is over.” The time was kept by Lord Deerhurst, afterwards Earl
of Harrington, who was also Spring’s umpire, while Sir Harry Goodricke
was umpire for Langan; Colonel Berkeley acted as referee. Five to two,
and three to one on Spring.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On stripping, the bust of Langan was much admired for its
  anatomical beauty; his arms also were peculiarly fine and athletic;
  and his nob looked like a fighting one. His legs were thin; his
  knees very small, and his loins deficient as to strength. It was
  evident he had been reduced too much in training. Langan did not
  exceed twelve stone four pounds, and was nearly two inches shorter
  than his opponent. Spring was in fine condition; cool and confident,
  and a stone heavier than his adversary. On placing themselves in
  attitude, the advantages were manifest on the side of the English
  Champion. The combatants kept at a respectful distance from each
  other; both on the look-out for an opening. Spring at length made a
  hit, which Langan stopped with skill. The Champion slowly advanced,
  and Langan kept retreating, till he was near the stake at the corner
  of the ring. At this instant the position of Langan was not only
  fine but formidable, and Spring did not view it with contempt. The
  latter let fly right and left, and Langan’s left ogle received a
  slight touch. Spring got away from a heavy body blow. A pause. An
  exchange of blows, but no mischief done; Langan broke ground well.
  Another pause. Langan again in the corner, smiling, in a position
  armed at all points; Spring’s eye measuring his opponent, but
  hesitating to go in. Langan endeavoured to plant a body blow with
  his left hand, when Spring jumped away as light as a cork. Here
  Langan put his thumb to his nose, by way of derision. The latter
  stopped Langan’s left hand. “Fight away, Jack,” said Josh. Hudson,
  “he can’t hurt nobody.” Some blows were exchanged sharply, when the
  John Bull fighter, and Tom Reynolds, exclaimed, “First blood!” “No,”
  replied Spring. “Yes,” urged Hudson, “it is on your lip.” A long
  pause. Langan made a good stop with his right hand. Some hits passed
  between the combatants, when they closed, and a severe struggle
  ensued to obtain the throw; both down, but Langan uppermost. This
  round occupied nine minutes. “This battle will not be over in half
  an hour,” said a good judge.

  2.—It was seen, in this early stage of the battle, that Langan would
  require heavy work to take the fight out of him. Spring was very
  cautious, and appeared as if determined not to receive any of
  Paddy’s clumsy thumps. A long pause. Langan hit Spring with his left
  hand on the body. The latter planted a tremendous facer on the top
  of Langan’s nose, that produced the claret; but the Irishman shook
  it off. Science displayed on both sides. After a long pause Spring
  put down his hands. The English Champion appeared to have made up
  his mind not to be hit, but to be liberal in the extreme—to give and
  not to take. Langan again displayed skill in stopping. (At this
  juncture the left wing of the temporary scaffold erected for the
  accommodation of the spectators, gave way with a tremendous crash,
  and upwards of one thousand persons, from the height of thirty feet,
  were precipitated one upon the other in one confused mass. The
  countenance of Spring, whose face was towards the accident,
  underwent that sort of sensation which did honour to his feelings
  and to his heart—he appeared sick with affliction at the
  circumstance, put up his hands, indicating that his mind was
  perplexed whether he should quit the ring or proceed with the
  battle.) Langan received a heavy blow on his left eye; and both went
  down in a close.

  3.—Both cautious. Spring put down his hands. Langan tried his left
  hand twice; but Spring jumped away. “Take care of your plum-pudding,
  boy!” said Josh., “he’s coming.” In closing Langan went down.

  4.—The slightest offer on the part of Langan to make a hit never
  escaped the wary eye of Spring, and the latter got away with the
  utmost dexterity and ease; Langan followed his opponent to the
  ropes; but Spring stopped a heavy hit. In closing, at the corner of
  the ropes, both went down, but Langan uppermost.

  5.—This was a short round. The Irish Champion ran in, hit Spring,
  and also bored him down. “You have got the great man down, at all
  events,” said Josh.

  6.—Langan’s left peeper was nearly closed; but, in struggling for
  the throw, Spring went down heavily on his head.

  7.—Twenty-five minutes had elapsed, and nothing like mischief to
  either combatant had yet taken place. A long pause. Langan made two
  good stops, when he run in, and by dint of strength got Spring on
  the ropes; a severe struggle took place till both down. The
  spectators were now getting close to the ropes; and the whips were
  hard at work, to keep the space allotted to the boxers.

  8.—Langan received a nobber without giving any return. Another
  tedious pause. Spring, as lively as an eel, jumped backwards from a
  hit. Pause the second. The attitudes of the men were considered
  peculiarly fine at this instant. Langan appeared formidable. The
  English Champion put in two facers left and right. Langan could not
  reach the body of Spring effectually: the left hand of the latter
  could not get home. In struggling for the throw Langan was
  undermost.

  9.—The science and patience displayed by Spring rendered him a truly
  troublesome, nay, a very tiresome customer to Langan. The Irish
  Champion threw Spring in good style.

  10.—Spring waiting at his leisure for Langan to commence hitting.
  Langan, however, was not to be gammoned to go in, without something
  like a chance offering itself. Spring put in a slight nobber, which
  produced an exchange of blows. A very long pause. Langan’s left hand
  touched the body of his opponent. This was a tedious round. In
  struggling at the ropes, both down, but Spring uppermost.

  11.—Without the Irish Champion ran in he could not make a hit to a
  certainty. Both down, Langan undermost.

  12.—Spring got away from almost every blow aimed at him. In closing,
  Spring was thrown heavily.

  13.—Langan came to the scratch smiling, and said, “You see I am
  always ready.” Spring jumped two yards back from a body blow. An
  exchange of hits but no mischief. Spring was again thrown.

  14.—In all the preceding rounds, though Langan had received several
  nobbers, he was not in the slightest degree reduced as to courage.
  On the contrary, he was as gay as a lark. Langan observed to Spring,
  “My boy, I can fight for a week.” “Yes,” said Josh., “for a month,
  if you get no heavier blows than you have received already. I’m sure
  it is not safe to the Champion; his honours are shaking, if not upon
  the go.” Langan was thrown.

  15.—Langan’s nose was pinked a little, and his left eye swelled up.
  In closing, both down.

  16.—The length of Spring enabled him to make a hit without any
  return. The caution manifested by the English Champion perfectly
  satisfied the spectators that he meant to give, but not to take.
  Langan, by strength alone, got his opponent down.

  17.—After looking at each other for some time, Langan bored in. At
  the ropes both were down, Spring undermost.

  18.—This was a tedious round. Nothing done. Both down.

  19.—“Go to work, Spring,” from several spectators. “All in good
  time,” replied Tom. “Never fear,” said Langan, “I am ready for
  anything,” An exchange of blows; but the combatants were out of
  distance. Both down.

  20.—Langan could not reach Spring effectively at the scratch; he
  therefore bored in. At the ropes Spring tried the weaving system
  till both were upon the ground.

  21.—Langan threw Spring out of the ropes; and, with much jocularity
  and good nature, observed, laying hold of Spring’s arm, “If I sent
  you down, I have a right to pick you up!” (“Bravo! What a strange
  fellow!”)

  22.—Both down, Spring uppermost.

  23.—Langan stopped several blows skilfully; but he was not tall
  enough for his opponent. In closing, Spring went down heavily, and
  Langan upon him.

  24.—Spring put in a body hit. In closing, both down.

  25.—Spring was undermost in the fall.

  26.—This was a good round, in comparison with several of the
  preceding sets-to. Langan again put out his strength, and Spring was
  undermost on the ground.

  27.—The Irish Champion ran his opponent completely down.

  28.—One hour and fourteen minutes had elapsed, and the Irish
  Champion still as good as gold. Langan took the lead rather in this
  round. He planted a couple of hits, and also threw Spring.

  29.—Langan, it was thought, had decidedly the best of this round
  also. He hit Spring; and, in closing, a severe struggle took place;
  but ultimately Langan threw Spring over the ropes. (“Bravo,
  Langan.”)

  30.—Of no consequence. Both down.

  31.—In this round, Spring was thrown upon his head. (“How well the
  Irishman throws,” was the remark.)

  32.—In several of the preceding rounds Spring planted some facers;
  but they were not heavy enough to take the pluck out of Langan.
  (“How bad Spring fights to-day,” was the observation of an old
  backer of the English Champion. This was not the fact; Spring
  appeared to fight with more caution than usual; the blows of Langan
  were to be avoided at all events, if the battle was to be made
  perfectly safe to Spring. The truth was, that Langan’s right hand
  was dangerous, and a well-directed blow, at a proper distance, on
  the mark, or on the nob, might have reduced the science of Spring.)
  Langan napped a facer; but Spring was undermost in the fall.

  33.—The left hand of the Irish Champion told on his opponent’s body.
  Several blows passed, and Langan put in a hit on the side of
  Spring’s head. Both down, Langan undermost.

  34.—Langan went sharply up to Spring, but he received a nobber and
  went down.

  35.—The Irish Champion, as fresh as a daisy, appeared at the
  scratch. In closing at the ropes Spring endeavoured to fib his
  opponent till both went down. The ring was in much confusion, and
  the P. C. men had their work to do to keep it clear.

  36.—If Spring did not please the multitude by his smashing
  qualities, his backers expressed themselves well pleased with the
  caution he displayed. Lots of blunt, as to long odds, had been
  sported upon the English Champion; but his friends began to be
  somewhat apprehensive that the strength and throwing of Langan,
  might tire out Spring. Some exchanges, but both down.

  37.—Langan hit Spring slightly. On the whole this might be termed a
  fighting round. In closing, a desperate struggle took place; Spring
  undermost.

  38.—This was also an excellent fighting round. Langan laughed at
  Spring, saying, “You have done nothing yet!” “All in good time,”
  replied Spring, “I shall do it at last.” Langan planted two blows on
  the side of Spring’s head; but the Irishman wanted length to do
  severe mischief. Both fell, and Cribb, in the bustle, was also on
  the ground.

  39.—Spring gave his opponent a noser, when a few hits passed till
  both went down.

  40.—Langan received another nobber. Both down.

  41.—This was a tedious round; neither combatant would go to work for
  some time. In closing, Spring obtained the fall, and was uppermost.

  42.—Langan kept trying his left hand, in order to punish Spring’s
  body; but the latter got away so cleverly, that the blows of the
  Irish Champion were not effective. Spring undermost in the throw.

  43.—A desperate trial of strength on the part of Langan to obtain
  the fall, which the Irish Champion ultimately accomplished, Spring
  being undermost.

  44.—Langan planted two body blows with his left hand. Langan was
  thrown; and Spring fell upon his knees.

  45.—Spring cautious; Langan full of spirits. (Most of the fighting
  men exclaimed, “He is the best Irishman ever seen in the ring. He is
  the gamest man alive!” Here Martin observed to a Corinthian, “What a
  pity it is that the backers of Langan had no more judgment than to
  place him in opposition to Spring.”) Spring had the best of this
  round, and Langan was fibbed down at the ropes.

  46.—Langan made a hit. An exchange of blows, but the Irish Champion
  slipped and went down.

  47.—The ring was getting worse every round. In closing, both down.

  48.—The men had not room for their exertions. The spectators were
  close upon the combatants, and the utmost disorder prevailed. In
  closing, Langan threw Spring.

  49.—Some severe struggling; the English Champion fibbing Langan till
  he went down.

  50.—The face of Spring did not exhibit any marks of punishment, but
  the left hand of Langan had told now and then upon his body. The
  English Champion appeared getting weak from the struggles, and from
  several heavy falls. Both down.

  51.—The rounds were now short—the crowd pressing upon the men at
  every step they took. Spring received a heavy hit on the side of his
  head. In closing, both went down.

  52.—Close quarters. An exchange of blows; both again down.

  53.—Langan hit Spring, and also got him down.

  54.—The English Champion had no room now to jump away from his
  antagonist. Spring, in closing, fibbed Langan down.

  55.—Struggling for the throw, but Langan undermost.

  56.—The outer roped ring had been for the last hour in the greatest
  disorder. The constables’ long poles were useless; the whips of the
  fighting men were of no avail; and the mob was now close up to the
  ring. Spring put in the most hits on the nob of his opponent; but
  the strength of Langan in getting Spring down surprised every one
  present. Both down.

  57.—Spring received a fall, and Langan upon him.

  58.—So much disorder now prevailed, that it was difficult for those
  persons who were placed only at a few yards’ distance from the ring
  to see the fight. Langan on the ground, and undermost.

  59.—Spring had not room to display his science, but he endeavoured
  to hit Langan as the latter rushed in. Spring had the worst of the
  throw.

  60.—Cribb, at this instant, was so pressed upon by the crowd, that,
  in a violent rage, he declared he would give a floorer to any person
  who stood in his way. “Here’s a pretty go!” said Tom, “a set of
  fellows with books and pencils in their hands, pretending to be
  reporters. A parcel of impostors! I don’t care; I’ll hit anybody.”
  One of the umpires, a noble lord, was hit with a shillelah by a
  rough Patlander, who was attempting to get a little space for
  Langan, and when informed that he was behaving rude to a nobleman,
  “Devil may care,” says Pat; “all I want is fair play for Jack
  Langan. There’s no difference here: lords are no better than
  commoners. Faith! I can’t distinguish them one from another, at all,
  at all!” Langan ran in and gave Spring a blow on the head: but, in
  struggling for the throw, the Irish Champion was undermost.

  61.—When time was called, “Here we are,” said Langan. Spring had
  only time to make a hit, when Langan bored in; but Spring again had
  the best of the throw, Langan being undermost.

  62.—Nothing. Langan bored Spring down.

  63.—Spring had decidedly the best of this round. He made several
  hits; and Langan received an ugly throw.

  64.—“Go to work, Erin-go-bragh! Spring has no hits left in him. You
  must win it,” said Josh. Langan followed this advice, and some sharp
  work was the result. Spring could not retreat. Fighting till both
  down.

  65.—(“Go in, Jack,” said Josh., “as you did the last time, and you
  will soon spoil his fine science.” Langan rushed in, but Spring
  avoided his blow. In closing, the struggle to obtain the throw was
  violent in the extreme, but Langan got it; Spring came down on his
  back, and Langan on him, and the breath of the Champion was nearly
  shaken out of his body. Spring was picked up by Cribb in a weak
  state, and looked extremely pale. Here two or three persons hallooed
  out six to four on Langan, but the confusion was so great that no
  bets could be made.)

  66.—In this round the English Champion put in a tremendous nobber,
  and also fibbed Langan down. (“That’s a settler,” said a bystander.
  “Indeed it is not,” replied a Paddy, “Spring will not settle his
  account this time.” (Laughing.) “Where’s Jack Randall?” says Josh.;
  “here’s a countryman for you! Spring’s tired of it. He can’t hit a
  dent in a pound of butter.” “Well done, Josh.,” said Spring,
  smiling, “chaff away. I’ll give you all you can do, except winning.”
  “We can’t lose it,” replied the John Bull fighter.)

  67.—Spring was still cautious: he would not give a chance away. Both
  down.

  68.—Langan’s left hand told on Spring’s body; but the Irish Champion
  received a nobber for it. Langan seemed determined to have Spring
  down, at all events. The struggle for the throw was severely
  contested; Langan got Spring undermost.

  69.—Short; a hit or two passed, when both were down.

  70.—Langan’s face looked the worse for the battle, but his eye
  retained all its fire and animation; the other peeper had been
  nearly darkened for an hour and a half. “I am sure,” said Josh.,
  “that Langan has made a contract with Spring for seven years; this
  is a fine specimen of one of his fighting days.” Both men were
  getting weak, but Langan always got up when time was called, saying,
  “I am ready!” In the throw, Langan was undermost.

  71.—The ring was now in confusion; yet some of the sharpest rounds
  were fought. Spring received another fall, and was undermost.

  72.—The general opinion in the twenty-four foot ring (which was
  nothing else but a crowd), appeared to be, that Spring would win;
  nevertheless the countenances of Spring’s backers indicated it was
  not quite safe. Spring had no room to get away. Colonel Berkeley,
  the referee, said, “I am so disgusted with the treatment I have
  experienced, that I will give up the watch. Here is no ring. It is
  impossible to stand still a second, without being assailed with a
  cut from a whip, or a blow from a stick, and no good done either.”
  In no fight whatever was there such a scene of confusion in the
  space allotted for the men to fight. In closing, both down. During
  the time Spring was on Painter’s knee, Sampson, Oliver and Israel
  Belasco, were giving advice. “Hallo!” said Josh., “do you call this
  fair play? How many seconds is Spring to have?” and, snatching a
  whip out of a bystander’s hand, endeavoured to whip out the ring,
  followed by Oliver. “Only give us a chance,” cried Josh., “and we
  can’t lose it.” Nothing foul appeared to be attempted on the part of
  Spring or on the side of Langan. The constables were mixed in the
  mob, struggling for breath; the fighting men hoarse with calling
  out, “Clear the ring,” and dead beat from the exertions they had
  made. Nothing less than a company of Horse Guards could have made
  out a ring at this period, so closely jammed were the spectators.

  73.—The courage, confidence, and good spirits displayed by Langan,
  excited the admiration of every beholder. He was too short in the
  arm for Spring: he could not reach his head without rushing in to
  mill. Langan left his second’s knee rather weak; in closing, he was
  fibbed severely by Spring, who was well assured he had not a minute
  to lose. The English Champion was cool, felt his situation, and his
  knowledge and experience in the prize ring gave him the advantage
  when the nicety of the thing was required.

  74.—On Langan placing himself in attitude, “Go and fight,” said
  Cribb to Spring; when the Champion went to work without delay, and
  Langan received a heavy blow in the middle of his head, and went
  down. (“Twenty to one,” said a swell, “he’ll not come again.”)

  75.—The Irish Champion appeared the worse for the last round, and,
  on his appearing at the scratch, Spring commenced the attack, when
  Langan returned with great spirit; but Spring had decidedly the
  best, and Langan was fibbed down, his face covered with claret.
  (“Take the brave fellow away.” “I will not be taken away—who dare
  say so?” exclaimed Langan.)

  76.—Spring was now determined to lose no time, and again went to
  work; but Langan showed fight, and struggled to obtain the throw:
  both down. (“Take him away!” Langan’s head rested on his second’s
  shoulder till time was called. The Springites roared out—“It’s as
  right as the day. Ten pounds to a crown the battle is over in five
  minutes.”)

  77th and last.—Langan came up quite groggy, but full of pluck.
  Spring now administered heavy punishment with both hands and Langan
  fell quite exhausted. Reynolds had great difficulty in getting him
  from the ground; he was in a state of stupor, and his eye closed.
  Several gentlemen said, “Do not let the brave fellow fight any more;
  Reynolds, take him away; it is impossible he can meet Spring any
  more.” When time was called, Langan was insensible—and Josh. Hudson
  gave in for him. Half a minute after, Langan opened his eyes, still
  sitting on the knee of his second. When he was told that the fight
  was over, he said, “His second had no right to give in for him. He
  could fight forty more rounds.” “Don’t leave the ring, Spring,”
  several persons cried out. Cribb told Langan, “The battle was over;”
  and Painter observed, “Don’t let so good a man be killed; he does
  not know what he is talking about!” The umpire was asked for his
  decision, and he said, “Langan did not come when time was called;
  therefore he had lost the battle, according to the rules of
  pugilism.” Upon this answer, and decision of the umpire, Spring left
  the ring, amidst the shouts of the populace, Langan roaring out, “I
  am not beaten—clear out the ring—I can fight for four hours.” In the
  course of a few minutes, he left the ring, and, as he approached the
  Grand Stand, he was received with applause, and jumped over some
  ropes in his way with agility. The battle lasted two hours and
  twenty-nine minutes.

  REMARKS.[3]—In consequence of the breaking in of the ring, the
  struggles, and repeated falls of the men, it is impossible for any
  reporter to be strictly accurate as to the precise rounds fought.
  The battle would have terminated much sooner could Spring have used
  his left hand effectively, but after the eighth round he could only
  use it defensively, having injured his knuckles by bringing them in
  violent contact with Langan’s nut. He has, however, proved himself
  one of the safest boxers over known, and as Dusty Bob observes,
  “never gives a chance avay. Another circumstance that retarded the
  final issue was the destruction of the inner ring; the combatants
  were so closely surrounded that they had no room for action, which
  was greatly to the disadvantage of Spring, whose fine science was
  set at nought in such close quarters. Langan has proved himself a
  perfect glutton, and the best big Irishman that ever appeared in the
  P.R. He has hitherto been unknown to the London Ring, and the wonder
  is, how such a novice could make so long a stand against the best
  man in it, and his superior in weight by nearly half a stone.” The
  remarks conclude with some observations upon the persons who had
  erected stands for the spectators, which, although the charges were
  exorbitant, were so insecure as to cause serious injuries to many of
  their customers. Not less than twenty persons were seriously
  injured, many having broken bones, while an equal number were more
  or less bruised. After deducting sufficient to pay the ring-keepers,
  out of the money collected for admission to the ring, there remained
  £200, which was divided equally between Spring and Langan. At the
  conclusion of the fight, Cribb said to Langan, “You are a brave man
  indeed.” “I never saw a better,” replied Painter. Even betting
  occurred several times in the fight for small sums; and six to four
  was offered on Langan in light bets, after the fight had lasted two
  hours.


A voluminous paper war followed this fight, stimulated by “the
historian,” who at this period edited a weekly, called _Pierce Egan’s
Life in London_. The “milling correspondence,” as it was termed, became
as verbose and inconsequential as diplomatic circular notes or the
“protocols” on the Schleswig-Holstein question. Langan, Spring, Tom
Reynolds, Josh. Hudson, and Cribb, by their amanuenses, or
self-appointed secretaries, figured in print in what they would have
called in their vernacular, the “’fending and proving” line; but the
great gun was Tom Reynolds, primed and charged by Pierce himself. The
very reading of his letters, and weary reading they are, reminds us of
the Bastard Falconbridge’s description of the magniloquent citizen of
Angiers:—

         “He speaks plain cannon, fire, and smoke, and bounce;
         He gives the bastinado with his tongue;
         Our ears are cudgelled; not a word of his
         But buffets better than a fist of France.
         Zounds! I was never so bethump’d with words
         Since I first called my brother’s father ‘dad.’”

Reynolds proved too much in these letters (several of which serve to
“pad” out the bulk of “Boxiana”) by charging conduct upon men whose
whole life gave the lie to such imputations.

On the 19th of February, 1824, Langan had a bumper benefit at the Tennis
Court, and, at its close, thus addressed the audience:—“Gentlemen, I
thank you for the honour you have conferred upon me, and I beg to assure
you, on the honour of an Irishman (placing his hand on his breast), if I
have the good fortune again to enter the ring, that no effort shall be
wanting on my part to make it a more pleasant and agreeable ‘mill’ than
the last in which I was engaged. Gentlemen, I am ready to fight any man
who calls himself Champion of England, for any sum, from three hundred
to a thousand, upon a boarded stage, like this, in the same way as Cribb
fought Molineaux.”

This challenge produced the following epistle from Spring to the Editor
of _Pierce Egan’s Life in London_:—


  “SIR,

  “Your paper, and others of the public journals, have of late teemed
  with idle correspondence on the subject of my fight with Langan. Of
  Langan I have nothing to say, but that I consider him a brave fellow
  in the ring, and a good fellow out of it; but in order to put an end
  to all further chaffing, and to bring our matters to a clear
  understanding, I have only this to observe: Langan, at his own
  benefit, publicly stated that “he was ready to fight any man who
  called himself Champion of England, on a stage, for from £300 to
  £1,000.” Now, I have been pronounced the character he describes, and
  I am ready to fight Langan, or any other man, for £500, in a roped
  ring on the turf, or for £1,000 in any way that himself or his
  friends may think proper to suggest—on an iron pavement if they
  choose. This is my final answer to all challenges; and I shall be at
  the Fives’ Court to-morrow, at Turner’s benefit, and come to the
  scratch if called.

                                  “I am, sir, yours most respectfully,
                                  “THOMAS W. SPRING.

  “_February 24, 1824._”


This was followed by a letter (bearing internal marks of proceeding from
the pen of Tom Reynolds) magniloquently entitled—


        “THE IRISH CHAMPION’S DECLARATION TO THE SPORTING WORLD.

  “GENTLEMEN,

  “Mr. Spring, in his letter, speaks of his wish to avoid ‘chaffing,
  and bring matters to a right understanding’ between him and me. To
  show you, therefore, the chaffing is not on my side, and that I am
  really anxious to have matters clearly understood, I beg leave to
  submit the following facts to your judgment:—

  “When I challenged him in Manchester, for £100 a-side, he pretended
  to treat my offer with contempt (though he had never, but in one
  instance, fought for more), and named £500 as the least stake, a sum
  three times greater than any for which he had contended. But though
  he was afterwards shamed into agreeing for £300 a-side, yet he
  calculated on my inability to raise so much; and, to prevent my
  doing so, he and his friends, besides throwing other obstacles in my
  way, contrived to induce the gentleman who agreed to put down the
  whole sum for me to withdraw his patronage, so that it was with the
  utmost difficulty I raised the battle-money.

  “As to the battle, it is needless to repeat that I have good reasons
  to complain of the treatment I experienced. Every unprejudiced
  witness will bear me out in this, and my friends are so satisfied
  with my conduct, that they are ready to back me against Spring for
  £500, on a stage, which they think the only way of guarding against
  a repetition of unfair treatment. But when Spring finds me thus
  supported, he raises his demand to £1,000, on the ground that I
  challenged him to fight for any sum from £300 to £1,000. My words
  were, that I would fight him for from £300 to £500, or for £1,000,
  if I were backed, and I do not deny them; for if I had £100,000 I
  would confidently stake it. But £500 is a sum between £300 and
  £1,000; and if I could get backed for £1,000, I should rejoice at
  it, as it would at once do away with this excuse of Spring. I think,
  however, that it will not tell much for his credit, if he continues
  to reject the £500, which I can command, and £50 of which I am ready
  to lay down at Belcher’s, to make the match, any time he thinks
  proper. I believe nine out of ten in the sporting world will agree
  that Spring cannot honourably refuse this proposal, were it only to
  meet the complaint of foul play, which I am justified in making with
  regard to the former battle.

  “But he also pledged himself, when he received the championship, to
  imitate the donor’s conduct. Then why not redeem his pledge, or
  resign the gift?

  “He says that he does not wish to enter the ring again. This is mere
  shuffling. He ought not to hold a situation for which he has no
  taste: he cannot, in justice, have the honour without the danger. If
  he will not fight, then let him resign the championship to one that
  will—to a man who will not want to make a sinecure of the title, and
  will always be ready to fight for a stake of £500.

  “Permit me again to repeat that I am ready to make a match to fight
  Spring for £500 a-side, within a hundred miles of London, on a
  stage[4] similar to the one on which Cribb and Molineaux fought.
  Sparring exhibitions I cannot attend till I set-to for my friend
  Reynolds, on the 17th of March.

                         “I am, gentlemen, your very obedient servant,
                         “JOHN LANGAN.

  “_Castle Tavern, Holborn, February 26._”


This letter produced its desired effect, for next week Spring thus
addressed the several sporting editors:—


  “SIR,

  “I can bear the bullying of this Langan no longer, but will, by the
  consent of my friends, meet him upon the terms demanded in his last
  letter. I will be at Cribb’s on Tuesday evening next, at eight
  o’clock, to stake £100, and settle the business at once.

                                              “I am, sir, yours, etc.,
                                              “T. W. SPRING.

  “_84, High Street, Marylebone._”


Langan accepted Spring’s invitation, and honest Tom Cribb’s crib, on
Tuesday, February 24, 1824, at a very early period of the evening was
crowded, not a seat to be had for begging or praying, for love or money.
The house was not one-third big enough, and hundreds of persons went
away angry and disappointed. Tom Belcher first made his appearance,
followed by Langan, in a military cloak; the rear was brought up by the
president of the Daffy Club. The street door was immediately closed, to
prevent an improper rush, and a sentinel was placed at the door of the
stairs. The Irish Champion seated himself in the first floor, and drank
Spring’s health in a glass of wine, the company, in return, drinking the
health of Langan. Spring, on being informed Langan had arrived, sent
word to the Irish Champion that he was ready. Cribb, who was very lame,
hobbled up stairs to meet his old opponent, and to “argufy the topic” in
a parliamentary style, across the table. Belcher then produced a draft
of the articles which, he said, Langan was prepared to sign. These
articles were as follows:—


    “_Memorandum, of an Agreement entered into between Thomas Winter
  Spring and John Langan at Thomas Cribb’s, Panton Street, on the 2nd
                            of March, 1824._

  “It is hereby agreed between Thomas Winter Spring and John Langan to
  fight, on a twenty-four feet stage, on Tuesday, the 8th of June,
  1824, for £500 a-side, to be a fair stand-up fight, half-minute
  time; umpires to be chosen by each party, and a referee to be chosen
  on the ground by the umpires. The fight to take place within one
  hundred miles of London, and the place to be named by Mr. Jackson.
  The men to be in the ring between twelve and one o’clock, unless
  prevented by magisterial interference. Fifty pounds of the money are
  now deposited in the hands of the stakeholder, Mr. ——; £50 more to
  be deposited, on the 17th of March, at Mr. John Randall’s,
  Hole-in-the-Wall, Chancery Lane; £200 to be deposited at Mr. Thomas
  Cribb’s, on the 1st of May; and the remainder of the £500 to be made
  good at Mr. Thomas Belcher’s, at the Castle Tavern, Holborn, on the
  1st of June; and in case of failure on either side, the money
  deposited to be forfeited.

  “The stage to be boarded with deal planks, at least three inches
  thick, and to be six feet from the ground, without turf. The
  bottle-holders and seconds to retire to the corners of the ring when
  the men shall have set-to, and not to approach the combatants till
  one or both of them shall be down.

  “The expenses of the stage to be equally borne by each of the men.”


To these conditions Spring took exceptions; first, expressing his desire
that the present deposit should be £100 instead of £50; this objection,
after a few remarks, he waived. He then objected to the day named for
the fight to take place, proposing the 25th of May instead of the 8th of
June; and, lastly, he insisted that the second £50 should be deposited
on the 13th of March, instead of the 17th, upon the ground that the 17th
had been appointed for Reynold’s benefit, and he did not wish to lend
himself to this additional attraction to the public. A good deal of
discussion followed, but, finally, there was mutual concession, Spring
agreeing to fight on the 8th of June, and Langan agreeing to make his
second deposit on the 13th instead of the 17th of March. All
difficulties thus cleared away, there were one or two verbal alterations
made in the articles; and a paragraph was added, by which it was agreed,
“that when the whole of the money was made good, it should be deposited
in the hands of Mr. Jackson.”

Spring, in alluding to the expense of erecting the stage, said he
thought it but fair, as this was Langan’s fancy, that he should bear the
whole expense. To which Langan replied, “See, now, Tom; say nothing
about that, for if I win, and I think I will, I’ll bear the whole
expense of the stage myself. (Loud cheers.) But that’s neither here nor
there; I hope the best man will win; and though we are going to fight,
it’s myself that would go a hundred miles to serve you, for I have no
antipathy or ill-blood towards you whatever.”

The president of the Daffy Club was then appointed stakeholder. The
articles having been signed and witnessed, and everything relative to
the pugilistic tourney having been settled comfortably on both sides,
Langan and his friends made their bows, and returned to finish the
evening at Belcher’s (the Castle).

Spring and Langan, according to the articles, met on Saturday evening,
the 13th of March, at Randall’s, and made £100 a-side good towards the
completion of the stakes of 1,000 sovereigns. They met like good
fellows, brave men, and personal friends. In the course of the evening
Langan proposed the health of Spring. He also rebuked several of his
partisans, who frequently shouted out, “Well done, Langan!” “Bravo,
Jack!” etc. “I hate these sort of remarks,” said the Irish Champion;
“they are calculated to make ill-blood and provoke animosity, which it
is my most sincere wish to prevent, if possible. All I want is, that we
may meet as friends, and have a comfortable, pleasant mill on the 8th of
June!” Sixty to forty was offered by a gentleman from Yorkshire upon
Spring. “I will bet £70 to £40,” said the latter. “I’ll take it, Tom,”
replied Langan; and before they separated, Spring betted with Langan
£580 to £168, that he should win the battle. The evening was spent with
the utmost good humour by all parties.

Spring’s benefit at the Fives Court on Tuesday, June 1, 1824, not only
produced a bumper, but the body of the Court was crowded, the gallery
overloaded even to danger; the little room, “the swells’ retreat,” once
secure from the vulgar eye and intrusion of commoners, was now full of
all sorts, and Earls, Right Honourables, Honourables, and M.P.’s, were
squeezed together, without complaint, quite satisfied with obtaining
only now and then a glimpse of the stage. In fact, numbers of persons
could not be admitted, and the doors were closed to prevent accidents
from the pressure of the multitude. Spring addressed the populace in the
street from one of the windows in the Fives Court.

In the evening a dinner was held at the Castle Tavern, Holborn, at which
fifty-two gentlemen were present. The chair was taken by Mr. Rayner
(well known for his excellent performances of Tyke, Giles, Fixture,
etc.), and the deputy-chair ably filled by the President of the Daffy
Club. When “time” was called, Spring, supported by his backer and Cribb,
appeared and posted the money. Loud approbation was expressed when it
was announced that £1,000 were deposited in the hands of the
stakeholder. Langan was present for a short time. The dinner was
excellent, and the wines pronounced of the first quality. Four to one
was betted on Spring!

The second great match was fixed for Tuesday, June 8, 1824, and Warwick,
in the first instance, was the place decided upon, but Chichester was
the “latest intelligence.” Some hundreds were “thrown out” by the
change. Nevertheless, the capital of Sussex was overflowing with company
so soon as it was known to be the right scent. Spring arrived at the
Swan Hotel in the course of Monday, in company with his backer, Mr.
Sant; they were received with loud cheers. Colonel O’Neil, Langan, Tom
Belcher, and company, arrived nearly at the same time at the Dolphin
Hotel, and were equally well received.

The cause of the change was, Mr. Hewlings, of the Swan Inn, Chichester,
having undertaken to give the men £200, and having intimated that there
would be no interruption. The spot chosen for the trial of strength was
admirably adapted for the purpose; it was a field about three miles from
the city, one side of which was bordered by the Canal, and it was only
approachable by means of a drawbridge, over which all must necessarily
pass to the ring side, and at which a toll was imposed on all comers.
The bridge was called Birdham Bridge. The moment the farmers in the
neighbourhood were informed of the gratification which awaited them,
they volunteered their wagons to form the outer ring, an offer which was
at once accepted by Mr. Hewlings, who appears to have taken the whole
management on himself, and in the course of Monday, the day prior to the
fight, no less than fifty-three large wagons were arranged in a circle
round the spot on which, in the course of the day, the stage was
erected. This stage was six feet from the ground, and was planked with
three-inch deal. Round it were fixed strong posts, to which three rows
of stout rails were fastened; these and the posts were rounded, so as to
diminish as much as possible any injury to the combatants. During Monday
afternoon Chichester presented an extraordinary appearance, and was as
crowded as one is accustomed to see it during the Goodwood meeting, and
all day the windows were filled with anxious spectators on the look-out
for a peep at the combatants.

In London, as soon as it was generally known that Chichester was the
centre of attraction, there was a simultaneous move to secure places in
the coaches going either to that city, or to Brighton or Portsmouth.
Many persons, unable to obtain places, and equally unable to afford
posters, had to betake themselves to their ten toes, so determined were
they not to miss the treat. As the evening advanced, the curiosity of
the Chichester folks was more or less gratified by the arrival of Cribb,
Oliver, Jack Martin, Dick Curtis, Ben Burn, Randall, Painter, Jack
Scroggins, and a long list of pugilists of note. Post-chaises and
carriages and four poured rapidly into the town: every inn was soon
crowded to an overflow, and soon every corner was filled. Spring and his
friends arrived at the Swan Inn about half past seven o’clock, and were
received with loud cheers. He was in excellent health and spirits, and
seemed delighted at his cordial reception. Langan was not long after
him, and took up his quarters at the Dolphin. He, like Spring, was
warmly cheered. He was in high spirits, laughed heartily, and appeared
to be in excellent condition. Some doubts having been expressed by the
friends of Langan as to the good faith of Mr. Hewlings, who had promised
the men £200 to fight near Chichester, that gentleman at once posted
half the money in responsible hands, to be paid to the loser, and it was
agreed that the winner should receive his £100 as soon as the contest
was over. In the course of the evening a little money was invested at
three to one on Spring.

On the morning of fighting the bustle was redoubled in Chichester, and
the excitement appeared to extend to Bognor, Portsmouth, and other
places in the neighbourhood. Both men rose in excellent spirits, and
thoroughly up to the mark. Spring’s weight was about thirteen stone four
pounds, while Langan was at least a stone under that amount, and by many
it was considered he had drawn it too fine. About eleven o’clock a move
commenced towards the ground, and on the arrival of the public at the
before-named bridge, it was found that some of the milling gentry had
planted themselves at the entrance, where they extorted sums varying
from 2_s._ 6_d._ to 5_s._ from every one who passed, thus forestalling
Mr. Hewlings, who had hired the field and erected the stage at his own
expense, depending on the toll at the bridge for his reimbursement. Of
course much indignation was excited by this conduct, but on the arrival
of Mr. Jackson everything was set right, and a settlement made with Mr.
Hewlings.

At length, everything being arranged, Mr. Jackson, who acted as
Commander-in-Chief, directed that the men should be brought forward.

A few minutes before one o’clock, Spring, arm-in-arm with his backer and
a baronet, made his way through the crowd towards the stage, and was
received with loud huzzas, Cribb and Painter close behind him. Spring
threw up his hat, which alighted upon the stage, then ascended the
ladder and jumped over the rails.

While Spring was taking off his boots, Cribb and Ned Painter put on
knee-caps, made of chamois leather and stuffed with wool. It having been
circulated in Ireland that Painter used his knee against Langan when he
was on the ground, in the fight at Worcester, a sergeant-major in a
marching regiment, quartered at Norwich, and occasionally visiting the
house of Painter, observed, “By J——s, Mr. Painter, I’ll take care you do
not hurt Langan this time with your knees: I’ll have a couple of
knee-caps made for you both, and if you mean to give Jack fair play, I
insist that you wear them during the battle.” The sergeant had them made
according to his own order, and as Painter and Cribb always were lovers
of fair play, both these pugilists, with the utmost good humour, placed
the caps, tied with a narrow blue ribbon, round their knees.

Langan shortly followed, under the patronage of Colonel O’Neil. Belcher,
Harmer, and O’Neil (not “Ned,” of Streatham), his bottle-holder, were in
attendance. The Irish champion ascended the stage, and in a modest
manner dropped his hat within the rails. He was prepared for action; but
the Champion not being ready, he walked up and down the boards with the
utmost composure.

A black silk handkerchief was placed loosely round Langan’s neck, which,
we understand, was tied by the delicate hands of the lady of a gallant
Irish Colonel O’B——, before he left the inn, at which the lady stopped
in her journey to the Isle of Wight. Mrs. O’B—— offered him a green
handkerchief, as a token of his country; but Langan politely refused,
saying, “I am not of importance enough to make it a national affair: I
do not wish it, indeed, madam; it is merely to decide which is the best
man; therefore, if you please, I prefer a black one, having fought under
that colour.” Mrs. O’B——, on tying it round his neck, romantically
exclaimed, “You are Irish: colour is immaterial to a brave man: glory is
your only object. Go, then, and conquer!” Langan returned thanks very
politely for the attention paid to him, and the good wishes of the lady.
Everything being ready, the colours, dark blue with bird’s eye for
Spring, black for Langan, were tied to the stage, and Mr. Jackson
arranged the spectators round the ring in an orderly and comfortable
manner. Betting two to one, and five to two, at the beginning of


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Spring never looked so big, nor so well, in any of his
  previous contests; he appeared perfectly at his ease: coolness sat
  upon his brow, and his deportment altogether was a fine
  personification of confidence; indeed, it was observed by a noble
  lord, “There is something about the person of the Champion, if not
  truly noble, yet manly and elegant.” Langan also looked well; his
  face exhibited a tinge of the sun, and his frame was robust and
  hardy; his loins appeared smaller than in his former contest. His
  countenance was as pleasant as his opponent’s, and his eyes sparkled
  with fire and animation. Previous to setting-to, Langan went up to
  Spring, opening his drawers, and observed, “See, Tom, I have no belt
  about me,” the Champion immediately followed his example, and said
  (also opening his drawers), “Nor I neither, Jack!” This circumstance
  elicited great applause from all parts of the ring. “Well done,
  Langan; bravo, Spring!” Spring now shook his brave opponent by the
  hand. Cribb laid hold of Tom Belcher’s fist, and Ned Painter shook
  the bunch of fives of big Paddy O’Neil (shortly afterwards beaten by
  “my nevvy,” Jem Burn.[5]) The men placed themselves in attitude. The
  glorious moment had arrived, and the seconds, in compliance with the
  articles, retired to the corners of the stage. This time Langan
  stood up within the reach of his adversary, and it was pleasing to
  witness the activity displayed by the combatants moving over the
  stage to obtain the first hit. A stand still, steadfastly looking at
  the eyes of each other; at length Langan made an offer, which Spring
  stopped well. The Champion made a hit, which told slightly on
  Langan’s nob; the latter fought his way into a close, in which
  Spring endeavoured to fib his antagonist. Here the struggle began
  for the throw—it was desperate; the art of wrestling was not
  resorted to by either of the boxers, and main strength was the
  trial. Langan broke from the arms of Spring, and a stand still was
  the result. Langan observed, “First blood, Tom;” which slightly
  appeared at the corner of Spring’s mouth. The Irish Champion made a
  good stop, but was blowing a little. Spring planted another facer,
  when Langan fought his way into a close: a desperate struggle
  ensued: fibbing was again attempted, when Langan went down on his
  knees. Spring patted the Irish Champion on the back with the utmost
  good humour, as much as to say, “You are a brave fellow,” (A
  thundering report of approbation, and “Well done, Spring!”) Four
  minutes and a few seconds. The referee, on being asked who drew the
  first blood, replied, “He did not see any on Spring; but he saw a
  little on the left cheek of Langan, just under his eye.”

  2.—Langan made play; but Spring, with the nimbleness of a harlequin
  showed the utility of a quick step. The Irish Champion made a rush,
  when they were again entangled for a short time, until Langan broke
  away. A pause: breath wanted: and consideration necessary. Langan
  gave Spring a facer with his right hand, and tried to repeat the
  dose; another quick movement prevented it, Spring smiling. A little
  bit of in-fighting: a desperate struggle for the throw: downright
  strength, when Spring went down, Langan falling heavily upon him.
  (“Bravo, Langan!”)

  3.—The attitudes of the combatants were interesting, and both
  extremely cautious. Spring got away from one intended for his nob.
  The science displayed on both sides was so excellent in stopping,
  that in the ecstasy of the moment the Commander-in-Chief[6] loudly
  exclaimed, “Beautiful.” Another skilful stop by Spring; and one by
  Langan, “Well done: good on both sides,” observed Mr. Jackson.
  Langan planted a hit. A pause. (“Fight, Langan,” from Belcher, “you
  have all the best of it.”) Spring drove Langan to the corner, but
  the hero of the black fogle got out of danger in style. He made also
  an excellent stop while on the retreat: Langan made himself up to do
  mischief, and Spring received loud applause for stopping a
  tremendous hit. The Champion also bobbed his nob aside, in the Dutch
  Sam style, from what might have been a floorer. The Champion again
  broke ground, and bobbed cleverly away from the coming blow. Spring
  now took the lead famously. He planted a facer without any return;
  repeated the dose, and administered a third pill. Langan again got
  out of the corner, by fighting up like a trump. A short stand still.
  Heavy counter hits. A pause: Spring made another facer; a stand
  still. The Champion stopped well, and also drove Langan into the
  corner, but the hero of the black wipe would not be detained; he
  fought his way out manfully, and, in closing, though the struggle
  was terrible, Spring obtained the throw. (Loud applause.) This round
  occupied nearly seven minutes. The left hand of Spring was already
  going, if not gone.

  4.—The “good bit of stuff from ould Ireland” endeavoured to take the
  lead, and had the best of this round; he fought first. He planted
  one or two hits, and not light ones either, and would have kept it
  up, but Spring said “it wouldn’t do,” and stopped him. In fact, this
  was a well-contested round on both sides; and Langan, after a
  terrible try for it, got Spring down. (Applause.)

  5.—The left ear of Langan was much swelled; he was also piping. The
  superior science of String enabled him to get away from a number of
  heavy blows. Langan followed his opponent, trying to do something.
  Two counter-hits, which reminded both the men they were milling; the
  claret ran from Spring’s nose. Spring planted a facer; and after a
  determined struggle on both sides, as Langan was going down, the
  Champion cleverly caught him a hard blow on the nose. (“That’s the
  way, Spring; you’ll soon win it.”)

  6.—A stand-still for a short time—Spring always taking his time to
  do his work. Counter-hits that were a little too much for the
  combatants. Langan began to shift: indeed, Spring had drawn his
  claret liberally. Both down, Spring uppermost.

  7.—This was a bustling round. Langan stopped well. Counter-hits, and
  good ones. The stopping on both sides was excellent, and obtained
  loud applause, “Be ready, my boy,” said Belcher, “fight first; he
  can’t hurt you!”—“Walker,” replied Tom Cribb; “gammon him to that if
  you can.” Langan followed the advice of his able second, put a
  tremendous hit under Spring’s left ogle, and tried to repeat it, but
  it was “no go.” A pause. Spring planted a facer; Langan got away
  from another intended for him. The left hand of Spring told well on
  his opponent’s body: he also planted three facers without any
  return. Counter-hits, of no consequence to any but the receivers;
  the hero of the black fogle touched Spring’s body with his left
  hand. A stand still. “Keep up your head, Langan.” Spring followed
  his opponent, administering pepper, and Langan’s face clareted.
  Langan endeavoured to put in a heavy blow, but the harlequin step of
  Spring prevented it. Langan napped two or three hits in succession;
  in fact, he was quite groggy; nevertheless he fought like a man, was
  mischievous, and gave Spring a nobber. In closing, Spring could not
  throw him, when they separated; in closing again, after another
  struggle, Langan received a topper as he was staggering and going
  down.—(Great applause. It won’t last long—five to two, and three to
  one, Spring will win it in a few rounds the backers of the Champion
  were smiling, and said, “It is all right.”)

  8.—Belcher got his man up very heavily, but on his being placed at
  the scratch, he showed fight and got away from a hit. However,
  Spring had decidedly the best of the round, and Langan was thrown.
  Twenty-six minutes.

  9.—This was also a short round, but against the Irish Champion.
  Spring planted two or three nobbers, and also got his opponent down.

  10.—It was evident to every one that Langan up to this time had had
  the worst of it, and the general opinion was, that he must lose the
  battle. Spring planted two successive blows, without any return.
  Langan was getting better, and made an exchange of blows with some
  effect. Belcher again cried out, “Fight, Jack.” In struggling for
  the throw, Paddy O’Neil sung out, “Give him a back fall, Jack, but
  don’t hurt him;” and, sure enough, Mr. Spring did receive a back
  fall.

  11.—Langan was now fast recovering his second wind and went to work.
  An exchange of blows; a pause. Langan planted a slight body hit with
  his left hand. Counter-hits. Langan down, Spring on him.

  12.—In the struggle for the throw, Spring was undermost. (“Bravo,
  Langan!”) The head of the Champion had an ugly knock against the
  lower rail of the stage.

  13.—Spring proved himself a most difficult boxer to get at; however,
  Langan got in a body blow. In closing, both down, Spring uppermost.

  14.—Spring getting weak, Langan improving: so said the most
  experienced judge of boxing belonging to the P. C. Indeed, it is
  accounted for without difficulty; as a superior fighter Spring ought
  not to have wrestled so much with his opponent. The strongest man in
  the world must have felt weakness had he been engaged in such
  violent pulling, hauling, grappling, and catching hold of each
  other’s hands. This round was little more than a struggle for the
  throw; Langan undermost.

  15.—It was now known to all the ring that the left hand of Spring
  was gone; indeed; it was swelled and puffed like a blister. Langan
  planted a left-handed blow, but Spring stopped his right. In
  closing, the struggle was great, and, as Langan was going down,
  Spring hit his nob. (“Foul, foul!” It was unintentional on the part
  of Spring; he was in the act of hitting, and therefore, it could not
  be decided wrong.)[7]

  16.—Under all circumstances, Langan was a troublesome customer. The
  remarks made by some persons were, that he did not fight well,
  though they were compelled to allow that he was an extraordinary
  game man. The counter-hits in this round were again well placed; but
  it was regretted, by several sporting men, to see such numerous
  struggles. Yet, to their credit be it spoken, neither of the men
  wished to go down unhandsomely, which accounts for so much
  wrestling. Both went down together; Langan patted the back of Spring
  with the utmost good humour, both smiling.

  17.—The fine science of Spring was again exhibited in skilfully
  stopping his opponent; but, in closing, he received a dangerous
  cross-buttock, which shook him terribly, and his legs rebounded from
  the ground. (A cheering burst of applause for Langan.)

  18.—The manner with which Langan had got round did not look very
  promising for the backers of Spring. The Irish Champion went
  resolutely in, and planted two hits. In closing, Spring tried the
  fibbing system, when Langan broke away. Both combatants in turn
  retreated from the blows of each other. Both down.

  19.—The Champion showed weakness: it would have been singular if he
  had not. He bobbed his head aside from a tremendous right-handed
  blow of Langan’s, which might have settled the account in favour of
  the hero of the black fogle; however, he closed the round by
  throwing Langan cleverly.

  20.—Spring stopped several blows, and the Irish Champion was thrown
  violently on his head; Spring also fell heavily on him. Forty-five
  minutes had elapsed. (“That fall is a settler: he can’t fight above
  another round or two.”)

  21.—Spring nobbed his opponent. A severe struggle took place at the
  corner of the stage, and some fears were expressed that the men
  might fall through the rails upon the ground. Langan received
  another heavy fall.

  22.—Langan, according to the advice of Belcher, fought first, but
  his efforts were stopped, and he again went down, Spring uppermost.
  During the time the Champion was sitting on the knee of his second,
  he nodded, and gave a smile to his friends, intimating “It was all
  right.”

  23.—This was a short round, and Spring fibbed Langan down severely,
  to all appearance, yet, on being picked up and placed on his
  second’s knee, when asked to have some brandy and water by Belcher,
  who told Harmer, who was below the stage, to hand it up, Langan
  said, “Stop a bit, Harry; only keep it cool.” The president of the
  Daffy Club, who was standing close by at the time, observed, “What a
  strange fellow!”

  24.—After three heavy falls in succession, and severe fibbing,
  Langan came to the scratch as if nothing serious had happened; he
  contrived to put in a body blow, but was thrown.

  25.—Spring, although he had got the lead by his superior science and
  length, was determined not to give a chance away, and was as
  cautious as when he first commenced the battle. He retreated from
  Langan’s blows, planted some returns with success, and ultimately
  Langan was down.

  26.—Langan made play, but Spring was too wary. Both down, Spring
  uppermost.

  27.—The Champion was evidently distressed, and his right hand also
  getting bad. Some exchanges took place; but, in a trifling struggle
  at the corner of the stage, it appeared to Spring’s umpire that
  Langan went down without a blow, when he observed to Belcher, “Tell
  your man not to go down without a blow, or I shall notice it.” “I
  assure you, gentlemen,” replied Tom, “blows had passed in the round,
  and it could not be termed going down without a blow, according to
  the rules of fighting.” Blows certainly had passed between the
  combatants.

  28.—Langan walked up to the umpire, and said, “Sir, I did not go
  down.” Time had been called, when Cribb sung out, “Why don’t you
  come to the scratch? what manœuvres are you about, Mr. Belcher?” “I
  want nothing but fair play,” replied Tom; “lick us fairly, and I
  shall be satisfied.” Langan again made play, but was thrown.

  29.—Spring planted a heavy facer. (“That’s a little one for us, I
  believe,” said Cribb; “our hands are gone, are they?” Laughter.)
  Langan was thrown heavily.

  30.—It was quite clear that Langan could not get the lead, yet he
  was not to be viewed with indifference; he was still dangerous, as a
  throw might win the battle. Both down, Spring undermost.

  31.—This round, more particularly at this stage of the fight,
  exalted the character of Langan as one of the gamest of men. Langan
  planted a body blow, but napped three facers in succession. A pause.
  Langan received a heavy body blow, seemed exhausted, and fell on his
  latter end.

  32.—This round it was thought would have proved the quietus of
  Langan. He was thrown heavily, and his head touched the lower rail.
  (“That’s a finisher!” “He’ll not come again,” were the remarks of
  the spectators.)

  33.—Spring’s conduct towards Langan was generous and manly, and
  deservedly applauded. Langan rushed in and made a blow at his
  opponent, which Spring parried, then, laying hold of Langan, let him
  down without punishment.

  34.—Langan’s determination not only astonished the amateurs, but a
  little alarmed the backers of Spring. Without an accident it was
  booked almost to a certainty that Spring must win; still an accident
  might happen. Langan could not persuade himself that anything alive
  could master him. His backers were aware of his opinion, and
  therefore would not oppose his resolution. The Irish Champion had
  again the worst of it, and went down very much distressed. One hour
  and seven minutes had elapsed, therefore all the bets that Spring
  proved the conqueror in an hour were lost.

  35.—This was a milling round. Langan would not go away, although hit
  staggering: he went down as if he would not have been able to come
  again. (Four to one on Spring.)

  36.—This was ditto, with repeated, if not increased, punishment; yet
  Langan returned, and Spring, with a caution that all his backers
  must give him credit for, got away when anything like a heavy blow
  was levelled at him. Langan fell exhausted. (“Take the brave fellow
  away. Where are his backers?” “Very good, indeed,” replied Belcher;
  “you are not hurt yet, Jack; and Spring’s hands are too far gone to
  hurt you now.” “I will not give in,” said Langan; “I shall win it.”)

  37.—Langan fought this round better than any of the spectators could
  anticipate. He planted a couple of hits; it is true they were not
  effective, but it showed the fight was not out of him. The Irish
  Champion fought under the black flag, “death or victory,” and went
  down, out-fought at all points.

  38.—Belcher brought his man to the scratch, nay, almost carried
  him,[8] when, singular to relate, gamecock like, all his energies
  appeared to return, and he commenced milling like a hero. Spring
  planted four blows without any return, and Langan went down.

  39.—Langan was again down.

  40.—The hero of the black fogle showed fight till he went down quite
  exhausted.

  41.—A short round, but it was surprising to witness the strength
  exhibited by Langan in the struggle for the throw. Both down, when
  Spring patted him on the back.

  42.—Langan was undermost in this round, but Spring really had his
  work to do to place his opponent in that situation.

  43.—Langan again undermost, and Spring fell heavily upon him.

  44.—Spring planted a facer, but met with a return. In struggling for
  the throw, Langan took hold of the drawers of Spring, when Cribb and
  Painter called out “Let go his drawers.” Langan immediately
  relinquished his hold. The Irish Champion was thrown.

  45.—Langan hit Spring on the side of his head, and fought well in an
  exchange of blows. Spring, however, obtained the throw.

  46.—It was astonishing, after getting the worst of it in the
  previous rounds, to witness the resolute manner in which Langan
  contested this round. He was still dangerous in the exchanges, and,
  in struggling, both fell upon the stage. Langan undermost.

  47.—Langan, on being placed at the scratch, was ready for the
  attack. In a short time, after struggling, both went down. (The John
  Bull fighter roared out—“I’m sorry for you, Tom Belcher; you will
  certainly be ‘lagged’ if you don’t take your man away.” “Well done,
  Josh,” replied Belcher, “that comes well from you; but we shall win
  it; Spring can’t hurt a mouse now.”) Langan took a little brandy and
  water.

  48.—Spring exhibited weakness, but threw Langan.

  49.—Langan still made a fight of it, to the surprise of all. In an
  exchange of blows, however exhausted the brave boy from Paddy’s land
  appeared to be, Spring used his harlequin step to prevent accidents.
  In struggling for the throw, both down.

  50.—Langan again showed himself ready at the scratch. “My dear boy,”
  said Belcher, “it’s all your own if you will but fight first.”
  Langan put in a body blow, and also countered with his opponent, but
  had the worst of it, and went down.

  51.—Seeing is believing; but to the reader who has perused the whole
  of the above rounds, it must almost appear like romance to state,
  that Langan held Spring for a short time against the rails to get
  the throw, till they both went down, and Spring fell on him.

  52.—Spring stopped a blow, and also got away from another;
  ultimately Langan was hit down.

  53.—Langan went to work and hit Spring on the nose; but the Champion
  returned the favour, with interest, by nobbing his brave adversary
  down. (“Is there anything the matter with that hand, I should like
  to know? Lord! how Spring did hit him in the middle of the head!”
  exclaimed Cribb.)

  54.—“’Pon my soul, it’s no lie!” Langan threw Spring cleverly. Great
  applause followed this momentary turn. (“He’s an extraordinary
  fellow,” said Mr. Jackson; “he is really a very good man.”)

  55.—Spring again had all the best of this round; but Langan kept
  fighting till he went down.

  56.—This round, it was thought, had settled the business. Langan
  exchanged several blows, but, in closing, Spring hit up terrifically
  on the face of his opponent, who went down like a log of wood.

  57.—Langan commenced milling, and planted a blow on the side of
  Spring’s head! “Do that again,” said Belcher. Langan endeavoured to
  follow the directions of his master, but the Champion got away.
  Spring now hit him staggering, repeated the dose, and Langan went
  down.

  58.—This was a good round, considering the protracted period of the
  battle. Langan returned some blows till he went down.—(“Take him
  away,”—“he has no chance.”)

  59.—Langan appeared so exhausted that every round was expected to be
  the last. He went down from a slight hit, little more than a push.

  60.—“Wonders will never cease!” said a cove who had lost a trifle
  that Langan was licked in forty minutes—“why he has got Spring down
  again; it’s not so safe to the Champion as his friends may think.”

  61.—Langan was now as groggy as a sailor three sheets in the wind,
  and a slight blow sent him down. “I never saw such a fellow,” said
  Jack Randall; “he’ll fight for a week! He don’t know when to leave
  off.”

  62.—The distress exhibited by Langan was so great that every time he
  went down it was thought he could not again toe the scratch. If the
  spectators did not think Langan dangerous, Spring got away from all
  his hits, to prevent anything being the matter. Langan was once more
  sent down.

  63.—Langan, still determined to have a shy for the £500, made a hit
  at Spring, but was shoved, rather than hit, down.

  64.—For the last fifteen minutes it was next to an impossibility
  Spring could lose, yet, contrary to all calculations on the subject,
  Langan still contested the fight. The hands of Spring were in such
  an inefficient, not to say painful, state, that he could not hit.
  Here was the danger, as it was possible that he might be worn out,
  but his caution and generalship did everything for him. Langan was
  so distressed that a slight touch on his arm sent him down. A good
  blow must have put an end to the fight, but Spring could not hit
  effectively.

  65.—Langan, when at the scratch, not only showed fight, but hit
  Spring on the head; the latter, however, had the best of the round,
  though Langan got the throw, Spring undermost. (“Where’s the
  brandy?” said Belcher. “Here it is,” replied Tom Cribb; “a brave
  fellow shall not want for anything in my possession.” “Bravo!” cried
  Belcher; “that’s friendly, and I won’t forget it.”)

  66.—The chance was decidedly against the Irish Champion;
  nevertheless, he attempted to be troublesome to his opponent. Spring
  put in a nobber, and also threw him.

  67.—Exchange of blows. A pause. Langan on the totter, but he planted
  two slight hits on the Champion’s face. Spring followed him up, and
  gave Langan two blows, one in the body and one in the head, which
  dropped the hero of the black fogle.

  68.—The bravery of Langan was equal to anything ever witnessed in
  the prize ring. The hands of Spring were in such a swollen state
  that he could scarcely close them, and most of his blows appeared to
  be open-handed. Langan was hit down. (“Take him away!” “Do you hear
  what they say, Jack?” said Belcher. “Yes,” replied Langan: “I will
  not be taken away; I can win it yet.”)

  69.—In struggling for the throw, Langan’s head fell against the
  rails. Both down.

  70.—Langan again napped on the nobbing system, and was sent down.
  One hour and forty-two minutes had elapsed. (Loud cries of “Take him
  away!”)

  71.—The backers of Spring were anxious to have it over; and the
  spectators in general cried out, on the score of humanity, that
  Langan ought not to be suffered to fight any more. Colonel O’Neil,
  the friend and backer of the Irish Champion, assured the umpire that
  he did not want for humanity; and he was well satisfied in his own
  mind that, from the tumefied state of Spring’s hands, no danger
  could arise. Langan was fighting for £200 of his own money,
  therefore he had no right to interfere; he had, previous to the
  fight, left it in the hands of his skilful second, Belcher, who, he
  was certain, would not suffer the fight to last longer than was safe
  to all parties. Langan, after a short round, was sent down.

  72.—Langan was brought to the scratch by Belcher, who said, “Fight,
  my dear boy; Spring can’t hurt you.” Langan, with undaunted
  resolution, plunged in to hit his opponent; but, after receiving
  more punishment, was sent down. (Repeated cries of “Take him away!”)

  73.—It was now evident to all persons that Langan, while he retained
  the slightest knowledge of what he was about, would not give in.
  Spring fibbed Langan as severely as he was able, to put an end to
  the fight, till he went down. (Here Jack Randall came close to the
  stage, and said, “Tom Belcher, take him away; he cannot win it now.”
  “He says he will not, Jack, and that he can fight longer,” replied
  Tom Belcher.)

  74.—This round was a fine picture of resolution under the most
  distressing circumstances. Langan, without the slightest shadow of a
  chance, seemed angry that his limbs would not do their duty; he came
  again to the scratch, and, with true courage, fought till he was
  sent down. While sitting on the knee of his second, Cribb thus
  addressed him: “You are a brave man, Langan!” “A better was never
  seen in the prize ring,” rejoined Painter; “but you can’t win,
  Langan; it is no use for you to fight, and it may prove dangerous.”
  “I _will_ fight,” said Langan; “no one shall take me away.”

  75.—When time was called, Langan was brought to the scratch, and
  placed himself in attitude. He attempted to hit, when Spring caught
  hold of him and again fibbed him. (“Give no chance away now,” said
  Cribb; “you must finish the battle.”) Langan went down quite stupid.
  (“Take him away!” from all parts of the ring.)

  76 and last.—Strange to relate, Langan again showed at the scratch;
  it might be asserted that he fought from instinct. It did not
  require much punishment, at this period, to send the brave Langan
  off his legs; and, to the credit of Spring be it recorded, he did
  his duty towards his backers as a fighting man, and acted so
  humanely towards an opponent, that, to the end of life, Langan had
  the highest respect for him as a man. Langan put up his arms in
  attitude, but they were soon rendered useless, Spring driving him
  down without giving punishment. When time was called, Langan was
  insensible to the call, and thus, after a contest of one hour and
  forty-nine minutes, the hat was thrown up, and Spring was declared
  the conqueror, amidst the loudest shouts of approbation. Mr. Jackson
  and Mr. Sant immediately ascended the stage. Mr. Sant congratulated
  Spring on his victory, but concluded, “If you ever fight again, I
  will never speak to you any more, Tom; I never saw such bad hands in
  any battle.” Spring replied, “Sir, I never will.” He then left the
  knee of his second, and went up to Langan, and laid hold of his
  hand. The Irish Champion had not yet recovered, but on opening his
  eyes, he asked in a faint tone, “Is the battle over?” “Yes,” replied
  Belcher. “Oh dear!” articulated Langan. Spring immediately shook his
  hand again, and said, “Jack, you and I must be friends to the end of
  our lives; and anything that is within my power, I will do to serve
  you. When I see you in town I will give you £10.”

  REMARKS.—This contest was one of the fairest battles ever witnessed.
  The principals had twenty-four square feet for their exertions,
  without the slightest interruption throughout the mill. The seconds
  and bottle-holders did their duty like men; they remained as
  fixtures during the whole of the fight, except when the rounds were
  at an end, and their assistance became necessary.[9] The umpires
  were gentlemen—an Englishman for Spring, and an Irishman for
  Langan—and they both did their duty. They watched every movement of
  the men, that nothing like foul play should be attempted on either
  side, and had the satisfaction of feeling there was no difference of
  opinion between them in any instance whatever, and therefore no
  necessity to call on the referee. Langan was beaten against his
  will; and the conduct of Belcher deserves the highest praise as a
  second: he stuck to his man; and we must here observe that his
  humanity ought not to be called in question. He was anxious that no
  reports should reach Ireland, or be scattered over England, that he
  had given in for his man. Langan, previous to the battle, requested,
  nay, insisted, that neither his bottle-holder nor second should take
  upon themselves that decision, which, he declared, only rested in
  his own bosom. They complied with it. After thirty minutes had
  elapsed, it appeared to be the general opinion of the ring, by the
  advantages Spring had gained, that the battle would be decided in
  forty minutes; but at that period Langan recovered, and Spring
  became weaker, and the best judges declared they did not know what
  to make of it. The strength of Langan, certainly for several rounds,
  did not make it decidedly safe for Spring. The superior science of
  Spring won him the battle; and this confirmed a celebrated tactician
  in the memorable observation that he “always viewed Tom as an
  artificial fighter—he meant that he had no ‘natural’ hits belonging
  to him; and hence always placed him in the highest place on the
  boxing list.” So Tom Spring overcame the defects of nature, and,
  without what are vulgarly called great “natural” capabilities for
  fighting, has become the Champion of England. He is the greatest
  master of the art of self-defence, and, if he could not hit hard
  himself, almost prevented others from hitting him at all. His
  stopping in this battle was admirable, and he continually got out of
  danger by the goodness of his legs. Always cool and collected, he
  proved himself one of the safest men in the P.R. to back, because he
  could not be gammoned out of his own mode of milling. Before the
  company quitted the ground £50 were collected for Langan, which was
  afterwards increased three-fold. Spring was much bruised by his
  falls on the stage, and complained of them as his principal
  inconvenience. He now announced, a second time, his retirement from
  the ring.


Spring beat all the men he ever fought with in the prize ring; and in
the whole of his contests lost but one battle. It is a curious
coincidence, that on Whit-Tuesday, 1823, he defeated the formidable
Neat, near Andover, and on Whit-Tuesday, 1824, he overcame the brave
Langan. Spring, therefore, won three great battles in one twelvemonth,
and one thousand pounds into the bargain; for instance—

                           With Neat     £200
                           With Langan    300
                           Ditto          500
                                       ——————
                                       £1,000

On Spring’s return to the Swan Hotel, Chichester, he was received by the
shouts of the populace all along the road; the ladies waving their
handkerchiefs at the windows as he passed along. Langan, so soon as he
had recovered a little from the effects of the battle, left the stage
amidst loudly expressed approbation: “You are an extraordinary fellow,
Langan,” “A brave man,” etc. The Irish Champion, accompanied by Belcher
and his backer, also received great applause on his return to the
Dolphin, in Chichester. Spring was immediately put to bed, and bled, and
a warm bath prepared for him. His hands were in a bad state, and his
face exhibited more punishment than appeared upon the stage, yet he was
cheerful, and quite collected. The same kind attention was paid to
Langan; and on being asked how he felt himself? he replied, “Very well;
I have lost the battle, but it owing to my want of condition; I am not
quite twelve stone; I have been harassed all over the country; I have
travelled two hundred and sixty miles within the last two days; I was
feverish, and on the road instead of my bed on Saturday night; I wanted
rest.” After making his man comfortable, Belcher, accompanied by his
bottle-holder, and also Colonel O’Neil, in the true spirit of chivalry,
all rivalry now being at an end, paid a visit to the bedside of Spring.
Here all was friendly, as it should be, and all parties were only
anxious for the recovery of both the pugilists. “How is Langan?” said
Spring to Belcher. “He is doing well,” replied Tom. “I am glad of it,”
said Spring. “We have had a fair fight, we have been licked, and I am
satisfied,” observed Belcher. All parties shook hands over the bed of
the conqueror. On leaving Spring, Mr. Sant, followed by Tom Cribb and
Ned Painter, immediately returned with Colonel O’Neil to the bedside of
Langan. Mr. Sant observed, “Well Langan, how do you do—do you know me?
You can’t see me.” “Yes, sir,” replied the fallen hero. “I am Spring’s
backer,” said Mr. Sant, “but, nevertheless, your friend.” “I am obliged
to you, sir,” answered Langan; “if it was not for such gentlemen as you
in the sporting world, we should have no fights. Indeed, Spring is a
smart, clever fellow, and I wish him well.” “That is liberal,” said
Painter; “I am happy to hear one brave man speak well of another.” The
visitors now retired, and left Langan to repose.

Spring left his bed early in the evening; and his first visit he paid to
Langan, at the Dolphin; they met like brave men, and on taking his
departure he shook Langan by the hand, leaving ten pounds in it.

The Champion left Chichester at eight o’clock on Wednesday morning, in
an open barouche, accompanied by Mr. Sant. He was cheered out of the
town by the populace; and, on his entrance into the metropolis, he was
also greeted with loud marks of approbation.

We here close the unstained and untarnished career of Tom Spring, as a
pugilist; if we wished to point a moral to his brother professors, a
better proof that “honesty is the best policy,” than the esteem which
Spring earned and held throughout his long career, could not be desired.
This respect has exhibited itself in several public testimonials, to say
nothing of innumerable private marks of respect. Spring, who had been
keeping a house, the Booth Hall, in the city of Hereford, on the
retirement of Tom Belcher became landlord of the Castle, in Holborn;
and, as the present seems the most fitting opportunity for a brief
sketch of this headquarters of sporting, we shall make no apology for
here introducing a brief history of this once noted sporting resort.

The Castle Tavern was first opened as a sporting house about seventy
years ago, by the well-known Bob Gregson; and designated, at that
period, “Bob’s Chop House.” (See GREGSON, _ante_.)

The Castle Tavern was viewed as a “finger-post” by his countrymen, as
the “Lancashire House;” and considered by them a most eligible situation
to give their Champion a call on their visits to the metropolis. It is
rather singular that Bob Gregson rose, in the estimation of the sporting
world, from defeat; he fought only four battles in the P.R., and lost
them all. Indeed, Bob’s character as a boxer reminds us of the simile
used in the House of Commons, by Charles James Fox, who observed of the
fighting Austrian General, Clairfait, who had been engaged in
one-and-twenty battles in the cause of his country, that he might be
compared to a drum, for he was never heard of but when he was beaten.
Just so with Gregson. Nevertheless, the Castle Tavern rose rapidly into
note, soon after Bob showed himself the landlord of it.

In mine host’s parlour, or little snuggery, behind the bar—considered a
sort of _sanctum sanctorum_, a house of lords to the fancy, where
commoners never attempted to intrude upon the company—Gregson carried on
a roaring trade. “Heavy wet,” or anything in the shape of it, except at
meal-times, was entirely excluded from this “Repository of Choice
Spirits,” where Champagne of the best quality was tossed off like ale,
Madeira, Claret, Hock, and other choice wines, handed about, while Port
and Sherry were the common drink of the snuggery. It might be invidious,
if not improper, to mention the names of the visitors who spent an hour
or two, on different occasions, in this little spot, famed for sporting,
mirth, harmony, and good fellowship; let it suffice, and with truth, to
observe, that persons of some consequence in the state were to be seen
in it, independent of officers, noblemen, actors, artists, and other men
of ability, connected with the “upper ten thousand.” John Emery,
distinguished as a comedian on the boards of Covent Garden, and a man of
immense talent in every point of view, spent many of his leisure hours
in “the snuggery.” George Kent, the ring reporter, was also eminent here
for keeping the game alive. He was of a gay disposition, fond of life in
any shape; when perfectly sober one of the most peaceable men in the
kingdom, and an excellent companion, but, when he got a little liquor in
his noddle, a word and a blow were too often his failings, and which
came first doubtful. The late Captain D——, connected with one of the
most noble families in the kingdom, and one of the highest fanciers in
the sporting world, in consequence of being six feet four inches and a
half in height, was likewise a great frequenter of the “Repository of
Choice Spirits.” Numerous others might be noted, but these three will be
sufficient as a sample of the company to be met with in Bob Gregson’s
snuggery—where there was wit at will, the parties sought out each other
to please and be pleased, “Dull Care” could never obtain a seat, and fun
to be had at all times. Sporting was the general theme, but not to the
exclusion of the topics of the day. Heavy matches were made here; and
certainly the period alluded to may be marked as the “Corinthian age of
the Fancy.”

The sun, for a time, shone brilliantly over this Temple of the Fancy;
but poor Bob, like too many of his class, did not make hay while it was
in his power. The scene changed, the clouds of misfortune overwhelmed
him, and, in 1818, the Lancashire hero was compelled to take a voyage on
board his Majesty’s “Fleet,” not only for the recovery of his health,
but to obtain a certificate against future attacks of the enemy. Thus
ended the reign of Bob Gregson, at the Castle Tavern, Holborn.

For a few months a sort of stoppage occurred at the Castle; the sporting
world was missing, and comparative silence reigned throughout the house,
when the sprightly, stylish, well-conducted Tom Belcher, in the summer
of 1814 (under the auspices of his sincere friend, and almost father,
Mr. John Shelton), appeared in the character of landlord. The house had
undergone repairs; the rooms were retouched by the painter; elegance and
cleanliness, backed by civility, became the order of the day, and a
prime stock of liquors and wines was laid in. Tom’s opening dinner was
completely successful, and the Fancy immediately rallied round a hero
who had nobly contended for victory in thirteen prize battles. Tom was
considered the most accomplished boxer and sparrer of the day; and the
remembrance, likewise, that he was the brother of the renowned Jem
Belcher, were points in themselves of great attraction in the sporting
world. The Castle again became one of the most favourite resorts of the
Fancy in general.

During the time Tom Belcher was the landlord of the Castle Tavern the
famous Daffy Club was started by Mr. James Soares.

During the principal time of Tom’s residence at the Castle, the members
of the sporting world were in “high feather.” Patrons “came out” to give
it support. No man knew better how to get up a purse, make a match, or
back a man, than Tom Belcher. He was always smart, and exemplarily well
dressed, whenever he made his appearance in the ring, upon a
race-course, or indeed in any situation before the public. Belcher was a
keen observer of society: he measured his way through life, and every
step he took turned to good account. He had lots of sporting dinners,
numerous gay little suppers, and plenty of matches on the board to
excite the attention of the fancy. “The Daffy Club” became very popular
in the sporting world, and for a long time was crowded to excess;
indeed,

                 “Fortune seem’d buckled to his back!”

Everything went right; Tom stuck to the Castle—he was always to be found
at his post; and the Castle in turn fortified him at all points; and
although Tom was prompt at times to lay a heavy bet, prudence was
generally at his elbow to prevent him from getting out of his depth. Tom
was far from a gambler; the hazard table had no charms for him, and he
scarcely ever sported a shilling, except upon a horse-race or a fight.
His principal style of betting was, to use his own words, “Blow my
dicky, I’ll bet a guinea and a goose!” and if he did not like to make a
bet, he would observe, “I’ll leave it all to the cook!”

Tom Belcher, after fourteen years’ residence at the Castle Tavern, was
enabled, by his civil conduct, attention to business, and good luck, to
retire from the busy world. If Tom did not retire in a “shower of gold,”
he, nevertheless, put by a good quantity of the “sweeteners of life,” to
render his retreat to the country safe and pleasant.

At this juncture Tom Spring, who had not only been losing his time
amongst his countrymen at the Booth Hall, in the city of Hereford, but,
what was worse, his hard-earned money, was determined, when the
opportunity offered, to have another “shy” in London: therefore, after
several sets-to had taken place between the “two Toms,” the match was
made, the money posted, and Tom Spring appeared in the character of
“mine host,” at the Castle Tavern, Holborn.

The subject of this memoir did not enter upon his new capacity without
possessing the highest claims to the notice of the patrons of boxing,
from his victorious career; and no man, from his general conduct and
deportment, was considered by the sporting world so eligible in every
point of view to succeed Tom Belcher.

With the close of Spring’s life the glories of the Castle were
extinguished; but ere we chronicle this event we will pause to notice
the testimonials with which his many admiring friends at various times
presented him.

The first was a vase in silver, entitled “The Hereford Cup,” of the
weight of fifty ounces. The inscription on this local mark of esteem
from the inhabitants of his native place sufficiently explains the
motive of its donors. Its presentation and inscription will be found at
page 23.

In the following year (1824), after his first battle with Langan, some
Manchester sporting men, out of respect to his honour, integrity, and
noble maintenance of the English championship against all comers,
decided upon their testimonial in the form of a silver vase, of elegant
proportions and massive weight. This, called “The Manchester Cup,” also
decorated Tom’s buffet on public and festive occasions. It was thus
inscribed:—

                        “This Cup was presented to
                           THOMAS WINTER SPRING
                 By a Party of his Friends in Manchester,
 Not only for the Upright and Manly Conduct uniformly displayed by him in
                             the Prize Ring,
                            But also as a Man,
                   And as a Sincere Token of the Esteem
                In which they hold his Private Character.
                    Manchester, 12th of April, 1824.”

The third and most valuable public testimonial (for Tom had many gifts
of snuff-boxes, canes, pencil-cases, etc., from private friends), was
known as “The Champion Testimonial,” and consisted of a noble tankard in
silver, of the capacity of one gallon, or six bottles of wine, with a
lining of 450 sovereigns, the balance of a subscription of over £500
raised by the ex-Champion’s friends. The tankard, which was executed by
Messrs. Hunt and Roskell, is a beautiful work of art, ornamented with
chased bands of leaves of the British oak and English rose. The cover
was surmounted by a bold acorn, the outer edge having, in raised
letters, “THE SPRING TESTIMONIAL.” On the shield it bears the
inscription:—

                               “Presented
                       By Public Subscription to
                         THOMAS WINTER SPRING,
                        EX-CHAMPION OF ENGLAND,
        In Testimony of the Sincere Respect in which he is held
                  For his Pure and Honourable Conduct
                 During his Long and Unblemished Career
                      In Public and Private Life.
                                 1846.”

After an excellent dinner (on Tuesday, May 19, 1846), presided over by
the editor of _Bell’s Life in London_ (Vincent George Dowling, Esq.),
the Chairman took occasion thus to allude to the letters of various
distant subscribers: “Every letter he had seen bore testimony to the
public and private worth of Spring, and spoke of him as a man whose
unblemished integrity, benevolence of heart, urbanity of disposition,
and unquestionable courage, entitled him to the highest praise. In all
and every of these sentiments he concurred. From the first hour he had
known him he had watched his conduct, and he could conscientiously say
that in his opinion a more honest or a more high-principled man did not
exist. But in whatever light he might regard this testimony towards
Spring, it had a higher value in his eyes, as being the representative
of those sentiments of admiration with which the feelings of honour and
honesty were regarded by every class of the community. It was a proof
that such qualities were not overlooked, and he only regretted that
every pugilist in England could not be assembled in that room to witness
the fruits of a career distinguished by these virtues, as it would
afford them the best encouragement to persevere in the same course, and
probably elicit similar marks of favour.” After some further laudatory
remarks, the Chairman presented the testimonial, with an earnest belief
that it would be received with becoming sentiments of gratitude, and in
the hope that Spring might long live to see it grace his table, in
addition to his other cups, as a sterling representative of his merits,
and of the sincere respect to which he had entitled himself.

After a short pause Spring rose, almost overpowered by his feelings. He
knew not, he said, how to express in words the overflowing sentiments of
gratitude with which his heart was bursting. He had certainly
endeavoured through life to steer the straight-forward and honest
course, and when he looked inwardly he could not charge himself with
ever having given ground for shaking the confidence of his friends
(hear). Still he could not persuade himself he was better than other
men, or that he had entitled himself to this magnificent token of public
favour—for public it was, arising as it had from the spontaneous
contribution of a large and mixed portion of his countrymen—to whom he
could not say how sincerely he was obliged, or how deeply sensible he
was of their munificent liberality. When he received the cup presented
to him at Manchester, and subsequently that given to him by his friends
in Herefordshire, both of which were then on the table, and when to
these were added other tokens, less in value, but not less dearly
appreciated, he could not but feel proud; but when these were followed
by the testimonial now presented to him, he candidly confessed the
fondest wishes of his ambition had been realised. He should indeed
cherish it with a becoming sense of its intrinsic and representative
value, and would, in the closing years of his life, look back to this
day as one of surpassing interest to himself and to all those who were
dear to him. Here Spring could no longer sustain his self-possession,
and placing his hand on the tankard with deep emotion, he concluded by
saying, “I can only thank you, and all else I might say I must leave to
your own hearts to imagine.” (Loud and continued cheers.)

Caunt, Ned Neale, Frank Redmond, Johnny Broome, Owen Swift, Dan Dismore,
Joe Phelps, etc., were among the pugilists present; and Mr. Sant, one of
the earliest backers and a constant friend of Tom Spring, after a warm
eulogy on mine host, proposed “The Subscribers to the Testimonial.”

[Illustration:

  TOM SPRING’S MONUMENT IN NORWOOD CEMETERY.
]

From this period to that of his death, on the 20th of August, 1851,
Spring dispensed the hospitalities of the Castle, never losing a friend,
except by the hand of death. In his later days, family difficulties, and
too great a confidence in self-styled friends, who induced him to
execute turf commissions, and when the thing went wrong were absentees
or defaulters, added to his embarrassments. Still he held on,
universally respected by all who knew him until his 56th year, when pale
death struck him down somewhat suddenly, the blow being dealt through a
heart disease of some years’ standing. His funeral took place with
becoming solemnity on Sunday, the 25th of August, 1851, his remains
being followed by several mourning coaches and other carriages to the
grave. In the first carriage were his only surviving son, Melchior
Winter; Mr. Price, of Hereford, his solicitor and executor; his firm
friend, Mr. Elbam, of Piccadilly; and the writer of these pages. Poor
Tom lies buried in the Norwood Cemetery, beneath the monument which we
have here engraved. “Peace be to his manes!” Few men who have led a
public life have less reason to dread the last call of “Time,” than
Thomas Winter Spring.

[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER II.
               JOHN LANGAN, THE IRISH CHAMPION—1819–1824.


John Langan, one of the bravest of pugilists—and whose fortune it was to
find his ambition foiled when struggling to the topmost round of the
ladder, by the superior skill of Tom Spring, the English Champion—well
deserves a chapter in the History of Pugilism. As the author of
“Boxiana” was not only the countryman but the personal friend of Langan,
we shall accept, with a few alterations and additions, the biography of
“the Irish Champion,” as we find it in that work; and for the further
reason that it is, in its earlier pages, a lively and amusing specimen
of “the historian’s” apocrypha.

John Langan was born in the month of May, 1798, at Clondalton, in the
county Kildare. Ireland was then in the full blaze of insurrection, and
Pierce Egan tells us “that young Paddy had scarcely become one of his
father’s family five minutes, before his ears were saluted by a
tremendous fire of musketry from a party of United Men who were
attempting to get possession of a powder-mill situated within fifty
yards of his daddy’s mud edifice.” Mrs. Judy O’Shaughnessy, his nurse,
had her own way of explaining this as rather ominous that little Jack
Langan was born to make a noise in the world. The early years of little
Jack passed as is usual with lively urchins, until his father left
Clondalton, and settled in the suburbs of Dublin, at a place called
Ballybough Lane, adjoining that beautiful spot of freedom known as Mud
Island.

Langan had always a taste for milling; and his turns up at school (?),
says Pierce Egan, would fill a moderate volume. In company with two of
his school-fellows, he discovered a bird’s nest; but as the birds were
not fledged, it was unanimously agreed to leave it till a more
convenient opportunity. The boys played truant one afternoon, and went
in search of the bird’s nest, and the eldest lad claimed for his share
the top bird, which is generally considered the cock. Langan protested
against such choice, and a battle decided it; but, after a fight of an
hour’s duration, in which Jack proved the conqueror, the only recompense
he got for the scratches and loss of claret, was, upon examining the
nest, that the birds had fled during the row.

[Illustration:

  JOHN LANGAN (IRISH CHAMPION).
]

On the borders of the Dublin canal, when only thirteen years of age, he
thought himself man enough to enter the lists with a strong youth of
eighteen years of age; in fact, he stood forward as champion for his
friend, who had received a blow from the youth. In forty-five minutes,
against weight, length, and height, Langan proved the conqueror.

Shortly after the above battle, Jack persuaded his father to let him go
to sea, and, ultimately, he was bound apprentice to Messrs. Dunn and
Harris, of Dublin. Langan sailed for Oporto and Lisbon, in the New
Active, Captain M’Carthy. In Bull Bay, Lisbon, in spite of the stiletto
used by two Portuguese, he made the cowards run before him; but Jack
received a scratch or two on his body from their knives. His courage,
however, did not desert him for an instant, though he was attacked in
such an assassin-like manner.

On Langan’s passage home, he severely drubbed one of his messmates, of
the name of Dunn, who had taken liberties with the fame of Ould Ireland.
“Erin-go-Bragh!” said Jack Langan, after giving Mr. Dunn a receipt in
full of all demands, then retired to his berth to take his grog,
singing—

             “St. Patrick is still our protector,
               He made us an Island of Saints,
             Drove out snakes and toads like a Hector,
               And ne’er shut his eyes to complaints:
             Then if you would live and be frisky,
               And never die when you’re in bed,
             Arrah! come to Ireland and tipple the whiskey,
               And live ten years after you’re dead!!!”

Like all new schemes and occupations, a sailor’s life, for a short
period, was highly relished by Langan; some terrible gales of wind,
however, and a tremendous storm or two, on his return to Ireland, showed
the other side of the picture so emphatically, that Jack spoke to his
ould dad to get his indentures from the captain, as he had a great wish
to try his fortune on shore. Old Langan accomplished this circumstance
for his darling boy; and Jack was bound apprentice to a sawyer. Langan
soon became a proficient in his business, and arrived at the climax of
his trade, a top-sawyer; but he was anxious to get a cut above the pit,
and turn his hand to another account. Although but fifteen years of age,
our hero had a taste for milling; he was fond of fighting, but not
quarrelling; yet he was always ready to punish impudence and insolence,
whenever rude fellows crossed his path.

                “From little causes great events arise!”

Throwing snow-balls at each other, near the Dublin canal, produced a
most determined mill between Jemmy Lyons, a Hibernian pugilist, and Jack
Langan. It was a cool situation for a fight, but warm work while it
lasted; and Jack’s blows were put in so fast and hard upon the face of
Paddy Lyons, for the space of twenty-five minutes, that he cried out
“Enough! too much!” This turn-up was without any precision as to time:
it was pelt away, till Jemmy was carried off the ground. “By St.
Patrick,” said Jack Riley (the friend of Lyons) to Langan, “you shall
get a good bating for all your luck this time; and if you will meet me
in Cannon’s Quarry, I will soon make you cry quarter.” “And is it to me
you mane, Misther Riley, that is to ask you for quarter? Well, come on,
and we’ll soon see all about it,” replied Langan. Riley was the hero of
the Mud Island, in the milling way. In Cannon’s Quarry, Langan so served
out Riley, that when he was taken home to Mud Island he was so spoilt as
to be scarcely recognisable by his most intimate acquaintance.

Langan was now viewed as a “striking” object in Mud Island; Jack
however, was too good-humoured a fellow to be anything like a terror to
the peaceable inhabitants of that happy spot. Pat Macguire had a great
desire to take the shine out of Langan, and boasted that he would be
“number one” in the Island. “So you shall,” replied our hero, “if you
can.” But poor Pat Macguire reckoned his chickens before they were
hatched; for, in the short space of ten minutes, his peepers were
darkened, his nose swelled up to the size of two, his ivories dancing,
and the whole of his face the picture of agony and distress. Soon after
poor Pat was undressed and put to bed, he exclaimed, “By J——s, those
blows I got from Jack Langan are more like the kicks of a horse than the
thumps of a man.”

Michael Angin, who had some notions of boxing, was completely satisfied
in a single round with Langan, at Clontarf. A tremendous nobber put
Mike’s head in chancery. On returning to his mother’s cabin, she saluted
him with “Arragh! Mike, my jewel, what have you got in your mouth, that
makes you look so ugly?” “It’s Jack Langan’s fist, mother. I am almost
choked,” replied Angin, hoarse as a raven. “Take it out, my darlint,”
said his parent; “sure it is no good to anybody!”

Robert Titford, Dan Henigan (brother of the boxer of that name), and Jem
Turner, were, in succession, disposed of with apparent ease by our hero.
In short, he had no competitor amongst the boys, and therefore we will
take leave of his early turn-ups, for battles of a more manly
description.

Langan had a desperate battle with a man of the name of Hemet: the
latter person struck the father of our hero. “I will make you repent
your conduct, you blackguard,” said Jack. “A boy like you?” replied
Hemet; “I’ll kick your breech, if you give me any more of your prate.”
Young Langan, as we have before mentioned, was fond of milling; but in
defence of his father felt doubly armed; and in the course of thirty
minutes Hemet was glad to acknowledge the boy was his master.

One Savage, a man weighing about eleven stone, and twenty-one years of
age, had behaved unhandsomely to Jack three years previously to the
period when the following circumstances transpired. Langan, although not
more than sixteen years old, entertained an opinion that he was able to
take the field against Savage, and challenged him without hesitation.
Savage, with the utmost contempt, accepted the challenge, and agreed to
fight on the banks of the Dublin canal. A few friends on each side
attended to see fair play. The battle was long, and well-contested; but
night coming on, as neither of the combatants would agree to surrender,
it was deemed expedient according to the laws of honour, to fight it
out, and therefore candles[10] were introduced. But, before the glims
required topping, Langan floored his opponent, by a wisty-castor upon
the jugular, and Savage was carried home amidst the lamentations of his
friends, and the regret of Langan. Savage was washed and laid out by his
lamenting associates, and everything comfortable prepared to “wake” him.
The body was surrounded by about forty old women and men, smoking and
drinking, and bewailing his loss, interspersed every now and then with
some prime fil-la-loos. “Arrah! my dear Jemmy, why did you put your head
in the way of Jack Langan’s fist?”

In the midst of this beautiful solemnity, to the great surprise and
confusion of the company present, Mr. Savage waked himself, but, before
he could enquire into the particulars how he came into this strange
situation, the whole assembly brushed off with terror, leaving the
corpse to explain his position in the best manner he could.

Good as Langan had proved himself in the above contest, Paddy Moran
challenged our hero. The latter proposed to fight Jack upon the real
principles of milling—for love, glory, and honour. Blunt was out of the
question, for the best of all reasons—Moran had nothing in the funds.
“You shall be accommodated,” replied Langan; “it shall be for love,
glory, and honour.” It was a severe battle for fourteen rounds, and
although Moran was compelled to submit to defeat, he proved himself a
brave man, and Langan’s nob received some ugly visitations during the
fight.

Moran’s brother called Langan out to meet him in the field of battle,
the following week. Our hero, fresh as a daisy, and gay as a lark,
accepted the challenge with the utmost alacrity and when “Time” was
called, proved himself ready. Moran’s brother likewise proved a man of
excellent courage, but he had nothing like so good a chance as his
relative. After a few rounds, Langan became the conqueror, without a
mark the worse for his encounter. Norman, a pugilist distinguished in
Dublin, seconded Moran’s brother against Jack; but his conduct appearing
questionable, Langan sent a challenge to Norman.

Norman accepted the challenge, but requested to name Sunday for the time
of combat. To this request Langan positively refused; upon any other
day, he said he should be happy to wait upon his opponent. After some
little “blowing up” on the subject, it was agreed that the battle should
take place on the following Thursday. Norman, who was a deep covey, and
wishing to turn everything to a good account in which he was engaged,
gave out the mill would take place on the Sunday. He was a proprietor of
jaunting cars, and every one of his vehicles was engaged for the fight.
Some hundreds of the Fancy were completely hoaxed by being collected
together within a short distance of Old Langan’s cottage. Young Jack did
not make his appearance, to the astonishment of the spectators; when
Norman cut a great bounce, and, offered to put down twenty pounds to
back himself—well knowing Langan would not be present; expressing his
surprise at the absence of Langan, who, he told the crowd, had made a
promise to meet him. The news was soon brought to Jack of the trick
played off by Norman. He instantly started off to the public-house,
where Norman was swallowing the whiskey like water; rejoicing how he had
done the flats that day. Langan, with more courage than prudence,
without hesitation, told Norman he had conducted himself like a
blackguard. Norman, surrounded by his father, brothers, and friends,
fell upon Langan before he was scarcely withinside the door, and, with
the aid of whips, sticks, etc., so punished him that if a few of his
supporters had not rushed in, Langan might have been found as “dead as
door nail.” Jack was picked up insensible, taken home, and put to bed.

Thursday, the day appointed for the mill, drew on rapidly, when our hero
sent to Norman, trusting that he would not fail in being true to his
time. This Langan did, against the advice of his friends. Jack could
hardly lift his right hand to his head, from a blow he had received
among the mob of unmanly fellows, in the interest of Norman,
nevertheless he met his man on the North Strand, near Clontarf. The
car-keeper was seconded by Pat Halton and Cummings; and Langan by two
tight boys belonging to the “Island of Mud.” The battle lasted above an
hour, because Langan could not punish Norman with his right, but, even
in this crippled state he had so much the best of the fight, that
Norman’s friends, who were by far the most numerous, seeing that he must
lose, rushed in, separated the combatants, saved their blunt, and put an
end to the mill. Langan was exceedingly vexed that he was prevented from
dressing his antagonist as he deserved. In a few days after this affair,
about five o’clock in the morning, Jack was roused from his bed by a
violent knocking at the door. Between sleeping and waking, with peepers
neither open nor shut, he came down in his shirt to see what was the
matter. On opening the door, Jack believed he was dreaming, for, strange
to relate, he beheld Norman stripped, and in a fighting attitude. “By
J——s,” said Norman, “I have been uneasy all night. I could not sleep,
Jack, so I thought you and I could amuse ourselves very agreeably;
besides having the day before us.” “Is it a day you said?” replied
Langan; “by the Saint of Ould Ireland, I’ll settle your impertinence in
a few minutes; before I return to roost and finish my rest, I’ll pay
you, Misther Norman, for calling me up.” Langan ran over to the stream
opposite his father’s cabin, and washed his face. “Now,” said he, “I’m
ready; take care of yourself.” The novelty of this battle was, that no
umpires, bottle-holders, nor seconds on either side, were engaged. In
the short space of four rounds, it was all over. Norman napt it in such
first-rate style, that he laid on the ground like a calf, so completely
satisfied, that he never requested a third battle. Langan at that period
did not weigh more than ten stone three pounds,[11] while Norman weighed
thirteen stone seven pounds.

It was impossible for Langan to remain idle with such a reputation, as
some one or other was continually offering himself to his notice.
Slantlea, a hardy fellow, offered his services to Jack, which were
accepted without a single murmur. But to ensure success, the night
before the battle, Langan was introduced by a friend to the late Sir
Daniel Donnelly. The advice of the Irish (whiskey-punch) Champion was
asked as to the best mode of training. “Is it training you mane?”
replied Sir Dan, with a smile upon his comical mug; “by the okey, I
never troubled myself much about that training, d’ye see, which the
fellows in the Longtown make so much bother about. But, nevertheless, I
will give my opinion as to what I think necessary to be done upon such
occasions. First of all, you must take off your shirt, Jack Langan, then
walk up and down the room briskly, and hit well out with both hands, as
if you intended giving your opponent a snoozing without asking for his
night-cap. Jump backwards and forwards one hundred times at least; and
then to find out if the wind is good, for being out of breath in
fighting, my boy, is not a very comfortable thing for a distressed man.
Now, Jack,” says Sir Dan, it being then about twelve o’clock at night,
“you must go home directly, and drink half a gallon of the sourest
butter-milk you can get, and then go to bed. At five o’clock, not a
minute after five o’clock in the morning, you must get up, and run three
or four miles, and at every mile you must swig, not whiskey, by J——s,
but a quart of spring water. Mind, now Langan, do as I tell you.” Jack
thanked Sir Daniel for his friendly advice, and started off to procure
the butter-milk; but felt extremely mortified after knocking up all the
dairymen in the neighbourhood, that he was not able to buy more than
three pints. At five o’clock in the morning, although Langan had
scarcely had an hour or two of rest, he jumped out of bed to finish his
training. To make up for the deficiency of butter-milk, our hero drank a
greater proportion of water. The time appointed for the fight to take
place was six o’clock; but Jack, in his eagerness to train, was nearly
half an hour behind his time. His antagonist was upon leaving the
ground, when Langan mounted the brow of a hill, in sight of the ring,
quite out of breath, and dripping with perspiration, roared out as loud
as he was able, “Don’t go yet, man, I’ll be wid you in a jiffy!” The
ring was again formed, and Langan, hot as fire, stripped for action cool
as a cucumber.

Slantlea began well: he took the lead, gave Langan several clumsy
thumps, and had decidedly the best of the Irish Champion for the first
four rounds. He sent Langan down three times by nobbing hits; and the
friends of the former laughed heartily at the idea of his paying off
Slantlea for waiting for him. “You have got your master now, Jack,
before you.” “Be aisy,” replied Langan; “I have trained by the advice of
Dan Donnelly; I’m sure I’ll bate any opponent; only look, I’m just going
to begin!” and letting fly his left hand in full force upon Slantlea’s
head, the latter fell as if he had been shot. Poor Slantlea never
recovered from the effects of this blow; but he proved himself a game
man for thirteen rounds, when he received a finisher. It was over in
thirty-five minutes.

A porter of the name of Dalton, employed at the Irish Custom-house—a
Josh. Hudson in nature, but so fond of milling that hardly a fellow
round the Custom-house dared look at him—challenged Langan. “By the
powers of Moll Kelly,” said Dalton, “he shall find he will have
something more to do in bating me than he had with Slantlea.” The battle
took place in Gloucester-fields. Dalton pelted away like a bull-dog for
four rounds, but Langan put an end to his ferocity in the course of
three more. At the expiration of twenty-five minutes Dalton was rendered
as harmless as a mouse.

Pat Halton, at this period, was called “Donnelly’s boy;” in fact, he was
the avowed pupil of the late Irish Knight of the Sod. Langan and Halton
met at Donnelly’s house, and a match was made between them, to fight at
Ballinden-Scorney, in the county of Wicklow. On the day appointed, a
great muster of the Fancy took place; but the multitude was compelled to
separate by the horse-police, and to cross the water to form a new ring.
During the interregnum, Halton went into a public-house, kept by one
Maguire, and took a glass of liquor. When he was called out to meet
Langan, he complained that the liquor he had drunk was bad, and had made
him so unwell that he was not able to fight. Langan, of course, claimed
the money, but the stakeholder would not part with it. However, by way
of some compensation to our hero, the subscription money, £19, which had
been collected from the spectators for the privilege of the inner ring,
was given to him. This disappointment produced “lots of grumbling,”
until a new match was made. Langan full of gaiety, fond of company, and
much caressed by his friends, lived freely till his money was nearly
gone, when he was called upon once more to enter the ring with Halton.
Jack had not above a day to prepare himself, while it was said that
Halton had been training upon the sly, at Bray. “Devil may care,”
replied Langan, when he was told of it; “I am ready, even without
butter-milk, this time.”[12] On the Curragh of Kildare this battle took
place. It is but fair to state, that the mill between Langan and Halton
has been differently reported; but we are credibly informed that the
following account is a correct outline:—Coady and Norman were the
seconds for Halton, and Grace and a countryman for Langan. It was for
£50 a-side. The first five rounds were manfully contested on both sides;
but upon Halton being floored by a tremendous blow on his head, he
became very shy afterwards, and did not like to meet his man; he kept
retreating, and getting down in the best manner he could. Upwards of
sixty minutes had elapsed, and it rained all the time; Halton went down
from a flooring hit, and could not come to the scratch when time was
called. This created a disturbance, the ring was in disorder, and when
Halton came to, he said he was not licked. The backers of Langan
insisted upon the money being given up; but Donnelly, whose word was law
at that time, asserted that his boy had not lost the battle, and no
individual being found on the ground to contradict or dispute the
assertion of that mighty chief, the parties separated very much
dissatisfied at the non-decision of the contest!

A short time afterwards, Langan met with Donnelly at the Cock-pit, and
remonstrated with him on the impropriety of his conduct, in being the
cause of withholding the stakes from our hero. Some high words passed
between them, when Langan, with more courage than prudence, thus
addressed the chief of Ireland—“I know, Dan;—no, I do not know, Dan,
neither—but I think, you could bate me; yet I will hold you a wager,
that you do not lick me in half an hour, and I will have a turn-up with
you directly in the Cock-pit.” Donnelly did not appear inclined for a
mill; and, after considerable chaffing about the merits of the battle,
Langan received the money.

Our hero was now an object of envy in Dublin. Carney, a boat-builder, a
fine strapping fellow, and a milling cove into the bargain, challenged
Jack Langan for £50 a-side. It was accepted without delay, and at a
place called Saggert, in the county of Wicklow, they met to decide which
was the best man. Donnelly was present. Langan had for his seconds
Plunket and Malone. While they were beating out the ring, Langan
employed himself by using a pickaxe, digging out the scratch. Carney
asked Malone, “What Jack was doing?” “Doing, man,” replied Malone;
“don’t you know? Why Langan is one of the most industrious fellows
alive; he not only manes to bate you, but afterwards to bury you: he
digs graves for all the men that he fights with!” Carney turned pale at
the recital; his knees trembled, and he seemed frightened almost out of
his wits. His second, however, cheered him up a little, by telling
Carney not to mind such trash.[13] Carney mustered up courage, and
commenced the battle well, and with a terrifying blow made Langan kiss
his mother earth. A louder fil-la-loo from Carney’s party was never
heard at any fight, and he tried to repeat the dose in the second round,
but Langan was too clever—he made a tie of it with his opponent, and
Carney found himself at full length upon the turf. In the third round
Langan put in such a teazer, in the middle of his adversary’s nob, that
his eyes rolled about with astonishment, and he put up his hand to feel
if his head had not taken flight from his shoulders, as he lay prostrate
on the ground. This blow put an end to the fight; and Cummins, a potato
factor, and second to Carney, fell foul of Plunket, as a signal for a
riot. The ring was broken, and Langan cruelly treated. Twenty thousand
persons were present. By this stratagem Langan did not get a farthing
for the battle, which ended in a most terrible uproar.

Langan challenged Cummins for his foul conduct, although the potato
merchant weighed fifteen stone. The latter, in answer, said he would not
disgrace himself by fighting in a public ring. In the course of a month
Langan went to Palmerston Fair, to buy a horse for his father, when he
accidentally met with Cummins, who had several fellows with him. The
potato factor observed to Langan, “You had the impudence some time ago
to challenge me (then giving Langan a blow); there, take that for your
prate.” “Well,” replied Jack, “I did; and only come out and let us have
fair play, and I will give you what you deserve in a few minutes.”
Langan and Cummins immediately repaired to the outside of the fair, and,
although Langan was alone, in the course of ten rounds he punished Paddy
Cummins so severely that he could not forget for six months he had been
well thrashed at Palmerston Fair. We now come to the first authenticated
combat of Jack Langan.

Owen M’Gowran, a native of the fighting locality of Donnybrook, and a
boxer of considerable note, was matched against Langan, for 100 guineas
a-side. The contest came off on Wednesday, May 29, 1819, on the Curragh
of Kildare.

The crowd assembled was immense: vehicles of every kind were put in
requisition, and by twelve o’clock the Curragh exhibited as motley a
concourse as could be imagined. The country boys from the adjacent
counties, Wicklow and Kildare, who love a bit of sport of this kind as
well as the best of the fancy, assembled in great numbers, and all
repaired to take their places at that natural and beautiful
amphitheatre, known by the name of “Belcher’s Valley.”[14] In the centre
flat, surrounded entirely by rising hills, a twenty-four feet ring was
erected, well corded in—the amateurs paying 5s. for front seats—while
the uplands were covered with spectators. About twenty-five minutes
before one o’clock Langan entered the ring, attended by his second,
Halton, with Norman as his bottle-holder; immediately after, Owen
M’Gowran, attended by Kearney as his second, with his bottle-holder,
advanced to the scene of action. The combatants stripped, both
apparently in good condition; they shook hands with the greatest
cordiality, and at eighteen minutes before one o’clock the fight
commenced, at minute time. Betting five to four on Langan, the
favourite.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The first round commenced with cautious sparring, each man
  waiting for his adversary; both made play right and left, then
  closed, and, after some hugging, both fell, M’Gowran under. (Betting
  rising in favour of Langan.)

  2.—Each advanced cautiously to meet his adversary, warily sparring;
  at last Langan made a feint, which gave him an opening, and he hit
  M’Gowran a chopper over his right eye, which drew first blood. This
  blow had a great effect throughout the fight. They closed and fell
  together. (Four to one on Langan.)

  3.—The combatants came up with much caution, and sparred _à la
  distance_. Some smart hitting took place, but not severe; the hits
  were followed up until they closed and fell, Langan under.

  4.—Much sparring, counter-hits, but no great punishment. M’Gowran
  staggered and fell.

  5.—Similar fighting. M’Gowran grassed, but not by a clean
  knock-down.

  6.—Like the two former at the beginning. Both closed and fell,
  Langan under. (Bets still the same.)

  7.—This might be said to have commenced the fight in earnest; both
  came up determined, and desperate hard hitting took place. Each
  stood well up, and received and paid in prime style—no flinching.
  After very severe hitting, they closed and both fell together.

  8.—Both went in, showing much pluck, stood fairly up, and fought
  hard. Langan grassed his man again, although he seemed to have got
  much the worst of the hitting. (Bets even.)

  9.—Both determined milled away rapidly, and there was good
  in-fighting. They closed with equal advantage, and both went down
  together.

  10.—The combatants seemed cautious from the effects of the last
  round, and made much play, hitting wide. At last they closed more
  lovingly, when Langan was hit down, but not cleverly. (Cries of
  “Owen for ever!” from the surrounding heights.)

  11.—Very severe fighting, at the close of which M’Gowran was hit
  down.

  12.—A desperate rally commenced, and any science that either had
  heretofore shown was here out of the question: they stood close in,
  and hit as hard as they could; at last they clenched. Both fell,
  M’Gowran under.

  13.—Both came up to the scratch more cautiously, making play, the
  effects of the last round being visible on both. Some
  counter-hitting, but weak. The men parted, but neither down.

  14.—Owen placed a tremendous blow on Langan’s left side. The latter
  grunted; and, in a close, both fell, Langan under. (Loud cheering.
  Betting changed in favour of M’Gowran.)

  15.—Some severe fighting, which ended in M’Gowran’s falling.
  (Betting again even.)

  16.—Good play on both sides: closed and, parted; set-to again; much
  fighting, chiefly body blows. Langan hit over the ropes.

  17.—Langan stood to his man with spirit, and planted a severe facer,
  which uncorked the claret from M’Gowran’s nose. Both down, M’Gowran
  under.

  18.—Both very queer in the bellows; closed and parted; came up
  again—a desperate rally; parted again; time counted.

  19.—Both came up refreshed, and made play; desperate fighting.
  Langan hit over the ropes, and grassed the third time. (“Huzza for
  Paddy M’Gowran.”)

  From the twentieth to twenty-sixth round similar fighting. Both
  appeared much exhausted, and little science displayed.

  27.—Much hard hitting. Langan hit over his adversary’s right eye, as
  in the second round; M’Gowran’s claret puzzling him, he fell much
  exhausted.

  The combatants fought to the thirty-fifth round, during which time
  M’Gowran was much punished. He came in time to the thirty-sixth
  round, but finding that he had so thorough-bred a customer to deal
  with, gave up in a manly style. The fight lasted an hour and
  forty-seven minutes.


Langan, by his conquest over M’Gowran, was placed at the top of the
tree, in Dublin, as a pugilist. He threw down the glove to all Ireland,
but no boxer thought it would fit him. The gauntlet, therefore, remained
untouched, and Langan was hailed as Champion by the warm-hearted boys of
the sod. His friends, however, wished him to have a shy in the London
Ring; but, while he was undecided as to his future steps, a larger field
presented itself for the exertions of our hero.

Colonel Mead was raising a regiment in Dublin, to join the Independents
in South America, during which time the Colonel became acquainted with
Langan, and he roused in his breast so strong a sympathy for the
American sons of liberty, that Langan resolved to give his bunch of
fives a holiday for a short period, and to take up the cause of the
Independents with his sword. Jack sailed from Liverpool, with that
ill-fated expedition, in the Charlotte Gambier brig, in company with
another vessel, named La Force. Langan, being a smart, lively fellow,
was made a sergeant, as an earnest of his patron’s future intentions.
During the voyage, the privations which the crew endured were extremely
severe; but by the really patriotically inclined adventurer they were
borne without a murmur, while those individuals who embarked to obtain
wealth by their speculation—the thoughts of the gold and silver mines,
those precious metals, which their minds had flattered them might be had
for carrying away—pursued their voyage without grumbling, in hopes that
they would be paid for their troubles at last. Indeed, so strongly did
the accumulation of riches operate upon some of their feelings, that
several of the crew employed themselves in making canvass bags, out of
old sailcloth, to hold the dollars and doubloons.

The first place this expedition touched at was St. Michael’s. Colonel
Mead, in a conversation with the British Consul, mentioned Langan as a
pugilist; when the latter gentleman expressed a wish to witness an
exhibition of sparring. Langan immediately complied with the request of
the British Consul, and on board of the Charlotte Gambier some sets-to
occurred. The superiority of Langan was so great, in point of scientific
movements, over the hardy and brave sailors, that he disposed of five or
six in the style of an auctioneer knocking down a lot of sundries. From
the Azores they sailed to Tobago. In this island Langan’s brother died,
who once belonged to Admiral Nelson’s ship, the Victory. The brother of
Langan was on board when the gallant Admiral died at Aboukir Bay.[15]

The expedition then made for the island of St. Marguerite, which was
made the depôt, but more correctly speaking, the grave of the European
troops. Landed at St. Marguerite, the anticipation of wealth and glory
vanished, and the truth presented itself. Owing to the state of
starvation, the badness of the food, and the unwholesomeness of the
climate, the men, one after the other, sunk into the grave. Langan, with
a constitution unbroken, defied all the horrors by which he was
surrounded, and never enjoyed a better state of health. He was always
foremost in giving assistance to his sick comrades, and never complained
of being unwell for a single day. To describe the sufferings of this
wretched, ill-fated band, is impossible; the officers did not experience
any kinder treatment than the men. It was nothing uncommon to meet with
superior officers, with scarcely any covering upon their backs, ragged
as beggars, an old blanket thrown across their emaciated frames, with
holes made to admit their head and arms.

The proverb says that “hunger will force its way through stone walls.”
Langan, who had been without food for a considerable time, in company
with Captain Collins and Major Brian, were compelled to compromise their
feelings, and went seven miles up the country one night to pay their
respects to an inviting pig. The residence of this four-footed beauty
had been marked down in the course of the day, and the spot was soon
recognised in the dark. Our hero, who did not want for science in
flooring an opponent, was quite at a loss to quiet a pig: coaxing proved
fruitless, and the pig made so much noise that its owner was instantly
alarmed for the safety of his inmate, and a party sallied out well armed
to shoot the abductors. Langan, at this juncture, had got hold of the
pig’s leg by way of a parley; but his companions catching a glimpse of
the farmers, who were approaching in battle array, and being unarmed,
made their escape. Running away from the scene of action was so contrary
to the feelings of our hero, that he hesitated for a moment whether he
should show fight or bolt; but ten to one being rather too much odds for
Jack, he plunged into the nearest thicket and laid himself down. In this
situation he waited their approach, and heard his pursuers thrust their
rifles, with a sword affixed to the end, into every bush and thicket
which they supposed able to conceal a man. When Langan’s pursuers
approached the place where he had hid himself, they thrust the rifle,
with the sword, into the thicket several times without doing him the
slightest injury; but the last push wounded Langan in the leg. His game
was put to the test. To cry out would have cost him his life; silence,
therefore, was his only security. The armed band now retired, concluding
the borrowers of the pigs had made good their retreat. When the coast
was clear, Langan hobbled from his place of concealment, and joined his
companions in safety.

It ought to have been mentioned, that soon after Langan’s arrival at St.
Marguerite, Colonel Mead mentioned his prowess in the milling line to
Admiral Bryan, who had a _penchant_ for fistic exercises. The admiral’s
boatswain, Jack Power, bore a high character for his thumping qualities,
and was anxious to have a trial of skill with our hero. The boatswain
waited upon Langan with proposals for a match; he was received by the
latter with a hearty welcome, and the match made without delay. Three
days only were allowed for training; at the expiration of which a proper
place was selected for the mill, and a tolerably good ring made,
although not so tight and compact as the Commissary-general of England,
Bill Gibbons, might have produced. At the coolest period of the day, the
combatants, attended by their respective friends, appeared; the “legion”
of course attended to have a peep at the triumph of their countryman.
For the first five rounds the boatswain took the load: his constitution
was excellent, and his shipmates backed him to win. Jack was floored
several times, and napt lots of punishment, but his pluck never deserted
him; his superior science enabled him to get out of trouble, and his
goodness upon his legs ultimately decided the battle in his favour. The
natives appeared highly pleased with the manly exhibition; and it is to
be sincerely wished that they had also profited by such a display of
true courage over the stiletto and knife, those treacherous weapons
being generally used among the natives, the legitimate use of the bunch
of fives being unknown to them. This conquest tended to increase
Langan’s popularity, and also to establish his character as an
out-and-outer among the islanders.

At this period Langan’s rank was Quarter-master Sergeant; promotion had
been promised to him on the first opportunity, but in consequence of the
gross mismanagement of the funds, and the neglect which had occurred in
the hospital department, Jack resolved to quit the service. Langan,
therefore, left St. Marguerite, and worked his passage to Trinidad, in
company with several officers and men, whose military ardour was damped
by the want of funds and clothing, and the dreary prospects of the
expedition.

At Trinidad Jack found employment in a coaster, the property of a Mr.
Jewel, a merchant in the island. Some months were passed by Langan in
this new mode of life, when he came alongside of a Bristol man of the
name of Newton, who had milled several of Jack’s shipmates. Meantime
another boxer arrived at Trinidad, with whom Jack was compelled to enter
the lists without delay; but Jack polished off “Mr. Newcome” in such
quick and decisive style that the backers of Newton became alarmed; they
possessed influence enough, however, to induce the governor to draw his
bets upon the intended match, and in all probability, by so doing, not
only saved the honour of Newton, but also their pockets. Soon after the
above circumstance Jack sailed for Cork, on board of the Guadaloupe, of
Greenock: after a most favourable voyage he arrived at Cork in safety.
It is impossible to depict his feelings on his once more beholding his
beloved country; the ideas and anticipated delight of “sweet home!”
formed altogether a most agreeable contrast with the difficulties and
privations he had experienced in less hospitable climes.

Langan’s stay in Cork was very short, and Dublin soon became the object
of his attention; at the latter famed city, he began the world again in
the character of a publican; an employment for which it should seem that
nature had peculiarly adapted him. He was a lively fellow over his
glass, possessing a fund of wit and humour well calculated to amuse; not
forgetting, at the same time, that Jack was seconded by a fair stock of
muscle and bone, to keep up good discipline amongst disorderly or rum
customers. Thus we perceive our hero changing from one tutelary divinity
to another, discarding Mars to worship at the shrine of Bacchus! The
jolly god was delighted at receiving the devoirs of such a votary,
showering upon him his benign influence, and, for two years, Langan
carried on a roaring trade, in King Street, at the sign of the Irish
Arms, which bears the following motto:—

                         “Quiet when stroked;
                         Fierce when provoked!”

The attentions of our hero had hitherto been paid to Mars and Bacchus;
in fact, so exclusively, that Venus and Cupid were determined to resent
the insult and contempt offered to their power, through the person of
Miss Katty Flynn. Miss Katty was of true Hibernian genealogy; her father
was a dairyman, and the fair daddles of Katty, it is said, were often
employed in churning of butter.

    “Most people fall in love some time or other,
    ’Tis useless, when the flame breaks out, trying it to smother;”

and so it appeared with poor Katty. Amongst her numerous elegant
customers was the funny, joking, gay Jack Langan. Katty endeavoured to
smother the unruly flame, but all-powerful love prevailed, and upon
every succeeding visit at Jack’s crib it increased like an oil-fed
blaze. The cream of her dairy was continually offered as a present to
our hero to embellish his tea tackle; in addition to which, lots of
new-laid eggs, lumps of butter, and oceans of milk; a dietary, according
to Lord Byron, of the most dangerous excitement to amatory ideas. Jack’s
counsel urged in his defence, that instead of being the seducer, he was
the seduced: and it would be a perversion of justice if he was not
placed as the payee, instead of the payer, for endeavouring to impart
comfort and consolation to the love-stricken damsel. But despite the
sophistry of his learned counsel, the jury were ungallant enough to
award damages against him of One Hundred Pounds. This circumstance,
combined with the treachery of a friend, compelled Jack once more to
quit Ireland, and try his luck in England. A few fleeting hours enabled
our hero to lose sight of the Pigeon-house, and the charms of Miss Katty
Flynn, and he landed in a whole skin at Liverpool, where he was not long
before he found himself seated snugly in Bob Gregson’s hostelrie.

Under this friendly roof he rested himself for a few days. Jack then
started for Manchester, in which place Pat Crawley had the honour of
entertaining the aspiring Irish hero, at the Three Tuns Tavern. At
Oldham Jack followed the occupation of a sawyer, and Tom Reynolds, like
the celebrated Peter Pindar, who discovered Opie in a saw-pit, found
Langan in a similar situation. “Come up, Jack,” says Tom, “and I’ll soon
make a top-sawyer of you.” Langan obeyed the summons; and after
comparing notes together, and having a small wet, Reynolds and Langan
became inseparable friends, setting-to together, both in private and
public, for their mutual advantage. Things went on in this way for a few
months, when Matthew Vipond, alias Weeping, a Manchester man, well known
as a good bit of stuff, entered the lists with the Irish Champion, on
Wednesday, April 30, 1823. The celebrity of the pugilists drew together
five thousand persons. The battle was fought between Buxton and
Bakewell, in a field called Lydia’s Island, and certainly a better place
could not be wished for—it was a perfect amphitheatre, and every person
was near enough to the ring to have a distinct view of the men, when
seated on the ridges of the surrounding eminences. The ring, which was a
roped one of twenty-four feet square, being formed, Vipond first entered
it, and threw up his golgotha; a few minutes after Langan made his
_entrée_, and hoisted his also in the air. The Manchester man was
seconded by two amateurs, the Irishman by Reynolds and Halton. Ned
Turner and Bob Purcell also attended. About two o’clock the men peeled,
shook each other by the fives, and the mill commenced.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The men came to the scratch with good humour painted on
  their mugs, and after gathering up and breaking ground for a few
  seconds, Vipond made play, but was stopped and hit in a style by no
  means expected. Vipond got in at last, closed, and gave the
  Hibernian his first welcome to English ground by a sort of
  cross-buttock.

  2.—Vipond came up, bleeding from the left ogle, not quite so
  confident, but nothing loth, and wishing to pay with interest the
  favour received; but, alas! he was not the first man disappointed in
  good intentions, for he was met in so tremendous a manner by Pat’s
  right hand on the temple, that he was sent to the ground as if
  kicked by a horse. (Ten to one on Pat.)

  3.—The Patlanders in the last and in this round seemed frantic with
  joy; hats went up in the air, and all roaring out for the darling
  boy. Bob Purcell called out to Reynolds, “Blow my dickey, Tom, if
  you don’t keep the Murphy back he will kill his man, and you’ll get
  lagged.” This had no effect on Tom, for he sent Langan in to Vipond,
  who was staggering from the effects of the blow in the last round.
  Paddy brought him to his recollection by a blow at the victualling
  office, and following it up with another for the box of knowledge,
  Matthew went down before he received, and Langan fell also from
  over-reaching himself.

  4.—Vipond came to the scratch with far different spirits to those he
  started with: he was nervous in the extreme, and a person might
  easily guess that if he had known as much before as he did then he
  would have left Mr. Irishman for somebody else. Vipond’s ivory box
  was visited by Pat’s left mawley; by a ditto from the right, on the
  old sore on the temple, he went down, and the amateurs thought he
  would not come again. Langan during this round, and, in fact, all
  the others, was laughing.

  5.—It was astonishing how willingly Vipond came to the scratch; but
  though he made some excellent hits, none of them told, they were so
  well stopped. Unfortunately for Matthew there was a kind of magnetic
  attraction between Paddy’s left hand and the Lancashire man’s
  frontispiece, which kept the claret continually streaming, and
  before the round was half over, Matthew seemed as if sprinkled by a
  mop. This was the busiest and the longest round in the fight; it
  ended by their getting entangled at the ropes, and both were down in
  a struggle for the throw.

  6.—Vipond toed his mark, but in such a manner that any odds might be
  had against him. The only surprise was that he came at all, for he
  had had enough to satisfy an out-and-outer, without the slightest
  chance of winning. Langan, in commencing this round, nobbed him two
  or three times, and then let go a good one at the mark, but as the
  hit was going in, Vipond struck Langan’s wrist downwards, which
  caused the blow to fall below the waistband. This the seconds
  thought to take some advantage of, by saying the blow was below the
  line prescribed by the laws of fighting, and a complete stand-still
  took place, until the umpires declared they saw nothing unfair, and
  desired the fight to proceed.

  7.—The time-keepers called time, but Vipond seemed to hang fire. The
  moment he got on his legs, Reynolds sent Langan to him, and Matthew
  went to grass.

  8.—Matthew, to tell the truth, did not like the suit; and we must
  say he had no reason. When his second lifted him up to take him to
  the scratch, he declared he had been struck foul in the sixth round,
  and disregarding the direction of the umpires, declined fighting any
  more. Time was called, but Matthew slipped under the ropes and left
  the ring. Victory was then proclaimed for Langan in a shout that
  rent the skies.

  REMARKS.—This fight excited more interest in Lancashire and the
  surrounding counties, than anything of the kind that has happened in
  the recollection of the oldest man. It was a kind of duel between
  England and Ireland—the English free in backing Vipond, the Irish
  almost offended if any doubt was expressed against Paddy. Langan
  stood five feet ten inches; Matthew, five feet eleven inches and
  three-quarters, about ten pounds the heavier, and a most powerful
  man. It was, as long as it lasted, a lively fight; but Vipond
  certainly had no chance of winning. The Irishman was (a wonder for
  that nation) cool and deliberate. Independent of that, he was quick
  on his legs, hit hard, and used both hands. As a proof of the
  inequality of the men, Pat had not the slightest visible mark of
  injury about him when the contest ended. At the time the row ensued,
  and Vipond had left the ring, a man called Rough Robin, about
  fifteen stone, entered the ropes, and challenged Pat for any money.
  Langan offered to fight that instant for £5, or anything else; but
  simple as Robin looked, he had good sense enough to take a second
  thought, and said he would train first. At the conclusion, Langan
  was exultingly carried by the boys of Shillelah on their shoulders
  to his carriage, and left the ground. The following certificate of
  the umpires was considered sufficient to satisfy all parties as to
  any doubt which they might have at the time respecting the alleged
  foul blow:—


                             “CERTIFICATE.

  “This is to certify that Messrs. Swiney and Cope, being appointed
  umpires in the fight between Langan and Vipond, declare that the
  fight was fairly won by Langan.

                                                           “W. SWINEY,
                                                           “ENOS COPE.

  “_Buxton, April 30th, 1823._”


Langan, after his conquest over Vipond, left Lancashire for the Emerald
Isle, to exonerate his bail; honesty being at all times his polar star.
He had scarcely landed in Dublin, when he was compelled to spend his
time in the Marshalsea, in consequence of not being able to raise the
sum of money necessary to repair Miss Katty’s damages. Langan ultimately
got out of his love adventure by the adverse party not opposing his
discharge at the Insolvent Court; nevertheless, this bit of a love
affair made great havoc in his cash account. Shortly after our hero’s
liberation from durance vile, he received a letter from Tom Reynolds,
informing Jack that Rough Robin could be backed against him in
Manchester. He lost no time in obeying the summons; but to his great
regret, he found out it was “no go”—the Rough One did not appear at the
scratch. Langan issued a challenge to all the Lancashire boys, but
without the desired effect, and the Irish Champion could not pick up a
customer. A sporting friend recommended Langan to visit Ned Painter, at
Norwich, and under his auspices to enter the P.R. Jack would readily
have availed himself of his advice, but Tom Reynolds, under whose
guidance he was at that time, wished Langan to have a shy with Josh
Hudson, at Doncaster Races, for a subscription purse—the John Bull
Fighter having announced himself ready to meet any boxer at that
sporting town. Many slips, however, happen between the cup and the lip;
the manager of the Manchester Theatre had engaged Spring and Cribb for a
sparring exhibition; the placards announced Spring as the Champion of
England, and stated, at the same time, that the latter celebrated
pugilist was ready to fight any man in the world. Langan conceived that
the validity of Spring’s title to the championship at least demanded a
trial, and therefore, without hesitation, challenged Tom Spring for
£100. This, in the first instance, was refused by Spring, but after
several negotiations upon the subject, a match was made for six hundred
sovereigns, and the battle took place at Worcester, on Wednesday,
January 7, 1824, as may be seen detailed in the preceding chapter.

Langan, accompanied by Reynolds, appeared in London a few days after his
defeat at Worcester, and exhibited the art of self-defence at the Surrey
Theatre. He was warmly received by the Sporting World.

Thinking he was not fairly treated in his fight at Worcester, Langan
entered into a second match for 1,000 sovereigns.

For the details of this gallant contest we must also refer to the memoir
of the victor. To the minutiæ there given we must here add a few proofs
from contemporary publications of the deservedly high position in which
Langan’s gallant conduct placed him with the public at large and
sporting men generally.

Spring, it cannot be denied, received considerably more punishment in
this battle than in any of his previous contests. This speaks for
itself, and refutes the imputation of Langan being a bad fighter. The
hero of the black fogle hit hard at a greater distance than most boxers.
Mr. Jackson went round the ring and collected several pounds for Langan;
and in the course of a few minutes, as a proof of how high the Irish
Champion stood in the opinion of the amateurs, Pierce Egan collected on
the stage, from a few gentlemen, £12 16s., of which sum Mr. Gully
subscribed five sovereigns. The following letter from John Badcock (the
Jon Bee of Sporting Literature) forms a fitting accompaniment to the
appended verses in praise of Langan:—


  “Well, sir, there is redemption in Gath, and the Philistines are
  discomfited, the Puritans overthrown, the Parliament of the
  Barebones dissolved, the opponents of the fancy defeated in their
  designs, the impugners of manhood laughed into scorn. There have now
  been no beaks, no x x’s, like clouds and storms upon the pugilistic
  hemisphere; we have had a noble, manly, fair British fight—the flag
  of the P.R. is again triumphant, and the colours of both the
  combatants covered with glory. The conqueror has reaped new laurels,
  the conquered has renewed and refreshed his: Spring has been truly
  triumphant, but Langan is not disgraced—as the old Major says,
  ‘quite the contrary.’

  “You have acted, and you have written nobly, sir, about the
  discomfited son of Erin: you have rendered unto Cæsar Cæsar’s goods.
  I am an Englishman, and I love, I reverence, the land of mawleys and
  roast beef; but I can respect our brethren of the Union, and speak
  well of the country of shillelahs and potatoes. The hero of the
  sable banner shall yet be a conqueror—‘quoit it down, Bardolph!’—and
  so, my jolly Daffs, let us have a stave for the Black Fogle.

                                                     “JOHN OF CORINTH.

                    “THE BLACK FOGLE.

      “‘Hic Niger est, hunc tu Romane caveto.’—_Old Classics._

  “‘He sports a black flag, ye millers beware of him.’—_Modern
     Classical Translation._

  “Hail to brave Pat! though he’s had a sound thumping,
    Long life to the Champion from Ireland so dear;
  Strike up, ye fancy coves, and be all jumping,
    To give the brave Paddy a benefit clear,
          Crest of John Langan—
          Faith, ’tis a queer ’un,
    A fogle of sable as black as can be,
          And he hath stuck to it,
          Though without luck to it—
    Whack for the fogle and Jack Langan’s spree!

  “Oh! ’tis a colour that ne’er shall grow whiter,
    The blues and the yellows may flaunt it amain,
  But the black flag that waves for the Paddy Bull fighter,
    If torn a small bit shall not nourish a stain,
          Hudson may puff away,
          Sampson may blarney gay,
    Still ’tis no Gaza to yield to his blow;
          Shelton may shake a fist,
          Ward he may try a twist,
    And be one in chancery if he does so.

  “Drink, Paddies, drink, to your hero from Erin!
    While manhood shall flourish, and true friendship thrive,
  So long for your Champion his ensign be wearing,
    ’Tis defended and held by a good bunch of fives.
          While the ring flourishes,
          And Erin nourishes
    Freedom and fancy and true sporting joys,
          The black flag shall have a toast,
          The P.R. shall ever boast
    The fogle of sable and Langan, my boys!”


Langan took a benefit at the Fives Court on Thursday, July 1, 1824, when
that popular place of amusement was crowded to suffocation, and numbers
went away disappointed, not being able to procure admittance. Hundreds
of amateurs were quite satisfied at getting a short peep now and then at
the stage, and a great number of persons left the Court without being
able, with all their efforts, to obtain a single glimpse of the
sparring; indeed, it was such an overflow as almost to render the safety
of the spectators doubtful. The sets-to were generally good.

Loud cheers greeted the appearance of Spring, and also Langan, upon the
stage. Neither of the heroes had yet recovered from the effects of their
then recent contest. The set-to was a fac-simile of the battle in
Chichester, the length of Spring giving him the advantage; it, however,
gave general satisfaction. At the conclusion Langan addressed the
audience in the following words:

“Gentlemen.—The first wish nearest my heart, is to return thanks for the
kindness and attention I have received in this country. I trust you will
believe me, when I say, that I do not appear here in anything like a
national point of view. There is no man loves Ireland and her sons
better than I do. My pretensions are to show as a man among pugilists,
and to contend for the Championship of England. I will contend with
honour, and that shall be my pride, or I should be undeserving of that
patronage which you so liberally bestowed upon me. When I met the
Champion of England at Manchester, my friends backed me for the sum
which was asked, £300. I would be proud to have my name enrolled in
history amongst those brave champions, Jem Belcher, Pearce (the Game
Chicken), John Gully, Cribb, and Tom Spring. I am now willing to accept
a challenge to fight any man in England—to fight for that proud and
enviable title, for the sum asked of me by Spring—£300.”

Jem Ward then mounted the stage, and said he was willing to fight Langan
for 200 sovereigns.

Langan—I’ll accept your challenge if you’ll make it 300, but I’ll not
fight for less—it would be beneath the dignity of the distinction at
which I aim, to fight for a smaller sum.

Ward—I am willing to fight for £300 if my friends will make up the sum.

Here the matter ended, and nothing decisive was done.

The Irish hero arrived in Bristol, on his way to Dublin, on the 11th of
July, 1824, but the packet not being ready to sail, he immediately set
off by the steam-boat for Tenby, in Wales, in order to meet with the
steam-packet for Waterford. In his journey through Pembroke and Milford
he met with a very kind reception from the Welsh people. Langan put up
at the Nelson’s Hotel, in Milford. Crowds of people surrounded the house
during his stay; and the sailors, who were wind-bound, came on shore,
along with the crews of two revenue cutters, just to get a peep at the
Irish milling cove. The inhabitants of Tenby wished him to spar for a
benefit, and some gentlemen amateurs offered him their assistance, but
Langan refused to accept their kind offer, on account of his father’s
illness. He sailed in the Ivanhoe steam-packet for Waterford, on the
14th.

In the second fight with Spring, our hero, during one of his severe
falls on the stage, injured his shoulder so seriously, that upon
Langan’s application to Mr. Cline, the celebrated surgeon, the latter
gentleman informed him he must not fight for a twelvemonth. In
consequence of this advice, Langan kept aloof from the prize ring, and
went on a sparring tour, in various parts of England, with Spring; paid
a visit to Dublin, Cork, and various other parts of Ireland, with great
success, and likewise went on a similar expedition with Peter Crawley to
Liverpool, Manchester, etc. Jack improved considerably during his
practice with the late ponderous host of the French Horn.

Lots of letter-writing passed between Langan and Shelton on the subject
of a fight, but it all ended in smoke. Ward and our hero had also a few
words on the subject of a mill, but no battle was the result. For
several months after Langan’s fight with Spring, the pain in his
shoulder operated as a great drawback to his exertions in setting-to.
Jack could not hit out with effect.

We copy the following letter from a Dublin journal, to show the feelings
of our hero upon the subject of a challenge:


                 “_To the Editor of_ FREEMAN’S JOURNAL.

  “SIR,

  “May I request you will contradict a statement which appeared in
  your paper of Saturday, in a letter signed ‘Paul Spencer,’ in which
  it is stated that during my stay in Cork I was challenged to fight
  an English soldier for £150, and that I did not accept the
  challenge. I have not been challenged by any person whatsoever, and
  therefore the statement in the letter signed ‘Paul Spencer’ is
  utterly without foundation. There are certain persons in Dublin with
  whom I would not associate, and who, in consequence, have felt a
  soreness that fully accounts for the occasional squibs which now and
  then appear in print to my prejudice, and which I hold in the utmost
  contempt.

                                      “I remain your obedient servant,
                                                        “JOHN LANGAN.

  “_April 22, 1826._”


For some months Langan was completely lost sight of by the London Fancy;
at length he was heard of as the proprietor of a snug public-house in
Liverpool. Here his lively disposition, civility of demeanour, industry,
and attention gained him hosts of friends. Langan sang a tolerably good
song, and told a story well. He was the first to prevent a brawl, the
last to provoke any one, or to suffer any one to be insulted in his
house, and ever ready to lend a hand to any one in distress—colour,
country, or profession disregarded. He gained the esteem of all who knew
him; he accumulated money, and took an hotel, which he termed St.
Patrick’s, at Clarence Dock, from whence he after some years retired
with an ample fortune. At his house he had a large room; in this place
he nightly placed beds of clean straw, rugs, etc.; it was a nightly
refuge for every Irishman that chose to apply. Let the tongue be but
tipped with a bit of the brogue, “Come in and welcome,” said Langan,
“only, lads, let me take away your reaping hooks and shillelahs—there is
a clean bed, a warm rug, and lashings of potatoes, for the honour of the
land we all come from.” This Langan did, unaided by any subscription,
for years. Such a fact needs no comment. We could enumerate a hundred
acts of his charity—he did not wait to be asked.

Here, for many years, he lived honoured, respected, and prosperous; but
latterly his health failed, and he retired from the bustle of business
to a house at Five Lanes End, Cheshire, where, on the 17th of March (St.
Patrick’s Day), in the year 1846, he departed this life, aged
forty-seven.

It was with deep regret that we heard of the demise of the brave, the
good Jack Langan. Brave he was, as his conduct in conflict showed; good
he was, as perpetual acts of benevolence proved. He was a boxer, a
prize-fighter—no matter, a profession never yet disgraced a man, if he
took care not to disgrace the profession. Langan, though poorly educated
was a man of superior mind; he was, to speak of them generally, better
educated than the class with whom his name was associated; and in power
of observation, acuteness of reasoning, was, in fact, far above many who
walk in higher places.

The sun never rose on a braver or a better man; and hundreds of poor
Irishmen have cause to bless his memory. One of those domestic
afflictions that are utterly beyond remedy increased the maladies to
which he had been long subject, and we fear we may, to use a common but
expressive phrase, say that he died of a broken heart.

                  “Light lie the earth on his grave.”

[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER III.
                         NED PAINTER—1813–1820.


Edward Painter was known to the past and to not a few of the present
generation, as a worthy specimen of the English boxer—a race of men, we
fear, well-nigh extinct. To the first, as one of the gamest of pugilists
that ever pulled off a shirt; to the second, as a respectable and worthy
tradesman resident in Norwich, but ever and anon visiting his old
friends and patrons in the great metropolis, when some “event” occurred,
in which those he knew in former days required a hand; or when some
public or charitable object could be assisted by “Old Ned’s” showing
with Tom Spring, Peter Crawley, Jem Ward, one or other of the
distinguished “big ’uns,” who were contemporary with his ring career.

[Illustration:

  NED PAINTER, OF NORWICH.

  _From a Drawing by_ GEORGE SHARPLES, 1824.
]

Ned Painter was born at Stratford, Lancashire, within four miles of
Manchester, in March, 1797, and, as a young man, followed the calling of
a brewer. His connexions were respectable, and young Ned bore the
character of a well-behaved, civil fellow. A difference with a big
fellow in the brewery, one Wilkins, led to a blow from that personage,
and its return by the youthful Ned. A cartel from Wilkins was boldly
answered by Painter, and they met in due form in the yard of the Swan
Inn, Manchester, when Ned so quickly polished off the “big one” that he
gave in after a very few minutes. Ned’s master, who was a spectator of
the affair, complimented him for his courage and skill, and, as Ned
himself said, gave him the idea of his own boxing qualities.
Accordingly, when Jack Carter, “The Lancashire Champion,” as he
vauntingly called himself, was exhibiting in Manchester, in 1811,
Painter, at the solicitation of his friends, was induced to offer
himself for a set-to. The specimen he gave with the gloves confirmed
their good opinion that he was the “right stuff,” but required a little
more polish to spar with a full-blown “professional.” Painter, at this
time, was in his twenty-fourth year, his weight thirteen stone, his
height five feet nine inches and three-quarters, and his bust, when
stripped, an anatomical study for symmetry and strength. Few men, at
this time, or in after years, could throw half a hundred-weight near to
the distance to which Painter could sling it with comparative ease. Our
hero, thus qualified, presented himself to his fellow countryman, Bob
Gregson, at the Castle, as an aspirant for fistic fame. Bob, at this
time, was a sort of Mæcenas of millers, as boxers were then termed, and
his house the mart for match-making. He welcomed the arrival of this
promising young Lancastrian, and soon found him an opponent in one
Coyne,[16] an Irish boxer from Kilkenny, six feet in height, and
fourteen stone in weight, who also ambitioned a name. The articles fixed
40 guineas a-side as the stake, and the men met at St. Nicholas, near
Margate (in the same ring as Harmer and Ford), August 23, 1813. Painter
was attended by his friend Bob Gregson, and Joe Clark; Coyne was
esquired by Joe Ward and Hall. The men lost little time in preliminary
sparring, and, considering the size of the Hibernian, Painter’s
confidence was more conspicuous than his science. He went up to the head
of Paddy, and put in one two, but got it heavily in return, and as the
rally went on the weight and length of Coyne bored him gradually back on
to the ropes, where he escaped cleverly, and “upper-cut” his opponent
amidst some applause. Another rally and both napped it heavily; the
round ending in Painter down, but the larger share of punishment
certainly to Coyne, whose appearance excited much amusement. His arms
were unusually long and lathy, and his face long also, with sharp-cut
features and a prominent “cut-water;” indeed, after a little of
Painter’s painting, it is compared by the reporter to that of the Knight
of La Mancha—he of “the woeful countenance;” the swinging of his arms,
too, resembled that of the windmill sails so unsuccessfully attacked by
Cervantes’ hero. The mill, however, went on merrily, Painter receiving
far more than he need have received, but for his eagerness to “polish
off” his man triumphantly. Paddy was game as a pebble; but Painter, by
his skill, gradually obtained a decided lead, and ended each round by
milling poor Coyne to grass. After forty minutes, during the latter part
of which time Coyne acted as “receiver-general,” Painter was hailed the
conqueror.

Alexander, known as “The Gamekeeper,” who had, a short time before,
defeated the game Jack Ford, at Hayes Common, now challenged Painter,
and the match was made for 60 guineas a-side. The Fancy betted two to
one on Alexander! The battle came off at Moulsey Hurst, on Saturday, the
20th of November, 1813. Gregson and Tom Owen were the knowing seconds to
Painter; Old Joe Ward and the veteran Paddington Jones attended to the
Gamekeeper. At one o’clock the men stood up, there being scarcely a
point to choose, in height, weight, or length of arm.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Painter gave evidence of improvement, and immediately went
  to work with both hands. The Gamekeeper, equally on the alert, hit
  Painter on the head. Some blows were exchanged, when Alexander went
  down, from a slip on his knee.

  2.—Some caution before blows were exchanged. Alexander did not show
  himself off in the superior style which had been anticipated.
  Painter proved himself an equal, if not a superior fighter to his
  opponent. They fought their way into a close, and in going down, the
  Gamekeeper was undermost. (Five to two now vanished, and level
  betting was the truth.)

  3.—Both on their mettle. Heavy exchanges occurred in a sharp rally.
  Painter was thrown.

  4.—Milling, without ceremony, hit for hit. This was the evenest and
  best contested round in the fight. The Gamekeeper planted a
  desperate blow on Painter’s ear that staggered him. Both their nobs,
  from heavy punishment, were metamorphosed. The claret was first seen
  on Alexander’s face. Painter went down from a slip. Great applause.

  5.—Both distressed at the scratch. The efforts of the last round had
  winded them. Alexander was soon down. (Betting now took a turn, and
  Painter was the favourite.)

  6.—The superiority was now decidedly on the part of Painter.
  Alexander endeavoured to keep pace with his opponent, but had the
  worst of it at every move. In closing the Gamekeeper was thrown.

  7.—Alexander took the lead in this round. He nobbed Painter twice
  under the ear, without return. Both down.

  8.—Both combatants appeared to have out-fought themselves, and
  sparred for wind. In closing, both down, but Painter uppermost.

  9.—It was now a blinking concern, both their peepers being
  materially damaged. The Gamekeeper’s right hand appeared to have
  given way, and he made his blows at random. Painter took the lead in
  fine style, and finished the round by flooring his adversary. This
  was the first knock-down blow.

  10.—Painter still kept the advantage, but in closing both down.

  11.—Alexander contested his ground ably, but Painter had the best of
  the hitting. In struggling to obtain the throw the latter
  experienced a severe cross-buttock.

  12.—It was altogether a sporting fight; another change had taken
  place, and the Gamekeeper appeared the freshest man. Alexander
  commenced play with increased spirit. A desperate rally took place,
  in which Painter received a severe blow again under his ear, and he
  was ultimately thrown.

  13.—The Gamekeeper kept the advantage, and also brought into play
  his left hand, which had hitherto been neglected. Painter exhibited
  great weakness, and Alexander improved this opportunity with
  considerable skill by putting in some good blows, and ultimately
  obtained the throw. Alexander was again the favourite in point of
  betting.

  14.—One of Painter’s eyes was completely closed, and the Gamekeeper
  did everything in his power to put the other into a state of
  darkness, but in this attempt he was floored so severely by Painter
  that he went down nob foremost.

  15.—In favour of Painter; but both down, and Alexander undermost.

  16 to 20.—These rounds were in favour of Alexander, who fought with
  his left hand at Painter’s half-closed eye. The latter stood up
  manfully to his opponent, but seemed incapable of hitting
  effectively. Alexander was best in wind and strength, and was booked
  as the winning man. (Three to one was boldly offered in his favour).

  21 and last.—Such is the uncertainty of war, that although victory
  seemed within the grasp of Alexander, yet from a straight
  well-directed hit at the “mark,” Painter was announced the conqueror
  in a twinkling. It positively electrified the “knowing ones” (who
  had just before sported the odds against Painter), to see Alexander
  stagger away from his opponent. The Gamekeeper fell heavily and
  could not be brought to time. The battle continued for near forty
  minutes.

  REMARKS.—This was a proud day for the Lancashire fancy, and Bob
  Gregson felt considerable exultation in having produced a hero who
  bid fair to obtain a high place on the roll of fame. Painter was
  brought home to the Castle Tavern with the honours of a triumphal
  entry.


Painter, from this conquest, was deemed a match for Tom Oliver; but here
the smiles of conquest deserted our hero, who experienced a most gallant
defeat. For an account of this memorable battle, see Life of OLIVER,
Chapter IV.

For a purse of 50 guineas, without training, Painter entered the lists
with Shaw, the life-guardsman, at Hounslow Heath, on April 18, 1815.
Nothing but true courage could have induced Painter to contend with an
opponent so much his superior in every point. Shaw was upwards of six
feet in height, and above fifteen stone in weight. Having the
advantages, also, of military exercise every day, a good knowledge of
pugilistic science, frequent practice with the gloves, and so confident
of success, that he had challenged all England. Painter, on the
contrary, was a debtor in the Fleet, and had only obtained a day-rule.
The odds, in consequence, were two to one on the life-guardsman. Cribb
and Oliver seconded Painter. The latter set-to with great gaiety, and
the soldier did not appear to have much the best of him, but the length
and weight of Shaw ultimately prevailed, and numerous terrible hits were
exchanged. It was piteous to view the punishment Painter received, and
the game he exhibited astonished every one present. The long arms of
Shaw were truly formidable, and he stood over Ned, planting his blows
with confidence. Painter received ten knock-down blows in succession;
and, although requested to resign the battle, not the slightest chance
appearing in his favour, he refused to quit the ring till nature was
exhausted. The battle lasted twenty-eight minutes.

At Carter’s benefit, at the Fives Court, on Tuesday, March 11, 1816,
Oliver and Painter set-to; the latter boxer was considered to have
rather the best of it, and, in one instance, Painter hit Oliver away
from him with such violence against the rail of the stage, that it was
broken. This circumstance occasioned considerable conversation among the
amateurs; and, at a sporting dinner which occurred soon after at
Belcher’s, the friends of Painter, in order that he might have a chance
to recover his lost laurels, subscribed £100 towards a second combat. It
was generally thought that Painter was much improved from frequent
practice with Carter, in their sparring tour in various parts of England
and Ireland, and it was argued that it was during his “noviciate” he was
defeated by Oliver. The following challenge was, in consequence, sent by
Painter:—


                            “_Castle Tavern, Holborn, March 21, 1817._

  “E. Painter’s compliments to Mr. T. Oliver, and challenges him to
  fight, on Thursday, the 22nd day of May next, in a twenty-four feet
  ring, half-minute time between each round, a fair stand-up fight,
  for one hundred guineas a-side. The place to be appointed by and
  stakes deposited with Mr. Jackson, who, Mr. Painter understands, is
  willing to contribute a purse of twenty-five guineas to make up the
  one hundred. An early answer is requested.”


The following answer was returned:—


  “Tom Oliver, with compliments to Mr. Painter, informs him he has
  received his most welcome challenge to fight him. Oliver certainly
  cannot refuse to fight him on the day appointed, but requests it to
  be understood, he will not fight for a smaller stake than £100
  a-side, independent of the purse which may be thought proper to be
  given by the Club.

  “Oliver also begs leave to inform Mr. Painter, he agrees to his own
  proposal, that is, to make it a stand-up fight, in a twenty-four
  feet ring, at half-minute time between each round; and also the
  place to be appointed by Mr. Jackson; and, if it meets his pleasure
  (which it does his most unexceptionably) to deposit the whole stakes
  in his hands. Your early answer to the above terms is requested, in
  order that he may apprise his friends to come and make a deposit.
  They will either meet you at my house, or he will meet you and them
  at Mr. Thomas Belcher’s, in Holborn, at his.”

  “Peter P. Weston—_22nd March, 1817_.”


  “Mr. Painter has to inform Mr. Oliver, that having waited upon Mr.
  Jackson with the above reply, it is contrary to the rules of the
  Pugilistic Club to give a purse of twenty-five guineas when the
  battle-money amounts to £100.

  “_Castle Tavern, March 24, 1817._”


The following articles were, at length, most amicably agreed to:—


                                     “_Castle Tavern, April 10, 1817._

  “Thomas Oliver and Edward Painter agree to fight, on the 19th of May
  next, for 100 guineas a-side, in a twenty-four foot ring, a fair
  stand-up fight, half-minute time. The fight not to take place within
  twenty-five miles of London. Twenty guineas are deposited in the
  hands of Mr. Belcher, which deposit is to be forfeited, if the whole
  of the money is not made good on the 2nd May, at T. Oliver’s, Great
  Peter-street, Westminster. The men to be in the ring precisely at
  one o’clock.

                                           “THOMAS OLIVER, HIS ✗ MARK.
                                           “EDWARD PAINTER.”

  “Witnessed by T. W. and J. H.”


The stakes were made good as stipulated, and the odds were six to four
on Oliver. The sporting world, however, experienced great disappointment
from the unexpected interruption of the fight. Oliver, from an
information laid against him at Worship Street, Moorfields, was brought
from Riddlesdown, where he was in training, to the above police-office,
and bound over to keep the peace for a twelvemonth, himself in £200, and
two sureties in £100 each. Both combatants felt equally mortified in
being thus defeated without a blow. A trip to Calais was talked of among
the swells, as the only safe mode of evading this untoward circumstance.
Oliver and Painter were both eager for the fray, and “Mossoo” might be
treated to an opportunity of witnessing _le boxe Anglaise_.

To keep the game alive, a match was proposed between Painter and Sutton,
a strong, bony, long-armed, man of colour, aged twenty-seven years, who
made a début in the ring, on the casual offer of a purse, at Coombe
Warren, on May 28, 1816, with an old black man. From his sets-to, soon
afterwards, with Cooper and Oliver, at the Fives Court, it was thought
he displayed capabilities; and his fight with Robinson, at Doncaster,
not only confirmed this opinion, but produced him numerous patrons. He
also fought a man of the name of Dunn, for an hour and seven minutes, at
Deptford, with success. Sutton was well known to be a desperate
punisher, without fear, possessing great strength, a penetrating eye to
direct his efforts, and tolerably well thought of by the milling
fraternity. He and Painter met on Wednesday, the 23rd of July, 1817, at
Moulsey Hurst, and boxing annals do not record a greater exhibition of
pugilistic heroism. Painter was finally defeated, after a battle of
forty-eight minutes, which was “anybody’s fight” up to the last round.
Painter strained every nerve to turn the chance in his favour, but in
vain. He fought till nature refused to second his will; and more sincere
regrets were never expressed at the defeat of any pugilist, for Ned had
earned hosts of friends by his inoffensive disposition and respectful
demeanour in society.

It was not to be expected that so courageous a boxer as Ned Painter had
proved himself to be should “rest and be thankful” under the dark shade
of this black defeat. Accordingly he at once demanded of his sable
victor another trial, which Harry Sutton most cheerfully granted,
nothing doubting to score another win. Bungay, in Suffolk, was the spot
pitched upon, and the stake 100 guineas. On the morning of the 7th of
August, 1818, the rendezvous being the ancient city of Norwich, whence
Painter was backed, the amateurs were in motion, and not a coach,
chaise, cart, or any sort of vehicle whatever, could be had, all having
been previously engaged for the mill. Notwithstanding the rainy state of
the weather, myriads of pedestrians were pouring in from all parts of
the county, and by twelve o’clock not less than 15,000 persons had
assembled upon Bungay Common. The ring was formed in a superior style to
those made at Moulsey or Shepperton. Besides the enclosed quadrangle of
twenty-four feet for the combatants to engage in, an outer roped ring
was placed, leaving a clear space of twenty yards for those persons
connected with the fighting men to walk round without confusion. Outside
this stood the pedestrians several rows deep; and three circles of
wagons surrounded the whole, giving the ring the appearance of an
amphitheatre. Every person could see with the utmost ease, and all was
conducted with good order. The spectators were unusually silent for such
an occasion, though the combatants were much applauded upon entering the
ring. Painter was seconded by Tom Belcher and Harry Harmer; Sutton
attended by Tom Owen and Richmond. About ten minutes after one the men
shook hands and set-to. Five and six to four upon Sutton.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The fine condition of Painter attracted the attention of
  every eye, and the formidable bulk of Sutton was equally imposing.
  Nine minutes elapsed before a hit occurred, during which much
  science was displayed. The Black, it seems, had undergone some
  previous rehearsals, and his “cue” was “steady,” which was given to
  him by his second, Tom Owen, in order not to make the first blow.
  The attack, however, was begun from Sutton, which Painter returned
  by a right-handed hit at the Black’s nob. A rally followed, and
  Painter’s superior skill milled the man of colour most successfully.
  Painter at length got away, when a second rally occurred, and Sutton
  was floored by a right-handed hit on his jaw. The first blood was,
  however, drawn by Sutton, slightly, from Painter’s nose. (Great
  applause.)

  2.—The science of Painter was much admired, and the knowledge of
  boxing displayed by Sutton far above mediocrity. Painter planted,
  with much adroitness, a severe bodier, and got away, the Black
  following; but he received a facer, till Painter made a sudden
  stand, and again floored the nigger. (Six to four against Sutton.)

  3.—The success of Painter rendered it necessary for Sutton to alter
  his previously planned system; and Owen, upon the alert, like a
  skilful general, loudly observed to Sutton “to fight his own way!”
  This hint was enough, and the man of colour went to work without
  loss of time. He endeavoured to plant a terrible blow with his left
  hand, which Painter stopped in a scientific manner. The Black now
  seemed determined on doing some execution, and Painter appeared
  equally resolute. They stood up to each other as if insensible to
  the effects of punishment, exchanging hits with all the celerity of
  blacksmiths striking at an anvil, till they became exhausted, when
  Painter was thrown in closing. In this round the advantages were
  considered on the side of Sutton; but the claret run down in a
  stream from his left eye. The nob of Painter was rather damaged, and
  one of his ogles slightly marked. (Even betting.)

  4.—The man of colour seemed bent on milling, and rallied in a most
  heroic style. Finer courage or greater resolution could not be
  witnessed. The gameness of Sutton was the object of admiration from
  all the spectators, and the true bottom exhibited by Painter equally
  impressive. It is impossible to particularize the blows that passed
  between them in this round, more than to observe that they were
  dreadful indeed. Sutton not only received a severe bodier, but so
  tremendous a blow on his nob that it was distinctly heard all over
  the ground. Painter went down easy.

  5.—Half a minute was too short apparently for the men to come up to
  the scratch anything like themselves, and both commenced sparring to
  recover wind. The Black at length made play, but out of distance,
  and got again severely nobbed. He, without dismay, fought his way
  manfully in, although he had the worst of the punishment. One of
  Painter’s listeners received a heavy hit, and, in closing, he was
  thrown.

  6.—Sutton’s nob, from the milling it had undergone, and the singular
  contrast of the red streams upon his coal black phiz, would have
  been a fine subject for the strong imagination of a Fuseli. Some
  reciprocal hitting occurred, when Painter’s back was accidentally
  turned for an instant upon his opponent, but he soon righted
  himself, and in a sharp contested rally planted a good blow on the
  head of Sutton. In closing, Painter went down.

  7.—In this round the superiority of fighting was decidedly on the
  side of Painter, who, with much skill put in a “winder,” and also
  planted a severe blow on his opponent’s punished head. The men
  opposed each other like lions, till Painter fell, rather exhausted
  from the exertions he had made. Sutton was equally distressed, and
  staggered like a drunken man. He appeared scarcely to know where he
  was.

  8 to 10.—The fine condition of Painter was manifest in these rounds,
  and he recovered himself with advantage in all of them. His improved
  science was evident.

  11.—Sutton proved himself a troublesome customer to be got rid of,
  and in the most manly style he endeavoured to get a change in his
  favour. The head of the Black, terrific to view, was again punished;
  but the left ear of Painter received so sharp a hit that the blood
  ran down his back. In closing, both down. It was evident Sutton was
  beaten, and Tom Belcher went up and asked the question, but the
  seconds of the Black reproved him for the interference.

  12.—In this round Painter astonished his most intimate friends, from
  the superiority of science he exhibited. Sutton had no chance left
  him now but desperation, and he bored in, regardless of the
  consequences. His nob came in contact with the left hand of Painter,
  and the claret followed profusely. Still the gameness of Sutton was
  not to be denied, and he contended bravely. Painter, in getting away
  from his impetuosity, found himself awkwardly situated against the
  stakes of the ring, when he fought his way out in the Randall style,
  and extricated himself from his perilous position cleverly. He also
  showed the advantage of giving, and the art of not receiving. The
  Black’s nob was again punished out of all shape, and fibbed so
  sharply that the claret flowed from his ear. It was a terrible
  round, and Sutton was all but done.

  13.—The Black was nothing else but a “good one,” or he never could
  have met his man again. In fact he appeared stupid as to scientific
  movements, but, nevertheless, rushed at his opponent pell mell.
  Painter, quite collected, stopped the desperation of the Black with
  the utmost ease, and nobbed him at will. Painter received a chance
  hit upon his cheek, but in return he floored Sutton. The Black was
  now so dead beat that he resigned the contest in a whisper to his
  seconds. He was requested to try two rounds more, which he gamely
  did, but it was only to add to his punishment. At the end of the
  fifteenth round he could scarcely articulate in reply to Belcher,
  who had crossed the ring, “he would fight no more.”

  REMARKS.—One hour and forty-two minutes had elapsed, and a braver or
  a more manly battle does not stand recorded in the annals of
  pugilism. Sutton weighed thirteen stone nine pounds, being two
  pounds heavier than his opponent; he was also about three inches
  taller; his arms too were considerably longer than Painter’s.
  Several of the spectators were so pleased with the manliness
  displayed by the combatants, that, in the impulse of the moment,
  they drew Painter and his seconds off the ground in their
  post-chaises into the town of Bungay, where females were seen waving
  their handkerchiefs from the windows as he passed through the
  streets to the inn. From the superior style with which this victory
  was gained Painter raised himself high in the opinion of the
  sporting world. True, that to good condition and active and careful
  training, he was much indebted for conquest, opposed to a man of
  almost Herculean strength and pluck. His first battle lost with
  Sutton proceeded greatly from a deficiency of tone in the system,
  but he was now able to face his man for an hour and forty-two
  minutes without difficulty; whereas, in his former contest with this
  sombre hero his distress was so great that he could not lift up his
  hands. At Bungay he came into the ring so confident in mind and firm
  in his person that he took the fight out of Sutton at an early part
  of the battle. It was good training that enabled him to do this.
  Painter, it was remarked, could have fought much longer had it
  proved necessary. The advantages of a scientific second were
  manifest throughout the fight, from the improved system of tactics
  pursued by Painter upon this occasion. “Gladiator in arena capit
  consilium,” was said two thousand years ago, and Tom Belcher being
  at Painter’s elbow, the defensive plan was acted upon with judgment
  and success; indeed, according to the expressed opinion of many of
  the best informed, the prompt advice and superior skill of Belcher
  tended in an eminent degree, in addition to the tractability of
  disposition and courage of Painter, to ensure victory. Comparison
  proves the fact. The latter, in his second contest, hit and got
  away; while in his first battle he went in boldly, opposing strength
  to strength; hence he was defeated, the length and weight of Sutton
  overpowering him. In the character of a second, from his experience
  and practice as a scientific pugilist, Tom Belcher, if not superior,
  was not excelled by any boxer. The result of this contest completely
  deceived the knowing ones, as the odds were greatly in favour of
  Sutton previous to the fight; and Oliver, the conqueror of Painter,
  backed the Black freely on the ground, so sure was the event
  considered.


Painter called, the morning after the battle, upon Sutton and left him a
_douceur_. The sporting people of Norfolk, it appears, were highly
gratified at the manner in which the battle between Painter and Sutton
was conducted. Belcher, Harmer, Richmond, Owen, Oliver, etc., exhibited
at the Norwich Theatre in the evening, after the battle, and their
efforts to amuse were respectably attended.

We have noticed Painter’s athletic capabilities; he, about this time,
proved winner in several foot races. In a trial of strength in a field
belonging to the White Hart, Commercial Road, Stepney, March 21, 1817,
Painter undertook, for a wager of 10 guineas, a dozen of wine, and a
good dinner for twelve, to throw half a hundred-weight against a
gentleman of the name of Donovan, of immense Herculean proportions, and
renowned for his prodigious strength. Mr. Donovan called on Painter to
“set” a throw, which he did (with his coat on). The distance, though
unfortunately not recorded, was so great that Mr. Donovan, after every
preparation, could not touch it by eighteen inches and a half.
“Painter,” adds the report, “has, as yet, beaten every competitor in
this feat, from England, Scotland, and Ireland.” A fine athletic young
man, called “Spring,” was matched by Scroggins to run the distance of
five miles against Painter, for 10 guineas. It was a hasty bet on the
part of the latter, and undertaken without training. The race was
decided on the 7th of November, 1817, from the four mile stone on the
Essex road. Painter merely jogged on before Spring at starting, when the
latter took the lead, and kept it for nearly two miles and a half, the
distance of running out, Painter keeping close at his elbow, compelling
Spring, as it were, to use his best speed. Painter now shot by him like
an arrow, touched the handkerchief first, and returned to run the two
miles and a half in. Spring was so dead beat, and out of wind, at the
corner of White Post Lane, three miles and a half, that he could proceed
no farther. Painter continued to run in gallant style, at the rate of
ten miles an hour, and arrived at the place of starting at the
expiration of thirty-five minutes and a half. This great feat for “a big
one” like Painter, was loudly cheered on his touching the winning post.

At this period a young “big one” from Herefordshire, whose career was
destined to be of the brightest, had just arrived in the metropolis,
determined, as he himself declared, to go in for the Championship. The
friends of Painter thought that Ned was the very man to check his
aspiring flight, and a match was made for 100 guineas, when Painter was
defeated by the future champion, on Mickleham Downs, in thirty-one
rounds, occupying eighty-nine minutes, giving reason to many of the
“knowing ones” to remember their lack of wisdom on the 1st of April,
1818, as will be found in full under the memoir of Tom Spring, in the
first Chapter of this Period.

The friends of Painter were not satisfied that their man was defeated
upon his merits, and made another match for 100 guineas a-side so early
as April 10, at the Castle Tavern, Holborn, each party depositing 10
guineas. The contest to take place on Friday, the 7th of August, 1818.
Tom Belcher took an active part in making this match, feeling confidence
in Painter. Nearly four months was allowed him to recover from his
accident, and it was also inserted in the articles, that the ring should
be made with eight instead of twelve stakes. The betting immediately
commenced at six and seven to four on Spring. It also continued in
favour of the latter during the time of training. The former backers of
Spring betted upon him freely; even many of Painter’s friends changed
sides.

The fight took place on a piece of ground called Russia Farm, four or
five miles from Kingston, and was well attended. Painter had for his
seconds Belcher and Harmer; Spring was waited on by Cribb and Clark.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Both the combatants stripped with great confidence.
  Painter, attributing his loss of the last battle to an accident,
  appeared to feel that he had an opportunity to recover his blighted
  laurels. Spring, equally satisfied that his victory was due to his
  superior science, seemed conscious that conquest would again crown
  his efforts, but in less time. Great caution was observed on both
  sides, and between four and five minutes elapsed in endeavouring to
  gain the first advantage, when Spring made play, but Painter stopped
  his left in good style. Painter now appeared bent on mischief, and
  skilfully measured his distance, making a feint with his left hand,
  and, with a tremendous right-handed blow over Spring’s eye, not only
  produced the claret copiously, but floored him like a shot. This
  decided two events upon which many wagers were depending, namely,
  first blood and first knock-down blow. Loud shouting from the Castle
  side of the question; the betting was reduced to even, and Painter
  much fancied.

  2.—The last blow might be said almost to have made the fight
  Painter’s own. Spring was evidently confused from its great
  severity, and the claret running down in streams, Painter lost no
  time, but endeavoured to improve his success, and immediately went
  to work. Some slight hits were exchanged, and in struggling for the
  throw, Painter went down undermost.

  3.—Spring showed that he did not mean to let Painter have it all his
  own way, and gave the latter a heavy nobber. Exchanges, and both
  down.

  4.—A short but sharp round. In throwing Spring proved that he was
  the stronger man.

  5.—Two nobbing counter hits, that made both men go back a little. In
  closing, Painter got his opponent’s nob under his left arm, and
  endeavoured to fib him, but Spring, with much dexterity, stopped
  Painter’s hand, and ultimately threw the latter heavily. (Bravo,
  Spring!)

  6.—This was a most manly round. Reciprocal hitting occurred. The
  punishment was heavy, but Spring had rather the best of it, and got
  Painter down.

  7 and 8.—The combatants were both rather winded, and became cautious
  of getting into work. Slight exchanges till both were down.

  9.—This was nothing else but a fighting round. Hit for hit occurred,
  till at the close of a rally Spring received a terrible blow upon
  his ear, that brought the claret freely. Spring reeled from its
  severity, and Painter was the favourite at seven to four. Spring
  went down to avoid a close.

  10.—Spring came staggering to the scratch, evidently suffering from
  the last hit. He, however, went to work in the most gallant style,
  and in a rally gave Painter “pepper;” but the latter got away
  scientifically. In a close, Painter was thrown.

  11 to 13.—Spring had the worst of these rounds, nevertheless he
  displayed great game.

  14.—In this round the turn was on the side of Spring; he had not
  only the best of the hitting, but knocked Painter off his legs. (“Do
  that again, Spring, and you’ll win it.”)

  15 to 22.—Painter decidedly took the lead in all these rounds. A
  tremendous rally occurred, when Painter finished the round by
  fibbing Spring down.

  23 to 30.—It was almost a certainty that Spring must lose the
  battle; he was getting worse every round, but his game was of the
  first quality.

  31.—This round, it was thought, would have finished the contest.
  Spring received a tremendous hit on his jaw, and went down
  exhausted. “It was all up,” was the cry, any odds upon Painter, and
  even that Spring did not again come to the scratch.

  32 to 42 and last.—Spring was satisfied that he could not win, yet,
  like a brave man, he was determined to continue the battle while a
  chance remained. He came up for ten rounds, but could not plant
  effectively. He was hit on the ear in the last round, and fell dead
  to time. He did not give in; that is, he did not say No. It was over
  in one hour and four minutes.

  REMARKS.—Painter displayed great coolness and judgment in this
  fight, and having so able a general as Tom Belcher for his second,
  was greatly in his favour. Spring never recovered the severity of
  the blow on his eye in the first round, but his game was of so
  staunch a quality that his fame rose by defeat, and the loss of the
  battle was attributed to the chance of war.


Painter now publicly declared that he would not fight any more prize
battles. Indeed, he took his farewell of the ring, with a benefit at the
Fives Court, in a combat with Richmond, on Monday, the 7th of September,
1818. Spring was extremely anxious for another trial; but Painter
positively refused. After spending a few months at Lancaster, and not
finding a house it London to suit him, Painter left the metropolis, and
commenced publican, in Lobster Lane, Norwich, under the most flattering
auspices of the sporting people of the above ancient city. Here Painter
enjoyed a quiet life, till the following circumstance, in November,
1819, put him “on the fret.”

Some aspersions having been made upon the character of his first battle
with Spring, at Mickleham Downs—indeed, an influential amateur having
declared it to have been a cross—Painter indignantly repelled the
accusation. He immediately set off for London, determined to undergo the
most rigid examination by the supporters of the P.R. In the fight in
question, in the second round, Painter received a knock-down blow, and,
in falling, his head not only came in contact with one of the stakes of
the ring, but his shoulder also received a violent contusion. He,
however, continued the battle for one hour and twenty-five minutes; but,
retiring from the contest without much punishment, gave rise to the
report in question. Painter, at the time, procured the assistance of one
of the most eminent surgeons in the kingdom, Mr. Cline, (a gentleman
totally unconnected with the sporting world) to reduce the fracture. On
Thursday, November 5, 1819, an application was made to Mr. Cline as to
the fact, when he immediately wrote a certificate, which stated the
injury Painter had received on the curve of the shoulder bone had
rendered him incapable of using his arm at the time specified. This
document was put into the hands of the members of the P. C., and the
result was satisfactory. Ned’s integrity was declared to be without a
stain.

The following paragraph appeared on November 21, “The amateurs of
Norwich will back Painter for 100 guineas, or more, and also give a
purse of £50, if Spring will contend with Ned at Norwich. The patrons of
the science, also, will give Spring £20 towards his expenses.”

In consequence of this challenge, a match was made between Spring and
Painter, on the Tuesday following, at Cribb’s, the Union Arms, Oxenden
Street, “to fight on the second Tuesday in February, in a twenty-four
feet ring, thirty miles from London. An umpire to be chosen by each
party, and Mr. Jackson as the referee; fifty guineas a-side to be
completed in the course of three weeks at Cribb’s, and the remaining
fifty at Harmer’s the last Tuesday in January, or the deposit money to
be forfeited.”

The friends of Painter, however, forfeited to Spring, or rather, the
gentleman who somewhat hastily put down the £5. In consequence, however,
of a challenge that Tom Belcher would back Oliver against Painter for
£100 a-side, within thirty miles of London, and deposit £20, pp., the
gage was taken up with great spirit by the sporting men of Norwich,
which led to the following articles of agreement:—


                                       “_Castle Tavern, May 20, 1820._

  “Edward Painter agrees to fight Thomas Oliver for a purse of 100
  guineas, on Monday, the 17th July, within twenty miles of the city
  of Norwich. To be a fair stand-up fight, in a twenty-four feet ring,
  half-minute time. An umpire to be chosen by each party, and a
  referee selected on the ground by the umpires. Ten pounds a-side are
  deposited in the hands of Mr. Soares, and the remaining ten pounds
  a-side to be made good at the Castle Tavern, on Monday, May 29,
  between the hours of seven and eleven o’clock. The forty pounds to
  be placed in the hands of Mr. Jackson. Either party declining the
  contest to forfeit the deposit money; but if a fight takes place,
  Oliver to draw the £40. The purse to be given by the Pugilistic Club
  at Norwich. The place of fighting to be left in writing for Oliver
  and his friends, at the house of Mr. Painter, on the Saturday
  previous to the battle. The gate-money to be divided between Oliver
  and Painter, and their respective seconds and bottle-holders. The
  purse to be placed in the hands of a banker previous to the day of
  fighting.

                           “Signed, in behalf of PAINTER,   C. T.
                                           “For OLIVER,   T. BELCHER.”


The betting was six to four on Painter. He was decidedly the favourite
in the metropolis; but in Norwich, long odds were laid on him. So great
was the interest that, for a week before the fight, numerous parties
left London daily to be sure of witnessing the battle. The stage
coaches, besides a variety of vehicles from London, were filled inside
and out for some days previous to the appointed time; and small groups
of persons mustered of an evening in the streets of Norwich to hail the
arrivals. In short, the ancient city appeared as much alive upon the
subject as on the eve of an election. This sensation was also felt for
miles around Norwich. The spot selected for the combat was North
Walsham, sixteen and a half miles from the above city; and so little
apprehension was entertained of the fight being interfered with, that a
stage was built upon the ground for the accommodation of the spectators.
In short, this fistic tourney engrossed the conversation in Norwich.

On Monday, July 17, 1820, every vehicle in Norwich was engaged to go to
the scene of action. People were in motion by four o’clock in the
morning; and in the streets which tended towards the place of contest
the doors and windows of the houses displayed groups, eager to witness
the departure. The road to North Walsham, which is delightful and
picturesque, was thronged with carriages, equestrians, and pedestrians.
To give some idea of the appearance the route presented, it may be
mentioned that at least twelve hundred vehicles, of various
descriptions, are ascertained to have passed over Coltishall Bridge. By
ten o’clock, North Walsham was literally crammed with strangers; and the
arrival of persons, continued up to two o’clock, from all the roads
leading to the fight, baffled description.

In the field, a stage of a hundred yards in length was erected for
spectators; and a circle of about sixty wagons was formed round the
outer roped ring, at about ten yards distance from it, which were also
filled with spectators. In the space between the outer and inner ropes
some few persons were likewise admitted. The ring was similar to that of
the Pugilistic Club, and the stakes were also of the same colour. Upon
the whole, it was better made, and the accommodation it afforded to the
spectators, as well as to the combatants, was superior to the London
ring. £50 were collected at the gate (the pedestrians being made to
tip), and the stage produced £80. The greatest order prevailed; the
decorum of the thing was kept up by Shelton, Randall, Turner, Scroggins,
Eales, Josh. Hudson, Harmer, Purcell, Teasdale, etc. And the immense
concourse of assembled faces above faces, rising in amphitheatric tiers,
formed an extraordinary and an interesting sight.

About a quarter before one o’clock, Oliver, dressed in white trousers, a
black waistcoat, and a green great coat, made his appearance, and threw
up his hat, followed by the Champion of England (Cribb) and Belcher. A
clapping of hands took place. Some little time elapsed, and Painter not
making his appearance, Cribb asked one of the Norwich Committee where
Painter was? The question had scarcely escaped the lips of Cribb when
enthusiastic shouts announced the approach of Painter. Upon throwing up
his hat the shouting was universal; the clapping of hands, and the noise
of upwards of thirty thousand persons, was like a roar of artillery.
Painter was without his coat, and on his entering the ring he
immediately and cordially shook hands with Oliver. Spring and Paul
attended upon Painter.

Some demur took place respecting the division of what is termed the
gate-money,[17] Oliver claiming half the cash taken for admissions upon
the stage, and also the money collected in the sixty wagons upon the
ground. This claim was resisted by the Norwich Committee, who insisted
that the stage and wagons were an entire gift to Painter. Here Cribb
offered to bet a guinea that no fight would take place. The articles
were now resorted to, and a gentleman from London, one of the umpires,
decided that, according to the articles, Oliver was not entitled to the
stage or the wagons, although the latter did offer to pay half of the
expenses. This knotty point being settled, the scratch was made, and a
toss-up took place between Cribb and Spring for the shady side of the
ring, which was won by the latter. The combatants then stripped. The
colours, yellow for Painter, and blue for Oliver, were tied to the
stakes; the ceremony of all the parties shaking hands was not forgotten.
The moment so long wished-for had now arrived, and the boxers prepared
to set-to. Five-and-a-half to four were the real odds upon the ground.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Oliver appeared in good condition. He fought in striped
  silk stockings; and the symmetry of his form was not only attractive
  to the amateur, but the lovers of anatomy had before them a capital
  subject in the action and development of his muscles. Painter was
  also in tip-top trim, and though he had been reduced in training
  nearly two stone, he was effective for every purpose. On the men
  placing themselves in fighting attitudes, caution was the order of
  the day. After eyeing each other for about a minute, Oliver made an
  offer to hit, when Painter got away; Oliver in turn now got away
  from a hit made by Painter. Oliver hit short. Painter endeavoured to
  put in a tremendous hit, which was stopped in first rate style by
  his opponent. Painter got away from another hit. Oliver stopped a
  heavy hit, and gave a loud “ahem.” The combatants seemed tired of
  holding up their arms, and stood still and looked at each other, and
  after a pause Painter put in a tremendous hit on Oliver’s neck.
  Painter ran in to follow up his success, but Oliver stopped him with
  the accuracy of a Randall. Some heavy hits were exchanged, and in
  closing Painter endeavoured to fib Oliver, when the latter in the
  first style of the pugilistic art, broke away from him. (Applause.)
  Both were piping a little, and Oliver gave Painter a slight tap on
  the body. Each in turn stopped scientifically. Painter put in two
  hits, and after severe exchanges the men again broke away. Oliver
  hit Painter on the nose, when the combatants fought into another
  close, and Painter again attempted the weaving system, when Oliver
  used Tom Owen’s stop for a short period, till Painter got away in
  gallant style. Each man now made himself up for tremendous hitting,
  and the stopping was admirable on both sides. Painter put in another
  severe hit on Oliver’s cheek. The men closed, and in a struggle for
  the throw, Oliver got Painter down. Rather better than ten minutes
  had elapsed.

  2.—First blood was now decided, as it was seen trickling from
  Painter’s nose. Oliver endeavoured to plant a nobber, which Painter
  stopped, and laughed at him. This second round was longer than the
  first, but the caution and mode of fighting was exactly the same.
  Oliver got a hit on the nose; he also broke away from a close in
  great style, and gave Painter so severe a blow on his right cheek,
  that red ink was the result. Oliver put down his hands, and both
  seemed exhausted from the length of the round. In closing, Painter
  weaved down Oliver at the ropes. The applause was loud. Twenty-four
  minutes had now elapsed.

  3.—Oliver appeared rather to more advantage; he nearly closed
  Painter’s right eye, and to prevent being fibbed held his hand at
  the ropes, and ultimately got him down.

  4.—This was a sharp set-to. Hard exchanges; both down very much
  distressed.

  5.—Oliver hit Painter’s left cheek, and produced the claret in a
  twinkling; but, in a short rally, Oliver, from a tremendous hit on
  the side of the head, went down. Twenty-nine minutes.

  6 and 7.—Both piping a little. Oliver broke away from the weaving,
  but after some sharp exchanges, both went down in struggling for the
  throw. Thirty-seven minutes.

  8.—One minute, and no hit made. Oliver at length put in a sharp
  facer, which was returned in a counter by Painter. A long pause.
  Oliver met Painter in the front of the head, as he was coming in to
  mill. Severe exchanges, till both down. The Norwich people were
  silent, and exhibited symptoms of fear for the result.

  9.—Painter’s right eye was rather troublesome to him, and he put up
  his finger; but he hit Oliver hard upon the side of his head. Some
  sharp blows passed, to the advantage of Oliver, who now with great
  force floored Painter.

  10.—Oliver had rather the best of this round; but, in struggling for
  the throw, Painter fell upon him so heavily, that the wind seemed
  shaken out of him.

  11.—Oliver made a good hit; but at the ropes he was again down. It
  was still thought he would win it, by the Londoners.

  12 and last.—Oliver made play, put in a sharp facer, and got away;
  in fact, he generally showed fight first. Two terrible counter hits
  occurred, and both the combatants went back. Some sharp blows
  passed, when Painter followed up Oliver to the ropes, where the
  latter received a tremendous blow upon his temple, that floored him.
  When time was called, he could not appear at the scratch. The hat
  was, therefore, thrown up, and the victory proclaimed for Painter.

  REMARKS.—When Oliver recovered from the state of insensibility into
  which the last blow had thrown him, he rose (as if from a trance)
  from his second’s knee, and going up to Painter, said—“I am ready to
  fight.” “No,” said Painter, “I have won the battle;” upon which
  Oliver, in the utmost astonishment, asked his second why he had not
  picked him up sooner? The reply was, “Why, Tom, I could not wake
  you.” Painter walked two or three times round the ring after the
  fight, and then returned to North Walsham. Oliver, after resting
  himself on his second’s knee for about a minute, dressed himself,
  put the yellow handkerchief round his neck, and sat himself down
  upon some straw to see the next fight. Oliver has declared to
  several of his friends since, that the blow operated upon him like a
  shock of lightning, rendering him totally insensible. Oliver’s face
  bore scarcely any marks of punishment. Painter, in point of
  appearance, had received most about the head; but neither could be
  said to be much hurt. Painter showed great activity and goodness
  upon his legs, and stopped in good style. The Londoners were much
  mortified at this “chance blow,” as they termed it. Oliver appeared
  greatly dejected at losing the battle; but the punishment the
  combatants received was so light for such heavy men, that they were
  up at an early hour next morning to breakfast.


It is remarkable that Painter, at the first attempt, was defeated by
Oliver, Sutton, and Spring, but that in each case on demanding another
trial, he reversed the verdict, and proved the conqueror in all three
instances.

At a public dinner at North Walsham, after the battle, Painter, on his
health being drunk, repeated the declaration he had made, previous to
his encounter with Oliver, that he would never fight again; and this
resolution he adhered to.

Painter now lived retired from the ring, but was a publican for many
years at the Anchor, in Lobster Lane, Norwich; he afterwards removed to
the Market Place, and died in that city on the 19th of September, 1853.

[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER IV.
         TOM OLIVER (COMMISSARY-GENERAL OF THE P.R.)—1811–1831.


Tom Oliver, originally a member of the most ancient of callings—a
gardener—lives in the memory of hundreds of modern ring-goers as the
civil, active, diligent, and respectable _custos_ of the P.R. ropes and
stakes; enjoying in a green old age, despite occasional twinges of the
gout, the post of “Commissary,” assisted latterly in his duties by his
son Fred, also known as a pedestrian. Tom, who was a fine specimen of
manhood, entered the ring somewhat late in life. An anecdote is
preserved that his first appearance in the ring was owing to his
accidentally witnessing the battle between Silverthorne and Dogherty, at
Coombe Warren, in January, 1811, where Tom was engaged in digging and
planting. He is said to have remarked on their display—“Well, if you
call this prize-fighting, I’ll be hanged if I don’t think I could fight
a little,” and he determined to put his abilities to the test of
experiment. At his début Tom received the appellation of “The Battersea
Gardener,” from his general place of employment; he was, however, born
at Breadlow, in Buckinghamshire, in June, 1789. He left his native place
a mere boy, and lived in the service of Mr. Baker, a gardener at
Millbank. Here he made his first attempt at milling, with one Kimber, a
stonemason from Walham Green. The battle took place in the dominions of
old Caleb Baldwin, Tothill Fields, Westminster, for a couple of guineas
a-side. Oliver was seconded by Silverthorne and Byrne. It was a heavy
fight for an hour and forty minutes, when Oliver’s strength and game
prevailed, and he was hailed the conqueror.

Oliver’s second engagement also took place in Tothill Fields, with a
fighting man denominated “Hopping Ned.” The sum fought for was four
guineas a-side. Oliver, rather diffident of his own abilities, when
pitted against a scientific pretender, proposed that the loser should
receive two guineas by way of consolation for defeat; but Ned, confident
in his own prowess, scouted the idea, and declared the entire sum should
go to the conqueror, which was ultimately agreed to. But such is the
uncertain fate of war, that “Hopping Ned,” who had congratulated himself
with what ease and dexterity he would serve out the Gardener, was, in
the short space of a quarter of an hour, so completely milled out of all
conceit of his fighting, that he was reluctantly compelled to cry,
enough! He was convinced of his error by retiring severely punished,
without the benefit of the two “quid.” Oliver was so much in obscurity
at this period that the fighting men present seemed rather shy in
seconding him, and a novice must have performed that office, if
Silverthorne and old Dick Hall had not appeared, and stepped forward to
bring their friend through the piece.

On the 2nd of June, Oliver fought with Harry Lancaster, at Newman’s
Meadow, near the turnpike, at Hayes, Middlesex, for a subscription purse
of twenty guineas. Caleb Baldwin seconded Oliver, and Paddington Jones
attended upon Lancaster. Harry, who had a sparring reputation, cut a
sorry, figure before Oliver. In fact, on the part of Lancaster, it was a
most contemptible fight. Oliver was everything, and in the short space
of eighteen minutes was proclaimed the conqueror. So easy a thing did it
appear to the spectators, that it was the general opinion Oliver could
have won without taking off his clothes.

Oliver, somewhat more experienced, next entered the prize ring with
Ford, for a subscription purse of twenty guineas to the winner, and five
guineas to the loser, on the 6th of October, 1812, at Greenford Common,
Middlesex. Caleb Baldwin and Silverthorne were his seconds; and Tom
Jones and Joe Norton officiated for Ford. The latter was deficient in
weight, but considered the most effective boxer. Little more was known
of “The Gardener” than that he was a good man; but an opinion was
entertained that his milling abilities were rather moderate. He was slow
in hitting, and not looked upon as anything of a punisher. Previous to
the battle it was even betting. During a contest of two hours and ten
minutes, his patience, courage, science, and fortitude, were completely
put to the test. It was not only a battle of experience, but a proper
day of trial to him; and it will hereafter be seen that he completely
profited by it. To detail the numerous rounds would be superfluous, but
the odds changed several times during the fight. Ford, in the fifth
round, put in a tremendous blow on Oliver’s eye, which nearly closed it
up; this raised the betting six to four on Ford. From the tenth to the
fifteenth round Oliver took the lead, when Ford, recovering from his
weakness, again kept the advantage for some time. It might be said to be
reciprocal fighting for about an hour and a quarter, when Ford felt
convinced that every art and stratagem must be adopted. Oliver received
heavy punishment in the face repeatedly, and had few opportunities of
returning, as Ford generally fell on making a hit. Every manœuvre was
practised to tire out “The Gardener;” but he at length triumphed over
all the shifting, notwithstanding he was nearly blind the last half hour
of the battle. The game of Oliver claimed universal praise; for few men
possess fortitude enough to have endured such an irritating opponent.
They were both terribly punished.

[Illustration:

  TOM OLIVER.

  _From a Drawing by_ WAGEMAN.
]

From the sound pugilistic qualities developed by Oliver, he became an
interesting article to the Fancy, and the afterwards renowned George
Cooper (see _ante_, p. 303, vol. i.), was selected as a competitor for a
subscription purse, at Moulsey Hurst, on May 15, 1813. Bill Gibbons and
Caleb Baldwin were seconds to Oliver; Richmond and Jones for Cooper.
Betting six to four on “The Gardener.”


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Milling seemed determined upon by both, and set in with
  unusual severity. The Gardener, in putting in a right-handed hit,
  met with a severe return, and a good rally followed. The men closed,
  but soon broke away, and again rallied courageously, when Cooper put
  in a severe blow upon the neck of his adversary, who gallantly
  returned. Strength was now resorted to, when Oliver went down. So
  severe a first round has seldom been witnessed.

  2.—Cooper hit his opponent on the head, who not only returned
  severely, but also threw him. The odds rose considerably, and a few
  offered two to one on Oliver.

  3.—A better round was never seen, nor was greater courage ever
  displayed by pugilists. Both combatants full of gaiety showed
  themselves off to great advantage; and a great many hard blows were
  exchanged. Towards the close of the round Cooper suffered severely
  from the fibbing he received from Oliver, who got his head under his
  left arm.

  4.—The scene was now materially changed, and Cooper played his part
  with so much judgment, that it became even betting. In a desperate
  rally, Cooper planted a terrible hit, and as Oliver was going in to
  return the favour, Cooper measured his distance so accurately, that
  he again hit Oliver between his jaw and ear with such tremendous
  force, that he went down as if he were “finished.” Cooper took the
  lead most decidedly in this round.

  5.—The admirers of bravery and manhood were anxiously interested.
  Each man claimed equal attention. If the one was brave, the other
  proved himself equally courageous. But Cooper reappeared to have the
  advantage also in this round, from the great facility with which he
  used both hands. He hit Oliver to the ropes, where he was thrown.
  Betting stationary.

  6.—This round was bravely contested. A severe rally took place, but
  terminated in favour of Cooper, who got his man down.
  Notwithstanding the manhood displayed by Oliver, it was evident he
  had not got the better of the severe blow he received in the fourth
  round.

  7.—Cooper put in a tremendous blow upon Oliver’s eye, just as he
  commenced a rally. This round was also bravely fought. Several heavy
  hits were exchanged, when Oliver was thrown.

  8.—A small change took place. Cooper seemed rather distressed, and
  Oliver appeared getting fresh. A long and hammering rally occurred,
  but Oliver had the best of it, and Cooper went down exhausted.

  9.—Cooper now showed he was no stranger to the science, and adopted
  his master’s (Richmond’s) plan of hitting and getting away. He, with
  much adroitness, put in a body blow and got away, but the Gardener
  was not to be had upon this spoiling suit; by watching the manœuvres
  of the enemy with vigour and caution, and by his prudence, he gained
  the best of the round, and threw his man.

  10.—Cooper now appeared much fatigued, yet his game was good.
  Oliver, perceiving the chance was in his favour, lost no time in
  going in, when Cooper was levelled. Oliver, the winning man, five to
  one.

  11.—Oliver showed himself a cool and steady fighter, possessing good
  judgment, and determined resolution. He was now winning fast, and
  again sent his man down. The exertions of Cooper were manly and
  firm, but his strength was so reduced that he could not check the
  successful career of his antagonist.

  12.—Cooper now only stood up to receive punishment. He was so much
  exhausted, that his blows produced no effect upon Oliver.

  13 and last.—It was pitiable to view the gameness of Cooper induce
  him to make another effort, as he was now so beaten that he could
  not deliver a blow, whereupon Oliver was declared the conqueror, in
  seventeen minutes.

  REMARKS.—Two such boxers do not often meet, and, it might be
  observed, it was the best and most evenly contested battle that had
  been witnessed for a long time. Bravery and science marked both
  men’s efforts. The game of Oliver was clearly manifested with Ford,
  but his marked improvement in science claimed peculiar attention. He
  was cool, steady, and confident, and used both his hands with much
  greater facility than heretofore. The severe checks he received from
  Cooper in the fourth, fifth, and sixth rounds, enough to terrify
  most men, did not deter Oliver from persevering until he became the
  conqueror.

  Cooper, although defeated, must be viewed as a pugilist of no common
  pretensions. He is a diffident young man, and this operated as a
  sort of drawback to him during the mill. It was his second attempt,
  he having but a short time previously defeated Harry Lancaster.
  Cooper is a first-rate pugilist, a hard and quick hitter, and
  possesses courage of the finest quality, with science that gives him
  a good place among the list of prime boxers.


Oliver acquired considerable fame in conquering Cooper, and was deemed
an equal match for Painter, who had distinguished himself by two recent
conquests, and was looking forward to the highest honour of the ring.
When this match was first made known, Painter, being the heavier man,
was rather the favourite, but on the night previous to the battle, the
odds had changed eleven to eight on Oliver.

On Tuesday, May 17, 1814, they met at Shepperton Range, for a purse of
£50, given by the Pugilistic Club, to be contended for in a twenty-four
feet ring. Oliver was seconded by the Champion and Clark, and Bob
Gregson officiated for his friend and countryman, Painter. At one
o’clock they set-to.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Upon stripping, the clear appearance of Oliver satisfied
  every one that he had been trained to the highest pitch of
  condition; and his arms, from their muscular form, were a study for
  the anatomist. Painter was equally conspicuous; two finer young men
  never entered the ring. The anxious moment had arrived, and the
  spectators were watching with eagerness for the first advantage.
  Oliver commenced the attack by making play with his left hand, which
  was returned by Painter, but too short to do execution. The men
  rallied with high spirit and determination, during which sharp
  facers were exchanged and the claret was first seen trickling down
  Painter’s chin. In endeavouring to put in a right-handed blow,
  Painter, not being correct in his distance, missed his man, which
  brought them to a close, when Oliver immediately got his opponent’s
  nob under his left arm, fibbed him cleverly, and ultimately threw
  him. More anxiety displayed than betting.

  2.—Most determined resolution appeared on both sides; indeed, the
  spectators were aware, from the character of the men, that victory
  would not be obtained by either at an easy rate. Oliver, with much
  dexterity, put in a severe hit upon Painter’s mug, who returned
  sharply with his right. A desperate rally now commenced, when it was
  perceived that Painter left his head unprotected. Oliver, awake to
  every chance, punished his opponent’s nob terribly with his left;
  but Painter, with considerable adroitness and execution, planted a
  blow on the cheek of Oliver, that instantly sent him down. Its
  effect was not unlike the kick of a horse. Even betting.

  3.—From such a tremendous hit it was truly astonishing to see Oliver
  so ready to time. Painter, somewhat flattered by his last effort,
  made play, but his distance proved incorrect. Oliver returned by
  planting a heavy blow in his face. A rally now followed, in which so
  much determination was exhibited, as to excite surprise in the most
  experienced pugilists. It lasted more than two minutes, without
  advantage to either combatant. If courage was at any time portrayed,
  no boxers in the world ever put in a higher claim to it than Painter
  and Oliver, who undauntedly stood up to each other, giving blow for
  blow, till accuracy of stopping and force of hitting had left them
  both. A pause ensued. The skill of Oliver at length obtained the
  advantage. He adopted the Cribb system of milling on the retreat,
  and punished his opponent’s nob heavily, till Painter fought his way
  in to another rally, which, if possible, was more determined and
  severe than the first. This second rally seemed rather in favour of
  Painter, who hit tremendously, but he was checked in the midst of
  his career by a severe body blow, that nearly sent him down. He,
  however, collected himself a little, and continued fighting till he
  fell from weakness. A more thorough milling round is not to be met
  in the annals of pugilism, and there was more execution done in it
  than in many fights of an hour’s length. Indeed, it was enough to
  finish most men. It lasted four minutes and a half, and twelve
  seconds, all fighting!

  4.—On this round the fate of the battle hung. Skill was now required
  to recover from the severe winding each had experienced in those two
  desperate rallies. Oliver, convinced that systematic precaution was
  necessary, again successfully adopted milling on the retreat. He
  nobbed his opponent with his left hand, as Painter incautiously
  followed, literally throwing away most of his blows, which, had they
  reached their destination, must have done execution. Painter was
  evidently distressed by this retreating system, but at length got in
  a tremendous right-handed hit upon Oliver’s eye, and appeared
  getting more fresh in his wind. A spirited rally took place, when
  some heavy blows were exchanged, but Painter fell exhausted. Two to
  one was loudly vociferated upon Oliver.

  5.—Oliver kept the advantage of his system of fighting, reducing the
  strength of his opponent in almost every round. He hit Painter
  repeatedly without receiving a return, and his left hand was
  continually at work. Painter still kept pursuing Oliver, although so
  heavily hit at every step, and he at length fell upon his face.

  6.—This round was rather more evenly contested, and, in rallying,
  Painter put in several good hits both right and left, when he fell
  from weakness.

  7.—It was now demonstrable which way the battle would terminate.
  Oliver appeared so much at home that he punished his opponent in any
  direction he thought proper. Painter did everything that a game man
  could, but he was so exhausted that in making a hit he fell on one
  knee. Three to one, but no takers.

  8 and last.—Painter was done up, and Oliver finished the contest in
  prime style, by meeting his antagonist in every way that he
  presented himself; and, finally, with a right-handed blow, knocked
  him down. Painter could not be brought to time. They were both
  punished heavily. Oliver’s body showed marks of some punishment, and
  both his eyes were in mourning.

  REMARKS.—Upon Oliver’s being declared the conqueror, Cribb took him
  up in his arms and carried him round the ring in triumph, when he
  received universal applause, and he deserved it.

  In conquering Painter he defeated a hero of the first mould, whose
  fine game and true courage were never excelled. But game alone will
  not win in opposition to superior science, though it may prolong the
  battle. Painter suffered severely from his distances proving
  incorrect. During the battle he missed nineteen hits; and, in one
  round, Oliver put in five severe blows on the head, without
  receiving a single hit in return. Oliver is a fine looking young
  man, and weighed, in the above fight, twelve stone, seven pounds,
  and is in height five feet nine inches and three-quarters. In every
  battle he has successively risen in fame and shown more science; but
  with Painter, however desperately contested, it appears, that he
  felt within himself less danger of being beaten than in any of his
  other five. In the early part of his training (for which he was
  indebted to the peculiar skill, care, and attention of Captain
  Barclay), the severity of fatigue he experienced rendered him
  unwell, but when his pitch was correctly ascertained, his
  constitution was so finely and vigorously tempered, so much spirit,
  lightness, and sound stamina were infused into his frame, that it
  was thought he could have fought an hour without much difficulty. It
  is astonishing what confidence men are taught to feel, from the
  superior system of training pursued by Captain Barclay.


In fighting Kimber, Oliver appeared a mere novice; in his battle with
“Hopping Ned,” he was a promising tyro; with Harry Lancaster, he rose
above the thumping commoner; when he fought Ford, he showed that he had
good stuff in him, and proved himself a staunch tough man; in his severe
conflict with Cooper, he was an improving and steady boxer; while
against Painter, he proved his claim to the appellation of a first-rate
pugilist. It was from this progressive state of pugilistic acquirement,
and Oliver’s superiority over Painter, that he was considered equal to
anything upon the list. Not even the Champion was excepted; in fact, so
high were his capabilities rated, that before Carter offered himself as
a customer, Oliver had displayed great anxiety to enter the lists with
Tom Cribb; and it appears that some conversation had passed between
those mighty heroes of the fist, as to the propriety of a meeting to
decide the subject.

Tom had at this juncture touched the culminating point of his pugilistic
eminence. He was now a publican, and his house, the Duke’s Head, in
Peter Street, Westminster, was looked upon as headquarters of the Fancy
of that special district. Tom had inherited the title and dominion of
the renowned Caleb Baldwin, and was regarded as the hero and champion of
Westminster. It is but justice to observe, that contemporary prints bear
testimony to the personal civility and general good behaviour of Oliver
as a public man, and of his disposition as “truly inoffensive;” a
general characteristic of steady and unflinching courage. After a couple
of years of “minding the bar,” Tom accepted the challenge of Jack
Carter, “the Lancashire hero,” who, at this period, boldly claimed the
Championship. The game battle near Carlisle, October 4, 1816, in which
Oliver fell gloriously, although at one period three to one was laid in
his favour, will be found in the Life of CARTER, Chapter VIII. of this
Period. (Page 170.)

Tom now returned to serving his customers, and again nearly two years’
peaceful interval was spent by Tom in “minding his own business,” when
some of the friends of Bill Neat, of Bristol, of whom hereafter, offered
to make a match with Oliver, for 100 guineas a-side, to fight on the
10th of July, 1818, within thirty miles of London. The invitation was
accepted, and the articles signed, betting being, at first, in favour of
Oliver. The tremendous hitting of Neat knocked the game Tom off his
legs, and into a state of obliviousness, after an hour’s hard up-hill
fighting. See NEAT, Chapter V. of this Period.

On the 28th May, 1819, Oliver was at Epsom, enjoying the racing, when a
purse of £50 being to be fought for, and Kendrick, the Black, expressing
a desire to “try for it,” Tom agreed to be his opponent, as he expressed
it, “to keep his hand in.” About six o’clock, accordingly, when the last
race was over, a ring was formed near the starting post, and surrounded,
quickly by several thousands of spectators. Oliver showed first,
attended, by Tom Cribb and Randall, while Carter and Richmond waited on
the Black.


                               THE FIGHT.

  In the first round, the Black threw Oliver; and in the fifth he also
  fibbed him sharply. In a few other instances he had the best of the
  rounds, but not enough to turn the battle in his favour, or to
  influence the betting. Massa did not attempt to hit, but he stopped
  extremely well, and rushed in for a close. When he was forced into a
  rally, too, he fought with some determination. Oliver not only threw
  Massa in great style twice, but he went down very heavily in the
  hitting. The Black did not exhibit much signs of punishment, but
  would have left off earlier than he did, had his second not induced
  him to try it on a little longer. He was at length hit down by a
  tremendous facer, which so satisfied him that he would not again
  appear at the scratch. Little, if any, betting occurred, as the £50
  was considered a present for Oliver. Some few wagers took place that
  it would be over in thirty minutes. It was not, however, won with
  that ease which had been anticipated, and it was asserted, that if
  Massa had been in better condition, and had possessed the advantages
  of patronage, he might have proved a troublesome customer. As it
  was, the battle lasted one hour and a quarter, during which thirty
  rounds were fought.


Favoured by adventitious circumstances, and puffed with praise, Dan
Donnelly, the Irish Champion, now appeared upon the scene with “A
Manifesto to the Milling World,” which will be found in his memoir,
Chapter VIII. of this Period. Accordingly at Jack Martin’s benefit,
April 20, 1819, Oliver challenged Donnelly for 100 guineas a-side, when
Randall declared he was authorised to accept it. That day six weeks was
named as the time of battle, the articles signed at Dignam’s, the Red
Lion, Houghton Street, Clare Market, and the battle came off at Crawley
Hurst, thirty miles from London, on Wednesday, July 21, 1819, as fully
detailed in the Life of Dan Donnelly, _post_.

Shelton, who had risen high in the opinion of his friends, from his
conquest of Big Bob Burn, was soon matched against Oliver for 100
guineas a-side, and the battle came off at Sawbridgeworth, Herts.,
twenty-seven miles from London, on Thursday, January 13, 1820. Shelton
was the favourite, partly owing to Oliver’s recent defeat. At a few
minutes before one o’clock Oliver threw his hat into the ring (which was
swept, and strewed with sawdust), and was soon followed by Shelton. The
look of Oliver was firm and collected, and smiling confidence sat on his
brow. He fought under the “yellowman,” _à la_ Belcher, and was going to
tie his colours himself to the stakes, but Randall took them out of his
hand, and placed them on the ropes. After some little time Spring
covered Oliver’s colours with the blue handkerchief. The time was
announced for the men to strip, notwithstanding a heavy fall of snow.
Randall and Tom Callas waited upon Oliver, and Spring and Turner
seconded Shelton. The latter had his right wrist tied with a small piece
of his colours, part of a blue handkerchief. This was done in order to
give a security to his wrist, which had received a severe injury from a
cut with a glass rummer about eight months previous to the fight. In
tossing for the choice of side, Oliver was the winner. The men then
shook hands and set-to for


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Shelton, being the best two-handed fighter on the list, and
  the hardest hitter, it was expected that he would go to work
  immediately; but there was a drawback to his efforts in Oliver’s
  attitude and guard, and great caution was the prominent feature; he,
  however, made two feints, but Oliver stopped him. Shelton made
  another attempt without effect, as Oliver got away. Sparring with
  great caution. Some exchange of blows now occurred, and a trifling
  rally. Counter hits, which operated upon both their mugs, and a
  tinge of claret was seen upon the mouth of Oliver, when Shelton
  observed, “First blood, Tom.” Oliver, in great style, stopped right
  and left the hits of Shelton, and returned a severe body blow.
  Shelton showed also some science in stopping, but Oliver planted two
  severe facers right and left. Some exchanges took place, and in a
  sort of close both men went down, Shelton undermost. The round
  occupied seven minutes. (Loud shouting in favour of Oliver.)

  2.—Oliver put in a severe facer without any return. Shelton seemed
  rather confused at the superior tactics displayed by his opponent,
  and absolutely stood still from the severity of a blow he received
  on his ribs. He, however, recovered from his stupor, and with more
  fury than science attacked Oliver till the latter went down. (“Well
  done, Shelton! Bravo!”)

  3.—In this round the spectators were astonished at the excellence of
  Oliver. Some smart exchanges took place, when the latter not only
  damaged Shelton’s right ogle, but hit him severely in the throat,
  followed him and ultimately floored him.

  4.—The fine fighting of Shelton could not be perceived. Oliver put
  in such a tremendous facer that Shelton put down his hands and
  retreated. The latter, rather angry, endeavoured to plant a heavy
  hit on the tender ear of Oliver, but he stopped him on his elbow,
  laughing at him. Shelton received some more facers, and Oliver
  ultimately got him down. (“That’s the way, Oliver; go it, my old
  Westminster trump, we shall have another jubilee yet in the
  dominions of old Caleb.”)

  5.—Shelton went down, but it appeared more from the slippery state
  of the ground than the hit.

  6.—Shelton put in a sharp nobber; but in return his upper works were
  peppered, and he was again down. Shelton’s right eye was nearly
  gone, and Oliver smiled with confidence.

  7.—Shelton threw his opponent, and appeared the stronger man.

  8.—This was a well-contested round. Shelton’s face now exhibited the
  handy-work of his opponent. He went down, and Oliver fell upon him,
  but threw up his arms.

  9.—Oliver’s right hand would be nobbing Shelton; but the latter made
  a desperate return on Oliver’s already cut mouth that fetched the
  claret copiously. Shelton endeavoured to repeat this electrifying
  touch, but Oliver stopped him neatly. Shelton then closed, pelting
  away, and in struggling made a jump to get his opponent down. Both
  fell, Oliver undermost.

  10.—Oliver commenced this round by planting two facers, right and
  left, and also put in a bodier, without a return. Shelton, however,
  gallantly fought his way into a sharp rally, and some severe
  exchanges occurred, when the men broke away. In closing again, both
  down, but Shelton undermost. (“Bravo!” from all parts of the ring;
  “good on both sides.”) More real courage could not be witnessed.

  11.—The scene was now rather changed, and some little danger was
  apprehended from Shelton’s not only nobbing his opponent, but by a
  well gathered hit having floored Oliver like a shot. Randall and
  Callas lost not a moment in getting Oliver up; but when placed on
  his second’s knee his head lolled on one side, and he appeared lost
  to what was going forward. In fact, it seemed as if the game Oliver
  could not recover, although Randall kept telling him to look about
  and recollect himself, calling out, “Tom! Tom!” Shelton’s friends,
  who had previously been as if frozen, now jumped about and began to
  bet without hesitation.

  12.—Shelton satisfied the spectators that his nob was screwed on the
  right way; he immediately went to work with Oliver, and again got
  him down. (Ten to one on Shelton.)

  13.—Oliver was very bad, but his game brought him through it, and he
  came up better than was expected. Shelton did not wait for his
  coming up to the scratch, but was going to attack him, when Randall
  reminding him of it, he struck the Nonpareil, saying, “I’ll lick you
  as well; don’t talk to me about the scratch.” Randall very properly
  passed it over, observing, “It was the first time he ever received a
  hit without returning it.” Shelton, however, made a bold attack upon
  Oliver, but the latter caught him at the ropes, and in the Randall
  style fibbed him till he went down. The joy of the Westminster boys
  cannot be described.

  14.—The fibbing system was repeated till Shelton went down.

  15.—Shelton in going down received a sharp facer in falling.

  16.—It was singular to observe that Shelton could not stop Oliver’s
  right hand. A smart rally occurred, when the men broke away. Shelton
  was ultimately hit down. (This change surprised every one. Oliver
  was again the favourite, seven to four.)

  17.—Shelton went down as quickly as he could in this round, and
  Oliver behaved generously.

  18.—This was a gallant round; both men fought like lions, and
  displayed heroism that called forth the loudest approbation from all
  parts of the ring. Both down.

  19.—Shelton passionately run in, but went down. (Disapprobation.)
  Both his peepers were much damaged.

  20.—Oliver, who had hitherto been considered a slow fighter, evinced
  considerable quickness; and as Shelton was coming in with a
  tremendous hit he was stopped by Oliver, who, in finishing the
  round, hit Shelton down. (The Westminster boys offered to sport
  their last brown on their old favourite, Oliver.)

  21.—This round was decidedly in favour of Oliver; in fact, he had it
  all his own way, till Shelton was hit down, when Oliver, with much
  manliness, stepped over him. This conduct was received as it
  deserved; Oliver was loudly cheered.

  22.—Shelton got away with much dexterity from a body blow aimed by
  Oliver; but turned to and fought like a hero, till he went down in a
  distressed state.

  23.—Here the warmth of Shelton’s feelings was evident; he rushed in
  to mill Oliver, regardless of consequences, till he went down.

  24.—Shelton hit Oliver on the mouth, which operated forcibly, and
  made a change again in Shelton’s favour; but the bravery of Oliver
  was not to be overcome, and he sent Shelton down, although obliged
  to go down himself. With much honour he endeavoured not to fall upon
  his opponent. (“Bravo, Oliver! you are a noble fellow, and an honour
  to the ring.”)

  25.—This was a most singular round. Shelton was hit off his balance,
  and went round like a whirligig. Oliver did the same: their backs
  came against each other. They recovered themselves, and made some
  good exchanges, till Shelton went down.

  26.—Shelton was floored from a flush hit on his nose.

  27.—Oliver again hit Shelton in the face as he was falling; but
  Oliver was in the act of giving and could not help it. It was not an
  intentional blow. However, loud cries of “Foul, foul!” “Fair, fair!”
  occurred; and on Shelton’s asking the umpires if it was not foul, it
  was deemed fair, the hit not being intentional.

  28.—This was a most courageous round, and Shelton did all that a
  brave man could do to win. The hits on both sides were terrific,
  till Shelton retreated from the heavy punishment dealt out to him,
  followed by Oliver all over the ring. He caught Shelton, in the act
  of falling, under his arm, carrying him a considerable way, then
  generously letting him go down easily. (Tumultuous applause for
  Oliver.)

  29.—Another fine round—all hitting and no flinching. Both down, but
  Shelton undermost. When the combatants were on the knees of their
  seconds, Shelton said to Oliver, “Let them chaff (meaning the
  seconds), but you and I, Tom, will do what is right.” “Certainly,”
  replied Oliver.

  30.—Shelton still proved himself a dangerous customer; he went up to
  Oliver, planting some hard blows, till he was hit away. In
  struggling, both down.

  31.—It was not long before Shelton was floored.

  32.—Shelton put in a good nobber; but Oliver soon returned two
  facers, right and left, and Shelton went down on his knee.

  33.—Oliver observed to his opponent, “Tom, I have got you now,” and
  instantly went to work, till Shelton went down much distressed.

  34.—Shelton got wild, and ran after Oliver, till he was stopped by a
  flush hit and went down exhausted.

  35.—Shelton had now lost his self-possession, but still he was
  dangerous, for Oliver received a nobber that moved him from the
  ground. Shelton ran all over the ring after Oliver, while the latter
  kept getting away, putting in a hit now and then, and laughing till
  Shelton ran himself down. (Any odds. “It’s all your own, but be
  steady.”)

  36.—It was sad to see the state of Shelton; he hit at random and was
  as groggy as a Jack tar three sheets in the wind. He received a hit
  on his head, and fell.

  37.—Notwithstanding the groggy state of Shelton, Oliver would not
  give a chance away, but kept at a distance, planting his hits in a
  winning manner, till Shelton went down. While the latter was on the
  knee of his second, Callas went up to Shelton and asked him if he
  would fight any more. Spring was irritated with Callas, and a row
  had nearly been the result. (Odds were now out of the question.)

  38.—The opponents of Shelton could not but compliment his bravery,
  as he came up like a man, although reeling to and fro; he,
  nevertheless, made a hit, till he was sent down at the ropes.

  39 and last.—On time being called, Shelton got up, but he reeled and
  could not steady himself at the scratch. Some interference took
  place, and Oliver was declared the conqueror. The latter jumped up
  for joy. He immediately left the ring, and did not appear much
  punished about the face, except his mouth. Shelton was shortly
  afterwards led out of the ring; his face was much peppered. It was
  over in fifty-one minutes.

  REMARKS.—The game of Oliver brought him through triumphantly, to the
  surprise and expense of the knowing ones, many of them paying dearly
  for their mistake. The conduct of Oliver was a perfect specimen of a
  thorough-bred Englishman, and finer courage was never displayed, nor
  more manliness and generosity. The “stale one,” as Tom was termed,
  defeated in style a much better fighter than himself. Shelton, on
  being stopped, appeared to lose his confidence, although he took a
  great deal of punishment, and exerted himself even after his last
  chance was gone. The success of Oliver was greatly due to the able
  seconding of Randall, whose advice at critical periods was
  invaluable. Shelton fell with honour, for a more gallant battle
  could not be fought. On being put to bed at Harlow, Shelton said,
  “My heart is not beat, that’s as good as ever; but I’m sorry for
  those who have backed me.” On Shelton’s return to town a medical
  certificate was shown to the effect that two of his ribs were
  broken.


Shelton solicited his friends to allow him another chance with Oliver
for £100; and they not only presented him with a handsome gratuity, but
proposed to post the money for a new trial; but this was interfered with
by the match we are about to notice. Although Tom Spring had been beaten
in a second battle by Painter (August 7, 1818), that excellent judge,
Tom Belcher, contrasting the styles of the men, declared he thought
Oliver a good match for the Norwich hero, whom, as we have already seen,
he had defeated four years previously, and purposed to back him for
£100. The friends of Painter, though refusing Spring a new trial,
thought the present “a good thing,” and Painter sharing their opinion,
articles were quickly agreed on. See Life of PAINTER, in the preceding
chapter. In this fight, at North Walsham, near Norwich, July 17, 1820,
Oliver suffered defeat. Still his friends adhered to him, and that their
confidence was not withdrawn a striking instance was soon given. Tom
Spring—although he had beaten in succession Henley, Stringer, Ned
Painter (and been beaten in turn by him), and afterwards conquered
Carter (who had beaten Oliver), Ben. Burn, Bob Burn, and Josh.
Hudson—was declared by many to be “a sparring hitter,” and it was urged
that this “fine fighting” would never dispose of the gallant Tom. At any
rate opinions differed, and accordingly Oliver was backed for 100
guineas, the tourney to take place on February 20, 1821. How Oliver
struggled against length, weight, skill, and superior judgment, is told
in the memoir of Spring, his conqueror, whose merits Oliver, during his
long life, has often warmly descanted upon. He once said to us, “It’s no
use arguing—Spring was too long, too clever, and too strong for any of
us. I tried his strength, but found out my mistake. Lord bless you, he
never let nobody see _how much he could fight till it was wanted_, then
he just served out the quantity. He had _a head for fighting, and a man
only wins by chance if he hasn’t a head_.” Oliver experienced this, and
acknowledged it. His argument, however, received an adverse illustration
shortly afterwards, when he met Hickman, the Gas-light man, as yet
unconquered, on Tuesday, June 12, 1821, at Blindlow Heath, Surrey, and
was defeated in nine rounds. Oliver was virtually beaten in the first
round. He was stale, slow, and could not in any way parry the onslaught
of his opponent; yet here again he kept untarnished his fame as a
courageous man. See HICKMAN, _post_, Chapter VI.

Tom seems, like many other high-couraged men, not to have been at all
conscious of the important axiom that “youth will be served,” and once
again, for his last appearance but one, made a match with a powerful
young boxer, Bill Abbott, for the trifling sum of ten guineas. The
affair was considered a “bubble,” and that a forfeit must follow.
Abbott, however, meant it, and so did Oliver, and they met November 6,
1821, on Moulsey Hurst, when Oliver was beaten by a heavy hit under the
ear in the thirtieth round, the odds immediately before the blow being
four to one on him. How this fight was lost and won will be seen under
ABBOTT in the Appendix to Period VI., Abbott’s last fight being in 1832.

Years now rolled by, and Tom was generally known and respected. Being
appointed to the charge of the ropes and stakes of the P.R., he was a
constant attendant at the ring-side as commissary, and at sparring
benefits. At length, in 1834, the “old war-horse” was neighed to by
another old charger, no other than “Uncle Ben” (Burn). “My Nevvy” (Jem
Burn) had removed from the Red Horse, Bond Street, to the Queen’s Head,
Windmill Street, Haymarket, and there the commissary, “Mine Uncle,” and
many of the old school, as well as the aspirants of the new school,
nightly held their merry meetings, and talked over “deeds that were done
and the men who did them,” with an occasional interlude of a new match
between the active pugilistic practitioners of the day. For a long time
“Uncle Ben” had amused himself and the listeners by somewhat disparaging
opinions, not of Tom’s game, but of what he called his “wooden
fighting,” and at length, half in jest, half in earnest, Tom, in his
matter-of-fact style, informed “Mine Uncle,” that his opinion of the
family was that they had produced only one “fighting man among the lot,”
and he was his very good friend Jem Burn. This was “most tolerable, and
not to be endured;” and “my Nevvy,” who loved a bit of fun, “as an
alderman loves marrow,” tarred on the old uns by siding with the
Commissary. Ben. hereupon produced his pouch, and offered to post a
deposit to meet the veteran in battle array. The joke went on, but the
old heroes were in earnest, and meant the thing they said. Articles were
drawn, and the day fixed for Tuesday, the 28th of January, 1834. Oliver
having won the toss, he named Coombe Warren as the place of rendezvous,
and on Monday evening Uncle Ben took his departure from his training
quarters at Finchley to the Robin Hood, at Kingston Bottom, where he
arrived safe and sound, in the full anticipation of covering himself
with glory on the ensuing day. Oliver, who was not so fortunate in
patrons, had not the advantage of training beyond what he could obtain
by his daily walks from his own domicile in Westminster, and on Thursday
morning took the road towards the appointed place in a cab, accompanied
by the Deputy Commissary, Jack Clarke, who had the care of the ropes and
stakes. He made a halt at the same house as “my Uncle,” only occupying a
separate apartment.

The crowd assembled in front of the Robin Hood at twelve o’clock would
have been characterised by Dominie Sampson as “prodigious!” and it was
not till “the office” was given that the ring had been formed by Deputy
Commissary Clarke in a field at the back of Coombe Wood, that a move
took place and the blockade of the Robin Hood was raised. The moment the
where was known, a simultaneous toddle took place up the hill, and the
ring was shortly surrounded by an extensive circle of panting prads and
loaded vehicles; but scarcely had the anxious coves time to congratulate
themselves on having obtained a good berth, when a “Conservative” beak,
one of the enemies of the sports of the people, who had stolen from his
counter in the town of Kingston, attended by a noted distributor of
religious tracts, poked his ill-omened visage into the ring, and
addressing Jack Clarke, who was viewing his handiwork with the eye of an
accomplished artist, said, “My good man, you have your duty to perform
and I have mine; I am a magistrate, and will not permit any fight to
take place in this county, and I trust I shall not be molested.” Jack
looked as civil as a gipsy at the tusks of a farm-yard dog; but he was
too good a judge to “kick against the pricks.” He saw it was no go, and
assuring his worship he was as safe as if he were wrapped up in a ball
of his own flannel, he saw him safely through the surrounding multitude.
An immediate retreat was beaten up the main road, and Jack lost no time
in undoing what he had done, and packing his traps, as before, under the
wings of a cab, with which he followed his friends.

A consultation now took place as to what was to be done. Some were for a
flight to Hayes, in Kent, while others looked towards Middlesex, and at
last the latter course was taken, and “to Hampton” was the word of
command. The cavalcade set off helter-skelter, taking the course over
Kingston Bridge, to the unexpected but great satisfaction of the
toll-keepers, who were thus put into a good thing, not improbably for
good reasons, by the pious Kingston beak. But here a new difficulty and
some jarring arose, for the cabs in those early days not being entitled
to go more than eight miles from London without paying an additional
duty of 1_s._ 9_d._ to the excise, the impost was demanded, and the gate
shut till it was exacted. The stoppage produced not only great
resistance, but much ill-blood, and at one time there was a string of
not less than three hundred carriages on the stand-still, all impatient,
and each fresh cabman producing fresh arguments in favour of a right of
passage. At last foul means took the place of fair: the gate was opened
by the “friends of liberty,” and away went the whole line pell mell,
many of them not even condescending to pay the ordinary toll. Thus the
imprudent resistance (when the number of the cab might have been
sufficient) led to the loss of much which would otherwise have been
bagged to the positive advantage of the Trust. The way was now clear to
Hampton, with the exception of a few accidents by “flood,” for the
waters being out on the road between Hampton Court and the Bell, many
immersions took place; and, in not a few instances, “old Father Thames,”
with the pertinacity of an exciseman, walked through the bottoms of
those drags which happened not to be at least two feet from the surface
of his waters. These were, however, “trifles light as air,” and in due
course the motley assemblage were collected round the roped arena once
more, a convenient field having been found, of which possession was
taken without the ceremony of saying to the proprietor, “by your leave.”
All now went smoothly; the men arrived on the field “ripe for action;”
and by a quarter to three o’clock the dense mass was all alive for the
commencement of business, a straw rick in the vicinity affording ample
material for forming a dry resting-place for the “Corinthians” close to
the stakes. Such was the crowd, however, that great difficulty was
experienced in preserving order, and hundreds were altogether shut out
from a view of the sport which they had encountered so many difficulties
to witness. At ten minutes to three the men entered the ring; Oliver
attended by Frank Redmond and Owen Swift, and Burn by Young Dutch Sam
and Anthony Noon. Oliver sported a bird’s eye blue, and Burn a yellow
man, which were tied to the stakes in due form. Burn, on entering the
ring, seemed to be a good deal excited, and some thought he had been
sitting too near the brandy bottle; but his subsequent conduct showed
that he had lost nothing by the aid of artificial spirit. Oliver was
quiet and easy in his manner; and although he was aware of the
importance of the contest upon which he was about to enter, exhibited as
much coolness as if he were engaged in his ordinary occupation of
Commissary. He wore a tarpaulin hat, which gave him much the appearance
of a veteran tar, instead of a veteran of the boxing school. On
stripping, it was clear that Burn had the advantage of height and
weight, as well as in freshness, although his flesh shook within his
skin, as if the latter had been made too large, or the former had shrunk
from its natural rotundity, the inevitable effect of training upon an
old frame. Oliver looked sleek, and in good case. He was, however, stiff
in the pins, which, although not “gummy,” as might have been expected
from his frequent attacks of the gout, wanted that elasticity of muscle
requisite to the display of activity, an important essential in getting
away from the rush of a heavy and determined antagonist, as he
discovered in the course of the mill. The odds on setting-to were six
and seven to four on Oliver.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The men eyed each other _à la distance_, Oliver smiling,
  Ben as serious as Newton solving a problem in astronomy, their hands
  well up, and Tom waiting for the attack; but Ben was in no hurry.
  Tom tried a feint—no go; Ben steady. After a short pause Ben let out
  his left, caught Tom on the canister, and stopped the counter with
  his right. Neat stopping, followed by counter hits with the left,
  which raised a blush on the cheek of each. Good straight hitting and
  stopping, and no flinching. Tom caught Ben on the pimple with his
  left, but had it on the mark from Ben’s left in return. A sharp
  rally, give and take in good style; no getting away or mincing
  matters, it was all hard work. Both became flushed and got to a
  close, but little was done at in-fighting; mutual efforts to chop
  and fib, when they broke away. Ben was all alive, and popped in his
  left straight as an arrow on Tom’s mouth. Tom returned, but was
  short. (Cries of “First blood” from Sam, and Tom showed claret from
  the mouth.) Burn again put in his left, and stopped the counter.
  Oliver was slow, but sure, and stealing a march, gave Ben a poke on
  the snout. Ben had him on the noddle in return. Oliver threw in a
  blow on Ben’s ribs with his right, but he was rather short. Ben
  countered on his pimple; good manly fighting, and neither retreated
  an inch. Ben flung out his left as swift as lightning, and catching
  Oliver between the chin and the lip, gave him a “snig,” from which
  the blood flowed copiously. (“No mistake about blood now,” cried the
  Burnites, while Sam said “it was a certainty.” “Aye,” cried Ben
  exultingly, “I can lick him and Tom Spring in the same ring!”)
  Oliver smiled, but was not dismayed; he went to his man and tried
  his left, but was short. Hit for hit, and no dodging. The men stood
  like Trojans, fearless of consequences, depending solely on science
  in stopping or hitting. A spirited rally and some heavy exchanges,
  when Oliver put in his left upon Ben’s throat, and downed him in
  good style. This was “trick and tie,” first blood for Ben and first
  knock-down for Tom. The friends of the latter, who were not prepared
  for so admirable a display on the part of Burn, revived. The round
  lasted eleven minutes, all fighting, and both were a little fagged.

  2.—Ben came up as confident as ever, while Tom smiled as if
  unshaken in his own good opinion. After a short pause Ben caught
  Oliver a swinging hit with his right on the side of the head, just
  above the ear. Tom popped in his left twice on Ben’s smelling
  bottle and cigar trap, drawing blood from the latter. Some good
  manly hits and neat stopping, when both closed, but in the
  struggle neither could do much. They appeared to be incapable of
  getting the lock or giving a cross-buttock. Each fibbed by turns,
  and at last Oliver succeeded in getting Ben down and falling upon
  him. Both got up bleeding, and the spectators were agreeably
  surprised by the manly and straight-forward manner in which the
  men continued the contest.

  3.—Oliver came up a little groggy on his pins, but ripe for action.
  He let go his left, but Burn stopped him beautifully, and made a
  pretty counter in return. A brisk rally, in which heavy hits were
  exchanged, and Burn was again floored with a poke as he was on the
  retreat. This was given as a second knock-down blow.

  4.—Again did Burn show his generalship by stopping Oliver’s left;
  but it was now seen that the knuckles of his right hand were gone,
  and that he did not keep up his arm so well as at starting. Oliver
  saw the opening, and “flared up” with his left so quickly and
  effectually that he cut Ben between the eyes, and down came the
  claret in a stream. Still Ben showed no symptoms of fear.
  Counter-hitting; the men firm to the scratch and no denial.
  (“Remember his ribs,” cried Frank Redmond to Tom.) No sooner said
  than done, and whack went Tom’s right on the appointed spot. Ben did
  not like this, but he fought manfully, and the counter-hitting and
  stopping was of the first order. Again did Oliver plant on the sore
  ribs, but had it on the nob for his pains. Ben’s right continued
  low, and a job on the snout reminded him of his negligence; but this
  memorandum was not sufficient. Oliver again hit with his left: he
  received in return; but in the next broadside Ben went down.
  (Oliver’s friends now became satisfied that “all was right,” and
  cheered him accordingly.)

  5.—Both men came up somewhat exhausted, for there was no breathing
  time taken on either side. Ben tried his left, but was stopped; and
  the return from Tom’s left on his knowledge box was neat, though
  with little severity. Oliver again dropped heavily on Ben’s ribs
  with his right and no return. A splendid rally, in which the “old
  uns” fought with signal bravery. Tom, however, had the advantage of
  hitting, as Ben’s right kept dropping, in spite of hints from Sam to
  keep it up. The jobbing with the left was effective on both sides;
  but in the end, after a desperate rally, in which both were piping
  and weak, and yawing like a ship in a storm, Uncle Ben dropped
  exhausted.

  6 and last.—Notwithstanding Ben’s distress in the last round he came
  up with unshrinking bravery, although looking blue. And “now came
  the tug of war,” for, in point of punishment, the men were pretty
  much on a par, and all seemed to depend on their physical strength.
  Ben’s right guard still drooped, and Oliver commenced by giving him
  a job with his left. Ben was not idle, and returned; repeated
  counter hits were given, and Oliver delivered both right and left
  with precision, although not with much force; still the blows told
  on a man already on the go, and at last, in the close, both went
  down, Ben under. It was now all over, and, on time being called, Ben
  was declared incapable of coming again. Oliver, who had every reason
  to be glad his labours were brought to a conclusion, was immediately
  hailed as the victor, amidst the shouts of his friends; but he was
  some time before he was sufficiently master of his motions to quit
  the ring. Burn received every attention from his “Nevvy,” and
  complained that he felt the effects of a rupture, under which he had
  been long labouring. It was this which induced Jem Burn not to let
  him get up for another round, though he wished it. The fight lasted
  exactly twenty-four minutes.

  REMARKS.—This affair surprised and delighted the old ring-goers, for
  all anticipated, from the age of the combatants, that it would be a
  “muffish” affair, and especially as Ben had never had a very high
  reputation for game. It was admitted on all hands, however, that few
  more manly fights had been witnessed, and that no men, considering
  their capabilities, could have conducted themselves better. There
  was no cowardly retreating or flinching on either side, nor any of
  those hugging manœuvres which are so foreign to fair stand-up
  fighting. We doubt whether “Uncle Ben” ever showed to so much
  advantage; and, in defeat, he had at least the consolation of having
  convinced his friends that his pretensions to the character of a
  “foighting” man were not altogether without foundation. Tom has lost
  all that fire for which he was formerly distinguished, and of course
  much of his vigour, for his blows were not delivered with severity;
  nevertheless, he vindicated his character as a thorough game man,
  and to that quality his success may be in a great measure ascribed,
  for the punishment he received, would have more than satisfied many
  younger men. The betting was not heavy, and those who lost were
  perfectly satisfied Ben had done his best, both for himself and
  them. Nature, and not his will, forcing him to say “enough.”


This was Tom’s “last bumper at parting” with the active practice of
pugilism, though up to a very recent period, when succeeded by his son,
Fred. Oliver, the veteran Tom was rarely, despite his periodical
visitations of his old enemy the gout, absent from his post whenever the
P.R. ropes and stakes were in requisition. The civility, respectful
attention, and forbearing good humour (often under circumstances of the
utmost provocation) of Oliver we can personally bear testimony to. He
was emphatically “the right man in the right place;” even-tempered,
firm, obliging, yet undismayed by the most demonstrative of “roughs,”
Tom preserved his dignity, and commanded order by his quiet,
inoffensive, yet determined mode of doing what he considered to be his
“duty.” During his latter years, “Old Tom” vegetated as a fruiterer and
greengrocer in Pimlico and Chelsea, where he brought up a family, as a
fine specimen of lusty old age, and of the days when we may say of the
ring, “there were giants in the land.” Tom finally “threw up the
sponge,” June, 1864, at the ripe age of 75.




                               CHAPTER V.
                    BILL NEAT, OF BRISTOL—1818–1823.


At one period this weighty and hard-hitting specimen of the Bristol
school bid fair to attain the topmost round of the ladder to pugilistic
fame. Neat was born on the 11th of March, 1791, in Castle Street, of
respectable hardworking parents, and was known to his townsmen for many
years of his youth and manhood as a man of prodigious strength of arm,
temperate habits, and extreme personal civility. A finer young fellow,
“take him for all in all,” could not be met with in a day’s walk in a
populous city. His height was five feet eleven inches and a half; his
weight, in training, thirteen stone seven pounds. He had arrived at the
age of twenty-seven before London heard of his provincial reputation, a
fight with one Churchill, a maltster, weighing fourteen stone, being his
only recorded battle. This was a somewhat curious affair. It was
admitted that Churchill could not beat Neat, but the latter, for a
trifling wager, offered to thrash Churchill “in ten minutes!” The cash
was posted, and the combat came off, Churchill fighting with “yokel
desperation.” Nevertheless, Neat lost his money by not hitting his
opponent out of time in the ridiculously short space stipulated by the
agreement. However, the powers displayed by Neat led to some
conversation, in which a Bristol amateur offered to find 100 guineas for
Neat, if he chose to meet Tom Oliver, then in the city on a sparring
tour. Neat, who was as brave as he was powerful, closed with the offer.

Bristol, since the appearance of the renowned Jem and Tom Belcher in the
metropolitan prize ring, followed in rapid succession by the
never-defeated Game Chicken, the truly brave Gully, and the staunch and
often-tried Champion of England, Tom Cribb, not only attained a high
character for pugilistic excellence, but was denominated the “nursery of
British boxers.” Neat was brought forward under those advantages; and
although he could not boast of the experience of

               “Battles bravely fought, and hardly won!”

[Illustration:

  BILL NEAT.
]

yet his qualifications were so promising, his patronage so high and
imposing, that with the improving value of ten weeks’ training under the
immediate auspices and tuition of Cribb, the advice of Gully, and the
generally sound judgment of Captain Barclay, he soon became the
favourite; the Bristolians anxiously anticipating, through the exertions
of this new candidate for milling fame, to realize the days of another
Jem Belcher.

Oliver, nothing loth, accepted the cartel, and the subjoined articles
were drawn up:—


  “W. Neat engages to fight Thos. Oliver on the 10th of July, 1818,
  within thirty miles of London, for 100 guineas a-side. A fair
  stand-up fight, in a twenty-four feet ring. Mr. Jackson to name the
  place. The whole of the money to be made good on the 23rd of May.
  Neat not to exceed thirteen stone seven pounds. Ten guineas a-side
  are now deposited.

  “Witness, W. TEAST.”


Upon the deposit being made, the odds were decidedly in favour of
Oliver; but previous to the day of battle, they changed to five to four
on Neat; the good judges observing that if freshness, length, strength,
and height were points towards victory, Neat, who possessed them all,
ought to win the fight. The latter, however, sustained some drawback
from being an entire stranger to the London fancy.

In opposition to these pretensions, Oliver, the darling of Westminster,
who had bravely conquered, in succession, Kimber, Hopping Ned, Harry
Lancaster, Ford, Cooper, and the determined Painter—but who was rather
cast in the shade from his defeat at Carlisle by Carter, if not
considered to have received a check to the championship of England—again
presented himself to the attention of the amateurs. Many of the old
fanciers were partial to Oliver; and if some of them thought him slow,
others viewed him as sure, and the odds against him were taken with much
confidence. Previous to the fight the betting varied repeatedly, and on
Thursday evening both Oliver and Neat were favourites in turn; it might
almost be termed even betting.

Not a bed could be had at any of the villages at an early hour on the
preceding evening; and Uxbridge was crowded beyond all precedent. At
four o’clock in the morning vehicles of every description were in
motion; and the road from Hyde Park Corner to Gerrard’s Cross was one
cloud of dust. The ring was formed upon one of the most delightful spots
the eye of a landscape painter could imagine. The scenery was truly
picturesque. Bulstrode House, the seat of the late Duke of Portland, was
on the left of it; the foliage of the trees, the verdure of the ground,
the swelling eminences, and the grandeur of the prospect, rendered the
_tout ensemble_ captivating, and the company congratulated each other on
the excellent choice which had been made for the display of gymnastic
sports. Yet before an entrance could be gained to this elysium of the
fancy a handsome tip was demanded at the gate, guarded by more heads
than were in the possession of Cerberus of old. But such is the
uncertainty of human affairs, in an instant this enchanting scene was
changed; all was anxiety and suspense—the stakes were pulled up, the
carriages rolled off with the utmost celerity, and the bustling scene
became as it were a desert. A magistrate had fixed his paw upon Neat,
and no milling could be permitted in Buckinghamshire on that day.
Cerberus had now taken flight from the gate, and lots of Johnny Haws
stood laughing at the flats who had been drawn of their tin.
Rickmansworth, nine miles off, was the scent, and the string of
carriages on the road exceeded all calculation. In a field, within a
mile of the above place, the ring was again formed; and a few minutes
before three Neat appeared and threw up his hat. Oliver immediately
followed, bowing to the spectators, and was received with great
applause. The latter, on stripping, showed good condition, and was
seconded by Tom Jones and Clark; Cribb and Tom Belcher performing that
office for Neat. Cribb tied the yellow colours of his man to the stakes,
and Jones placed the blue handkerchief of Oliver upon them. Lord
Yarmouth, Sir Henry Smith, and a long _et cetera_ of amateurs, were
round the ring. The ceremony of shaking hands took place, and at three
o’clock the fight commenced. Neat five and six to four the favourite.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On setting-to, Neat looked formidable. His attitude was
  springy and ready for quick action. His legs, decorated with silk
  stockings, not only evinced fine form, but vast strength; and his
  arms were equally sinewy. Upon the whole, he had the appearance and
  make of what is generally considered a prize pugilist. He had also
  excellent symmetry. Both were anxious to commence in good style, and
  some sparring occurred. Neat hit short, and Oliver planted the first
  blow. Some hits were exchanged, and Oliver put in a body hit and got
  away; however, in following his opponent, he received a blow, and,
  slipping at the same time, went down. Two minutes and a half had
  elapsed.

  2.—It was evident that experience was on the side of Oliver; but the
  right arm of Neat was truly dangerous. Oliver put in a bodier, and
  Neat returned short. The combatants then got into a sharp rally,
  which terminated with Oliver fibbing down his opponent. (Great
  applause.) The claret was now seen on the mouth and neck of Neat.

  3.—Oliver again made a hit on the body, which Neat returned short
  with his left hand. Oliver also planted successfully several body
  blows, and Neat frequently missed in return. Some good counter hits
  occurred. Oliver followed Neat closely up; some exchanges took
  place, when Neat turned round and went down from a hit. (Slight
  disapprobation.)

  4.—Oliver found his opponent was a novice, and felt confident of
  success. This was the longest round in the fight, displaying the
  various tactics and style of fighting of both the combatants: it may
  serve as a sort of criterion for the whole battle, and save much of
  the minute routine of the rounds. Oliver, with much gaiety, planted
  a severe facer, and Neat in return hit short. Oliver gave another
  facer. Neat, with his right hand, gave Oliver a tremendous blow
  under his ear that seemed to send his head from his shoulders, the
  claret flowing copiously, and a large lump instantly rose. Oliver
  here showed a good acquaintance with the science, and fought better
  than usual; he frequently planted body hits and facers without
  experiencing returns, and broke away in good style. Oliver was tired
  and put down his hands. Several counter hits occurred. Neat put in a
  severe body blow, when Oliver soon afterwards was observed to spit,
  as if his inside had suffered. Oliver made a good right-handed hit,
  and stopped a tremendous blow with his left. Several other incidents
  also occurred in Oliver’s favour. The latter again spat, and, in a
  rally, both went down from exhaustion. The round lasted eight
  minutes. (Six to four on Oliver.)

  5.—The hands of Oliver were covered with claret from the work he had
  done upon his opponent’s mug. Oliver took the lead, and finished the
  round by sending Neat down. (Shouts, and three to one on Oliver.)

  6.—Oliver planted a good facer, and counter hits again took place.
  This was a singular round. Oliver followed Neat to the ropes, and in
  a sort of scuffle, caught the latter by the thighs, when Neat fell,
  and Oliver also went down. Both exhibited severe marks of
  punishment: Neat’s mouth was open, and he appeared distressed.
  Oliver was now decidedly the favourite.

  7.—This round had nearly decided the fight. Oliver went down like a
  dead man from a tremendous right-handed blow under the ear. His
  senses were completely hit out of him; and Jones, by extraordinary
  exertions, placed him on the bottle-holder’s knee and used every
  means to recover him again to meet his opponent. (“Time, time,” was
  loudly vociferated from all parts of the ring, and many persons with
  stop-watches in their hands insisted a minute had elapsed.)

  8.—Oliver’s second at length brought him forward, with his arm round
  his body, up to the scratch, when the bottle-holder on Neat’s
  behalf, insisted on his letting go his man. Oliver, staggering, put
  himself in position to fight, when he was immediately floored.

  9.—Time was again called by the spectators, on the difficulty of
  Oliver’s coming to the mark. The latter was evidently stupefied, and
  was again hit down. (Ten to one on Neat, and hats were thrown up.)

  10.—The gameness of Oliver astonished the oldest amateur; and he now
  so far recovered himself as to have the best of it, and fibbed his
  opponent down at the ropes. (Great applause.)

  11.—Oliver kept the lead, and not only gave a staggering hit to
  Neat, but caught him again as he was falling.

  12.—Oliver in this round was everything. His science in getting away
  was excellent: he gave his opponent a severe facer, a blow on the
  eye, and finally floored him, Neat frequently hitting short.
  (“Bravo, Oliver!” and the odds rising rapidly.)

  13.—Neat gave Oliver, in following him, a tremendous right-handed
  hit on his mouth, so that his upper works were in a complete state
  of chaos. Neat, notwithstanding this superiority, went down, and it
  was loudly asserted without a blow. It occasioned marks of
  disapprobation. (£100 to £5 was offered on Oliver, but no one took
  it.)

  14.—Oliver, after having the best of the round, threw Neat.

  15.—Neat hit down, and Oliver fell upon him.

  16.—Oliver planted a severe blow under the left ear of his opponent,
  who went down much distressed.

  17.—Oliver made a hit, but Neat stopped it with much dexterity;
  counter hits, yet Neat was floored.

  18.—Neat made three blows, but went down.

  19.—Oliver floored his opponent, but was, nevertheless, punished in
  the round.

  20.—Neat’s right hand was at work, and Oliver quickly followed him
  up till he went down.

  21.—Oliver floored his antagonist, and fell upon him, and hit Neat
  in the face as he was in the act of falling upon him. (This produced
  “Foul, foul,” from the friends of Neat.)

  22.—Oliver received a hit from Neat, when the latter fell.
  (Hissing.)

  23.—Oliver, in closing, fell upon his opponent.

  24.—Neat planted some sharp blows; but Oliver had the best of the
  round, when Neat went down. (“Bravo, Oliver! well done, Tom!” and
  the betting greatly in his favour.)

  25.—Neat, it appeared, now felt the use of his right arm, and with
  two blows, right and left-handed, not only sent Oliver staggering
  away, but hit him down like a shot. (The hats were again thrown up,
  and the odds had all vanished.)

  26.—It was evident Oliver could not recover from the severe effects
  of the last round. (“Time” was again loudly vociferated; and he came
  up staggering, only to be hit down.)

  27.—Neat again went to work, and planted more tremendous blows; but,
  in closing, Neat was undermost.

  28.—Oliver, game to the last, and more than anxious that his backers
  should not find fault with him, contended for victory as if the fate
  of an empire hung upon the event. The stunning blows he had received
  had put aside all his science, and he now incautiously followed his
  opponent, who, with his right hand, gave Oliver the _coup de grace_,
  which took him off his legs in a singular manner: he fell flat on
  his back as senseless as a log of wood. “Time” was called, but the
  brave Oliver heard not the sound. One hour and thirty-one seconds
  had elapsed.

  REMARKS.—Neat, notwithstanding the decisive victory he obtained over
  Oliver, appeared little more than a novice in scientific boxing. It
  is true, he might be improved under the tuition of skilful and
  accomplished boxers, for he possesses a requisite above all that
  teaching can achieve, namely, “one hit with his right hand, given in
  proper distance, can gain a victory, and three of them are
  positively enough to dispose of a giant.” Neat hits from the
  shoulder with an astonishing and peculiar force; and, in one
  instance, the arm of Oliver received so paralyzing a shock in
  stopping the blow, that it appeared almost useless. The admirers of
  fine fighting are decidedly of opinion that Neat has no such
  pretensions; but as a hard hitter (of steam-engine power), it is
  asserted there is nothing like him on the present list. He fought
  very awkwardly; and had he used his right hand to advantage in the
  early part of the fight, in all probability it must have been over
  in a few rounds; but it should be recollected it was his first
  appearance in the London ring. One word for the brave but fallen
  Oliver before these remarks are closed. He fought like a hero; and
  the courage of human nature was never witnessed in a higher point of
  view than exhibited by him in this contest. The battle was never
  safe to him, notwithstanding his exertions were more scientific than
  in any of his previous fights. It was also far from being safe to
  Neat till the twenty-fifth round. The latter was in bad condition,
  while Oliver could not be finer; but a chance blow from Neat can
  floor one hundred to one in a twinkling, although he is a round
  hitter.


Oliver, although defeated, was not disgraced; on the contrary, it was
asserted that he had fixed his claims more strongly upon the amateurs in
general by his brave conduct. In eight battles he had proved himself a
good man—six of them he won. It was upon the whole a good fight; but
Oliver was too slow for an active man like Neat. Several minutes elapsed
before Oliver recovered sensibility, and his situation for a short
period was thought to be critical. He was bled in the ring, and Neat
shook hands with him. He was taken from the scene of action in a landau,
and every attention paid to him that humanity could suggest. Neat was
also assisted to his vehicle in a very distressed state, his face
completely altered from the severity of punishment it had undergone.

Neat did not remain long in the metropolis; and, in his way home, he
called at Sam Porch’s booth, at Lansdown Fair, where the latter, in
honour of the victory of his countryman, had for his sign portraits of
Neat and Oliver in battle. The amateurs who made the match for Neat now
suggested to him the propriety of taking a benefit in London, which the
latter rather reluctantly complied with. However, he again arrived in
the metropolis; and on Tuesday, the 23rd of February, 1819, the Fives
Court was respectably attended for his benefit. Neat, followed by
Shelton, attracted considerable attention. It was Neat’s first
appearance with the gloves at the Fives Court; his severity of hitting
in the ring had been previously ascertained, and his knowledge of the
science was now only to be developed. He proved quick in his movements,
and stopped with skill, and the set-to, upon the whole, was entitled to
praise. It is true that Shelton planted the most nobbing hits, and one
on the mouth told rather heavily; but a bodier from Neat out-valued the
whole of them in calculation and effect, and seemed to operate so
sharply upon the frame of his opponent that the interior appeared in
sudden motion. Shelton evinced improvement, and was pronounced to have
rather the best of this bout. Richmond and Harmer showed the advantages
of science: their play was light and pleasing to the amateur. Neat and
Harmer wound up the sports of the day in a light contest, when the
former complained of not being able to return thanks as he wished, being
no orator. Cribb, Oliver, Randall, Reynolds, Owen, and Gregson were
present, but did not exhibit. It appeared that one of the small tendons
of Neat’s right arm had been injured, which prevented him from using it
with any strength or activity, and three months must elapse, it was
said, before a cure could be pronounced, or Neat returned fit for
service.

In calculating his loss of time, the neglect his business sustained at
home, and his expenses in London, it is said Neat scarcely cleared
himself by this appeal to the patronage of the public.

Cribb and Spring being on a sparring tour, and making Bristol in their
route, a match for 100 guineas a-side was made between Neat and Spring,
and £50 a-side put down at the Greyhound Inn, Broadmead, Bristol. The
fight to take place on the 6th of October, 1819, half-way between
Bristol and London; but, in consequence of Neat’s breaking his arm while
in training, this match was off, not only to the chagrin of both the
combatants, but to the great disappointment of the sporting world.

Symptoms of a “screw being loose” between the Champion of England and
Neat, the following appeared in most of the London newspapers:—


                           “TO MR. T. CRIBB.

  “I observed in a report of the sparring match for the benefit of
  Harry Harmer, that you, being flushed by the juice of the grape,
  took an opportunity of paying me a compliment, which I did not
  expect you had liberality enough to do; namely, that ‘Neat was the
  best of the bad ones,’ and that ‘you would fight him for from £500
  to £1,000.’ In answer to which, I inform you that I will fight you
  as soon as you like (the sooner the better) for from a glass of gin
  to £200.

                                                        “WILLIAM NEAT.

  “_All Saints’ Lane, Bristol, August 14, 1820._”


Neat’s next match was with the terrific “Gas” for 100 guineas a-side,
and the spot fixed was Newbury, Berks. On Monday, December 11, 1821, the
day before the fight, as soon as daylight peeped, the bustle on the road
to Maidenhead was tremendous. Nothing particular, however, occurred,
except the staring of the good people of Reading at the fancy as they
passed through that place. At the entrance of the town of Newbury a
strong muster of the yokels stationed themselves throughout the whole of
the day grinning at the Londoners as they arrived. Indeed, the road on
Monday, and all night, up to Tuesday morning at twelve o’clock, from the
metropolis, was thronged with vehicles of every description. The roads
leading from Oxford, Gloucester, etc., and likewise from Bristol, were
in the same state with persons anxious to reach the rallying point,
Newbury. All the inns were filled, and the beds engaged some days
previous: it was a prime benefit to the town.

About three o’clock in the afternoon, Hickman, with his backer and
Spring, in a barouche and four, with Shelton outside, drove rapidly
through the town, the Gas-light Man laughing and bowing, on being
recognised and cheered by the populace, till they alighted at the
Castle, Speen Hill. Here he was visited by numerous gentlemen, to all of
whom he declared his confidence of success, and that victory would crown
his efforts in a short time. After the bustle of the day was over, the
President of the Daffy Club took the chair at the Three Tuns, in the
Market Place, Newbury, which, as soon as the office had been given,
became the head quarters. Thither the swells and the sporting men
mustered round the holder of the stakes. It was a complete betting
stand, and numerous wagers were made on the coming event. In consequence
of the Newmarket people, with Mr. Gully and Mr. Bland at their head,
taking Neat, the odds fell on the Gas: a few persons who were funking a
little got off some of their money, but the principal part of the fancy
stood firm, and many of them laid it on thicker, although Mr. Gully, in
the most candid manner, declared his opinion, “that if a fine, young,
strong, fourteen stone man could not defeat a twelve stone boxer, then
there was no calculation on prize milling.” Tuesday morning, long before
the darkness had cleared off, presented a scene to the Johnny Raws, in
the numerous arrivals from London, most of them having been on the road
all night, with their peepers half open and their tits almost at a
stand-still. About ten o’clock Newbury presented an interesting
appearance. The inhabitants were all out of doors; the windows of the
houses crowded with females, anxiously waiting to witness the departure
of the fancy to the mill. Indeed it was a lively picture—barouches and
four, curricles, post-chaises, gigs, carts, stage coaches, wagons,
myriads of yokels on horseback, chawbacons scampering along the road,
Corinthians and bang-up lads tooling it along.

The fun and gig was kept up by the lads till Hungerford Downs, the
wished-for spot, appeared in sight. It was a delightfully fine morning,
the sun adding splendour to the scene, giving the whole a most
picturesque appearance. The prospect was quite attractive. A charming
country on both sides of the road; the town of Hungerford at a distance,
with the spire of the church; the ring on the Downs, surrounded with
wagons and coaches, marquees, etc., rising grandly like an amphitheatre,
formed so pleasing a feature as to render description no easy task. The
spot was selected under the judicious management of Mr. Jackson, and the
ring was so well arranged that 25,000 persons, who were present, had an
excellent sight of the battle. Not the slightest accident occurred, and
the whole was conducted with the greatest decorum. It was curious to
witness the anxiety displayed by this great assemblage of persons,
waiting with the utmost patience, without the slightest murmur, for two
hours, the ring having been formed so early as eleven o’clock.

At a few minutes after one, Neat, arm-in-arm with his backer and
Belcher, appeared in the outer space, and threw up his hat, but the sun
being in his eyes it did not reach its intended destination, when
Belcher picked it up and threw it in the ring. Shortly afterwards the
Gas, in a white topper, supported by his backer and Shelton, repeated
the token of defiance, and entered the ring sucking an orange. He
immediately shook hands with Neat, saying, “How are you?” Mr. Jackson
was the referee. Belcher and Harmer were the seconds for Neat, and
Spring and Shelton for the Gas. The odds had completely changed on the
preceding evening; and on the ground Neat was backed five to four,
besides numerous even bets, and being taken for choice. Upwards of
£150,000, it is calculated, eventually changed owners on this battle.
The Gas weighed twelve stone, Neat nearly fourteen. The colours, deep
blue for Gas, and the Bristol yellow man for Neat, were tied to the
stakes.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Both men appeared in the highest condition; in fact the
  backers of Neat and Gas asserted that they were to all intents and
  purposes fit for milling. The frame of Neat was a fine study; and
  the comparison between the pugilists was remarkable. The Gas, on
  placing himself in attitude, surveyed his opponent from head to
  foot, and Neat was equally on the alert. Hickman kept dodging about
  in order to get an opening to plant a determined hit; but Neat was
  too leary to be had upon this suit, and whenever the Gas moved, he
  likewise altered his position. On Neat’s preparing to give a blow,
  the Gas, smiling, drew himself back; but immediately afterwards, as
  if resolutely making up his mind to do some mischief, he went right
  bang in, and with his right hand put in a nobber, Neat retreating.
  Hickman planted a second blow on his shoulder; he also put in a
  third hit upon Neat’s left eye, and, elated with his success, he was
  on the rush to place a fourth blow, when Neat stopped him with a
  tremendous hit on his throat, which made the Gas stagger a little.
  Hickman, however, undismayed, attacked Neat with great activity, and
  the result was, the Bristol hero went down (more from a slip than
  the severity of the blow) between the legs of Hickman, the Cockneys
  shouting for joy, and the regular fanciers declaring “it was all
  right, and that Gas would win it easy.” (Seven to four on Gas.)

  2.—Hickman came laughing to the scratch, full of confidence; but on
  his endeavouring to plant his tremendous right-handed hit on the
  throat of his antagonist, the length of Neat prevented it, and the
  blow alighted on his shoulder. The Gas again endeavoured to make it,
  when the Bristol hero gave Hickman so hard a blow on his box of
  ivories that he chattered without talking, and went back from his
  position as if he could not keep it; he also was compelled to make a
  pause before he again commenced the attack. The Gas got away smiling
  from a left-handed hit, when he rushed in with uncommon severity,
  and, after an exchange of blows, they both went down, Neat
  undermost. (Another loud shout for Hickman, the odds rising on him,
  and “he’ll win it to a certainty,” was the cry.) While sitting on
  the knee of his second the Gas winked to his friends, as much as to
  give the office “it was all right.”

  3.—If the backers of the Gas could not see the improvement of the
  Bristol hero, Hickman was satisfied that he had a dangerous customer
  before him, and found that the length of arm possessed by his
  opponent rendered it highly necessary for him to act with great
  caution; he, therefore, on coming to the scratch, made a pause, and
  did not appear, as heretofore, eager to go to work. Neat was all
  caution and steadiness, and determined to wait for his opponent; the
  Gas, in consequence, was compelled to make play, and he planted a
  sharp hit on Neat’s head, and, laughing, nodded at him. Encouraged
  by this success, he was about furiously to repeat the dose, when
  Neat caught him with his left hand on his nob, which sent the Gas
  down on his knee; but his courage was so high and good, that he
  jumped up and renewed the fight like a game cock, till he was hit
  down by another tremendous blow. (The Bristolians now took a turn
  with their chaffers, and the shouting was loud in the extreme. The
  partisans of the Gas-light Man were rather on the fret, and several
  of them had “got the uneasiness.”)

  4.—It was now discovered by the knowing ones that they had not
  consulted Cocker; it was also evident (but rather too late to turn
  it to their advantage) that Neat was as quick as his opponent, a
  better in-fighter, with a tolerable knowledge of the science, and
  not such a roarer as he had been said to be. The severe nobbers the
  Gas had received in the preceding round had chanceried his
  upperworks a little, and, on his appearing at the scratch, he again
  made a pause. He saw the length of his opponent was difficult to get
  within; and he also saw that, if he did not commence fighting, Neat
  was not to be gammoned off his guard for a month. Hickman went in
  resolutely to smash his opponent, but he was met right in the middle
  of his head with one of the most tremendous right-handed blows ever
  witnessed, and went down like a shot. (The Bristolians now applauded
  to the echo, and the London “good judges,” as they had previously
  thought themselves, were on the funk. “How do you like it?” said one
  of the swells, who was pretty deep in it. “Why,” replied the other,
  “that blow has cost me, I am afraid, a hundred sovereigns.”)

  5.—Gas came up an altered man; indeed, a bullock must seriously have
  felt such a blow. He stood still for an instant, but his high
  courage would not let him flinch; he defied danger, although it
  stared him in the face, and, regardless of the consequences, he
  commenced fighting, made some exchanges, till he went down from a
  terrible hit in the mouth. (The Bristol boys hoarse with shouting,
  and the faces of the backers of Gas undergoing all manner of
  contortions. “That’s the way,” said Tom Belcher. “It’s all your own.
  You’ll win it, my boy: only a little one now and then for the
  Castle.”)

  6.—The mouth of the Gas was full of blood, and he appeared almost
  choking when time was called. He was getting weak; he, nevertheless,
  rushed in and bored Neat to the ropes, when the spectators were
  satisfied, by the superiority displayed, that Neat was the best
  in-fighter. He punished Gas in all directions, and finished the
  round by grassing him with a belly puncher that would have floored
  an ox. This hit was quite enough to have finished the pluck of two
  good men. (The long faces from London were now so numerous, that no
  artist could have taken their likenesses. The Bristolians were
  roaring with delight, “Didn’t I tell thee what he could do? The Gas
  is sure to go out now!” “Not this time,” replied a few
  out-and-outers from the Long Town, who endeavoured to face it out in
  favour of Hickman, while anything like a chance remained.)

  7.—Spring and Shelton were very attentive to their man, and led him
  up to the scratch at the sound of time. The Gas was sadly
  distressed, and compelled to pause before he went to work; but Neat
  waited for him. The Gas was about to make play, when Belcher said to
  Neat, “Be ready, my boy, he’s coming.” The Bristol hero sent the Gas
  staggering from him by a nobber, but Neat would not follow him. On
  the Gas attempting to make a hit, Neat again put in a tremendous
  blow on his mouth that uncorked the claret in profusion. The Gas
  recovered himself to the astonishment of all present, went to work,
  and, after some desperate exchanges, sent Neat down. This change
  produced a ray of hope on the part of his backers, and “Bravo, Gas!
  you’re a game fellow, indeed.” The anxiety of Tom Belcher to be near
  his man, occasioned Shelton to remark to Mr. Jackson, that if Tom
  did not keep away from Neat, according to his order, he should
  likewise keep close to the Gas. “Tom,” said Shelton, “you had better
  come and fight for Neat.”

  8.—The Gas, laughing, commenced the attack, but received such a
  giant-like blow on his right eye that he was convulsed; such were
  the terrific effects of this hit, that Hickman, after standing
  motionless for about three seconds, appeared to jump off the ground,
  his arms hanging by his sides, when he went down like a log on his
  back, and the shock was so great that his hands flew up over his
  head: he was totally insensible; so much so that Shelton and Spring
  could scarcely get him off the ground. The whole ring seemed
  panic-struck. Spring, vociferating almost with the voice of a
  Stentor to awake him from his stupor, with the repeated calls of
  “Gas! Gas! Gas!” The head of Hickman had dropped upon his shoulder.
  The spectators left their places and ran towards the ropes, thinking
  it was all over; indeed, the anxiety displayed, and the confusion
  which occurred in whipping out the ring, had such an effect that
  several persons observed a minute had passed away. On time being
  called, the Gas opened one eye wildly, for he had now only one left,
  the other being swelled and bleeding copiously.

  9.—The battle was now decidedly Neat’s own, and every eye was on the
  stretch, in expectation of the Bristol hero going in to administer
  the _coup de grace_. An experienced boxer of the London ring would
  have taken advantage of this circumstance, and not have given the
  chance away; but Neat, in the most manly manner, waited for Hickman
  at the scratch till the Gas felt himself enabled to renew milling.
  On recovering, he shook himself, as it were, to remove the effects
  of the overpowering stupor under which he laboured, and every person
  seemed electrified with his manner. He commenced the attack with
  much activity, and, after an exchange of blows, strange to say, sent
  Neat down. (Loud shouts of applause, and the whole ring expressing
  their admiration at the almost invincible courage Hickman
  possessed.)

  10.—The Gas came to the scratch staggering, his knees almost bending
  beneath his weight; he, however, showed most determined fight, and
  contended like a hero till he was hit down.

  11.—The state of the Gas was truly pitiable, and on setting-to he
  scarcely seemed to know where he was, and made a short pause before
  he attempted to put in a hit. Neat’s left hand again was planted on
  his nob, which sent the Gas staggering from him. Neat endeavoured to
  repeat the dose, but he missed his opponent; it might be considered
  fortunate that this blow did not reach its place of destination, as,
  in all probability, it would have proved Hickman’s quietus. The
  latter, after some exchanges, was again hit down. (Four to one.)

  12.—It was quite clear that the Gas was not yet extinguished, for
  this round was a complete milling one. Hickman followed his
  adversary, exchanging hit for hit; but it was evident, however
  desperate the intention of Hickman might be, his blows were not
  effective; while, on the contrary, the hits of Neat were terrific,
  and reduced the strength of his opponent at every move. Still the
  confidence of the Gas was unshaken, and he returned to the charge
  till Neat went down. (Tremendous applause. “What an astonishing game
  fellow!”)

  13.—The Gas had scarcely attempted to make a hit, when Neat’s left
  floored him like a shot. (The shouting from the Lansdown and the St.
  James’s Churchyard natives was like a roar of artillery. Ten to one;
  but all shy, and scarcely a taker.)

  14.—It was now a horse to a hen, although Hickman seemed determined
  to contend. He was distressed beyond measure, and his seconds were
  compelled to lead him to the scratch.[18] On putting himself in
  attitude, he was quite upon the see-saw, and to all appearance would
  only take a touch to send him down. “Give him a little one for me,”
  said Shelton. “I will,” replied Hickman; “but where is he?” Some
  exchanges took place, till both went down. (Any odds.)

  15.—The intention of Hickman was still for fighting; or, to speak
  more accurately, it should be called instinct, for as to reflection
  it seemed quite out of the question. This round was short; and,
  after a blow or two, the Gas was again hit down. (Loud cries of
  “Take the brave fellow away, he has no chance; it is cruel to let
  him remain.”) As Hickman lay on the ground he appeared convulsed.

  16.—Shelton and Spring, when time was called, brought the Gas to the
  scratch. He stared wildly for a second, when he endeavoured to
  fight, but was on the totter. His fine action was gone, and he now
  only stood up to be hit at. (“Take him away,” from all parts of the
  ring, in which Mr. Gully loudly joined.)

  17.—The game of the Gas was so out-and-out good that he preferred
  death to defeat. He again toddled to the scratch, but it was only to
  receive additional and unnecessary punishment. He was floored _sans
  cérémonie_. (“Take him away,” was again the cry; but he would not
  quit the field. “He must not come again,” was the general expression
  of the spectators.)

  18 and last.—On the Gas appearing at the mark, instead of putting up
  his arms to fight; he endeavoured to button the flap of his drawers
  in a confused state. Neat scorned to take advantage of his
  defenceless situation, and with the utmost coolness waited for him
  to commence the round. The Gas, as a last effort, endeavoured to
  show fight, but was pushed down, which put an end to the battle by
  his proving insensible to the call of time. The contest occupied
  twenty-three and a half minutes. Neat jumped and threw up his arms
  as a token of victory, amidst the proud and loud shouts which
  pronounced him conqueror. He went and shook the hand of his brave
  fallen opponent before he left the ring. A medical man bled Hickman
  on the spot without delay, and every humane attention was paid to
  him by his backer and his seconds. He remained for a short time in
  the ring in a state of stupor, was carried to a carriage, and
  conveyed to the Castle Inn, Speen Hill, near Newbury, and
  immediately put to bed.

  REMARKS.—To sum up the behaviour of the fallen hero in the fight, it
  is only common justice to say of the Gas, that he cut up, without
  disparagement, gamer than any man we ever before witnessed. His
  greatest enemy must join in this remark; indeed, if his countenance
  was anything like an index of his mind, the courage of Hickman was
  so high that he appeared to feel ashamed, and to quarrel with nature
  for deserting him. It is true that he was floored, but it is equally
  true the Gas was not extinct. “Give him,” said an old sporting man,
  “but a chance with anything near his weight, and the odds will be in
  his favour; he will again burst forth with redoubled splendour.” It
  cannot be denied that Hickman made himself numerous enemies by his
  chaffing. Out of the ring he was viewed as a great talker, often
  asserting more than he could perform; but in his battle with Neat he
  decidedly proved himself no boaster; and in the eyes of the sporting
  world, although suffering defeat, he raised his character higher
  than ever it stood before as a pugilist. His fault was, he thought
  himself unconquerable, and laughed at the idea of weight, length,
  and strength being opposed to him. If any apology can be offered for
  Hickman, it is that he did not stand alone in this view of his
  capabilities, for he was flattered by the majority of the fancy to
  the very echo, who backed him, on the match being made, nearly two
  to one.


A parallel might be instituted between Hickman and the lion-hearted
Hooper; high patronage, without discretion, ruined the former, and
however good nobs for milling boxers may possess, it is too commonly
seen they do not wear heads to bear sudden elevation. As a friendly hint
to all pugilists we trust this lesson will prove useful to them, and if
they will endeavour to avoid “putting an enemy into their mouths to
steal away their brains,” all will go right. The fists of pugilists are
only to be exercised in the prize ring; the tongues of boxers were never
intended to excite terror in the unoffending visitor. Hickman, however,
wanted discretion and self-control: he had no reason to be ashamed of
this defeat, for it was one of the most manly fights ever witnessed. No
closing, no pulling and hauling each other at the ropes, but fair
stand-up milling from beginning to end. No pugilist strained every point
further to win a battle than the Gas did, and although thousands of
pounds were lost on him, his backers had no right to complain.

The behaviour of the subject of this memoir was the admiration of all
present: it was unassuming and manly in the extreme. In a word, Neat
proved a good fighter, and was thought, before he met with Spring, to be
superior to any boxer on the list. He retired from the ring without any
prominent marks; nevertheless, he received many heavy blows.

Bristol, in the person of Neat, now claimed the championship. Although
its hero bore his blushing honours with becoming modesty, and publicly
asserted, at the Castle Tavern, Holborn, on the Thursday after the
fight, that he took no merit to himself in having defeated Hickman. “The
Gas-light Man,” said Neat, “was over-weighted; but I think he can beat
all the twelve stone men on the list. He is, I am convinced, one of the
gamest men in the kingdom; and, although I have been a great deal
chaffed about as a nobody, I will fight any man in London to-morrow
morning for £100 a-side of my own money.”

The result of this mill was a pretty “cleaning out” of the Londoners,
who returned to town with “pockets to let.” Nevertheless, there was
little grumbling, all uniting in the opinion that Hickman was entitled
to praise, doing all that he could to win. The news arrived in London by
pigeon about half past three o’clock in the afternoon. It is impossible
to describe the anxiety of the great crowds of persons which surrounded
all the sporting houses in the metropolis to learn the event. In Bristol
it was the same, and the editor of the _Gazette_ of that place thus
describes it:—“Such was the intense feeling excited in this city, that
the streets were crowded as if an election contest was at its height,
all inquiring the result, which was known here about seven o’clock.” The
following sentences were exhibited by a boy on a board in the road:—

                          “Bristol illuminated,
                          London in darkness,
                The Gas extinguished by a ‘Neat hand.’”

The Bristol hero arrived at Belcher’s, the Castle Tavern, Holborn, on
Wednesday evening, and made his bow to the Daffy Club. He was received
with loud cheers.

The turn of that “tide” which Shakespeare has declared to exist in the
“affairs of man” now occurred in the milling career of the “Pride of
Bristol,” as he was at this time termed. This was the great match with
Tom Spring for the championship, of which full details will be found in
pp. 16–22, vol. ii., _ante_. The battle was for £200 a-side, and took
place near Andover, May 20, 1823. Spring’s weight was stated at thirteen
stone two pounds, Neat’s at thirteen stone seven pounds, Spring being
about four years older than his antagonist. The length to which the
report of the battle extends in the pages above referred to, precludes
the necessity of farther dwelling on its features here, than by relating
a few anecdotes connected therewith.

There is a class of men who always couple defeat with disgrace, and
insinuate or assert dishonesty whenever events do not fall in with their
hopes, their prophesies, or their wishes. The editor of the _Bristol
Gazette_ made the following remarks on the occasion:—“Round the
9th.—Here—publish it not in Gath, tell it not among the Philistines—when
time was called, Neat walked up and, instead of clenched fist, stretched
out his hand to Spring; it was all U P. The Londoners shouted, the
Bristolians looked glum; not the recollection of former victories by all
the Pearces and Cribbs, and Gullys and Belchers, could for a moment
revive them: every man stared at his neighbour with inquiring eye—‘What
does it all mean?’ At last a report ran that Neat had broken his arm in
a fall. ‘Pshaw! all my eye!’ Mr. Jackson, the Commander-in-Chief, went
round with a hat for a collection for the loser—he confirmed the report
of the broken arm. Whether this was a fact or not remains to be proved;
this, however, was evident, that Neat neither fought with his accustomed
courage nor skill. The battle had lasted but thirty-seven minutes:
neither of the men were otherwise hurt. Neat never attempted once to get
in to his man; when Spring was at the ropes, he did not follow him as he
might have done; he was all on the shy, and fell once with the shadow of
a blow. Spring relied chiefly, there is no doubt, upon his superior
wrestling, and was always eager for the hug; but Neat either had not
quickness to keep him off or wanted courage to strike. The sparring of
Spring was much admired; but if Neat had had recourse to the smashing
which he practised on Hickman, Spring’s science might have been puzzled.
It is supposed that more money was lost by the Bristol boys than at any
fight on record. The Londoners went chaffing home in fine style, whilst
the return of the Bristol cavalcade was like that of a long country
funeral.”

Mr. Jackson collected for the losing man, on the ground, £47 19_s._ The
night previous to the battle, Spring, in company with his backer, walked
from Andover to take a view of the ground on which the battle was to
take place, when Spring observed, “It was so beautiful a spot that no
man could grumble to be well licked upon it.”

The newspaper report respecting Mr. Sant, the backer of Spring, having
won £7,000 on the event is erroneous; also that Mr. Gully had realised
£10,000. Mr. G. did not win more than £100. It is true that Mr. James
Bland picked up a tidy stake; but it was false that Belcher lost a large
sum of money upon the battle: Tom was too good a judge to risk too much
of his blunt. So much for correct newspaper information.

Painter left his house at Norwich on purpose to perform the office of
second to Spring, it being a particular request of the latter boxer. The
wags of the fancy, at the conclusion of the battle, proposed that the
town of Andover in future should have the letter H _neat_-ly added to
it—to stand thus, Hand-over, in allusion to the great transfer of specie
on this occasion.

It was stated in the newspapers that a fine old lady of the Society of
Friends, with a couple of her daughters, came in their carriage to the
Angel at Marlborough, during the time Neat was training. The two
daughters remained in the carriage at the door, while the old lady made
her way into the Angel. She ascended the stairs, and found Belcher in a
room, sitting by himself, Neat having retired to change his clothes. Tom
thought the lady had mistaken the apartment, till she addressed him.
“Thy name is Belcher, is it not, friend?” “Yes, madam,” was the reply.
Tom was in hopes to get rid of the lady before Neat returned; but she
waited till the Bristol hero made his appearance. “I understand, friend
Neat, thou art about fighting a prize battle. Dost thou not know it is
very sinful? Be advised, friend, and give it up.” Neat urged that he was
bound in honour, and that if he gave it up he should not only be a heavy
loser of money, but stand disgraced for betraying his friends. “If it be
the lucre of gain, friend Neat, I will recompense thee,” thereon, the
report went on to say, that the lady offered money to the pugilist.
Other journals coupled the name of the worthy and excellent Mrs. Fry
with the affair, which called forth the following epistle from her
husband:—


               “_To the Editor of the_ MORNING CHRONICLE.

  “My wife and myself will be much obliged by thy insertion in thy
  valuable paper of a few words, contradicting the absurd story,
  copied from a Bath and Cheltenham paper, of her having interfered to
  prevent the late battle between Spring and Neat, the whole of which
  is without the slightest foundation in truth or probability.

                                              “I am respectfully, etc.
                                                          “JOSEPH FRY.

  “_St. Mildred’s Court, 22nd 5th Month, 1823._”


Notwithstanding this denial, it is certain that a well-intentioned
Quaker lady did act as above described, for which, viewing the peculiar
tenets of her sect, we must rather applaud than ridicule her.

In disposition, Bill Neat was not only generous and cheerful, but might
be termed a “high fellow,” and always ready to serve a friend. He was
fond of a “bit of life,” threw off a good chant, and was the President
of the Daffy Club, held at Sam Porch’s, Guildhall Tavern, Broad Street,
Bristol. It was said of him that, “If he is not a good fighter, Neat is
a good fellow.”

From this period Neat, the small bone of whose arm was really fractured,
retired from the fistic arena. He became subsequently a butcher in
Bristol, where he resided until his death, which took place on the 23rd
of March, 1858, in the sixty-seventh year of his age. Neat was respected
for many social qualities, and his genuine kind-heartedness, under a
rough exterior, gained the friendship of many. His prowess in levelling
the small Welsh cattle by a blow with a gauntlet glove between the eyes
has been narrated to us by eye-witnesses of this Milonian feat. Bill
Neat adds another to the many instances, which this history has
presented, of the esteem and good opinion which the best men of the ring
have earned from all classes of society.

[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER VI.
                    THOMAS HICKMAN (“THE GAS MAN”).


A second Hotspur, had the sword been his weapon—fiery, hardy, daring,
impetuous, laughing to scorn all fear, and refusing to calculate odds in
weight, length, or strength, “the Gas Man,” for a brief period, shone
rather as a dazzling comet than a fixed star or planet in the pugilistic
sphere. Impetuous in the assault almost to ferocity, though not
destitute of skill, Hickman, like Hooper in his earlier day, prided
himself that his irresistible charge must confound, dismay, and paralyze
the defence of his opponent. There was certainly something terrific in
his attack, for in his earlier battles his head and body seemed
insensible to blows, at least they failed to drive him from his purpose
or to sensibly affect his strength, cheerfulness, or vigour. At one
period it was thought by his over-sanguine admirers that no skill could
repel his clever “draw” and his rushing onslaught. Retreat, when once in
for a rally, was with him a thing not to be thought of, and he carried
all before him. Success is the test and only criterion of the many, and
Hickman, despite experience, was over-rated. Out of the ring, Hickman
was fond of fun, vivacious, warm-hearted, and friendly; but, as may be
supposed, headstrong, violent, and repentant where wrong. Pugilists,
more liable to insults than most men, should always control their
tempers. It is necessary in the fight, and equally valuable in private
life. Our most eminent boxers (see lives of JOHNSON, CRIBB, SPRING,
etc., for corroboration) have been kind, forbearing, and of equable
temper. As a runner, Hickman was known before his ring _début_, and won
several prizes at this and jumping. The early career of Hickman we take
upon the credit of “Boxiana,” “the historian” being his contemporary.

[Illustration:

  THOMAS HICKMAN (“THE GAS MAN”).
]

Thomas Hickman was born in Ken Lane, Dudley, Worcestershire, on the 28th
of January, 1785. His nurse thought that he showed something like
“fight,” even in his cradle; but when Tommy felt the use of his pins,
and could toddle out among his play-fellows, he was considered as the
most handy little kid amongst them. His skirmishes, when a boy, are too
numerous for recital; but it will suffice to state that, in the circle
in which he moved, when any of them were in danger of being beaten, it
was a common observation amongst them, to intimidate the refractory,
that they would fetch “Tom Hickman to lick him!”

Hickman was apprenticed to a steam-engine boiler maker. His first
regular combat was with one Sedgeley, in a place called Wednesbury
Field.[19] Sedgeley was disposed of with ease and quickness by young
Tom.

John Miller, a coppersmith, was his next opponent in the same field.
This match was for one guinea a-side; but Miller proved so good a man
that Hickman was one hour and a half before he obtained the victory.
Miller was heavily punished about his nob.

Jack Hollis, a glass-blower, a hero who had seen some little service in
the milling way at Dudley, was backed for £5 a-side against Hickman.
This turned out a very severe battle. Hollis proved himself a good man,
although he was defeated in twenty-five minutes.

Luke Walker, a collier, entertained an idea that he could beat Hickman
“like winking,” and matched himself against the latter for two guineas;
but, in the short space of nineteen minutes, Walker lost his two
yellow-boys, and got well thrashed in the bargain.

Hickman now left his native place for the metropolis, to follow his
business, and took up his residence in the Borough. It was not long
before a customer of the name of Bill Doughty, a blacksmith, offered
himself to the notice of our hero, and was finished off cleverly in
thirteen minutes, in a field near Gravel Lane.

An Irishman of the name of Hollix, the champion of “the Borough”—then,
as in later years, noted for its fighting lads—fancied Hickman, and a
match was made for six guineas a-side. Miller seconded Hickman upon this
occasion. This was a tremendous fight, in the same field as the last
battle, occupying thirty-two minutes, in the course of which Hickman was
thrown heavily in nineteen rounds, owing to the superior strength of the
Irishman, experiencing several severe cross-buttocks. Hickman at length
got a turn, when he caught the Irishman’s hand, held him fast, and
planted such a stupefying blow under his listener, that poor Paddy was
so much hurt and so much frightened that he requested the bystanders to
take him to the hospital.

Jack Thomas, a thirteen stone man, well known in the Borough, was beaten
by Hickman in a short, fierce battle. He also accommodated a fellow of
the name of Jack Andrews, for £1 a-side, in the Borough, who talked of
what great things he had done in the boxing line, and what great things
he could still perform; but in the course of seventeen minutes he was so
punished as to be glad to resign the contest. Hickman had not the
slightest mark upon his face in this encounter.

Seven millwrights belonging to Sir John Rennie’s factory, it is said,
were all beaten by Hickman, in a turn-up near the John’s Head, Holland
Street. The latter, on leaving the above house, was attacked by this
party, and compelled to fight in his own defence. These millwrights
afterwards summoned Hickman before the magistrates at Horsemonger Lane;
but, on an explanation taking place, Hickman had also the best of the
round again before his worship, the first assault being proved.

Hickman was a well made, compact man, by no means so heavy in appearance
as he proved to be on going to scale, namely, eleven stone eleven
pounds. His height was five feet nine and a half inches. His nob was a
fighting one, and his eyes small, being protected by prominent orbital
bones. His frame, when stripped, was firm and round, displaying great
muscular strength. Hickman was not a showy, but an effective, decisive
hitter; perhaps the term of a smashing boxer would be more appropriate.
He was, however, a much better fighter than he appeared from his
peculiar style of attack.

We believe it was owing to Tom Shelton (who first discovered this
milling diamond in the rough) that Hickman exhibited in the prize ring.
His out-and-out qualities were whispered to a few of the judges on the
sly, and a patron was at length found for him. It was then determined
that he should be tried with a promising pugilist; and a match was made
between Hickman and young Peter Crawley, for £50 a-side. This came off
on Tuesday, March 16, 1819, at Moulsey Hurst.

The morning was threatening, but the enlivening rays of bright Sol
chased all gloom, and infused animation, interest, and spirits through
the multitude. It might be termed the first turn-out of the fancy for
the spring season, and the vehicles were gay and elegant. The presence
of a sprinkling of Corinthians gave life to the scene. More interest was
excited upon the fight than might have been expected, as both the boxers
on point of trial were viewed as new ones to the ring. Hickman, although
a light subject in himself, was, to the amateurs, completely a dark one.
“What sort of a chap is he?” “What has he done?” “Has he ever fought
anybody?” were repeatedly asked, and as repeatedly answered, “That no
one knew anything about him.” It was, however, generally understood that
he was very strong; but it was urged, as a sort of drawback, that he had
too much chaffing about him. On the other hand, though “Young Rump
Steak” stood high as a glove practitioner, his strength and stamina were
doubted. He was a youth of not more than nineteen years of age, nearly
six feet high, twelve stone in weight, but thought to have more gristle
than bone; however, the keen air of Hampstead, added to good training,
had not only produced an improvement of his frame, but had reduced the
odds against him, and, on the morning of fighting, it was, in a great
measure, even betting, or “Young Peter” for choice. The importance of
the “Man of Gas” was kept up by his trainer, Tom Shelton, who
confidently asserted that if Hickman did not win he would quit the
boxing ring, and take up a quiet abode in the bosom of Father Thames,
Oliver also declaring that he would follow his namesake’s example if
their “Tom” did not win in a canter. Such was the state of affairs when
the moment arrived for the appearance of the heroes on the plains of
Moulsey. Hickman showed first in the ring and threw up his castor,
attended by his seconds, Oliver and Shelton. Crawley soon followed,
waited upon by Painter and Jones. The colours were tied to the stakes,
and at one o’clock the men set-to.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The Gas-light blade seemed well primed as a “four pound
  burner,” and eager to eclipse his opponent with his superior
  brilliancy. He showed fight instantly, rushed upon his opponent, and
  gave Young Rump Steak a mugger, but it did not prove effective.
  Crawley endeavoured to retreat from the boring qualities of his
  antagonist, and tapped Hickman over his guard. The latter went in,
  almost laughing at the science against him, and Crawley could not
  resist his efforts with anything like a stopper. He also received a
  desperate hit upon his right ear, that not only drew the claret, but
  floored him. In going down he unfortunately hit his head against a
  stake. (“Well done, my Gassy,” from the Light Company; and seven to
  four offered upon him.)

  2.—The appearance of Crawley was completely altered. He was groggy
  from the effects of the last blow and the contact with the stake.
  The Gas Man let fly _sans cérémonie_, and the nob of his opponent
  was pinked in all directions. His nose received a heavy hit, and he
  went down covered with claret. (£10 to £5 upon Hickman.)

  3.—It was evident that Crawley had not strength enough in the first
  round, but now he was quite reduced. He, however, showed good pluck,
  put in some hits that marked his opponent, and swelled up his left
  eye like a roll; but he was punished in return dreadfully, and again
  went down. (Three to one, but no takers.)

  4.—Crawley received a terrible hit in the throat, and fell on his
  back, with his arms extended, quite exhausted. (Five to one.)

  5.—Crawley set-to with more spirit than could have been expected. He
  planted some facers; but the force of his opponent operated like a
  torrent—the stream appeared to carry him away. He was punished up to
  the ropes, and then floored upon his face. (Seven to one.)

  6.—The pluck of Crawley was good; he tried to make a change, but
  without effect; he received a nobber that sent him staggering away,
  quite abroad, and fell down.

  7.—This was a desperate round, and Crawley gave hit for hit till the
  Gas-light Man’s face blazed again; but Crawley was exhausted, and
  both went down. (“Go along, Crawley; such another round, and you
  can’t lose it.”) It was almost give and take hitting.

  8.—Crawley also fought manfully this round; but he had no chance,
  and the Gas Man again sent him down. (All betters, but no takers.)

  9.—The right hand of Hickman was tremendous. Crawley’s nob
  completely in chancery, and he was milled out of the ring.

  10.—This round was similar to the famous one between Painter and
  Sutton during their first fight. Crawley was so severely hit from
  the scratch that he never put up his hands. (“Take him away,” from
  all parts of the ring.)

  11.—This round was nearly as bad; but the game of Young Rump Steak
  was much praised. The Gas Man did not go without some sharp
  punishment.

  12.—Crawley floored in a twinkling. Long, very long, before this
  period it was “Tom Cribb’s Memorial to Congress” to a penny chant.
  Crawley could not resist the heavy hitting of his opponent.

  13 and last.—The Gas-light Man had completely put his opponent in
  darkness, and he only appeared this round to receive the _coup de
  grace_. Thirteen minutes and a half finished the affair.

  REMARKS.—The Gas Man retained all his blaze; in fact, he burnt
  brighter in his own opinion than before. However, he was pronounced
  by the cognoscenti not a good fighter. Indeed, a few words will
  suffice. Hickman appeared too fond of rushing to mill his opponent,
  regardless of the result to himself, and often hit with his left
  hand open. The good judges thought well of the Gas-light Man from
  the specimen he had displayed, yet urged that there was great room
  for improvement; and when possessing the advantage of science, he
  would doubtless prove a teaser to all of his own, and even above,
  his weight. Crawley had outgrown his strength.


In this battle Hickman injured one of his hands severely in the third
round; indeed, he kept looking at one of his fingers, and complained of
it to his second, Tom Shelton. The latter, with much bluntness, told him
“to hold his chaffing; such conduct was not the way to win; he was not
hurt!” The Gas-light Man took the hint, and was silent during the
remainder of the battle. In a few days after the fight his hand was so
painful, and had assumed such a livid appearance, that he was compelled
to have the advice of a surgeon. On examination it was found one of his
fingers had been broken.

The Gas-light Man was now looked upon as somebody by the fancy; and
several matches were talked over for him, but they all went off except
the following, which was made up in a very hasty manner, for a purse of
£20, at the Tennis Court, at Cy. Davis’s benefit.

In this contest Hickman entered the lists with the scientific George
Cooper, at Farnham Royal, Dawney Common, near Stowe, Buckinghamshire,
twenty-four miles from London, on Tuesday, March 28, 1820, after Cabbage
and Martin had left the ring. This contest was previously termed fine
science against downright ruffianism, and seven to four and two to one
was the current betting on Cooper without the slightest hesitation. On
entering the ring the latter looked pale; but when he stripped, his
frame had an elegant appearance. He had for his seconds Oliver and Bill
Gibbons. Hickman was under the guidance of Randall and Shelton. Hickman
laughed in the most confident manner, observing, “That he was sure to
win.” Previously to the combatants commencing the battle, Mr. Jackson
called them both to him, stating the amount of the subscriptions he had
collected for the winner. “I am quite satisfied,” replied Hickman; “I
will fight, if it is only for a glass of gin!” This sort of braggadocio
quite puzzled all the swells, and the Gas-light Man was put down as a
great boaster, or an out-and-outer extraordinary. Notwithstanding all
the confidence of Hickman, the well-known superior science possessed by
George Cooper rendered him decidedly the favourite.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On setting-to Cooper placed himself in an elegant position,
  and a few seconds passed in sparring and in getting room to make
  play. Every eye was on the watch for the superiority of Cooper; but
  the rapidity of attack made by the Gas Man was so overwhelming that
  he drove Cooper to the ropes, and the exchange of hits was terrific,
  till Cooper went down like a shot, out of the ropes, from a terrible
  blow on the tip of his nose, with his face pinked all over. (The
  shouting was tremendous: “Bravo, Gas! it’s all up with his
  science.”)

  2.—The impetuosity of the Gas Man positively electrified the
  spectators. He went in to mill Cooper with complete indifference.
  Cooper’s face was quite changed; he seemed almost choked.
  Nevertheless, as the Gas was coming in with downright ferocity,
  Cooper planted a tremendous facer, right in the middle of the head.
  This blow, heavy as it was, only made the Gas Man shake his head a
  little, as if he wished to throw something off; but in renewing the
  attack, Hickman slipped down from a slight hit. (Great shouting, and
  “The Gas-light Man is a rum one.” The odds had dropped materially,
  and Hickman was taken for choice.)

  3.—The face of Hickman now showed the talents of Cooper, and he was
  hit down on one knee; but the former instantly jumped up to renew
  the attack, when Cooper sat himself down on his second’s knee, to
  finish the round.

  4.—Gas followed Cooper all over the ring, and hit him down.
  (Tumultuous shouting. Two to one on Gas.)

  5.—The fine science of Cooper had its advantages in this round. He
  planted some desperate facers with great success, and the nob of his
  opponent bled profusely. In struggling for the throw, both down, but
  Gas undermost. (By way of a cordial to Cooper, some of his friends
  shouted, Cooper for £100.)

  6.—This was a truly terrific round, and Cooper showed that he could
  hit tremendously as well as his opponent. Facer for facer was
  exchanged without fear or delay, and Cooper got away from some heavy
  blows. In closing, both down.

  7.—The assaults of the Gas Man were so terrible that Cooper, with
  all his fine fighting, could not reduce his courage. Hickman would
  not be denied. The latter got nobbed prodigiously. In struggling for
  the throw, Cooper got his adversary down. (“Well done, George.”)

  8.—The Gas Man seemed to commence this round rather cautiously, and
  began to spar, as if for wind. (“If you spar,” said Randall, “you’ll
  be licked. You must go in and fight.”) The hitting on both sides was
  severe. The Gas Man got Cooper on the ropes, and punished him so
  terribly that “Foul!” and “Fair!” was loudly vociferated, till
  Cooper went down quite weak.

  9.—The Gas Man, from his impetuous mode of attack, appeared as if
  determined to finish Cooper off-hand. The latter had scarcely left
  his second’s knee, when Hickman ran up to him and planted a severe
  facer. Cooper was quite feeble; he was hit down.

  10.—In this round Cooper was hit down, exhausted, and picked up
  nearly senseless. (“It’s all up,” was the cry; in fact, numbers left
  their places, thinking it impossible for Cooper again to meet his
  antagonist.)

  11.—In the anxiety of the moment several of the spectators thought
  the time very long before it was called, and, to their great
  astonishment, Cooper was again brought to the scratch. He showed
  fight till he was sent down. (“Bravo, Cooper! you are a game fellow
  indeed.”)

  12.—This was a complete ruffian round on both sides. The Gas Man’s
  nob was a picture of punishment. Cooper astonished the ring from the
  gameness he displayed, and the manly way in which he stood up to his
  adversary, giving hit for hit till both went down.

  13.—It was evident that Cooper had never recovered from the severity
  of the blow he had received on the tip of his nose in the first
  round. “It’s all up,” was the cry; but Cooper fought in the most
  courageous style till he went down.

  14.—Cooper, although weak, was still a troublesome customer. He
  fought with his adversary, giving hit for hit, till he was down.

  15.—This round was so well contested as to claim admiration from all
  parts of the ring, and “Well done on both sides,” was loudly
  vociferated. Cooper was distressed beyond measure; he, nevertheless,
  opposed Hickman with blow for blow till he fell.

  16 and last.—Without something like a miracle it was impossible for
  Cooper to win. He, however, manfully contended for victory, making
  exchanges, till both the combatants went down. When time was called,
  Hickman appeared at the scratch, but Cooper was too exhausted to
  leave his second’s knee, and Hickman was proclaimed the conqueror,
  amidst the shouts of his friends. The battle was over in the short
  space of fourteen minutes and a half.

  REMARKS.—The courage exhibited by Cooper was equal to anything ever
  witnessed, but he was so ill before he left the ring that some fears
  were entertained for his safety. After the astonishment had subsided
  a little, the question round the ring was, “Who on the present list
  can beat Hickman?” The courage and confidence of Hickman seemed so
  indomitable that he entered the ring certain of victory. Both
  combatants were terribly punished, and Cooper showed himself as game
  a man as ever pulled off a shirt. The Gas Man, it was observed, used
  his right hand only.


In consequence of Hickman being informed that Cooper wished for another
battle, he put forth the following challenge in the _Weekly Dispatch_,
October 8, 1820.


  “_To George Cooper, Britannia Tavern, Edinburgh._

  “SIR,—

  “Having seen a letter written by you from Edinburgh to Tom Belcher,
  at the Castle Tavern, Holborn, stating that you wished I would give
  you the preference respecting another battle between us, I now
  publicly inform you that I am ready to fight you for any sum that
  may suit you; and, as a proof that I am ready to accommodate you
  according to your request, it is indifferent to me whether it is in
  London or Edinburgh. But if at the latter place, I shall expect my
  expenses of training to be paid, and also the expenses of the
  journey of my second and bottle-holder. Having proved the conqueror,
  I felt myself satisfied, and had no idea of another contest; but I
  cannot refuse a challenge.

                                                    “Yours, etc.,
                                                          “T. HICKMAN.

  “_October 7, 1820._”


This produced the desired result, and, over a sporting dinner, in
October, 1820, at the Castle Tavern, Holborn, a match was made between
Hickman and Cooper, for £100 a-side, to take place on the 20th of
December, within twenty-four miles of London, Tom Belcher putting a
deposit of £5 on the part of Cooper, the latter being at Edinburgh. A
further deposit to be made on the 7th of November, of £20 a-side. The
odds immediately were sixty to forty in favour of Hickman. But the £5
was forfeited, and the match off, for the reasons stated in the memoir
of GEORGE COOPER, _ante_, p. 317.

A match was proposed between Hickman and Kendrick, the man of colour,
for 25 guineas a-side. But in a previous trial set-to, at the Fives
Court, the man of colour was so dead beat with the gloves that
Kendrick’s backers took the alarm, and were quite satisfied that he had
not the shadow of a chance. The superiority of Hickman was so evident
that no person could be found to back poor Blacky. Hickman treated the
capabilities of Kendrick with the utmost contempt, milled him all over
the stage, and begged of him to have another round just by way of a
finish. Yet this man of colour proved a tiresome customer both to the
scientific George Cooper and the game Tom Oliver.

The second match between Hickman and Cooper excited intense interest, as
this new trial was regarded as a question of skill against Hickman’s
bull-dog rush. The day was fixed for the 11th of April, 1821, and
Harpenden Common, twenty-five miles from London, and three from St.
Alban’s, was the fixture. So soon as the important secret was known,
lots toddled off on the Tuesday evening, in order to be comfortable,
blow a cloud on the road, and be near the scene of action. The
inhabitants of Barnet and St. Alban’s were taken by surprise, from the
great influx of company which suddenly filled the above places. The
sporting houses in London also experienced an overflow of the fancy; and
the merits of the Gas Man and Cooper were the general theme of
conversation. Six to four was the current betting; but in several
instances seven to four had been sported. Early on the Wednesday morning
the Edgeware and Barnet roads were covered with vehicles of every
description, and the inns were completely besieged to obtain
refreshment. The inhabitants of St. Alban’s were out of doors, wondering
what sort of people these Lunnuners must be, who spent their time and
money so gaily. The place for fighting had been well chosen—the ground
was dry, and the ring capacious. Pugilists were employed to beat out the
outer ring, and had new whips presented to them, on which were engraved
“P. C.”

At one o’clock the Gas Man appeared and threw his hat into the
twenty-four feet square. He applied an orange to his lips, and was
laughing and nodding to his friends with the utmost confidence. He had a
blue bird’s eye about his neck. He was followed by Randall and Shelton.
In a few minutes afterwards, Cooper, in a brown great coat, with a
yellow handkerchief about his neck, attended by Belcher and Harmer,
threw his hat into the ring with equal confidence. Cooper went up to the
Gas Man, shook him by the hand, and asked him how he was in his health.
Two umpires were immediately chosen; and, in case of dispute, a referee
was named. Mr. Jackson informed the seconds and bottle-holders that,
upon the men setting-to, they were all to retire to the corners of the
ring, and that when time was called the men were to be immediately
brought to the scratch. The greatest anxiety prevailed. A few persons
betted seven to four on Hickman as the men stood up.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On stripping, the appearance of Hickman was fine, and no
  man ever had more attention paid him, being trained in a right
  sporting place, where many gentlemen belonging to the Hertfordshire
  Hunt had an opportunity of watching him. Cooper looked pale, and his
  legs had not quite recovered from a severe attack of boils. It was
  evident Cooper was not in tip-top condition; in fact, the time was
  too short to get his legs well. On setting-to, little sparring
  occurred; Cooper, with much science, broke away from the furious
  attacks of the Gas-light Man. The latter, however, followed him, and
  planted two slight hits, when Cooper kept retreating; but on
  Hickman’s rushing in furiously to plant a hit, Cooper, with the
  utmost severity, met him with a most tremendous left-handed hit on
  the left cheek, just under his eye, that floored him like a shot,
  and his knees went under him. (To describe the shouting would be
  impossible; and several persons roared out, “Cooper for £100!” and
  “The Gas must lose it.” Even betting was offered, and some roared
  out seven to four.)

  2 and last.—The Gas Man came up rather heavy: it was a stunning hit;
  his cheek was swelled, and the claret appeared on it. He, however,
  was not at all dismayed, and went to work with the utmost gaiety.
  Cooper broke ground in great style, but missed several hits; if any
  one of these had told, perhaps it might have decided the battle.
  Hickman followed him close to the ropes, at which Cooper, finding
  himself bored in upon by his opponent, endeavoured to put in a
  stopper, but the blow passed by the head of his adversary, when
  Hickman, in the most prompt and astonishing manner, put in a
  tremendous hit, which alighted just under Cooper’s ear, that not
  only floored him, but sent him out of the ropes like a shot. Belcher
  and Harmer could not lift him up, and when time was called he was as
  dead as a house, and could not come to the scratch. The sensation
  round the ring cannot be depicted: and the spectators were in a
  state of alarm. Cooper was thus disposed of in the short space of
  three minutes. The Gas-light Man also seemed amazed: he was quite a
  stranger to the state of Cooper, and asked why they did not bring
  him to the scratch. Belcher endeavoured to lift Cooper off Harmer’s
  knee, when his head, in a state of stupor, immediately dropped.
  “Why, he is licked,” cried Randall. The circumstance was so
  singular, that, for the instant, Randall and Shelton seemed at a
  loss to know what to do, till, recollecting themselves, they
  appealed to the umpires, and took Hickman out of the ring, put him
  in a post-chaise, and drove off for St. Alban’s. In the course of a
  minute or so Cooper recovered from his trance, but was quite unable
  to recollect what had occurred; he said to Belcher, “What! have I
  been fighting?” declaring that he felt as if he had just awoke out
  of a dream: he appeared in a state of confusion, and did not know
  where he had been hit. A gentleman came forward and offered to back
  Cooper for £50 to fight the Gas Man immediately, and Cooper, with
  the utmost game, appeared in the ring; but Hickman had left the
  ground. The Gas Man was most punished.

  REMARKS.—Instead of making any remarks upon the above fight, it
  might be more proper to say, that the Phenomenon (Dutch Sam), the
  Nonpareil (Jack Randall), the Champion of England, Tom Johnson, Big
  Ben, Jem Belcher, the Chicken, Gully, Tom Cribb, etc.—without
  offering the least disparagement to their courage and
  abilities—never accomplished anything like the following:—Hickman
  won three prize battles in thirty-one minutes.

                  He defeated Crawley in 13½ minutes.
                       〃      Cooper  〃  14½    〃
                       〃      Ditto   〃  3        〃
                                         ——
                                         31


The preliminaries of Hickman’s match with Tom Oliver are given in that
boxer’s life, we shall therefore merely detail the doings of the day of
battle.

On Tuesday, June 12, 1821, at an early hour, the road was covered with
vehicles of every description, and numerous barouches and four were
filled with swells of the first quality to witness the Gas again exhibit
his extraordinary pugilistic powers. The Greyhound, at Croydon, was the
rallying point for the swells. The fight was a good turn for the road;
the lively groups in rapid motion, the blunt dropping like waste paper,
and no questions asked, made all parties pleasant and happy. The fun on
the road to a mill is one of the merry things of the days that are gone;
more character was to be seen there than ever assembled at a masquerade.
View the swell handle his ribands and push his tits along with as much
ease as he would trifle with a lady’s necklace, the “bit of blood”
thinking it no sin to hurl the dirt in people’s eyes; the drags full of
merry coves; the puffers and blowers; the dennets; the tandems; the
out-riggers; the wooden coachmen, complete dummies as to “getting out of
the way;” the Corinthian fours; the Bermondsey tumblers; the high and
low life—the genteel, middling, respectable, and tidy sort of chaps, all
eager in one pursuit; with here and there a fancy man’s pretty little
toy giving the “go-by” in rare style, form altogether a rich scene—the
blues are left behind, and laughter is the order of the day. Such is a
print sketch of what going to a mill was in days of yore.

It was two to one all round the ring before the combatants made their
appearance, and at one o’clock, almost at the same moment, Oliver and
Hickman threw their hats into the ropes. Oliver was attended by Harmer
and Josh. Hudson; the Gas Man was waited upon by Spring and Shelton.
This trio sported white hats. The colours, yellow for Oliver and blue
for the Gas, were then tied to the stakes. On Oliver entering the ring
he went up to the Gas-light Man smiling, shook hands with him, and asked
him how he did, which was returned in a most friendly manner by Hickman.
On tossing up for the side to avoid the rays of the sun, Hickman said,
“It’s a woman; I told you I should win it.” He appeared in striped silk
stockings; and, on stripping, patted himself with confidence, as much as
to infer, “Behold my good condition.” Some little difficulty occurred in
selecting umpires.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Considerable caution was observed; each dodged the other a
  little while, made offers to hit, and got away. The Gas endeavoured
  to plant a blow, but it fell short, from the retreating system
  adopted by Oliver. The Gas again endeavoured to make a hit, which
  alighted on Oliver’s right arm; the latter, by way of derision,
  patted it and laughed. Oliver was now at the ropes, and some
  exchanges took place; but in a close Oliver broke away, and a small
  pause ensued. Hickman at length went to work, and his execution was
  so tremendous in a close that the face of Oliver was changed to a
  state of stupor, and both went down. Oliver was picked up instantly,
  but he was quite abroad; he looked wildly, his left ear bleeding;
  and the cry was, “It’s all up, he cannot come again.” Indeed it was
  the general opinion that Oliver would not be able again to appear at
  the scatch. However, the Gas did not come off without a sharp taste
  of the powers of the Old One.

  2.—Oliver was bad; in fact, he was “shaken.” His heart was as good
  as ever, but his energy was reduced: he got away from a hit. The Gas
  now put in so tremendous a facer that it was heard all over the
  ring, and Oliver was bleeding at the mouth. In closing, Oliver tried
  to fib his opponent, but it was useless; the Gas held him as tight
  as if he had been in a vice till they both went down. Oliver was so
  punished and exhausted that several persons cried out, “It’s of no
  use, take the Old ’un away.”

  3.—The scene was so changed that twenty guineas to two were laid
  upon Hickman. The latter smiled with confidence on witnessing the
  execution he had done; but the game displayed by Oliver was above
  all praise: he appeared, after being hallooed at by his seconds, a
  shade better, and he fought a severe round. The Gas received a
  terrible body hit, and some other severe exchanges took place. The
  cunning of Gas was here witnessed in an extraordinary degree; with
  his left hand open, which appeared in the first instance as if his
  fingers went into the mouth of Oliver, he put the head of Oliver
  a-side, and with a dreadful hit, which he made on the back part of
  his opponent’s nob, sent him down on his face. A lump as big as a
  roll immediately rose upon it. The Gas in this round was very much
  distressed; his mouth was open, and it seemed to be the opinion of
  several of the amateurs that he was not in such high condition as
  when he fought Cooper, or he must have finished the battle. The Gas
  once stood still and looked at his opponent; but Oliver could not
  take advantage of it.

  4.—Hickman endeavoured to plant his desperate right hand upon
  Oliver’s face, but missed and fell. Oliver, in trying to make a hit
  in return, fell over Hickman; the Gas laughed and winked to his
  second. It was, perhaps, a fortunate circumstance that Hickman
  missed this hit, as it might have proved Oliver’s _quietus_.

  5.—The left eye of the Gas was rather touched; but his confidence
  astonished the ring. The confident look of Hickman developed his
  mind. Oliver broke away, and also jobbed the Gas-light Man’s nob;
  but as to anything like hitting, it was out of him. Hickman not only
  bored in upon Oliver, but punished him till he went down stupid.
  (Hickman for any odds.)

  6.—Oliver came up to the scratch heavy, but he smiled and got away
  from the finishing hit of his opponent. Singular to observe, in
  closing, Oliver, by a sort of slewing throw, sent the Gas off his
  legs, and he was almost out of the ring. (The applause given to
  Oliver was like a roar of artillery.) The Gas got up with the utmost
  _sang froid_.

  7.—Oliver put in a facer, but it made no impression; and the Gas
  with his left hand again felt for his distance against Oliver’s nob,
  and the blows he planted in Oliver’s face were terrific. The
  strength and confidence of Hickman was like that of a giant to a
  boy.

  8.—Oliver came up almost dozing, and began to fight as if from
  instinct. Hickman now made his right and left hand tell upon
  Oliver’s head, when the latter went down like a log of wood. (It was
  £100 to a farthing. “Take him away; he has not a shadow of a
  chance.”)

  9 and last.—Oliver, game to the end, appeared at the scratch and put
  up his arms to fight, when the pepper administered by the Gas was so
  hot that he went down in a state of stupor. The Gas said to his
  second, “I have done it; he will not come again.” Oliver was picked
  up and placed on his second’s knee, but fell, and when time was
  called could not move. Hickman immediately jumped up and said, “I
  can lick another Oliver now;” and finding that this boast was in bad
  taste, and met no response, even from his own partisans, he, upon
  second thoughts, went up and shook Oliver by the hand. Medical
  assistance being at hand, Oliver was bled and conveyed to the
  nearest house. He did not come to himself rightly for nearly two
  hours. It was all over in twelve minutes and a half.

  REMARKS.—Thus, in less than three-quarters of an hour, had Hickman
  conquered in succession, Crawley, Cooper (twice), and Oliver. In
  quickness he came the nearest to the late Jem Belcher; but the Gas
  could not fight so well with both hands. Perhaps it might be more
  correct to compare him with the Game Chicken; yet the latter was a
  more finished and more careful fighter than Hickman. It is, however,
  but common justice to say of the Gas, that his confidence was
  unexampled. He went up to the head of his opponent to commence the
  fight with such certainty of success as almost enforced and asserted
  victory. He thought himself invulnerable before, but this conquest
  convinced him he was invincible, and he immediately offered as a
  challenge to all England, once within four or six months, to fight
  any man, and give a stone. It is useless to talk against stale men:
  Oliver fought like a hero, and it was generally said “that a man
  must be made on purpose to beat the Gas.” The latter was so little
  hurt that he walked about the ring, and played two or three games at
  billiards at Croydon, on his way to London. Forty-five pounds were
  collected for the brave but unfortunate Oliver. The backer of the
  Gas was so much pleased with his conduct that he ordered the
  President of the Daffies,[20] who held the stakes of £200, to give
  Hickman the whole of them.


Oliver, on his return to London the same evening, after he had recovered
a little from the effects of this battle, called in at the Greyhound, at
Croydon, when Hickman presented him with a couple of guineas. The backer
of Hickman also gave Oliver five guineas; and several other gentlemen
who were present were not unmindful of the courage he had displayed.

The decisive conquests of Hickman had placed him so high in the
estimation of the fancy, and he was upon such excellent terms with
himself, that he would not hear of a question as to his ability to
conquer any pugilist on the list. In conversation on the subject, he
often insisted that he was certain he could lick Cribb; and also
frequently wished “that Jem Belcher was alive, that he might have had an
opportunity of showing the sporting world with what ease he would have
conquered that renowned boxer.” Hickman asserted he did not value size
or strength; and the bigger his opponents were the better he liked them.
In consequence of this sort of boasting at various times, and also upon
the completion of the stakes between Randall and Martin, in August,
1821, at the Hole-in-the-Wall, Chancery Lane, a trifling bet was offered
that no person present would make a match between Hickman and Neat. A
gentleman immediately stepped forward and said Neat should fight Hickman
either for £100 or £200 a-side, and he would instantly put down the
money. This circumstance operated as a stopper, and the match went off.
In another instance, the backers of the Bristol hero sported £100 at
Tattersall’s, on Thursday, September 13, 1821, to put down to make a
match; but the friends of Gas would not cover. It certainly was no match
as to size; but, as the friends of Neat observed, “Neat has no right to
be chaffed about it, as his £200 is ready at a moment’s notice.”

The match at length was knocked up in a hurry over a glass of wine, a
deposit made, and the following articles of agreement entered into:—


                                   “CASTLE TAVERN, _October 13, 1821_.

  “Thomas Belcher, on the part of W. Neat, and an amateur on the part
  of Hickman, have made a deposit of 25 guineas a-side, to make it 100
  guineas a-side, on Monday, the 20th inst. The money is placed in the
  hands of the President of the Daffy Club. To be a fair stand-up
  fight; half-minute time. The match to take place on the 11th of
  December, half-way between Bristol and London. An umpire to be
  chosen on each side, and a referee upon the ground. The battle-money
  to be 200 guineas a-side, and to be made good, a fortnight before
  fighting, at Belcher’s.”


Immediately on the above articles being signed five to four was betted
on Hickman. Neat, it was said, would be nearly two stone heavier than
the Gas-light Man. It will be recollected that both Neat and Hickman
defeated Oliver, but with this vast difference—Neat won it after a long
fight of one hour and thirty-one minutes, and during the battle it was
once so much in favour of Oliver that £100 to £3 was offered, and no
takers; while, on the contrary, the Gas defeated Oliver in twelve
minutes, without giving the latter boxer a shadow of chance. Neat had
appeared only once in the prize ring; he was a great favourite at
Bristol, and one of the finest made men in the kingdom. He was also said
to be much improved in pugilistic science.

The name of the Gas, on Thursday, December 5, 1821, proved attractive to
the fancy at the Tennis Court in the Haymarket. The “Gas” was loudly
called for, when the Master of the Ceremonies, with a grin on his mug,
said, “It shall be turned on immediately.” Hickman, laughing, ascended
the steps, made his bow, and put on the gloves, but did not take off his
flannel jacket. Shelton followed close at his heels, when the combat
commenced. The spirit and activity displayed by the Gas claimed
universal attention: he was as lively as an eel, skipped about with the
agility of a dancing master, and his decided mode of dealing with his
opponent was so conspicuous that it seemed to say to the amateurs, “Look
at me; you see I am as confident as if it was over.” The hitting was not
desperate on either side, except in one instance, when the Gas let fly
as if he had forgotten himself. Both Shelton and Hickman were loudly
applauded.

The details of the exciting contest between our hero and Neat, on
Tuesday, December 11, 1821, will be found in the memoir of NEAT. It came
off sixty-seven miles from London, on Hungerford Downs, and produced
perhaps in its progress and results as great an excitement as any
contest on record. Neat and the Gas-light Man met at Mr. Jackson’s rooms
on Friday, December 15, when they shook hands without animosity. Neat
generously presented Hickman with £5. The latter afterwards acknowledged
that Neat was too long for him, and that, in endeavouring to make his
hits tell he over-reached himself, and was nearly falling on his face.
Hickman also compared the severe hit he received on his right eye to a
large stone thrown at his head, which stunned him. Neat was afraid to
make use of his right hand often, in consequence of having broken his
thumb about ten weeks before, and it was very painful and deficient in
strength during the battle.

                 “ON THE DEFEAT OF HICKMAN.

         “The flaming accounts of the Gas are gone by,
         As smoke when ’tis borne by the breeze to the sky,
         The ‘retorts’ of brave Neat have blown up his fame,
         And clouded the lustre that beamed from his name.
         His ‘pipes’ may be sound, and his courage still burn,
         But Neat to its ‘service’ has given ‘the turn;’
         The Fancy may long be illumed by his art,
         And ‘the coal’ that is sported due ardour impart;
         Yet never again can his light be complete,
         Now sullied and dimmed by the ‘feelers’[21] of Neat.”

In March, 1822, Hickman, in company with Cy. Davis, set out on a
sparring expedition to Bristol, where he was flatteringly received. A
Bristol paper observed:—“On Thursday morning the sport at Tailors’ Hall
was particularly good. In the evening upwards of four hundred persons
met at the Assembly-room to witness the set-to between Hickman and the
Champion (rather premature this), which enabled the amateurs to form a
pretty correct notion of the manner in which the great battle was lost
and won. The style of Neat exhibits the perfection of this noble
science—it is the cautious, the skilful, the sublime. That of the Gas is
the shifting, the showy, and the flowery style of boxing. The audience
were highly gratified, and the sum received at the doors exceeded £120.”

Another journal of the same city remarked that—“The puissant Neat and
the lion-hearted Hickman, attended by that able tactician, Cy. Davis,
with Santy Parsons and others of minor note, have, within these few
days, been showing off in this city in good style. The benefits have
been well attended, principally by Corinthians, for the tip was too high
for other than well-blunted coves. The sums received at the doors are
said to exceed £120. This is really good interest for their notes of
hand.”

Hickman had a bumper benefit at the Fives Court on Wednesday, May 8,
1822, and altogether the amusement was excellent. The principal
attraction of the day was the set-to between the Gas and Neat. The
former was determined to have “the best of it,” and he most certainly
had “the best of it.” It is, however, equally true that Neat has no
taste for sparring, and is not seen to advantage with the gloves on. The
Gas was still a terrific opponent, and it was evident “the fight” had
not been taken out of him. “Let those pugilists who meddle with him,”
said an experienced amateur, “anything near his weight, beware of the
consequences.” What sporting man connected with the ring, on viewing the
Gas and Neat opposed to each other, could, in point of calculation,
assert it was anything like a match between them; and Neat, with the
most honourable and manly feeling on the subject, never did exult on the
conquest he obtained over as brave a man as ever stripped to fight a
prize battle.

Hickman appeared rather unsettled in his mind after his defeat by Neat;
and, when irritated by liquor, several times boasted that he was able to
conquer the Bristol hero. But, as time gets the better of most things,
Hickman became more reconciled to his fate, and asserted, in the
presence of numerous amateurs at the Castle Tavern, when Josh. Hudson
challenged him for £100 a-side, that he had given up prize-fighting
altogether. In consequence of this declaration he commenced publican at
the Adam and Eve, in Jewin Street, Aldersgate Street, which house he
purchased of Shelton. During the short time he was in business he was
civil and obliging to his customers, and a great alteration for the
better, it was thought, had taken place in his behaviour; but, before
any just decision could be pronounced on his merits as the landlord of a
sporting house, the sudden and awful termination of his career banished
every other consideration.

A tradesman of the name of Rawlinson, a strong made man, a native of
Lancashire, but well known in the sporting circles in the metropolis for
his penchant for pugilism and wrestling, being rather inebriated one
evening at Randall’s, would have a turn-up with Hickman. The Gas-light
man was perfectly sober, and extremely averse to anything of the kind;
but the set-to was forced upon him by Rawlinson chaffing, “That Tom was
nobody—he had been over-rated, and he was certain that Hickman could not
beat him in half an hour; nay more, he did not think the Gas could lick
him at all.”

Four rounds occurred, in a very confined situation; in the first and
second little, if any, mischief was done between them; but in the third
and fourth rounds Hickman let fly without reserve, when it was deemed
prudent by the friends of Rawlinson to take him away to prevent worse
consequences, the latter having received a severe hit on the left eye.
In a short time afterwards a hasty match was made, over a glass of
liquor, between an amateur, on the part of Hickman, and Rawlinson (but
completely unknown to the Gas-light Man), for £10 a-side, to be decided
in Copenhagen Fields. The backer of Hickman had to forfeit for his
temerity in making a match without consulting him. Hickman was ten miles
from London on the day intended for him to have met Rawlinson, who
showed at the scratch at the place appointed.

On the production of Tom and Jerry at the Royalty Theatre, Mr. Davidge,
the acting manager, went down to Bristol to engage Neat, at £30 per
week, and a benefit, in order to induce him to come to London for a
month. Hickman was also engaged; but not upon such high terms, in
consequence of his residing near the theatre. The exhibition of the Art
of Self-defence answered the manager’s purpose, and good houses were the
result of this speculation; but it was more like fighting than
setting-to. The Gas-light Man could not, or would not, play light; yet
he frequently complained of the bruised state of his arms in stopping
the heavy hits of his opponent. As a proof of his irritable state of
mind, Hickman bolted on the night of his benefit, not thinking the house
so good at an early part of the evening as it ought to be, and supposing
that he should be money out of pocket. Mr. Callahan, in the absence of
the Gas-light Man, set-to with Neat. It, however, appeared that the
house improved afterwards, and that Hickman’s share would have been
nearly £20.

When perfectly sober, Hickman was a quiet, well-behaved, and really a
good-natured fellow; but at times, when overcome with liquor, he was
positively frightful, nay, mad. It was in one of those moments of frenzy
that he struck old Joe Norton, in Belcher’s coffee-room, merely for
differing with him in opinion. Like Hooper, the tinman, Hickman had been
spoiled by his patron, who made him his companion. That Hickman was
angry about losing his fame there is not the least doubt; and he must
have felt it severely after boasting at the Fives Court that “the Gas
should never go out!” In his fits of intemperance and irritation, he
often asserted that he had received more money for losing than Neat did
by winning the battle.

We now come to his melancholy death. Hickman, accompanied by a friend,
left his house early on Tuesday morning, the 10th of December, 1822, to
witness the fight between Hudson and Shelton, at Harpenden Common, near
St. Alban’s. He was in excellent health and spirits during the battle,
walking about the ground with a whip in his hand, in conversation with
Mr. Rowe. At the conclusion of the battle he returned to St. Alban’s,
where he made but a short stay, and then proceeded on his journey to
London.

On returning home in the evening Hickman drove, and endeavoured to pass
a road wagon on the near side of the road instead of the off side.
Whether from unskilful driving, the darkness of the night, or some other
cause, in clearing the wagon the chaise was overturned, and, dreadful to
relate, both were precipitated under the wheels, which went over their
heads. Hickman was killed instantaneously: his brains were scattered on
the road, and his head nearly crushed to atoms. Mr. Rowe seemed to have
some animation, but was soon dead. Randall had parted with them at South
Mimms shortly before, and stated that they were both sober.

It was in the hollow, half a mile north of the Green Man, Finchley
Common, where Hickman and Mr. Rowe were killed.

It appears that the last place where the two unfortunate men, Hickman
and Rowe, drank, was at the Swan, between Whetstone Turnpike and the
Swan with Two Necks, and within half a mile of the spot of the
catastrophe. Hickman observed upon the darkness of the night, and spoke
of the fog coming on when he got into the chaise. His friend anticipated
some danger, and refused to accompany him in the gig unless he drove.
Hickman positively refused, and, unfortunately for Mr. Rowe, the latter
occupied the place of Hickman’s friend. The horse escaped unhurt, and
the chaise was perfect, and in it the sufferers were conveyed, more than
a quarter of a mile, to the Swan with Two Necks. This shocking accident
had such an effect on the nerves of the landlord of the Swan that he was
also a corpse in less than a week afterwards.

Mr. Rowe left an amiable wife and three small children to lament his
loss.

Immediately after the fight between Hudson and Shelton, Hickman said
that, on his own account, he was sorry Hudson had lost the battle, it
being the intention of the friends of Josh., in the event of his having
proved the conqueror, to have backed him against Hickman for £100
a-side; and he laughingly observed, “Blow my Dickey, if I shouldn’t like
it vastly.” It it rather a curious coincidence that, on the same day a
twelvemonth previous, a report reached London that Hickman was dead, in
consequence of the blows he received in his battle with Neat.

On Wednesday, December 11, 1822, an inquest was held at the sign of the
Swan with Two Necks, Finchley Common, before T. Stirling, Esq., coroner,
on the bodies of Thomas Hickman and of Mr. Thomas Rowe, silversmith, of
Aldersgate Street, St. Luke’s.

The accident excited the greatest interest in the sporting world; and
although the inquest was held at an earlier period than was expected,
the jury room was crowded to excess to hear the evidence.

The jury proceeded to view the bodies of the deceased persons, which
laid adjacent to the house in which the inquest was held. On their
arrival an appalling spectacle presented itself: the Gas-light Man laid
on his back, and had it not been known that it was to that individual
the accident had happened, it would have been impossible, from the
mutilated state of the head, to have recognised him. His head was
literally crushed to atoms.

Mr. Rowe was also dreadfully crushed about the head, but not so sadly as
Hickman.

On returning to the jury-room the following witnesses were called:—

Chancy Barber, of Finchley, bricklayer, said, Before eleven o’clock last
night I was in bed at home, when the alarm came for a light; it was then
starlight. I got up and went along the road to where the deceased
persons were; they were put into their own chaise-cart, and were both
dead. They were brought to this house. A medical gentleman, assistant to
Mr. Hammond, was at the door nearly as soon as the bodies arrived, and
examined them. They exhibited no symptoms of life after I saw them.
There was a wagon standing by the chaise, and a cart behind the wagon,
when I got up. I examined the spot where the accident took place this
morning. The wheels of the chaise had been on the footpath; the chaise
had nearly gone the whole width on the footpath where it was overturned.
The wagon was going towards town. The chaise was going the same way; the
chaise was on the near side; the wagon was nearest to the near side of
the road. The track of the wagon appeared to have proceeded in a direct
line, and there was no room for a chaise to have passed on the near side
without going on the footpath. There was more than plenty of room for
one or two carriages to have passed on the off side without injury. I
think the wagoner could not be in any manner to blame, as he appeared to
me to have been unconscious of the chaise being there.

James Ball, of Whetstone, servant to Mr. Sutton, said, I was coming
towards Whetstone, and met the wagon and chaise. I saw the wheel of the
chaise on the footpath, immediately before it overturned towards the
wagon. I saw the men fall out. I think the wagon wheel did not go over
them, but that the drag-cart did: the drag-cart was loaded. Hickman was
run over by the wheel of the drag-cart; Rowe’s head was struck against
the cart wheel. The wagoner was not to blame: he was driving in a
regular and steady manner. Verdict—Accidental Death.

Between the hours of eleven and twelve on Thursday, December 19, 1822, a
vast concourse of people assembled in Aldersgate Street and Jewin Street
to witness the funeral of Hickman. At twelve o’clock the funeral
procession commenced from the Adam and Eve, in Jewin Street, the house
of Hickman, previous to which the interior exhibited a most melancholy
scene. The pall was supported by Josh. Hudson and Shelton, Tom Belcher
and Harmer, and Randall and Turner. The father of the Gas, his brother,
and some other relatives were the principal mourners. The procession was
filled up by Mr. Warlters, Tom Owen, Scroggins, Parish, Oliver, Jem
Burn, Purcell, Powell, Bill Davies, Baxter, and Pierce Egan. The plate
on the coffin stated Hickman to be in his twenty-seventh year. He was
buried in the churchyard in Little Britain. On the ground were Bittoon,
Bill Eales, Jack Carter, George Head, etc., who were not in time to join
the procession. The crowd in the streets was immense.

The prize ring expressed its high respect to one of its bravest members;
and, as Randall said over his grave, “It would be a long time before we
should see his fellow!” The whole of the boxers (the mourners), on
taking leave of the widow, promised her their support at her house, and
that they would exert themselves to procure a good benefit for herself
and two fatherless children.

The Champion of England was prevented from attending as one of the
pall-bearers in consequence of a restive horse, on the preceding
evening, near Stockwell, having thrown him off and fallen upon him.

Mr. Rowe, the unfortunate companion of Hickman, was interred in the same
burying-ground on the preceding Sunday morning.

As a proof of the _esprit de corps_ which then animated pugilists, we
copy a placard circulated on this melancholy occasion.


                        “TO THE SPORTING WORLD.

  “Remembrance of a Brave Man, and Consideration for his Wife and
  Children. Under the patronage of the P. C. and superintendence of
  Mr. Jackson. A Benefit for the Widow and Two Infant Children of the
  late T. Hickman, denominated in the Sporting Circles the Gas-light
  Man, will take place at the Fives Court, St. Martin’s Street,
  Leicester Square, on Wednesday, February the 5th, 1823, at which
  every exertion will be made by all the first-rate pugilists to
  produce a grand display of the Art of Self-defence. The sets-to by
  Messrs. Cribb, Spring, Belcher, Harmer, Carter, Oliver, B. Burn,
  Randall, Turner, Martin, Cy. Davis, Richmond, Eales, Shelton, J.
  Hudson, Tom Owen, Holt, Scroggins, Curtis, A. Belasco, P. Halton,
  Purcell, Brown, Lenney, etc.

  “In consequence of the melancholy and afflicting accident which
  befel the late T. Hickman, instantly depriving his Wife and Two
  Children of his support, he having scarcely commenced licensed
  victualler (not more than six weeks), but with an excellent prospect
  of improving his circumstances in life, the above appeal is made to
  the noblemen, gentlemen, and amateurs composing the sporting world,
  in order to assist his widow towards providing for her fatherless
  offspring. The well-known liberality of the sporting world, so
  highly distinguished upon all occasions, to give a turn to the
  unfortunate, renders any further comment upon the aforesaid
  melancholy circumstance totally unnecessary to excite their interest
  and attention. Tickets 3_s._ each, to be had of Mr. Jackson, at his
  rooms, 13, Old Bond Street; of Pierce Egan, sporting bookseller, 71,
  Chancery Lane; Cribb, Union Arms, Panton Street, Haymarket; Belcher,
  Castle Tavern, Holborn; Randall, Hole in the Wall, Chancery Lane;
  Harmer, Plough, Smithfield; Cy. Davis, Cat Tap, Newgate Market;
  Holt, Golden Cross, Cross Lane, Long Acre; Eales, Prince of
  Mecklenburg Arms, James Street, Oxford Street; B. Burns, Rising Sun,
  Windmill Street, Haymarket; and of the widow (Mrs. Hickman), Adam
  and Eve, Jewin Street, Aldersgate Street.”


The rush at the Fives Court was equal to anything ever experienced. On
the door being opened the money-taker was almost carried away from his
post by the pressure of the crowd. The attraction was great, independent
of the cause; and, on the whole, it was one of the best displays of the
science ever witnessed at the Fives Court. Mr. Jackson superintended the
pairing of the men, and the result was talent opposed to talent. Oliver
and Acton first made their bows to the spectators; Aby Belasco and
Gybletts, Gipsey Cooper and Peter Warren, Curtis and Harris, Ward and
Holt, Harmer and Shelton, Josh. Hudson and Richmond, Carter and Sampson,
Spring and Eales, Belcher and Neat, and Randall and Scroggins, exerted
themselves to amuse and interest the audience, and their efforts were
crowned with the most loud and lively plaudits. The set-to between
Spring and Eales was much admired, from the skill displayed on both
sides; and Belcher, in his combat with Neat, received a severe hit on
the nose, which produced the claret, when Tom, with the utmost good
humour, observed, “That friendly touch prevented the expense of cupping,
as it was absolutely necessary he should be bled, and was merely a baulk
to the doctor.” Thanks were returned by Pierce Egan.

Neat, unsolicited, left Bristol at his own expense to exhibit at the
benefit. Eales also came twenty-five miles on the same morning; and the
veteran Tom Cribb hurried from the country to assist at the door, to
make “all right and pleasant;” the assistance of his “strong arm” proved
valuable in the extreme to all parties. Mr. Jackson (so well known upon
all occasions to render his personal interest to the unfortunate) never
exerted himself with more successful zeal than in the cause of the widow
of Hickman. The receipts were £136 13_s._ 6_d._

So anxious were the pugilists to exert themselves in the cause of the
widow and children of Hickman that, as soon as decency permitted them,
Randall, Shelton, Spring, Josh. Hudson, Curtis, etc., took the chair for
several weeks in succession at the Adam and Eve, and their efforts were
crowned with success.

A benefit was also got up for the widow and children of Mr. Rowe, which
was liberally supported. The company was most respectable, including
fourteen M.P.’s and other persons of “the upper ten thousand.” Great
credit is due to Mr. Belcher for his exertions and the attention he gave
in getting up this benefit, which realised nearly £100.

We have recorded these minutiæ to show the comparative want of
self-sacrifice among the pugilists of “these degenerate days.”

[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER VII.
                   DAN DONNELLY, CHAMPION OF IRELAND.

               “Our worthy Regent was so delighted
                 With the great valour he did evince,
               That Dan was cited, aye, and invited
                 To come be-knighted by his own Prince.”


This renowned “knight of the knuckle,” whose fistic exploits and
capabilities, though indisputable, are rather matter of oral tradition
than of written record (like the glorious deeds of Charlemagne, Roland,
the British Arthur, or his own countryman, Brian Boroihme), first saw
the light in Townshend Street, Dublin, in March, 1788. He was a
carpenter by trade, and, although undoubtedly possessed of milling
requisites of the first order, by no means thirsted for fame in the
ring, until circumstances drew forth his talents and made him, for a
brief period, “the observed of all observers” in the boxing world. His
first recorded appearance in the roped arena was with Tom Hall (known as
Isle of Wight Hall), who was then on a sparring tour in Ireland. The
battle was for a subscription purse of 100 guineas, and took place on
the Curragh of Kildare, on the 14th of September, 1814. Hall, who had
beaten George Cribb, and other men, stood high in the estimation of his
friends, seeing that Dan was looked upon as a mere novice, or rough, by
the knowing ones.

[Illustration:

  DAN DONNELLY (CHAMPION OF IRELAND).

  _From a Miniature by_ GEORGE SHARPLES.
]

The concourse of persons that flocked to witness this combat was greater
than was remembered upon any similar occasion. It seemed as if Dublin
had emptied itself, not less than 20,000 spectators are stated to have
been present. The vehicles on the road were beyond calculation, from the
barouche, jaunting cars, and jingles, down to the most humble
description, and the footpaths were covered with pedestrians. Donnelly
first entered the ring, and was greeted with thunders of applause. Hall
was also well received. The battle did not answer the expectations
previously formed; in fact Hall was overmatched considerably in length,
and therefore compelled to act on the defensive. It was far from a
stand-up fight. Donnelly received no injury, except one trifling cut on
his lip, which drew first blood, and he slipped down once. His
superiority of strength was evident, and he was throughout the first in
leading off. Hall did not acknowledge defeat, and retired from the ring
by order of the umpires after the fifteenth round, exclaiming “Foul,”
declaring he was hit three times when down. Little betting occurred
during the fight, but previously it was sixty to forty upon Hall, and on
the ground twenty-five to twenty. Bonfires were made in several of the
streets of Dublin by the jubilant countrymen of Donnelly, who was under
the training of Captain Kelly. He was also seconded by that gentleman
and Captain Barclay, brother to the celebrated pedestrian. Hall was
attended by Painter and Carter. During the fight Donnelly kept his
temper, closed every round, and put in some heavy blows. Hall was well
known as a game man; but it was urged by the partisans of the Irish
champion that Hall fell three times without a blow, and Donnelly, in his
eagerness to catch him, before he could execute this manœuvre, hit Hall
desperately on his ear while sitting on the ground. The most independent
and candid opinion upon the subject, from the best judges of pugilism
who witnessed the battle, appears to be that both combatants lost
it.[22]

George Cooper, who was teaching the art of self-defence in Ireland with
much approbation, and whose fame as a boxer in England was well known to
the Irish amateurs, was selected as a competitor for Donnelly. They
fought for a purse of £60.

On Monday, the 13th of December, 1815, they met on the Curragh of
Kildare, at a few minutes after ten o’clock in the morning. At an early
hour thousands of persons left Dublin to witness the fight, and the road
to the scene of action was crowded with vehicles of every description.
Donnelly, followed by Coady, received loud greetings upon making his
appearance; Cooper also, on entering the ring, was loudly cheered by the
spectators. The combatants shook hands, and immediately began to prepare
for action. Coady seconded Donnelly; Ned Painter attended upon Cooper.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The boys of the sod were all upon the alert in favour of
  their countryman: Donnelly must win, and nothing else, was the
  general cry. Every eye was fixed as the men set-to. Some little time
  elapsed in sparring, when Donnelly planted a sharp blow on the neck
  of Cooper; the latter returned in a neat manner on the body.
  Desperate milling then took place, when the round was finished by
  Donnelly, who floored his antagonist in first rate style. It would
  be impossible to describe the shout that accompanied this feat; it
  was not unlike a discharge of artillery, and the faces of the
  Paddies beamed with exultation.

  2.—Considerable science was displayed before a hit was made, when
  Donnelly put in a sharp facer. He also drew blood from one of
  Cooper’s ears, and his strength prevailed to the extent of driving
  Cooper to the ropes, where he went down.

  3.—Had it not been on the Curragh of Kildare, it was presumed that
  the fine fighting of Cooper would have told with better effect. He
  evidently laboured under fear, from the prejudice of the numerous
  spectators in favour of his opponent. Donnelly exhibited great
  improvement, and completely took the lead this round. After some
  tremendous hitting Cooper went down. (Another uproarious burst of
  applause.)

  4.—This was altogether a good round. Cooper convinced Donnelly that
  he was a troublesome customer, and, in spite of his overwhelming
  strength, he could not protect himself from punishment. In closing,
  both down, Cooper undermost. (Donnelly was now decidedly the
  favourite, and six to four was the general betting.)

  5.—The gaiety of Donnelly was hastily stopped, after an exchange of
  a few blows. Cooper, with much adroitness, floored him in a
  scientific style, but the latter instantly got upon his legs without
  any help. (The odds changed, and even betting was the truth.)

  6.—Cooper’s mode of fighting extorted the admiration of the
  Hibernian amateurs, from the easy and natural manner he contended
  with his big opponent. Donnelly was kept to his work, and had no
  little difficulty in getting Cooper off his legs.

  7.—In this round Donnelly was seen to much advantage, and he
  resolutely went in as if to beat his opponent off-hand. He drove
  Cooper to all parts of the ring till they closed, when the strength
  of Donnelly almost proved decisive. Cooper received one of the most
  dreadful cross-buttocks ever witnessed, and by way of rendering it
  conclusive, Donnelly fell on Cooper with all his weight.

  8.—From the severity of the last fall, Cooper appeared much
  distressed on setting-to. Donnelly, with some judgment, turned the
  weakness of his opponent to good account; and, after having the best
  of his adversary, Dan put in so tremendous a left-hander that Cooper
  was hit off his legs. (The loud cheering from all parts of the ring
  beggared description, and, in the pride of the moment, a guinea to a
  tenpenny-bit was offered on Dan.)

  9.—Cooper commenced this round in the most gallant style, and the
  milling was truly desperate on both sides. In making a hit, Donnelly
  over-reached himself and slipped down.

  10.—The strength of Donnelly was too great for Cooper,
  notwithstanding the latter fought him upon equal terms of
  confidence. Cooper was, however, again floored. (High odds, but no
  takers.)

  11 and last.—It was evident Cooper could not win; nevertheless, this
  round was fought with as much resolution and science as if the
  battle had just commenced. Donnelly at length put in two tremendous
  blows that put an end to the contest, particularly one on the mouth,
  which knocked Cooper off his feet. On victory being declared in
  favour of Donnelly, the applause lasted more than a minute. The
  battle occupied about twenty-two minutes. Donnelly appeared quite
  elate with victory, and shook hands with Cooper and his friends.

  REMARKS.—Dan displayed improvement both in science and in temper,
  which, added to superior strength, enabled him to beat down the
  guard of Cooper with ease and effect. He was also in better
  condition than when he fought Hall. It was urged that Cooper was
  half beaten before he entered the ring, from the prejudices which
  existed against him. The sum originally offered to the combatants
  was a purse of £120, and the loser to have £20; but, on the morning
  of fighting, after Cooper had been kept waiting in a chaise on the
  ground for upwards of an hour, he was told that the funds would not
  admit of more than £60 being given to the winner, and nothing to the
  loser. Upon this statement, Cooper declared he would not fight; but
  the reply was, “You are on the ground, man, and must fight. The
  multitude must not be disappointed.” Under these disadvantages
  Cooper met his adversary, in the bold attempt to wrest the laurel
  from the brow of the champion, and that, too, upon his native soil.
  It is not meant to be asserted that Cooper could have won the
  battle. An impartial opinion has been given by his own countrymen to
  the contrary, they admitting that Cooper, with all his superior
  boxing skill, could not compete with Dan, who had long ranked A1 in
  the sparring and boxing circles of the Irish metropolis.


It was for some time a generally expressed opinion that the recognised
Irish champion would not cross the channel and show himself in this
country. However, in February, 1819, it was whispered that “The ‘big’
hero, the pride of Hibernia, known as the Irish Champion, had slipped
across the Water, and shown himself in England.”

Dan left full of spirits—the Pigeon-House soon lost sight of—Dublin Bay
and its surrounding beauties no longer visible—the Hill o’ Howth
(Paddy’s landmark) nearly extinct—and behold our hero “half seas over”
towards Liverpool, before he had time to reflect upon the hasty step he
had taken. However, there was now no retreating: a few “more glasses”
made everything pleasant, reflection no longer intruded, and, after some
forty winks, the light-house of the Mersey broke upon Dan’s ogles, and
the quay of Liverpool gave him a safe deliverance from the briny deep.
It was at this sea-port that Carter crossed his path, picked him up as a
brother performer, which gave birth to his adventures in England; for it
seems Dan’s original intention was not to visit the metropolis, but, as
soon as his pecuniary affairs were settled, to return to Dublin.

Dan’s fame had gone before him: there was not an out-and-outer upon the
Coal Quay in Dublin (and the mere appearance of some of these rough
heroes is enough to appal Old Nick), who had not repented of his
temerity in attacking Donnelly. It was also asserted that he had floored
with ease every opponent in Ireland.

Carter, who was sufficiently well acquainted with the stage to know the
advantages of a good bill, issued the following placard, on the 19th of
February, 1819, at Manchester:—“Donnelly, the Champion of Ireland, and
Carter, the Champion of England (?), will exhibit together in various
combats the Art of Self-defence, at the Emporium Rooms.” This had the
desired effect: an overflowing audience was the result; and at Liverpool
they met with great encouragement. Soon afterwards the “brother
champions” took the road to the metropolis, and bets were offered that
Carter fought twice during the summer and won both the events. Several
wagers were also made in London respecting the identity of Donnelly;
some of the best judges asserting that the new-come personage was not
that Donnelly who fought with George Cooper. Donnelly, on his arrival in
London, showed himself at the Castle Tavern.

On Friday, March 18, 1819, about a hundred of the most respectable of
the amateurs assembled at the Peacock, Gray’s Inn Lane, in a large room
selected for the purpose. The following description of Donnelly appeared
in a paper of the day:—“Donnelly at length stripped, amidst thunders of
applause. The Venus de Medicis never underwent a more minute scrutiny by
the critical eye of the connoisseur than did the Champion of Ireland. In
point of frame, he is far from that sort of ‘big one’ which had been
previously anticipated: there is nothing loose or puffy about him; he is
strong and bony to all intents and purposes. It may be said of Donnelly
that he is all muscle. His arms are long and slingy; his shoulders
uncommonly fine, particularly when in action, and prominently indicative
of their punishing quality; his nob is also a fighting one; his neck
athletic and bold; in height nearly six feet; in weight about thirteen
stone; and his _tout ensemble_ that of a boxer with first rate
qualifications. Thus much for his person. Now a word or two for his
quality. His wind appears to be undebauched; his style is resolute,
firm, and not to be denied; and he maintains his ground upon the system
that Mendoza practised with so much success. Getting away he either
disdains, or does not acknowledge, in his system of tactics. His
attitude was not admired, and it was thought that he leant too far
backward, inclining to his right shoulder. He makes tremendous use of
his right hand. Eight rounds were finely and skilfully contested; and
Carter, equal to anything on the list for scientific efforts, must be
viewed as a formidable opponent for any man. The difference of style
between the two performers attracted considerable attention, produced a
great variety of remarks, and drew down peals of applause. Carter
possesses the agility and confidence of an experienced dancing master,
getting away with the utmost coolness, walking round and round his
opponent to plant a blow, with the perfection of a professor. Donnelly
is not so showy, but dangerous: he is no tapper, nor does he throw blows
away; neither is he to be got at without encountering mischief. He is,
however, awkward; but final judgment cannot be pronounced from his
sparring, more especially as he does not profess the use of the gloves.
It was an excellent trial of skill. Carter made some good hits, and
Donnelly some strong points; and the end of one round in particular, had
it been in the ring, must have been pronounced pepper. The good temper
of Donnelly was much noticed; and, impartially speaking, it was a nice
point to decide who had the best of it, even in effect. Carter, without
doubt, had the show of the thing.”

In consequence of but few persons having had an opportunity of
witnessing Donnelly’s talents, the Minor Theatre, in Catherine Street,
Strand, was selected on the Thursday following. Ben Burn appeared in
opposition to the Irish champion. It was a set-to of considerable merit,
and the science of Burn was much applauded. Donnelly soon convinced the
spectators of his peculiar forte. He showed off in good style, and
finished one round in a way that must have been tremendous in the ring.
It was still thought he stood rather too backward, leaning from his
opponent; but that could only be decided from a practical result. At all
events, Donnelly was a great attraction. Carter and Donnelly finished
the performances: it was a sharp and long set-to upon the whole, and
loudly applauded. But a wish was expressed that Cribb and Donnelly
should have been opposed to each other, in order to give the public an
opportunity of deciding upon the different sort of tactics pursued by
these rival champions.

At Gregson’s benefit at the same theatre, on April 1, 1819, the
principal attraction was the announced combat between the two rival
champions, Cribb for England and Donnelly for Old Ireland. This proved
an April hoax: Cribb, of course, did not show, and Donnelly set-to with
Carter amid the hisses of a crowd of disappointed dupes. Sutton, the man
of colour, came forward and challenged Donnelly to fight for £50 a-side.
(Great applause.) Richmond presented himself to the audience on the part
of Donnelly, stating, “That the Irish champion did not come over to
England with the intention of entering the prize ring.”
(Disapprobation.) Carter soon followed, and observed that, “As Mr.
Richmond had only made half a speech, he would finish it. Mr. Donnelly
meant to consult his friends about fighting Sutton.” Sutton again came
forward, and said that he would fight Donnelly at five minutes’ notice
for £50, or from £100 to £200, at any given time, in a ring.

In consequence of some aspersions having been thrown upon the courage of
Donnelly, he published the following document, which was pompously
designated—


         “THE IRISH CHAMPION’S MANIFESTO TO THE MILLING WORLD.

  “At a sparring match, for the benefit of Gregson, on Thursday, the
  1st day of April, Donnelly, having met with an accident, hopes the
  public will pardon him if he did not amuse the gentlemen present to
  their satisfaction; but it was his wish to do so. After the set-to
  between Harmer and Sutton, the latter thought proper to come forward
  and challenge any man, and also Donnelly in particular, for £50 or
  £100. Donnelly, being somewhat a stranger, did not immediately
  answer the challenge, until he should first consult his friends; but
  he has confidence in his friends, both here and in Ireland, that
  they will back him. He therefore begs leave to say that he did not
  come over to England for the mere purpose of fighting; but, as it
  appears to be the wish of the gentlemen here to try his mettle, he
  begs to say that he will fight any man in England of his weight,
  from £100 to £500.

                                                         “D. DONNELLY.

  “Witness, C. BRENANT.”


On the 6th of April, 1819, at Randall’s benefit at the Fives Court,
Donnelly had scarcely mounted the stage, when “Cribb! Cribb! Cribb!” was
vociferated from all parts of the Court, till Carter made his appearance
on the platform ready to commence the combat. The cries of “Cribb!” were
now louder, added to hisses, etc., when the Lancashire hero bowed and
retired. The Champion of England, however, did not appear; then Carter
was called, but he had also left the Court. In the midst of this
confusion Harmer offered himself amidst thunders of applause, and
appeared to have the best of it; but the set-to was by no means first
rate, and Donnelly left off under marks of pain. It ought to have been
announced that Donnelly had a large tumour upon his right arm near his
elbow. The usage to Donnelly might be termed ungenerous; indeed, it was
very unlike the usual generosity of John Bull towards a stranger, and
savoured of prejudice, says his countryman, Pierce Egan.

As all this savours of benefit “gag,” we are glad to record that at
Martin’s benefit, on Tuesday, April 20, 1819, Oliver challenged Donnelly
for 100 guineas a-side, when Randall (Donnelly not being present)
mounted the stage, and said he was authorized to accept it on the part
of the Irish champion, who would enter the lists with Oliver on that day
six weeks for any sum that might be posted.

On May 25, 1819, Donnelly, Cooper, and Carter opened the Minor Theatre,
Catherine Street, to exhibit the capabilities of the Irish champion
previous to his going into training.

Spring and Donnelly were received with great applause. Donnelly stopped
several of Tom’s hits with skill; in fact, from his quick mode of
getting away, and the sharpness with which he returned upon his
opponent, it was pronounced that he had either acquired considerable
science since his arrival in England, or that he now let “peep” some of
his fighting requisites. The latter seems to be his real character; as a
sparrer he does not show off to advantage. It was a manly bout; some
smart facers were given and returned; no niceties were observed, and it
afforded general satisfaction.

Articles were signed for Dan’s match with Oliver at Dignam’s, Red Lion,
Houghton Street, Clare Market. Fifty guineas level was offered that
Oliver proved the favourite during the fight or won the battle. Five
hundred guineas were also offered to four hundred that Oliver did not
beat Donnelly in the hour, and some large sums were laid at odds that
Donnelly did not prove the conqueror in half an hour. Oliver was
generally declared “slow,” but a gamer man was not in existence. Upwards
of £100,000 were said to be pending in the two countries on the issue of
this national pugilistic contest, which came off, for 100 guineas
a-side, on Wednesday, July 21, 1819, on Crawley Hurst, thirty miles from
London.

The sporting world in Ireland were so warmly interested in this event
that numerous parties arrived in England to witness the efforts of their
avowed champion. The English boxers viewed him as a powerful opponent,
and, jealous for the reputation of their “prize ring,” clenched their
fists in opposition whenever his growing fame was chanted. In Ireland,
as might be expected, two to one was laid without hesitation, from a
knowledge of his capabilities; and in England, where only hearsay
evidence was the inducement to make him the favourite, six to four was
confidently betted on his winning. The torrents of rain which fell the
previous evening to the fight operated as no drawback to the
warm-hearted friends of Donnelly, who desired to see a “whack for the
honour of Ireland,” and they tramped off in hundreds on the overnight
without sigh or murmur, hoping to arrive in time to see their countryman
fight and win. Early on the morning of Wednesday the weather proved
equally unpropitious, but the game of the fancy was not to be disposed
of by rain. A string of carriages of every description, reaching nearly
a mile in length, might be seen from the top of the hill above Godstone;
and deep “murmurings” occurred when it was announced that the scene of
action was to be removed from Blindlow Common to Crawley Hurst, merely
owing, it was said, to the caprice of one or two influential persons.
The lads were not prepared for this long journey of sixty-two miles out
and in, and many of the Rosinantes were unable to perform it. In
consequence of this removal, it was two o’clock before the contest
commenced. Oliver first threw his hat in the ring, followed by Cribb and
Shelton; and Donnelly, waited upon by Tom Belcher and Randall, entering
soon afterwards, repeated the token of defiance. Donnelly appeared the
heavier man. Betting, seven to four. The green colour for Ireland was
tied to the stakes over the blue for England, and the battle commenced.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Donnelly, on stripping, exhibited as fine a picture of the
  human frame as can well be imagined; indeed, if a sculptor had
  wished a living model to display the action of the muscles, a finer
  subject than Donnelly could not have been found. His legs wore firm
  and well rounded, his arms slingy and powerful, and his _ensemble_
  indicated prodigious strength. The idle stories of his bad training
  were silenced on his putting himself into attitude; and his
  condition was acknowledged by his friends from Ireland to be far
  superior than when he fought with either Hall or Cooper on the
  Curragh of Kildare. Smiling confidence appeared to sit on his brow,
  his eye was sharp and penetrating, his face clear and animated, and
  he commenced the combat quite satisfactorily. Oliver was equally
  fine; and, under the training of Clark, who had waited upon him with
  the greatest care and attention, displayed flesh as firm as a rock;
  in fact, Oliver had never been in so good condition before. Such was
  the state of the combatants. Upon the shaking hands, the current
  betting was seven to four on Donnelly. The Irish champion was cool
  and collected, with nothing hurried in his manner. Upwards of a
  minute elapsed in sparring, or rather the pugilists were dodging
  each other to get a favourable opportunity. Donnelly made two hits
  with his left, which fell short, in consequence of Oliver’s getting
  away. Long sparring. Oliver made an offer to hit, but Donnelly, on
  the alert, retreated. More sparring, and dodging over the ground,
  till they got to the ropes in a corner of the ring, when Donnelly
  hit severely with his left. Several sharp exchanges occurred, and
  reciprocal fibbing took place, till they both went down in a
  desperate struggle for the throw, Oliver undermost. Five minutes had
  elapsed. (Loud shouting from the “boys of the sod,” and “Bravo,
  Donnelly!”)

  2.—Oliver aimed a heavy blow at the body, which Donnelly stopped in
  good style. Some sharp work occurred again at the ropes. More
  fibbing, and Oliver again undermost in the throw.

  3.—Oliver appeared bleeding at the scratch, and exhibited symptoms
  of slight distress from the recent struggle. Donnelly made a feeble
  hit with his right hand, when Shelton exclaimed, laughing, “That’s
  one of Carter’s hits!” Oliver took the lead; some heavy blows were
  exchanged, and, when at the ropes, Donnelly was for a short time
  seen in the struggle balancing on them, till he extricated himself,
  and both went down. (Loud shouting, and “Well done, Oliver.”)

  4.—Donnelly exhibited a new feature in the London prize ring. Oliver
  again pinked at the body, after the manner he fought with Neat,
  which Donnelly stopped with much skill; but his right hand, which
  had been hitherto spoken of as “tremendous,” he did not make use of,
  although Oliver had already given him several opportunities to have
  used it to advantage. Oliver made a good hit on the bread-basket,
  when Donnelly’s left hand told on his opponent’s mug, which
  staggered him, and he followed him to the ropes. Here some sharp
  work ensued, and Donnelly made use of his head instead of his fists
  (which were occupied in holding Oliver) in bumping his opponent’s
  nob. (Loud shouting, and some disapprobation was expressed at this
  mode of butting.)[23]

  5.—Oliver put in a sharp body blow, and some good counter-hits were
  exchanged. The mouth of Donnelly was clareted, which was the first
  blood. The combatants again got in the corner of the ring, when, by
  way of a finish to the round, Donnelly cross-buttocked his opponent.
  (“Erin-go-bragh,” from his warm-hearted countrymen, and “Go along,
  my Danny,” from his John Bull backers.)

  6.—Caution on both sides, till Oliver made a chopping right-handed
  hit on his opponent’s nob. In close quarters at the ropes, after
  some sharp exchanges, it was urged by several persons close to the
  ring that Donnelly had hit Oliver down from a blow on the body. On
  reference to the umpires, it was not admitted as a “knock-down
  blow,” but that Oliver had slipped and fell.

  7.—Oliver planted a good facer, and laughed at his opponent. He also
  put in a bodier and got away. In short, it might fairly be said, he
  had the best of the round, and Donnelly went down bleeding. (“Bravo,
  Oliver!” and great applause.)

  8.—Nothing of passion appeared on the part of Donnelly, which it had
  been urged by his opponents he would exhibit on getting a “nobber or
  two;” on the contrary, he was as cool as a cucumber. In struggling,
  both down, Oliver bleeding profusely about the face. (We must not
  pass over a circumstance which occurred in this round, in
  consequence of some altercation between the seconds. On Donnelly’s
  being down, it was urged that, perceiving Oliver meant to fall upon
  him, he lifted up his legs with intent to kick Oliver, or to divert
  him from his purpose. This also excited the various opinions and
  expressions of “Foul!” “Fair!”)

  9.—In this round Donnelly received great applause. The men fought
  into a close, from which Donnelly extricated himself in style, and
  returned sharply to work, till he had the best of the hitting, and
  Oliver went down exhausted. The spectators were perfectly convinced
  that Donnelly was a tremendous hitter with his right hand, when he
  thought proper to use it. He gave Oliver so hard a blow upon the
  ribs that the impression of his knuckles was strongly imprinted, and
  remained visible during the whole of the fight.

  10.—Oliver stopped a heavy hit of Donnelly’s, and laughed. But
  Donnelly was not irritated, and got so much the best of this round
  that Oliver was prevented from going heavily down by Shelton’s
  putting out his knee to ease his fall. (Belcher warmly said, “If he
  acted as foul again, he would knock a hole in his head;” and Randall
  also observed, he would give him a “topper.” Shelton declared it was
  an accidental entangling of his legs with Oliver’s, and was not done
  from design.)

  11.—Had Donnelly used his right hand he must have reduced the battle
  to a certainty in his favour. This was, however, a sharp hitting
  round, till both went down, Oliver again undermost.

  12.—Although the fighting on either side had not been of the highest
  order, yet the combatants were not insensible to the weight of each
  other’s arms; and, after fighting up to the ropes, they both stood
  still, till Donnelly broke away and made some hits. In again
  closing, both down, Oliver undermost and much exhausted. Twenty-four
  minutes had now elapsed.

  13.—Donnelly, _sans cérémonie_, hit Oliver with his left on the
  mouth, which sent him staggering from the scratch. In the corner of
  the ring the struggle was severe to obtain the throw. Oliver
  received a heavy blow on the throat, and as he was hanging on the
  ropes, balancing, as it were, Donnelly lifted up his hands not to
  hit him. (“Very handsome,” and “Bravo, Donnelly.”)

  14.—For “big ones,” more smashing rounds might have been expected.
  Oliver put in a mugger that made Donnelly stagger a little; but he
  returned to the attack till he got Oliver down.

  15.—Donnelly gave some hits that made Oliver reel from his position,
  and also followed him up with success. At the ropes some exchanges
  occurred, till Oliver went down.

  16.—Oliver made a tremendous blow at the body, which Donnelly
  stopped well. This was altogether a sharp round, and in the close in
  the corner of the ring the struggle was so severe that the men
  became exhausted, and were nearly falling over the ropes upon some
  of the members of the P. C., when the cry was, “Separate them,”
  which was done by the seconds, and the round ended. (“Bravo!” and
  “Well done, both.”)


  17.—Some heavy hitting occurred on both sides. Donnelly, on the
  alert, followed Oliver all over the ring. The latter bled profusely,
  and, in closing, Donnelly fell with his knees upon Oliver. This
  circumstance occasioned some loud cries of “Foul,” “Fair,” etc.; but
  the umpires did not deem it worthy of notice.

  18.—Both down at the ropes. Some remarks were made that Donnelly had
  taken advantage of the situation over Oliver. The umpire observed,
  in such close quarters it was impossible to discriminate to a
  nicety; but, from what he saw, he thought Donnelly had behaved
  perfectly correct.

  19.—This was rather a sharp round; in fact, Oliver received so much
  beating that in going down he fell upon his face. Donnelly also fell
  on his back.

  20.—This round Donnelly faced his opponent with much dexterity;
  Oliver’s right eye got a severe hit, but he laughed, and nodded at
  his opponent. The left hand of the Irish champion told severely
  twice on his man’s mug, and both down, after a good deal of bustling
  action, Donnelly undermost. (Loud shouting, and “Well done,
  Oliver.”)

  21.—It was not decisive fighting on either side: now and then a
  sharp hit occurred, till Oliver fell, and Donnelly on him.

  22.—A similar round; both down.

  23.—The hitting in this round was rather singular. Both the
  combatants made counter hits at the mouth of each other, and the
  claret sprung out simultaneously. It was an electrifying shock to
  both, but it seemed to affect Oliver most. They still kept up the
  attack till both went down, Oliver undermost.

  24.—This was a fighting round altogether, and the spectators began
  to be intensely interested. Oliver kept hitting and getting away,
  till he fought into a close. Donnelly broke from it, and the milling
  was severe, till the Irish champion went down on his knees. (Loud
  shouting, and “Now, Oliver, go to work, my boy, and you can’t lose
  it!”)

  25.—This round was also manfully contested. Donnelly appeared
  bleeding at the scratch. Oliver put in a bodier and got away. Some
  sharp exchanges took place, till both the combatants were glad to
  resort to sparring for wind. In fact, for an instant they both stood
  still and looked at each other. Donnelly at length made a hit, and
  Oliver got away. Both men soon returned hard to work, when Donnelly
  again went down from the severity of the milling. (Thunders of
  applause, and Cribb vociferated, “I’ll bet a guinea to
  half-a-crown.” Three to one was offered on Oliver; but two to one
  was current betting.)

  26.—Donnelly made a hit, but Oliver stopped it. The latter also put
  in two nobbers, and got away laughing. This circumstance rather
  irritated Donnelly, and, for the first time, he showed temper, by
  running furiously after Oliver. Tom warded off the fury of the
  attack, and ultimately again sent Donnelly down by his hitting.
  (Another loud shout for Oliver, and “Five to one Oliver will win,”
  was the general cry. Long faces were to be seen; hedging-off was now
  the order of the day. The hitherto takers of the odds against Oliver
  now loudly offered the odds upon the Westminster hero with the
  fullest confidence.)

  27.—Donnelly came up weak and out of wind, but his confidence had
  not left him, and he gave Oliver a slight facer with his left hand.
  In struggling, both down, Oliver undermost. Fifty minutes had
  elapsed. Donnelly had received some heavy blows about the head and
  neck; nevertheless, it was said by his seconds that he was not
  distressed by the punishment he had received, but had drank too much
  water. It is true that many of his backers changed their situations,
  and went to different parts of the ring to get their money off.

  28.—Great anxiety now prevailed among the partisans of Donnelly.
  Some hits passed to the advantage of Oliver, when Donnelly went
  down. (The odds were now upon Oliver all round the ring; but
  Donnelly’s staunchest friends, having no reason to doubt his pluck,
  took them in numerous instances.)

  29.—The men were both upon their mettle, and this round was a good
  one. The combatants closed, but broke away. Oliver made a hit on
  Donnelly’s face, laughed, and jumped back. The Irish champion,
  however, got a turn, and with his left hand planted a rum one on
  Oliver’s mouth that sent him staggering away. Donnelly, however,
  received a teazer; sharp exchanges till Donnelly fell, with Oliver
  upon him.

  30.—One hour had expired, and all bets upon that score were lost.
  Oliver again bodied his opponent, but received a staggering hit on
  his mug in return. Some exchanges took place till Oliver went down.

  31.—The eye of Donnelly began to resume its former fire; his wind
  appeared improved, and he rather took the lead in this round.
  Donnelly hit Oliver down, but also fell from a slip; in fact from
  the force of his own blow.

  32.—The Irish champion had evidently got second wind, and, upon
  Oliver’s receiving a hit on the mouth that sent him some yards from
  his position, Randall offered to back Donnelly for a level £200.
  After an exchange of hits, Shelton said, “It was no more use for
  Donnelly to hit Oliver than a tree, for that Oliver was as hard as
  iron.” “Nabocleish,” cried a Patlander; “it’s all right. Now, Dan,
  show your opponent some play.” Some sharp hitting till both resorted
  to sparring. The men fought into a close, and broke away. The
  hitting was now so sharp that Oliver turned round to avoid the heavy
  punishment with which he was assailed, and fell, and Donnelly also
  slipped down. (“Bravo!” from all parts of the ring. “Well done,
  Oliver!” “Go along, Donnelly!”)

  33.—“Have you got a right hand?” said Tom Belcher to Donnelly; “we
  must win it, Dan.” The Irish champion hit Oliver a terrible facer
  that sent him away. “It’s all your own,” said Randall; “do it
  again.” Donnelly did so with great force. “That’s the way, my boy,
  echoed Belcher; “another!” Donnelly followed the advice of these
  excellent tacticians, and he gave a third facer in succession
  without receiving a return. After some exchanges passed, Oliver was
  getting rather feeble, from the struggle in bringing Donnelly down,
  and fell upon him with his knee on his throat. (“Do you call that
  fair?” said Belcher. “If that circumstance had happened on our side,
  you would have roared ‘foul’ for an hour.”)

  34 and last.—Oliver hit Donnelly on the body. The latter set-to very
  spiritedly, and nobbed his man. Sharp exchanges ensued, when, in
  closing, Donnelly put in a dreadful hit under Oliver’s ear, and also
  cross-buttocked him. Oliver, when picked up and put on his second’s
  knee, was insensible, and his head hung upon his shoulders. “Time,
  time,” was called, but the brave, the game, the unfortunate Oliver
  heard not the sound, and victory was declared in favour of Donnelly.
  Time, one hour and ten minutes. The latter walked out of the ring
  amidst shouts of applause, arm-in-arm with Belcher and Randall, to
  an adjoining farm house, where he was put to bed for a short period,
  and bled. Oliver did not recover his sensibility for some minutes,
  when he was also brought to the same house, bled, and put to bed in
  the next room to Donnelly. The latter expressed great feeling and
  uneasiness for fear anything serious should happen to Oliver; but
  when he was informed it was all right, he was as cheerful as if he
  had not been fighting at all. The Irish champion dressed himself
  immediately, and, strange to say, Oliver, in the course of half an
  hour, also recovered, and put his clothes on, lamenting that he had
  lost the battle under such an unfortunate circumstance, as he was
  then able to fight an hour. Oliver and Donnelly then shook hands,
  and drank each other’s health, and the latter then went into a wagon
  to see the fight between Lashbrook and Dowd. He afterwards left the
  ground in a barouche and four, to sleep at Riddlesdown, the place
  where he trained, and arrived at Mr. Dignam’s, the Red Lion,
  Houghton Street, Clare Market. Oliver also arrived in town the same
  day.

  REMARKS.—Donnelly had now shown his capabilities to the admirers of
  scientific pugilism in England, and the judgment pronounced upon his
  merits was briefly this:—The Irish champion has not turned out so
  good a fighter as was anticipated. To be more precise, he is not
  that decisive, tremendous hitter with his right which was calculated
  upon. In fact, he did not use his right hand at all; if he had, he
  might in all probability have decided the battle full half an hour
  sooner than it terminated. In game and coolness he is not wanting,
  and for obtaining “a throw or a fall,” he will prove a dangerous
  customer for any man on the list. Donnelly might have felt that sort
  of embarrassment which hangs about a provincial actor who first
  treads the London boards; and to use his own words upon the merits
  of the battle, he said it was a bad fight, that he had acted like “a
  wooden man,” and could not account for it. His next essay, he
  thought, might prove altogether different from his defeat of Oliver.
  Donnelly’s right hand was frequently open when he hit. His face
  appeared, on leaving the ring, exempt from punishment, except some
  scratches upon his lips. His right ear, however, was strongly
  marked; but the principal punishment he sustained was upon the body.
  Oliver was heavily hit about the throat and ears, and also on the
  body. The latter by no means punished Donnelly as he did Neat; but
  the heavy falls that Oliver received proved him thoroughly good in
  nature, a game man, and one that would contend for victory while a
  spark of animation was left. He never did, nor never will, say “No!”
  It would be a violation of truth, if the above battle, under all the
  circumstances, was not pronounced a bad fight, as regarded
  scientific movements on both sides. The seconds on both sides were
  on the alert to bring their men through the piece; and every person
  was astonished to see the activity displayed by Tom Belcher in
  picking up so heavy a man as Donnelly, and the industry used by
  Randall. The conduct of the Champion of England was cool and manly
  in the extreme; and Shelton never lost sight of a point that could
  assist Oliver.


Dan was, like most of his countrymen, a bit of a humourist. On the day
previous to the mill a noble lord called upon Donnelly, at Riddlesdown,
about one o’clock, and rather slightingly observed, “That about that
time to-morrow he might expect a pretty head from the fist of Oliver.”
Donnelly (at all times facetious), looking the lordling full in the
face, replied, with an ironical expression, “That he was not born in a
wood, to be scared an owl!” The laugh went round against the noble
amateur, and by way of softening the thing, he betted Donnelly £15 to
£10 upon Oliver, which the Irish champion immediately accepted.

One trait of Donnelly is worthy of notice: on quitting his room to enter
the apartment of Oliver, he would not publicly wear the coloured
handkerchief of his fallen opponent, but concealed it by way of pad, in
the green handkerchief which he wore round his neck.

Soon after Donnelly arrived at Riddlesdown, Shelton, by desire of an
amateur, who offered to back him for £200, challenged the Irish
champion, to fight at his own time.

The sporting houses were crowded at an early hour in the evening by
persons anxious to know the result, and the Castle Tavern, Randall’s,
Welch’s, and Dignam’s, overflowed with the well-pleased countrymen of
Donnelly. The “Irish division” won large sums by this victory.

Notwithstanding Donnelly’s victory over Oliver, it appeared to be the
general opinion that his talents as a pugilist had been much over-rated.
Challenges, in consequence, flowed in fast, and a nobleman offered
Donnelly his choice out of Cooper, Shelton, Gregson, Sutton, Spring,
Carter, Neat, Richmond, and Painter, for £100 a-side. The following
document also appeared in the _Weekly Dispatch_, August 15, 1819.


         “A CHALLENGE TO DAN DONNELLY, THE CONQUEROR OF OLIVER.

  “I, the undersigned, do hereby offer to fight you for 1,000 guineas,
  at any place, and at any time, which may be agreeable to you,
  provided it be in England.

                                              “ENOS COPE, _Innkeeper_.

        “Witnesses,      WM. BAXTER, C. PALMER, J. ALCOCK.
  “_Macclesfield, July 23, 1819._”


Donnelly was now caressed in the most flattering manner by all ranks of
the fancy, but more particularly by his own countrymen; indeed, it might
be said that his days, if not a great part of his nights, were
completely occupied in taking his drops from one end of the Long Town to
the other with his numerous acquaintances. Time rolled on very
pleasantly, and it appears, by the way of “seeing a bit of life,” that
Dan was taken by some of his friends to view the sports of the West, not
forgetting those of some of the “hells” of St. James’s. Here Dan was
picked-up one night, and eased of £80 out of the £100 he won by
defeating Oliver. It was a “secret” at the time, and only “whispered”
all over London. Dan’s blunt was fast decreasing, and reduced to so low
an ebb as to remind him that a supply was necessary, and something must
be done; therefore, after Mr. Donnelly had shown his “better half” all
the fine places in and about London, he naturally felt anxious to return
once more to dear Dublin, where his presence might be turned to a good
account. It was accordingly agreed that his friends George Cooper and
Gregson should accompany him on a sparring tour to Donnybrook Fair. But
many things happen between the cup and the lip, and just as Donnelly had
taken his seat upon the stage coach, and was in the act of bidding

                   “Fare thee well; and if for ever,
                   Still for ever fare thee well,”

to his numerous friends, an acquaintance of Dan’s (a swell bum-bailiff)
appeared close to the vehicle, and, in the most gentlemanly manner, told
Donnelly he wished to speak to him. “And is it me you mane, Jemmy?”
replied Dan; “don’t be after joking with me now!” “Indeed I’m not;
here’s the writ for £18,” answered the officer. “And is it possible that
you want me at the suit of Carter? I don’t owe the blackguard one single
farthing. By de powers, it is the other way; Jack’s indebted to me.”
Expostulation, however, was useless. The coachman had his whip in his
hand, and the two evils before Dan only allowed him to make a momentary
decision. The choice left to him was, either to lose his fare to
Liverpool, which had been previously paid, and the advantages to result
from an exhibition of his talents at Donnybrook Fair (which admitted of
no delay), or to remain in London and be screwed up in a sponging house.
Donnelly, in a great rage, as the preferable alternative, instantly
discharged the writ and galloped off from the metropolis. It is true Dan
went off loaded with fame, but it is an equally undeniable fact that he
had only a £2 note left in his pocket-book, after all his great success
in London, to provide for him and Mrs. Donnelly on their route to the
land of Erin.

Thousands of persons assembled on the beach to hail the arrival of the
Irish champion on his native shore. Dan had scarcely shown his merry
mug, when his warm-hearted countrymen gave him one of the primest
fil-le-lus ever heard, and “Donnelly for ever!” resounded from one
extremity of the beach to the other. A horse was in readiness to carry
him, as so great a personage as “Sir Dan Donnelly” (who, it was
currently reported, had been knighted by the Prince Regent for his
bravery) could not be suffered to walk. The knight of the fives was
attended by the populace through all the principal districts of Dublin,
till he arrived at his house in Townshend Street. Dan took his leave
gratefully of the multitude, and after flourishing the symbol of the
above Order, for the honour of Ireland, and drinking their healths in a
“noggin of whiskey,” the crowd retired, highly gratified at the
dignified reception which the Irish milling chief had experienced on
setting his foot once more on the turf of Ould Ireland.

The sports of Donnybrook Fair, on August 27, 1819, were considerably
heightened by the presence of Donnelly, Cooper, and Gregson. They were
thus described in a contemporary Dublin newspaper, _Carrick’s Evening
Post_:—“Upon no former occasion have we witnessed more enticement to eye
or palate: booths of a superior and extensive nature were erected, in
which equestrian voltigeur tumbling, sleight of hand, serious and comic
singing, and other performances were exhibited. Donnelly, for some
reason we cannot account for, has no tent; but he has a booth, wherein
Cooper, Gregson, and the Irish champion exhibited sparring, to the great
amusement of an admiring audience. This booth was but hastily prepared,
but the persons who obtained admittance appeared much pleased with the
scientific display of these celebrated pugilists. An amateur of great
eminence from Liverpool, at a late hour in the evening, ascended the
platform (a ten feet enclosed ring), and encountered Gregson with the
gloves. He was evidently no novice in the milling school, and was much
applauded. Cooper exhibited superior science, and Gregson displayed the
remnant powers of a once first-rate superior man. Dan was thought by the
amateurs present to be much improved, but gave himself little trouble
else than to show how things ‘might be done;’ he was cheerful and
laughing during each ‘set-to.’ The whole passed off in the most regular
and quiet manner. The persons present seemed anxious to accord with the
expressed wish of the pugilists, that the public peace should be rigidly
preserved.” On Tuesday the crowds were greater than upon any previous
occasion. The itinerant vocalists were not wanting to contribute their
portion of harmony. A variety of songs were circulated, from which we
select the following crambonian lyric:—

                     “DONNYBROOK FAIR.

                         TUNE—_Robin Adair_.

                 “What made the town so dull?
                                     Donnybrook Fair.
                 What made the tents so full?
                                     Donnybrook Fair.
                 Where was the joyous ground,
                 Booth, tent, and merry-go-round?
                 Where was the festive sound?
                                     Donnybrook Fair.

                 “Beef, mutton, lamb, and veal,
                                     Donnybrook Fair.
                 Wine, cider, porter, ale,
                                     Donnybrook Fair.
                 Whiskey, both choice and pure,
                 Men and maids most demure,
                 Dancing on the ground flure,
                                     Donnybrook Fair.

                 “Where was the modest bow?
                                     Donnybrook Fair.
                 Where was the friendly row?
                                     Donnybrook Fair.
                 Where was the fun and sport?
                 Where was the gay resort?
                 Where Sir Dan held his Court—
                                     Donnybrook Fair.”

The dispute between Carter and Donnelly, respecting the arrest of the
latter (whether right or wrong), was not calculated to do Carter good,
even in the eyes of the sporting world in England; but in Ireland, it
was certain to prejudice the character of the Lancashire hero in the
opinion of the fancy, Donnelly being their avowed hero, and so great a
favourite. However, with more courage than prudence, or conscious that
he had done nothing wrong, Carter[24] almost immediately followed
Donnelly to Dublin, and lost no time in parading Donnybrook Fair, going
from booth to booth.

In consequence of this, the Irish amateurs wishing not only to witness
their champion again exhibit his finishing talents on the Curragh, but
also to show they would not suffer him to be brow-beaten upon his own
soil, a meeting took place between the friends of both parties. Owing,
however, to some trifling delay in making the match, the following
challenge, answer, and articles of agreement appeared in the _Dublin
Journal_:—


                        “CHALLENGE TO DONNELLY.

                “_To the Editor of the_ DUBLIN JOURNAL.

  “SIR,—

  “I beg leave, through the medium of your paper, to intimate that I
  am ready and willing to fight Daniel Donnelly for £200, to be lodged
  in proper hands, and I am induced to give him this public challenge,
  in consequence of his having hitherto declined to give a decided
  answer on a late occasion, when I staked 10 guineas in the hands of
  a friend of his, who has neither covered nor returned the money, nor
  given me any satisfaction whether he is willing to fight me or not.

                                    “I am, sir, your obedient servant,
                                                        “JOHN CARTER.

  “_September 18, 1819._”


               “THE CHALLENGE RE-CHALLENGED AND REFUTED.

                         “DONNELLY AND CARTER.

  “The committee of friends and supporters of Donnelly, the Irish
  champion, have observed, with much surprise and regret, an
  advertisement in the _Dublin Evening Post and Correspondent_ of
  Saturday last, signed ‘John Carter.’ Their surprise was excited by
  the statement of a public challenge to Donnelly, when, in fact, a
  challenge had been previously exchanged and ratified. They regret
  that any person placing himself before the public should so pervert
  facts. As to the deposits and binding of the contract, the friends
  of Donnelly have produced, and are still anxious to lodge, £200 in
  his support. They have repeatedly signified this intention, and
  appointed places for interview, at which neither Carter nor his
  friends (if he has any) have attended. If the object of Carter’s
  advertisement is to retract and regain his deposit (a pretty good
  proof that no public challenge was necessary), although the sporting
  world would decide against the refunding of the 10 guineas in
  question, he shall cheerfully have it. The public will judge of his
  motives; but if Carter, previous to his projected immediate trip to
  Scotland, is not determined to shy the combat, Donnelly’s friends
  are ready to lodge the £200 required, and only desire that Carter
  may be serious and determined. The determination of Donnelly’s
  friends is to support him to the extent his opponents require, or to
  the amount of the original agreement, which was to fight for £500 in
  six weeks, at the Curragh.

         ‘Let the galled jade wince, our withers are unwrung.’

  “_Committee Room, 20, Fownes’ Street, September 20, 1819._”


A match between the above pugilists was at length made, and the
following were the articles:—


                                         “_Dublin, September 20,1819._

  “Mr. W. Dowling, on the one part, and Mr. L. Byrne, on the other
  part. Mr. Dowling deposits £20 sterling, on behalf of John Carter,
  and Mr. L. Byrne deposits, on the part of Daniel Donnelly, £20
  sterling, into the hands of Mr. John Dooly; the parties to meet at
  No. 20, Fownes Street, Dublin, on the 5th of October next, at two
  o’clock on the said day precisely, to make the above sum £50 each.
  The combatants to meet within thirty miles of Dublin, on the 25th of
  November next, and then fight, at twelve o’clock in the day, the
  place to be hereafter tossed for and named, for the sum of £200
  sterling a-side. The whole of the stakes to be made good on the 23rd
  of November, two days previous to fighting, when the place will be
  appointed, or the £50 deposit money to be forfeited. To be a fair
  stand-up fight, half-minute time, in a twenty-four feet ring. Also,
  if the parties, or money for the said parties, according to this
  article, do not meet on the 5th of October next, the present £20
  stake must also be forfeited.

                                                         “JOHN CARTER.
                                                         “G. D——.
                                                         “W. DOWLING.
                                                         “L. BYRNE.

  “Present, THOMAS BOYLAN, ROBERT GREGSON.”


To the mortification of the fancy, this match went off upon a frivolous
dispute as to the appointment of a stakeholder. Donnelly, in a
discussion with Cooper’s backers, said fairly, addressing himself to
Cooper, “When I defeated you, George, upon the Curragh, you got more
money than I did; but when I fought Oliver in England, upon proving the
conqueror, the whole of the money, 100 guineas, was presented to me. If
this plan is adopted in Ireland I have no objection to fight Carter.”
This proposition, however, from motives it is now impossible to
discover, was refused by Carter’s friends.

Donnelly’s public-house in Pill Lane was generally crowded. Carter also
took a house in Barrack Street, in opposition to the Irish champion; and
Bob Gregson opened a punch-house in Moor Street, Dublin. Milling topics
were, therefore, the order of the day in the “sweet city.”

Dan seemed now at the apex of popularity, with a prospect, backed by
common prudence, of attaining permanent prosperity. His house was
overflowing nightly with company, the blunt pouring rapidly into his
treasury, and his milling fame on the highest eminence; but, in the
midst of this laughing scene, the ugliest customer Dan had ever met with
introduced himself. Without any preliminary articles, or agreeing as to
time; nay, without even shaking fists, the Universal Leveller gave the
stout Sir Daniel such a body blow that all the wind was knocked out of
him in a twinkling; the “scratch” disappeared from his darkened optics,
and he went “to sleep” to wake only to the last call of “time!” In plain
prose, this renowned knight of fistic frays took sudden leave of his
friends, family, and the P.R., on the 18th of February, 1820, in
consequence of taking a copious draught of cold water, while in a state
of perspiration after an active game at “fives.” He was in the
thirty-second year of his age, and not a few of his best friends declare
that whiskey-punch, by over-heating his blood, hastened the catastrophe.
We shall here introduce a few random anecdotes from “Boxiana.”

Soon after Dan’s arrival in London, he met Cooper and Hall one evening
at the Castle Tavern, when, after inquiring after their health, he
facetiously asked them if they should like a little of Mr. Donnelly in
England, as they had stated fair play was not allowed to them in
Ireland. Silence got rid of the inquiry.

A General, well known in the sporting circles, in order to try the
milling capabilities of Donnelly (his countryman), soon after his
arrival in England, invited the Irish champion to his house, where he
set-to with a gentleman amateur, distinguished for his superior
knowledge of the art of self-defence. After some active manœuvring,
Donnelly put in such a tremendous facer, that for several minutes the
gentleman was in a state of stupor, whereon General B—— became a firm
backer of Sir Dan.

Pierce Egan finds fun in his hero’s worst failing. He tells us gleefully
that the severity of training did not accord with Donnelly’s
disposition. It was insufferable restraint to him. In fact, he did not
like going into training at all, and some difficulty occurred, nay, he
was almost coaxed to leave the metropolis. During his stay at
Riddlesdown, while training to fight Oliver, he was at table with some
gentlemen, when green peas were among the vegetables at dinner. One of
the company, distinguished for his knowledge of training, observed
Donnelly helping himself to the peas, and immediately stated to him that
peas were improper for a person training. Donnelly laughed heartily,
exclaiming, “And sure is it a pae that will hurt me? no, nor a drop of
the cratur neither,” tossing off a glass of brandy. He also enjoyed
himself during the afternoon in the same manner as the rest of the
company, till the time arrived for his going to work, _i.e._, walking
the distance of six miles. Donnelly on starting, said, “Now you shall
soon see how I’ll take the paes and liquor out of me!” and ascended with
great rapidity the high, steep hill in front of Wheeler’s door without
apparent fatigue. He returned to the company in a short time in a
violent state of perspiration, having performed the distance. Solitude,
however, was far from Dan’s delight: company was his passion. While his
friends remained with him at Riddlesdown it was all right; but when they
departed, it is said, he took a small drop of “stuff” with him to bed,
to prevent his lying awake. At other times he stole out in the dark to
poach for petticoats, and the preserves of Croydon, it seems, supplied
even more than his wants. This circumstance will, in a great degree,
account for his distressed and blown state during the battle with
Oliver.

It is a well-known fact that, immediately after his battle with Oliver,
it was not only discovered, but he acknowledged, that he had
unfortunately contracted a disease in the promiscuousness of his amours.
It is usual for pugilists during their training to have a companion to
look after them. It was not so with Donnelly; but if he had had such a
person, it would have been of little, if any, use, as Dan was beyond
control. It was, however, truly astonishing to view Donnelly’s fine
appearance on entering the ring to meet Cooper. When the Irish champion
fought Cooper on the Curragh of Kildare, it appears he had been trained
up to the highest pitch of excellence by Captain Kelly, and was strong
as a giant and active as a rope dancer. To the Captain, Donnelly yielded
implicit obedience; but he would not be dictated to by his
equals—indeed, he was totally unmanageable.

Donnelly was extremely fond of a joke; and upon a porter coming to him,
soon after his arrival in England, late one evening, at the Castle
Tavern, Holborn, informing Dan that his wife would be glad to see him at
the White Horse in Fetter Lane, as soon as possible, Donnelly asked,
with great eagerness, “What sort of a woman she was?” The porter,
surprised at the singularity of such a question, enquired, “What, sir,
don’t you know your own Wife?” The champion, smiling, replied, “Is she a
big woman? Well, never mind; tell her I’ll come and look, just to see if
I know her.”[25]

It should seem that Donnelly had a great aversion to be looked upon as a
prize-fighter. In the course of two or three evenings after his battle
with Oliver, Dignam’s long room was crowded with his countrymen, anxious
to congratulate him on his recent victory. Donnelly, who was dining with
some swells above stairs, was informed of the circumstance, and
solicited to go down and to walk through the room. To which Donnelly
replied, “Sure, now, do they take me for a baste, to be made a show of?
I’m no fighting man, and I won’t make a staring stock of myself to plase
anybody.” This was spoken angrily, and it required the utmost
persuasions of his friend Dignam to induce him to comply with so
reasonable a request. Dan at length conceded, and upon entering the room
he was received with the loudest cheers.

In short, poor Dan was a creature of the moment. He was most excellent
company, creating mirth and laughter all around him. His sayings were
droll in the extreme, and his behaviour was always decorous. Forethought
was no ingredient in his composition; “to-morrow,” with him, might or
might not be provided for: that never created any uneasiness in his
mind, and was left entirely to chance, or, as Dan would express it,
“Divil may care!” Such was the character of Donnelly. He was an Irishman
every inch of him—generous, good-natured, and highly grateful. As a
pugilist, it is true, he did not raise himself in the estimation of the
English amateurs by his battle with Oliver; nor did the Irish fancy in
London think so much of his capabilities as they had anticipated;
indeed, those gentlemen who came from Ireland to witness the battle
expressed themselves surprised at the deficiency of boxing talent
displayed by their favourite. This, however, will astonish no one who
has perused the few preceding paragraphs of his heedless conduct and
neglect of training. He was declared to be unlike the same man who
defeated Cooper. The fact is, that our Hibernian friends either
undervalue or thoughtlessly neglect those precautions, without which
strength, pluck, and skill must succumb to more ordinary physical
qualifications, if backed by temperance. In fact, the fight was won by
Donnelly by his wrestling superiority, rather than his hitting.

We now quit the living Sir Dan to note the public and literary honours
bestowed upon his decease. Foremost amongst these comes _Blackwood’s
Magazine_, for May, 1820, wherein twenty closely printed pages are
devoted to a most amusing collection of “solemn dirges,” letters of
condolence, lamentations, plaintive ballads, odes and songs, an eloquent
funeral oration, etc., and scraps of Hebrew, Greek, and Latin poems in
honour of the heroic deceased. The scholar will be delighted, and the
general reader amused, by the genuine humour and erudite pleasantry
therein displayed. Our space forbids us more than a selection of a few
of these serio-comic effusions of Christopher North and his coadjutors.

         “Recollections of Sir Daniel Donnelly, Knt., P.C.I.[26]

       “When green Erin laments for her hero, removed
       From the isle where he flourished, the isle that he loved,
       Where he entered so often the twenty-foot lists,
       And, twinkling like meteors, he flourished his fists,
       And gave to his foes more set-downs and toss-overs,
       Than ever was done by the great philosophers,
             In folio, in twelves, or in quarto.

       “Majestic O’Donnelly! proud as thou art,
         Like a cedar on top of Mount Hermon,
       We lament that death shamelessly made thee depart,
         With the gripes, like a blacksmith or chairman.
       Oh! hadst thou been felled by Tom Cribb in the ring,
         Or by Carter been milled to a jelly,
       Oh! sure that had been a more dignified thing,
         Than to “kick” for a pain in thy belly.

       “A curse on the belly that robbed us of thee,
         And the bowels unfit for their office;
       A curse on the potheen you swallowed so free,
       For a stomach complaint, all the doctors agree,
         Far worse than a headache or cough is.
       Death, who like a cruel and insolent bully, drubs
         All those he thinks fit to attack,
       Cried, ‘Dan, my tight lad, try a touch of my mulligrubs,’
         Which laid him flat on his back.

       “Great spirits of Broughton, Jem Belcher, and Fig,
         Of Corcoran, Pearce, and Dutch Sam;
       Whether ‘up stairs’ or ‘down,’ you kick up a rig,
       And at intervals pause, your blue ruin to swig,
         Or with grub your bread-basket to cram;
       Or whether, for quiet, you’re placed all alone,
       In some charming retired little heaven of your own,
       Where the turf is elastic—in short, just the thing
       That Bill Gibbons would choose when he’s forming a ring;
       That, whenever you wander, you still may turn to,
       And thrash, and be thrashed, till you’re black and blue;
       Where your favourite enjoyments for ever are near,
       And you eat and you drink, and you fight all the year;
       Ah! receive, then, to join in your milling delight,
       The shade of Sir Daniel Donnelly, Knight,
             With whom a turn-up is no frolic;
             His is no white or cold liver,
             For he beat O-liver,
       Challenged Carter, and—died of the colic!”

                   “Sorrow is Dry.

                 “A PLAINTIVE BALLAD.

 “When to Peggy Bauldie’s daughter first I told Sir Daniel’s death,
 Like a glass of soda-water, it took away her breath;
 It took away your breath, my dear, and it sorely dimm’d your sight,
 And aye ye let the salt, salt tear down fall for Erin’s knight;
 For he was a knight of glory bright, the spur ne’er deck’d a bolder,
 Great George’s blade itself was laid upon Sir Daniel’s shoulder.
                                     Sing hey ho, the Sheddon, etc.

 “I took a turn along the street, to breathe the Trongate air,
 Carnegie’s lass I chanced to meet, with a bag of lemons fair;
 Says I, ‘Gude Meg, ohone! ohone! you’ve heard of Dan’s disaster—
 If I’m alive, I’ll come at five, and feed upon your master;—
 A glass or two no harm will do to either saint or sinner.
 And a bowl with friends will make amends for a so-so sort of dinner.’

 “I found Carnegie in his nook, upon the old settee,
 And dark and dismal was his look, as black as black might be,
 Then suddenly the blood did fly, and leave his face so pale,
 That scarce I knew, in altered hue, the bard of Largo’s vale;
 But Meg was winding up the Jack, so off flew all my pains,
 For, large as cocks, two fat earocks I knew were hung in chains.

 “Nevertheless, he did express his joy to see me there—
 Meg laid the cloth, and, nothing loth, I soon pull’d in my chair;
 The mutton broth and bouilli both came up in season due.
 The grace is said, when Provan’s head at the door appears in view;
 The bard at work, like any Turk, first nods an invitation,
 For who so free as all the three from priggish botheration?

 “Ere long the Towdies deck the board with a cod’s head and shoulders,
 And the oyster sauce it surely was great joy to all beholders.
 To George our king a jolly can of royal port is poured—
 Our gracious king who knighted Dan with his own shining sword;
 The next we sip with trembling lip—’tis of the claret clear—
 To the hero dead that cup we shed, and mix it with a tear.

 “’Tis now your servant’s turn to mix the nectar of the bowl;
 Still on the ring our thoughts we fix, while round the goblets roll,
 Great Jackson, Belcher, Scroggins, Gas, we celebrate in turns,
 Each Christian, Jew, and Pagan, with the fancy’s flame that burns;
 Carnegie’s finger on the board a mimic circle draws,
 And, Egan-like, h’ expounds the rounds and pugilistic laws.

 “’Tis thus that worth heroic is suitably lamented—
 Great Daniel’s shade, I know it, dry grief had much resented.
 What signify your tear and sigh? A bumper is the thing
 Will gladden most the generous ghost of a champion of the king.
 The tear and sigh, from voice and eye, must quickly pass away,
 But the bumper good may be renewed until our dying day.”

           “A Dirge over Sir Daniel Donnelly.

         “TUNE—‘_Molly Astore_.’

   “As down Exchequer Street[27] I strayed, a little time ago,
   I chanced to meet an honest blade, his face brimful of woe;
   I asked him why he seem’d so sad, or why he sigh’d so sore?
   ‘O Gramachree, och, Tom,’ says he, ‘Sir Daniel is no more!’

   “With that he took me straight away, and pensively we went
   To where poor Daniel’s body lay, in wooden waistcoat pent;
   And many a yard before we reached the threshold of his door,
   We heard the keeners, as they screeched, ‘Sir Daniel is no more!’

   “We entered soft, for feelings sad were stirring in our breast,
   To take our farewell of the lad who now was gone to rest;
   We took a drop of Dan’s potheen,[28] and joined the piteous roar;
   Oh, where shall be his fellow seen, since Daniel is no more?

   “His was the fist, whose weighty dint did Oliver defeat,
   His was the fist that gave the hint it need not oft repeat.
   His was the fist that overthrew his rivals o’er and o’er;
   But now we cry, in phillalu, ‘Sir Daniel is no more!’

   “Cribb, Cooper, Carter, need not fear great Donnelly’s renown,
   For at his wake we’re seated here, while he is lying down;
   For Death, that primest swell of all, has laid him on the floor,
   And left us here, alas! to bawl, ‘Sir Daniel is no more!’


                              “EPITAPH.

   “Here lies Sir Daniel Donnelly, a pugilist of fame,
   In Ireland bred and born was he, and he was genuine game;
   Then if an Irishman you be, when you have read this o’er,
   Go home and drink the memory of him who is no more.”

       “Childe Daniel—A Lament.

   “In Fancy-land there is a burst of woe,
     The spirit’s tribute to the fallen; see
   On each scarr’d front the cloud of sorrow glow,
     Bloating its sprightly shine. But what is he
     For whom grief s mighty butt is broach’d so free?
   Were his brows shadow’d by the awful crown,
     The bishop’s mitre, or high plumery
   Of the mail’d warrior? Won he his renown
   On pulpit, throne, or field, whom Death hath now struck down?

   “He won it in the field, where arms are none,
     Save those the mother gives to us. He was
   A climbing star, which had not fully shone;
     Yet promised, in his glory, to surpass
     Our champion star ascendant: but, alas!
   The sceptred shade that values early might,
     And pow’r, and pith, and bottom, as the grass,
   Gave with his fleshless fist a buffet slight—

          ·       ·       ·       ·       ·

                     “’Tis done. Green-mantled Erin
     May weep; her hopes of milling sway past by,
   And Cribb, sublime, no lowlier rival fearing,
     Before, sole Ammon of the fistic sky,
     Concerted, quaffing his blue ruin high,
   Till comes the swell that come to all men must,
     By whose ‘foul blow’ Sir Daniel low doth lie,
   Summons the champion to resign his trust,
   And mingles his with kings’, slaves’, chieftains’, beggars’ dust!”


                              The Funeral.

On Sunday, February 27, 1820, the remains of this celebrated character
were borne, with all due pomp and solemnity, from his family residence
in Greek Street to the last asylum at Bully’s Acre, where his ancestors
lie quietly inurned. An immense concourse, some in carriages and some on
horseback, moving in slow and measured pace, formed part of the
procession. There was a strong muster of the fancy. The gloves were
carried on a cushion in front of the hearse, from which the horses had
been unyoked by the crowd, and multitudes contended for the honour of
assisting in drawing it. The procession took its route through the
leading streets of the city, and the numbers, as it passed, increased
until the body of the champion was lodged in its last resting-place. It
is for posterity to do justice to the prowess of Sir Daniel Donnelly.
Not the least remarkable feature in his eventful history is, that he was
the last person who received the honour of knighthood during the
regency: there might have been, and probably were, worse men among those
who received that honour before him. Although last, he did not deserve
to be held as least, among the knights of our day.

          “What dire misfortune has our land o’erspread?
          Our Irish Champion’s numbered with the dead;
          And he who never did to mortal bend,
          By Death’s cut short, and Ireland’s lost her friend.
          Ah! cruel Death, why were you so unkind,
          To take Sir Dan, and leave such trash behind
          As Gregson, Cooper, Carter—such a clan
          To leave behind, and take so great a man?
          Oh! Erin’s daughters, come and shed your tears
          On your bold Champion’s grave, whose shortened years
          Have made Erin’s sons this day a day of sorrow—
          Who have we now that will defend our Curragh?”

To the Blackwood collection we again resort for the proposed inscription
for an obelisk to Sir Daniel’s memory:—

                          “The Epitaph.

              “Underneath this pillar high
              Lies Sir Daniel Donnelly:
              He was a stout and handy man,
              And people called him ‘Buffing Dan;’
              Knighthood he took from George’s sword,
              And well he wore it, by my word!
              He died at last, from forty-seven
              Tumblers of punch he drank one even;
              O’erthrown by punch unharmed by fist,
              He died unbeaten pugilist!
              Such a buffer as Donnelly,
              Ireland never again will see.

          “OBIIT XIII^o KAL. MARTII, MDCCCXX. ÆTAT SUÆ XXXII.”

[Illustration]




                             CHAPTER VIII.
           JACK CARTER, “THE LANCASHIRE HERO”—1812–1832.[29]


The reputation of Jack Carter as a pugilist suffered unduly from two
causes. First, from ridiculously exaggerated press flourishes about his
prowess, skill, and formidable qualities by partizan scribes; and,
secondly, by a factious band of provincial supporters and adherents, who
spoilt their man by their indiscriminate support and attempts, by
clamour and intimidation, to carry their _protégé_ to the topmost
position, in despite of the interposition of better men. Poor Carter,
too, an unstable, self-conceited, and, when excited, an offensive and
bullying rough, was spoilt for his calling as well as for decent
society, by his injudicious “following.” Pierce Egan, who prematurely
dubs him in his first volume “the Lancashire hero(?)” furnishes us with
the only account of the early life of Bob Gregson’s _protégé_, which,
its magniloquence notwithstanding, reveals the secret that Jack Carter
was a mere “Lancashire rough,” and not a whit too courageous; nor, for
that matter, commonly honest; though Shakespeare says, “to be honest, as
this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.” In his
second and third volumes (for Carter figures in each) stubborn facts
reduce Carter’s dimensions and character as “a champion(?);” and in the
last Pierce prefaces his jeremiad over this perverted “navvy” by
misusing the Miltonic motto, “How are the mighty fallen!” though when or
how Carter was “mighty” is a puzzler. This he follows with an array of
gasconading advertisements, challenges, and thrasonical handbills. Here,
with some pruning of redundances, is the story of Jack’s early days as
detailed in “Boxiana”:—

“Carter was born at Manchester, September 13, 1789, of respectable
parents, who apprenticed him to a shoemaker, but being a strong, healthy
lad, and not liking the confinement of the trade, left it to give a
lending hand towards the improvement of his country, by commencing
navigator, and working upon the canals in that neighbourhood. It was
among those rough-hewn, hardy sons of the creation, that Carter began to
exhibit his feats of strength by milling several of the best considered
men in their whole phalanx. Jack was in height about five feet ten
inches and a half, and weighed about thirteen stone; and it was the
following droll and singular circumstance that brought him into notice,
both as a pedestrian and a pugilist. The navigators, in one of their
moments of hilarity, proposed a jackass race, and entered into
subscriptions for that purpose; the stakes were held by a Mr. Merryman,
belonging to a mountebank, who was then gammoning the flats in that part
of the country. Mr. Merryman was a good tumbler, full of fun, and could
fight a bit, and had rendered himself an attractive personage to the
numerous Johnny Raws by whom he was surrounded. Upon the day arriving
for the race to take place, no neddy was entered to run for the stakes,
except one belonging to Mr. Merryman. This circumstance created
surprise; in fact, much disappointment. Jack Carter instantly entered
himself as a jackass. At first, some little argument took place as to
the oddness of the attempt, but at length it was logically determined
that Carter was a jackass, and that he should be entered as such, upon
which they started. Away went neddy with all the fleetness of a prime
donkey, kicking and snorting over the ground; and the jackass set out in
fine style, amidst the shouts and laughs of the multitude, who now began
to bet in all manner of shapes—Christian against donkey, and neddy
against jackass. The distance was four miles, producing considerable
wagers and much diversion among the spectators. The jackass possessing
rather more knowledge than the neddy, made the best of his way, leaving
the donkey behind him, came in first and claimed the stakes. No jackass
was ever so much caressed before for winning a race. But Mr. Merryman
now treated it as only a joke, observing that he only let Carter run to
increase the sport, and disputed his claim as a jackass. It was certain
that all the words in Johnson’s Dictionary would not have satisfactorily
explained this knotty point; and there not being logicians enough
present to place the question in a proper point of view, a nearer road
was taken to settle the matter. Carter gave Mr. Merryman to understand
that, if he did not instantly hand over the stakes, that it should be
milled out of his carcass. Merryman received this threat with a smile of
contempt, entertaining an idea that as this jackass had been running
four miles, his wind could not be good for much, and agreed that the
fist should decide it. A ring being formed, Merryman was soon made to
laugh on the wrong side of his mouth; and he who had hitherto tumbled
for the pleasure of the crowd, was now, in spite of his antics, knocked
down often, and punished so severely that he was compelled, not only to
give in, but to give up the money.”

Carter’s fame as a boxer and racer was soon spread abroad, and he
entered the lists in a short time afterwards with a heavy strong man, a
navigator, at Preston, who had gained some good battles in his time. It
was a truly severe conflict, and occasioned considerable conversation in
Lancashire. He was matched in several races, in one of which he beat the
celebrated Abraham Wood, though, from Pierce Egan’s own showing, in
another page, this seems to have been not only after his coming to
London, but subsequently to his first fight with Boone, the soldier.

It was while working at the Highgate Tunnel that Bob Gregson first met
Carter. He was a Lancashire man, and that was enough to recommend him to
Bob, who we have proof sufficient was neither a good fighter himself nor
much of a judge of what constitutes one, like his modern double, Ben
Caunt. “Upon inquiry,” adds “Boxiana,” “it was found that Carter had
proved himself a trump!” and says, “all that he wanted was _experience_,
_science_(!), and introduction.” “He shall have that,” cried Bob, and
instantly, at his own expense, took care of Carter, and placed him under
the “Rolands” (whose distinguished skill in fencing and as pugilistic
teachers was then in its zenith). Pierce continues, “It is but justice
to Carter to observe that, under such tuition, he soon made considerable
progress in the art, and when it was judged a proper time to give
publicity to his attempt, Bob introduced him at the Fives Court.”
Carter’s appearance is thus flatteringly described in the _Morning
Advertiser_ of Wednesday, July 29, 1812:—

“SPARRING.—The last sparring exhibition took place yesterday at the
Fives Court, for the benefit of Power, a pugilist, who, as a professor
of the science, is inferior to none on the boxing list, but his
exhibitions have been rare. The greatest novelty on this occasion was an
exhibition between a trial-man of Gregson’s, named Carter, from
Lancashire, a candidate of first-rate weight for fighting fame, and
Fuller, a scientific pupil of Richmond’s. A ruffianing match took place,
and, not to give superiority to either, it was a match which afforded
much diversion, and it will cause a considerable sensation in the
sporting world. Gregson’s man, who is under the best tuition, will prove
a tremendous teazer, if he be gifted with the best of pugilistic
favours—game—which remains to be tried. He is a fine weighty left-handed
hitter, and, _if_ game be in him, he can beat anything now on the list.”

With such a character, though the “if” in respect to his “game” looks
very like a misgiving, Carter was matched against Boone, the soldier,
for an unknown stake. Boone (made Bone in “Boxiana”) has not a single
fight to his credit in “Fistiana,” except that with Crockey, a wretched
affair, four years after this exhibition. The battle came off on Friday,
September 18, 1812, near Ealing, Middlesex, when, after twelve rounds,
in seventeen minutes, Boone gave in. Egan says it was “a severe
contest,” and adds, “In this battle Carter’s patrons thought he had made
good his pretensions to milling, and looked forward anxiously to place
him nearly, if not quite, at the top of the boxing list.” They
accordingly matched him against Jack Power. (See POWER, in Appendix.)
The stake was the handsome sum of 200 guineas, subscribed by Gregson’s
friends, and on the 16th of November, 1812, the fight came off at
Rickmansworth, Herts. The battle will be found in the Life of POWER,
who, despite the recent rupture of a blood-vessel, and incapacity for
severe training, thrashed Carter in thirty-nine rounds, occupying one
hour and five minutes. “Boxiana” says, with edifying _naïvete_, “Carter
attributed the loss of this battle to his second (Isaac Bittoon) placing
a Belcher handkerchief over his mouth, which tended rather to deprive
him of his wind (query, courage) than to do anything to increase that
necessary _quality_ in a boxer.” He adds, “If Carter in his battle with
Power did not exhibit those traits of finished elegance which
characterise the skilful pugilist, he nevertheless portrayed that he was
not ignorant of the principles of boxing, and his patrons were perfectly
satisfied with the bottom which he manifested upon the occasion,” which
shows they were thankful for very small mercies, as Carter brought
youth, weight, length, and strength to the losing side.

After much cavilling a match was made between Carter and Molineaux. Poor
Molineaux, having been twice beaten by Cribb, was now on his downward
course (see vol. i., pp. 282–285, _ante_), yet, in this contest, which
took place at Remington, Gloucestershire, on Friday, the 2nd of April,
1813, Carter was disgracefully beaten by the once formidable nigger. Of
this affair, on which we have commented in the life of Molineaux, a
contemporary writes:—“It was the opinion of the most experienced
pugilists that such a set-to was never before witnessed; one ‘was
afraid, and the other dared not.’ Carter was the best man after the
battle began, and continued so throughout the fight. Molineaux was
wretched in the extreme, and at one time positively bolted from his
second. But to the great astonishment of all the spectators, when
Molineaux was dead beat, Carter fainted and dropped his head as he sat
on the knee of his second. All the exertions of Richmond could not
arouse Carter from his lethargic state, and he thus lost the battle.”

In the next paragraph we find “Boxiana” stating, “as a boxer, and even
as a scientific pugilist, Carter was entitled to considerable prominency
(whatever that may mean); and, if viewed as a fibber (was the historian
unconsciously writing autobiography?), it would be difficult to find a
better one. In point of hitting and getting away, he is little inferior,
if not equal, to Richmond, and very good and active upon his legs. With
his left hand he dealt out severe punishment; and although in his former
contests his right hand appeared but of little service to him, yet he
seemed to have rather improved in the use of it. One objection which had
been warmly argued against Carter by many of the fancy was, that he was
soft about the head, afraid of the coming blow, and shrank from
punishment; while, on the contrary, it was roundly asserted by the other
part that, if he behaved correctly, his game was unimpeachable.”

After his defeat by Molineaux, Carter exhibited the art of self-defence
in Ireland, Scotland, and most of the provincial towns in England, with
great success; and from his continual practice in those trials of skill,
aided by considerable intuitive knowledge upon the subject of boxing, he
returned to the metropolis an active and improved fighter. Upon his
arrival in London, Carter, without hesitation, declared himself ready to
enter the lists with any man in the kingdom; and this public challenge,
as might be supposed, was not suffered to remain long unanswered, and
Richmond, in consequence, catered a fine, strong, healthy black, of the
name of Joseph Stephenson, weighing upwards of fourteen stone, from
Havre de Grace, Maryland, in America, as a likely opponent.

The Pugilistic Club gave a purse of twenty-five guineas, and the
combatants put down twenty-five also a-side. On Tuesday, February 6,
1816, the above heroes(!) met at Coombe Warren. This battle excited
considerable interest throughout the pugilistic circles; and,
notwithstanding the torrents of rain that deluged the roads, from seven
in the morning till seven at night without intermission, thousands of
spectators braved the elements with the utmost _nonchalance_. The men
entered the ring about one o’clock; Cribb and Shelton acting as seconds
to Carter, and Richmond and Oliver for Stephenson. Two to one in many
instances upon Carter.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On setting-to, Carter had scarcely placed himself in a
  fighting position when, with much dexterity, he gave Stephenson a
  desperate nobber. The man of colour seemed rather surprised at this
  sudden attack, but he bored his way into a sharp rally. The pink
  first appeared on Carter’s face. The latter, in closing, fibbed
  Stephenson, but he was undermost when down. (Seven to four against
  the Black.)

  2.—Carter again commenced offensive operations with his left hand,
  and the Black’s head was completely open to him. Some blows were
  exchanged, and, in closing, Carter found his way to the ground.

  3.—It was evident the man of colour was the strongest, and that
  Carter might have come into the ring better prepared for action.
  Stephenson endeavoured to put in some heavy blows, but the science
  of Carter was too much for him. The latter hit and got away in good
  style; but, in a sharp rally, the Black showed tolerable resolution.
  In struggling to obtain the throw, both went down.

  4.—Carter showed bad condition, and was much in want of wind; but
  Stephenson did not appear to avail himself of this opportunity of
  turning it to account. Carter, with great dexterity, not only nobbed
  his opponent successfully with his left hand, without experiencing
  any return, but made use of his right better than usual. The Black,
  however, in closing, endeavoured to fib his adversary; but Carter
  extricated himself with much adroitness, and went down. (Two to one
  was now offered on Carter with great confidence.)

  5.—Stephenson did not appear eager to commence the attack, and some
  little sparring was also necessary, that Carter might recover his
  wind. The Black knew more about receiving than any other part of the
  science, and Carter milled him on the retreat with great _sang
  froid_. Stephenson, rather passionate from this sort of treatment,
  endeavoured to bore in upon his adversary, but Carter stopped short
  upon him, and, measuring his distance well, the man of colour
  measured his length on the grass in a twinkling.

  6.—The strength of the Black at times gave him rather the advantage,
  and, in finishing this round, Carter was thrown. (Seven to two on
  the latter, but no takers.)

  7.—Stephenson seemed almost tired of the battle, and got down in the
  best manner he was able. (Any odds upon Carter.)

  8.—Stephenson readied the scratch greatly distressed, and Carter
  sent him down from a slight touch.

  9.—The left hand of Carter was again in motion, but Stephenson
  caught hold of it, and the word “stop,” it was understood, had
  escaped from his lips. Carter instantly made his exit from the ring,
  and upon his seconds preparing to follow him, Stephenson insisted it
  was a mistake, and that he was determined to continue the contest.
  Nearly half an hour had now elapsed, and Carter immediately resumed
  offensive operations.

  10.—Carter, somewhat angry at this disappointment, went to work in
  sharp style, and the Black again felt the severity of his left hand.
  In closing, both went down.

  It would be superfluous to detail the succeeding rounds of this
  battle. It was perfectly ridiculous on the part of Stephenson to
  resume the fight, as not the slightest chance appeared to turn it to
  his account. At the expiration of forty-four minutes, victory was
  declared in favour of Carter. From the well-known science of the
  latter, it was expected that he would have been able to dispose of
  Stephenson in much less time; but Carter, it seemed, looked upon the
  event so certain as to be indifferent respecting his appearance in
  the ring in good condition. Stephenson had merely to boast of
  strength; in other respects he was little better than a novice.


Three months had scarcely elapsed, when a formidable man of colour, of
the name of Robinson, who had acquired some celebrity from the execution
he had performed among second-rate boxers, and ambitiously eager to
achieve conquests of greater importance, agreed to enter the lists with
Carter, at Moulsey Hurst, on Wednesday, April 24, 1816, for a stake of
fifty guineas, and also a purse of twenty-five, given by the P. C., in a
twenty-feet roped ring. Vehicles of all descriptions were in requisition
at an early hour to reach the destined spot; and the curiosity of the
fancy was so strongly excited to witness this mill that, by twelve
o’clock, it might be fairly stated the Hurst contained little short of
20,000 people. Robinson was a fancied article, declared capable of
performing pugilistic wonders. He had beaten Crockey in prime twig,[30]
and Butcher he had also vanquished in decent style; and when the match
was first made between Robinson and Carter, the Black was rather the
favourite with those characters who are always eager for novelty, and
considerable bets were laid in his favour; and even some of the knowing
ones were doubtful on the subject. It cannot be denied that Carter never
stood A1 in the esteem of the fancy. They knew he did not want for
science; they knew he did not want for strength and activity; and they
also were acquainted that he could run and jump well, and that he was a
boxer above mediocrity. Still there was an inexpressible something that
seemed to pervade their opinions, which kept many from going that length
upon Carter they might otherwise have done; added to which, Robinson
talked confidently of his capabilities of sarving-out, which blinded the
too credulous as to the real state of things. But the flash side, upon
looking into the chances and comparing notes upon the subject, soon
became awake as to the issue likely to ensue, and previously to the
fight, six to four first came forward, five to three, and lastly seven
to four upon Carter. A few minutes before one the Black showed in the
ring, and tossed up his hat. Carter soon followed and did the same, and
immediately came up to Robinson and shook hands with him. Soon after
their seconds appeared—Paddington Jones and Dick Whale for Robinson, and
Painter and Harry Harmer for Carter—when they stripped and commenced


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Carter had scarcely set-to, when he gave Blacky a severe
  facer with his left hand, and quick as lightning put in two more
  tremendous hits upon the same cheek, and got away with much
  dexterity before the man of colour was able to return. The Black, in
  closing, got somewhat fibbed, and went down. (Seven to four
  generally was offered, but no takers appeared. Two to one in many
  places.)

  2.—The Black’s nob was completely at Carter’s service, and the
  latter put in five tremendous facers again with his left hand. The
  Black, notwithstanding, bored in and got Carter against the ropes,
  but did no execution, when, after an awkward struggle in a close,
  Carter went down. (It was now ten to two against the man of colour.)

  3.—The Black, at this early stage of the fight, seemed not only
  damaged, but rather shy, and he sparred cautiously to recover his
  wind. Carter again made the same successful use of his left hand, by
  planting three more hits upon the old place. A short rally took
  place, in which Blacky endeavoured to make a change in the
  appearance of things, but without effect, and he ultimately went
  down. The superiority of Carter appeared manifest in every round. In
  fact, the Black was dead beat, and when on his second’s knee called
  out for “brandy.”

  4.—Carter hit short, but the Black gained nothing by it. In closing,
  the punishment which Carter served out to his opponent was
  tremendous in the extreme; he held the Black up with one arm, and
  with the other fibbed him so severely that he went down quite
  exhausted. The Black’s consequence as a first-rate miller was all
  gone. His fanciers now began to look rather blue, and found, too
  late, that their judgment had proved erroneous.

  5.—The distressed state of the Black was conspicuous to all parties,
  and he left his second’s knee in a tottering state. He, however,
  endeavoured to make the best of it, and attacked Carter rather
  furiously, but the latter soon spoiled his intention, and again
  fibbed him down. (Five pounds to five shillings.)

  6.—Carter, full of gaiety, smiled at the impotent efforts of his
  opponent, and punished him with the utmost _sang froid_. Blacky put
  in a body blow, but received such a staggerer in return that he was
  quite abroad, and at length went down.

  7.—The left hand of Carter was again busy with the mug of his
  antagonist. However, the Black endeavoured to make something like a
  rally, but he displayed more of desperation than judgment, and paid
  dearly for his temerity by again going down. This was the best round
  in the fight.

  8.—The nob of the Black, from the severe punishment he had received,
  now assumed a terrific aspect, and in his endeavour to plant a hit,
  Carter stopped it dexterously, and returned so severe a facer that
  Blacky’s pimple appeared to go round upon his shoulders, like the
  movement of a harlequin; he went reeling away like a drunken man,
  and fell.

  9.—The Black reluctantly appeared at the mark, when Carter, as fresh
  as a daisy, added more dreadful left-handed hits to his already
  disfigured nob. In closing, both down, but Blacky undermost.

  10.—It was almost up with the man of colour; he made a running hit
  and fell. Some disapprobation now manifested itself.

  11.—The game of the Black, if he ever had any, was now all
  exhausted, and he went down from a mere push. It was thought rather
  currish.

  12 and last.—The Black, in a state bordering on frenzy, endeavoured
  to follow Carter, but the latter punished him at every step, fibbed
  him terribly, and, in closing, both down, but Blacky undermost. So
  complete a finish in seventeen minutes and a half was scarcely to be
  expected, from the high milling qualities the Black was said to
  possess; and even the most knowing upon the subject offered to bet,
  previous to the fight, that it continued upwards of forty minutes.

  REMARKS.—Blacky, from the above display, lost ground in the opinion
  of the amateurs; his strength was more prominent than any other
  pugilistic quality. He left the ring apparently much distressed in
  body and mind from the punishment he had experienced. Carter was in
  good condition and in high spirits, and disposed of his opponent in
  first-rate style, and positively retired from the contest without a
  scratch, excepting upon his back, which, it is said, occurred either
  from a bite or a pinch given him by the man of colour. Carter showed
  himself evidently improved as a scientific pugilist: there was
  nothing hurried in his manner of attack; he viewed his antagonist
  with much fortitude, and scarcely made a hit without doing material
  execution. He adopted the milling on the retreat system, and hit and
  got away with all the celerity of Richmond. Two Blacks he has thus
  completely vanquished; and it is generally considered to the above
  might be added a third(?). It must certainly be admitted that Carter
  gained a step or two on the pugilistic roll of fame from the above
  contest, and perhaps removed many doubts that hitherto existed
  respecting his pretensions as a first-rate boxer. An opinion was now
  entertained that he had only to look well to himself, and something
  higher was still within his reach.


Gregson now made a rather odd and suspicious match on behalf of Carter,
which “Boxiana” calls a “NOUVELLE feature in the Prize Ring, namely, A
MATCH AGAINST TIME!” This was, that Carter should beat Robinson within
half an hour.

Carter, who had vanquished this sombre hero in seventeen minutes,
laughed at this new experiment of his capabilities, and accepted the
challenge without the slightest reflection. On Wednesday, June 26, 1816,
at Coombe Warren, the above boxers met to decide this match, for twenty
guineas a-side; and, notwithstanding the badness of the weather, the
patrons of pugilism mustered strongly. Much sporting speculation
occurred, and they both entered the ring in good spirits. Six to four on
Carter. The latter was attended by Cribb and Harmer; Robinson had for
his seconds Oliver and Richmond.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Carter, as in the last fight, immediately upon setting-to
  went quickly to work with his left hand and nobbed the Black in
  style. Robinson was not able to make any return, and he received
  four severe successive facers. Carter did as he pleased, hit and got
  away with much dexterity. Two minutes elapsed before the round was
  finished, when the man of colour went down.

  2.—It seemed not to be the intention of Robinson to make any hits,
  but merely to prolong the fight. He sparred with the utmost caution,
  but he was not able to prevent Carter from nobbing him at almost
  every step. The man of colour, however, was induced to make a sort
  of rally, but he was at length hit down. This round lasted three
  minutes.

  3.—Carter, with the utmost activity, put in six severe blows on the
  cheek of Robinson, and got cleanly away, without the least return. A
  close took place, when Carter got the Black’s head under his arm,
  and fibbed him so severely that he fell out of the ring, and Carter
  upon him.

  4.—The fighting was all on the side of Carter: he planted hits with
  the utmost dexterity, and, had he not been fighting against time,
  any odds must have been laid upon him as to proving the conqueror.
  He again held Robinson up, and fibbed him till he went down.

  5.—Carter kept hitting and getting away, till at length they closed,
  when he got Robinson’s head under his arm, and the man of colour, to
  prevent being fibbed, grasped tight hold of Carter’s hand; but the
  round was finished by Blacky’s going down.

  6.—The left hand of Carter was again three times in succession in
  the Black’s face, without any return. Robinson kept cautiously
  sparring and drawing himself back; and those blows he attempted to
  make were out of all distance and lost their effect. Robinson was
  again sent down.

  7.—It was astonishing to see with what ease and facility Carter made
  use of his left hand. He now put in with the utmost rapidity nine
  severe facers, making Robinson’s head dance again, and experiencing
  not the least return. In closing, they both went down, but the Black
  undermost.

  8.—The superiority of Carter over his opponent was visible in every
  movement; he not only gave six more facers with the utmost
  dexterity, and put in a body blow, but most severely fibbed Robinson
  down. The Lancashire hero was much distressed.

  9.—Carter again felt for the Black’s nob; but from the slippery
  state of the grass, he got off his balance and went down from a
  slight hit or trip, but he was up again in an instant.

  10.—Notwithstanding the numerous severe facers Robinson had
  received, there was no confusion about him, and he was always ready
  to time. It appeared now that, if Carter won the battle, he must go
  in and do considerable execution, as the half hour was rapidly
  advancing, and the Black was not to be licked by merely nobbing him.
  Robinson endeavoured to make a change in his favour, by attacking
  Carter and following him up, but at length he was sent down.

  11.—This was a tolerably good round, and the Black showed himself a
  different man altogether from what he appeared in his late combat
  with Carter. His mug seemed a little changed, and Carter kept
  repeating upon the punished places. Robinson went down from a hit.

  12.—The Black set-to with much resolution, and seemed very unlike an
  almost finished man. His face was again severely milled, but it was
  very doubtful whether Carter had the best of this round. The Black
  was sent down.

  13 and last.—Time was growing very short, and Carter to win must
  almost perform wonders. He again put in two nobbers, and some other
  hits, when Robinson fell down from a sort of slip, tumbling forwards
  between Carter’s legs. Carter immediately threw up both his arms,
  and declared the man of colour had dropped without a blow. The outer
  ring was instantly broken, and some confusion took place. “Foul,
  foul!” and “Fair, fair!” was loudly vociferated by both parties, and
  on all sides. Twenty-eight minutes and a half had expired. It was
  urged that Robinson had fell once before without a blow, which had
  not been noticed. Upon this termination some demur occurred; but it
  was decided by the umpires that Carter was entitled to the money,
  and it was given up to him accordingly.

  REMARKS.—In the eighth round Carter was evidently distressed, and
  showed he was much out of condition. He had been living freely, and
  his milling capabilities must have experienced a drawback, by his
  having a very painful and inflamed leg. In fact, it was rather a
  surprise match, and the money hastily deposited on the part of
  Carter when he was not in the most temperate state of understanding.
  It was a ridiculous wager altogether, and such a man as Robinson
  appeared to be in this last fight with Carter, would require the
  tremendous finishing hits of a Cribb to beat the man of colour with
  anything like a certainty in thirty minutes. The face of Robinson,
  never an Adonis, was a little spoilt as to its former character, but
  the light was far from being taken out of him, and in the tenth,
  eleventh, and twelfth rounds he changed his mode, with an appearance
  of going to work in earnest. He is not to be vanquished by nobbing
  hits alone. Could Carter use his right hand in any manner to second
  his left, few men, it is urged, would be able to stand any length of
  time before him. He appeared not the least hurt from the conflict in
  which he had been so recently engaged; and Robinson also was in a
  wagon viewing the fight between Curtis and Lazarus, with all the
  indifference of a mere spectator.


The Lancashire and Carlisle friends of Carter now rallied round him, and
he was at length matched with Oliver. In the metropolis Oliver was
everything; and Carter, in opposition to him, only named with derision
and contempt. But time, which proveth all things, thus narrates this
milling event:—

This contest was decided on the estate of Sir James Maxwell, in an
enclosed field of Mr. Johnson, inn-keeper (and within 150 yards of the
blacksmith’s shop, so celebrated in the Lovers’ Cabinet for the dispatch
of business), at Gretna Green, four miles from Longtown, and fourteen
from Carlisle, on Friday, the 4th of October, 1816, for 100 guineas
a-side, in a twenty-four feet roped ring, in the presence of 30,000
spectators. The sporting world was much interested, yet so confident as
to the termination of the event, that three to one was considered as
correct betting. Oliver had risen progressively into fame. Not so with
his opponent: he was “anything but a good one.” During the day on which
the fight took place the streets and houses of Carlisle and its vicinity
were drained of the male population, and a horse, chaise, cart, or any
sort of vehicle whatever, was not to be procured at any price. The
fanciers of the metropolis, it seems, were not so numerous as usual upon
great milling occasions, and a few of the “highest flight” only were
recognized upon the ground. Mr. Jackson was not at Carlisle, and it was
observed that the losing man was not the better for his absence. The
concourse of people was so great that it was deemed necessary to form an
outer rope ring, in order to prevent unpleasant consequences from the
pressure of so vast a multitude. The fight had nearly been prevented, as
officers, sent by George Blamire, Esq., the Mayor of Carlisle, and the
Rev. Dr. Lowry and Dr. Heysham, two other magistrates, were on the
look-out to bind the parties over to keep the peace.

Oliver arrived at the Bush Tavern, Carlisle, accompanied by Captain
Barclay, on Wednesday morning, at eleven o’clock, and he had scarcely
entered the room when the officers inquired for him. Some person,
suspecting their errand, introduced them to the brother of Oliver, when
Tom took the hint and quietly withdrew, not being known to them. At
nineteen minutes before one the battle commenced. The umpires were the
Marquis of Queensberry and Captain Barclay. Carter first entered the
ring with his seconds, Painter and Harmer, and the usual defiance of the
castor was exhibited by him. Oliver instantly followed with his
assistants, Cribb and Cooper. On stripping, the condition of Oliver
appeared equal to any one that ever entered the ring; but Carter, it was
thought, might have been better. The ceremony of friendship was then
performed, and ten to four was loudly vociferated upon Oliver.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The odds being so decidedly against Carter, the greatest
  anxiety was manifested by the spectators upon their setting-to, and
  the combatants seemed equally alive to the importance of obtaining
  the first advantage, by their deliberate mode of attack. Oliver
  endeavoured to plant a tremendous blow with his right hand, which
  Carter stopped in a scientific style, and returned a severe
  left-handed hit on the right eye of Oliver, that produced the claret
  in a twinkling. A good rally took place. Carter closed upon his
  adversary, fibbed him terribly, and ultimately threw him. Oliver
  bled profusely from his temple and his nose. It is impossible to
  describe the shouts of the populace upon Carter’s obtaining this
  superiority. It was like a salute of artillery. (The odds had
  completely vanished, and even betting was now the true feature of
  the ring.)

  2.—This burst of applause seemed to operate much upon the feelings
  of Oliver, and he determined if possible to get the turn in his
  favour by going furiously to work. Carter, partial to the left hand
  mode, aimed at his opponent’s nob, which Oliver prevented, and
  fought his way into a rally. Considerable hammering took place, and
  Carter got his man on the ropes. Here the truth began to be told to
  the sceptics: the superiority of strength most completely manifested
  itself upon the side of Carter, who again threw his opponent. (Great
  shouting. It was all up with any more offering of three to one.)

  3.—Oliver gave Carter a severe blow on the head, but the latter
  would not be stopped, and again bored his man to the ropes, punished
  him dreadfully, and brought him down, Oliver bleeding copiously.

  4.—Oliver was now convinced that he had formed an erroneous opinion
  of the boxing powers of his antagonist. Carter turned out a better
  man in every point of view than he had expected, and was not to be
  disposed of in that easy manner which he had flattered himself must
  be the case, and in which his friends had so fatally confirmed the
  error. Several heavy blows passed between them, but to the advantage
  of Carter. The latter received a severe facer; but, notwithstanding,
  he drove his man to the ropes, and, in closing, both went down. The
  head of Oliver was much punished, and his back excoriated by Carter
  hugging him on the ropes. (Six to four upon Carter generally, and
  more in many places. It was at the close of this round that Carter
  first showed blood.)

  5.—Oliver seemed at a loss how to cope, with any sort of success,
  against his scientific antagonist, and resorted to his game
  qualities of going in to smash this hitting and getting away boxer,
  if possible. Oliver was no stranger that Carter always preferred
  giving to taking punishment, and drew an inference that his opponent
  had some fears in this respect, and that to insure victory the fight
  must be taken out of him by close and determined attacks. Oliver, in
  consequence, felt severely in this round for Carter’s body, but the
  latter returned desperately on his opponent’s head. They were again
  struggling at the ropes, and both went down.

  6.—Some heavy blows were exchanged in a rally, and Carter was
  floored at the ropes.

  7.—Oliver was bleeding in all directions, and, in closing, went
  down.

  8 to 20.—The description of these rounds would be superfluous. The
  gameness of Oliver, his manliness of boxing, and his determination
  to succeed, if possible, perfectly satisfied the most sanguine of
  his partizans, and at intervals he met with partial success; but, in
  justice to Carter it must be stated, that the advantages were
  decisively upon his side: he hit and got away with his usual _sang
  froid_; his right hand was also conspicuously effective, and,
  whenever it appeared expedient to finish the round, he closed at
  pleasure upon his adversary with the most eminent superiority.
  Oliver gained nothing in fighting for length; and when going in he
  was opposed with the most determined opposition. In truth, the
  spectators were convinced in the above rounds that the science, the
  strength, and smiling confidence of victory were on the side of
  Carter; and that his adversary had not only been most dreadfully
  punished, but quite abroad as to his usual system of tactics,
  throwing away a number of blows by repeatedly hitting short; while,
  on the contrary, the Lancashire hero did not exhibit any very
  prominent marks of severe milling, and was quite in possession of
  himself.

  21.—In this round Oliver showed himself off in a conspicuous manner,
  and put in so tremendous a hit in the wind of Carter, that he
  measured his length on the ground instantaneously. It appeared, from
  its severity, a complete finisher. The friends of Oliver thought
  Carter would not be able to come to time, if at all; and the
  Lancastrians looked rather blue as to its ultimate effects. (The
  betting, notwithstanding, varied but little.)

  22.—The expected change did not take place; although Carter appeared
  at the scratch very much distressed, and almost gaping for breath he
  contrived to get himself down in the best manner he was able. No
  blows passed in this round.

  23.—Much the same as the preceding, but in struggling Oliver was
  thrown.

  24.—Carter was now “himself again:” his wind had returned, and he
  resumed the contest in the most decisive style. Oliver, like a lion,
  rushed forward in the most gallant manner. The hitting, in a rally,
  was terrible; both the combatants seemed totally to disregard
  punishment. The fine game of Oliver was opposed by the bottom of
  Carter, and this essential quality toward victory in pugilists, so
  much doubted to be possessed in the latter, was now found not to be
  wanting in the Lancashire hero. Oliver’s head was disfigured, and
  Carter’s nob was a little altered from its originality. It was the
  most desperate round in the fight; the closing of it at the ropes
  was to the disadvantage of Oliver, and his friends were now
  satisfied he could not win.

  25.—It was astonishing to witness the courage of Oliver; he appeared
  determined to conquer or perish in the attempt. One eye was
  completely in the dark, and the other was rapidly closing. His
  strength was also fast leaving him; nevertheless, he contested this
  round in the most manly manner. He was ultimately thrown, and Carter
  fell heavily upon him. (Ten to one upon Carter.)

  26 to 32 and last.—The die was cast, and the brave Oliver, like
  heroes of old, could not control his fate. Nature had been pushed to
  the farthest extremity that the human frame could bear. Defeat
  seemed to operate so much upon his mind that he fought till his
  pulse was scarcely found to vibrate; and in the last six rounds,
  during which he had not the least shadow of a chance, he persevered
  till all recollection of the scene in which he had been so actively
  engaged had totally left him. In the thirty-second round he was
  taken out of the ring in a state of stupor, and completely deprived
  of vision. The swelled appearance of his head beggared all
  description; his body and back were shockingly lacerated all over
  from his struggling so much upon the ropes; and, in point of fact,
  much as fighting men may have suffered in former battles, the
  situation to which Oliver was reduced, it appears, exceeded them
  all. The battle lasted forty-six minutes. He was taken and put to
  bed at Longtown, four miles from the ring, and in consequence of the
  vast quantity of blood he had lost in the contest, added to his
  exhausted state, the surgeons who were called in to attend upon him
  deemed it dangerous that he should be bled.

  REMARKS.—Oliver felt confident that he should prove the conqueror,
  and exerted every means in his power to insure victory. He came into
  the ring in high condition, weighing about twelve stone eight
  pounds; but the chance was completely against him, either at in or
  off fighting, excepting the twenty-first round. Oliver tried to beat
  Carter after the manner he had vanquished Painter, by determined
  in-fighting; but the left hand of Carter always met the head of his
  adversary before he got to his length, when Oliver, finding the
  great danger of this mode of attack, endeavoured to render it
  useless by throwing his head back to avoid the coming blow, at the
  same time it gave Carter a full opportunity of striking down with
  his right hand, which he never failed to do. It was always in the
  power of Carter to close upon his adversary, and bore him to the
  ropes whenever he thought proper. In short, there was no comparison
  between the combatants respecting scientific fighting; and the
  character of Oliver, as a good man, was more valued than his
  capabilities as a boxer considered. The high patronage, too, of
  Captain Barclay had dazzled the minds of the fancy—individual or
  cool judgment was out of the question, and three to one was betted
  without why or wherefore. Calculation was completely against such
  betting, and it was a sort of overwhelming preference. Too much
  prejudice had existed against Carter; and it was sneeringly observed
  that he was without game, at best a mere flipper with his left hand,
  and whenever he was placed against a good one he would soon be found
  out. Comment upon that head is now rendered unnecessary, as facts
  are stubborn things. A better or a braver man than his fallen
  opponent is not to be found upon the list of boxers; and, although
  defeated, he is entitled to the highest consideration of the
  sporting world. Carter weighed about thirteen stone seven pounds,
  smiled frequently during the fight, and treated the efforts of his
  adversary with the most perfect indifference. There was some cry
  about a foul blow, but the umpires did not notice it. Carter
  returned to Carlisle in the evening, and was seen walking about the
  streets with his friends. So much was Carter the object of
  pugilistic admiration at this place that, at the White Hart Inn, a
  subscription was proposed among several amateurs, that he should
  fight the Champion of England for 500 guineas. It was also observed,
  as Richmond was walking round the ring during the fight, that Carter
  had beat all the blacks. “No; all but one,” was the reply; when
  Richmond said he would fight Carter for 200 guineas. Great praise is
  due to Painter for the care and attention he paid to Carter during
  his training.


The backers of Carter presented him with fifty guineas in addition to
the battle-money. Oliver and Carter, a few days after the fight, met at
Hawick, and received each other in the style of true courage.

Carter’s pedestrian feats may here find a place. Pierce Egan says, “As a
runner, the qualifications of Carter were far above mediocrity. He could
run a mile in little more than five minutes; and out of fourteen races
and walking matches, he won them all excepting two.

“In the spring of 1812 Carter ran a match against time, on Sunbury
Common, when, to the astonishment of every one present, he performed two
miles in a few seconds over eleven minutes without any training.

“Carter, from the celebrity he had gained through the performance of the
above match, was backed for a considerable sum against Abraham Wood, of
Lancashire, for two miles. The latter was to give Carter 100 yards; but
his friends deemed it prudent to pay forfeit. However, a new match was
made off-hand, condition not being considered. Wood was now to give 150
yards out of two miles. This race was decided on Saturday, the 26th of
December, 1812, on the Lea Bridge Road, near London, Gregson acting as
umpire for Carter, and Captain Hinton for Wood. They started at two
o’clock, Carter having taken 150 yards in advance. Both of the racers
seemed to fly, they got over the ground with such speed. When at the end
of the first mile, Wood had gained upon Carter sixty yards, and in the
next half mile Wood had made greater progress; but when within a quarter
of a mile of the winning-post, he was within twenty yards of Carter. The
latter had now recovered second wind, and ran the last quarter of a mile
with speed at the rate of a mile in five minutes, and won by about six
yards. It was even betting at starting, but Carter for choice.

“Carter had some other pretensions to public notice, independent of
prize-fighting. He was a good dancer, and could perform the
clog-hornpipe with considerable talent, and, after the manner of an
expert clown, stand upon his head and drink off several glasses of ale
in that position.”

The friends of the Lancashire hero, from the improved capabilities he
had so recently displayed, were now anxious to produce a meeting between
him and the champion. Much conversation in consequence took place, and
even personal challenges passed between the above pugilists, but no
deposit was put down to make a match. Cribb offered to fight any man in
the kingdom for £1,000, and not less than £300; but Carter, it seems,
could not be backed for either of those sums, therefore the match was
off altogether. It ought, however, to be mentioned that the latter was
ready to accommodate any man for £50; and, although no decision ever
occurred respecting his claim to that enviable title, yet Carter assumed
the appellation of champion from the following circumstance:—A bet of
£200 a-side, £50 forfeit, was made between Sir William Maxwell and the
Marquis of Queensberry, immediately after the defeat of Oliver by
Carter, at Carlisle Races, October, 1816, challenging all England, the
Marquis to produce a man to enter the lists against the latter at the
above races in 1817. Twelve months having elapsed and no competitor
making his appearance at the appointed place, the £50 was forfeited, and
Carter received the same (it is said) at Dumfries.

In the newspapers our hero again publicly challenged anything alive in
the shape of a man, adding that his friends were ready to back him,
regardless of colour, observing “that blue, black, white, or yellow,
would be equally acceptable to him.” In his printed handbills, at the
Shrewsbury Races, 1817, he thus vain-gloriously described himself:—


  “BOXING.—The art of self-defence will be scientifically displayed by
  Mr. John Carter (the Champion of England), Mr. Gregson, and others,
  at the Turf Inn, Shrewsbury, every race morning, precisely at eleven
  o’clock, and in a spacious booth on the race ground between each
  heat.


  “⁂ Gregson, who is Carter’s trainer, is taking him down into the
  north of England to contend with Donnelly, the Irishman, at the
  ensuing Carlisle Races. Private lessons given.”


For three years Carter lived upon the fame of his victory over Oliver,
travelling through the provinces, after the manner of more modern quack
champions, exhibiting “the art,” and never ceasing to assert the
falsehood that Cribb had refused to fight him, whereas Carter always
limited his proposal, when pressed, to the stake of £50, a mere absurd
subterfuge.

At length his career of boasting received an unexpected check. Cribb
argued that his “boy,” Tom Spring (although beaten by Ned Painter in
August, 1818), was good enough to lower the pretensions of “the
Lancashire hero.” Carter’s friends made the match for £50 a-side, and a
purse of £50 for the winner was added by the Pugilistic Club. Two to one
was offered by the north countrymen. The battle was fought on Crawley
Downs, May 4, 1819. The result will be found in the Life of SPRING,
where the report does scant justice to the latter. The infatuation of
Carter’s admirers found expression in the following letters addressed to
_Bell’s Weekly Dispatch_:—


                                            “_Carlisle, May 12, 1819._

  “SIR,—

  “You will oblige the Cumberland fancy by giving insertion to the
  following paragraph in your next paper.

                                               “Your obedient servant,

  “H. P.

  “The gentlemen of the Cumberland fancy have held a meeting after
  reading an account of the battle between Spring and Carter contained
  in your paper, and from other sources of information, and were
  unanimously of opinion that Carter made a cross of the battle. They
  have, therefore, come to the resolution of withdrawing all support
  from him in future: they will not back him, even if he were matched
  to fight an orange boy. All bets upon the battle have been declared
  void in the North.”


This nonsense elicited the following reply:—


  “SIR,—

  “In reply to a letter, signed H. P., from the Cumberland fancy,
  which appeared in your journal of May 16, I shall briefly observe
  that the gentlemen who acted as umpires at the battle between Carter
  and Spring are well known as men of honour and integrity, and had
  they detected anything like a cross, would have immediately made
  such a circumstance public. The battle-money was paid without
  hesitation. The noble lord who backed Carter also discharged his
  bets upon demand; and no refusal has been made in the sporting world
  to pay, that has come within the writer’s knowledge.

  “Respecting the fight, sir, it was most certainly a bad one—a
  pully-hauly encounter; in fact, it was nearly the same as the battle
  between Carter and Oliver, at Carlisle, but with this difference—the
  left hand of Carter was foiled, and Spring also proved the stronger
  man at the ropes. The Lancashire hero having thus lost the two only
  points for which he was distinguished, led to his defeat. Spring
  behaved like a man, and did not appear to have any hugging
  pretensions about him, had he not been dragged to the ropes. Carter
  was beaten against his will.

  “In giving insertion to the above letter, to prevent any improper
  allusions going abroad, you will much oblige

                                                    “AN OLD SPORTSMAN.

  “_Tattersall’s, Hyde Park Corner, May 28, 1819._”


There is a volume contained in this. Carter beat Oliver—despite the
flowing account in “Boxiana,” written up by a person _not present_ at
the battle—by hugging and squeezing his man, who was less in weight and
stature than himself, upon the ropes, after the fashion of a recent
American champion. Foiled in this by Spring’s length, steadiness, and
left-handed skill, he was abroad. That he was beaten against his will,
no impartial spectator could doubt.

Carter made his appearance, on the Friday after his battle with Spring,
at Mr. Jackson’s rooms in Bond Street. His crest was lowered, his former
high tone quite subdued, and he acknowledged, with some touches of
grief, that he could not tell how he lost the battle. Thirty pounds were
collected on the ground for him, including the donation of ten from his
backer.

On losing his popularity, he left London for Ireland, in which his stay
was rather short, when he returned to England accompanied by the Irish
champion. A quarrel, however, took place between Carter and Donnelly,
when the former followed the Irish champion to Dublin, opened a
public-house, and challenged Dan. See the memoir of Donnelly in Chapter
VII.

Carter, who arrived from Ireland on Tuesday, February 1, 1820, being
anxious to make a match with Sutton, for 100 guineas a-side, previous to
his again returning thither, called in at a sporting house in Oxenden
Street, for the purpose of making his intention known, and on being
admitted into a room where a private party were assembled, insulted
several, and ultimately threw a glass of wine in the face of one of
those present, part of which alighted on Tom Cribb. This insult was not
to be borne by the champion, who, although rather the worse for the
juice of the grape at the time, immediately grappled with Carter. It was
an up and down contest, but the champion made such good use of his time
that his opponent received a severe thrashing in the space of one
minute, and begged in a piteous manner that Cribb might be taken away
from him, or he should be killed.

Carter once more left London, sparring his way to Dublin, in which he
was assisted by Reynolds and Sutton.

On his return a few months afterwards, being in company with Shelton at
a sporting dinner at the Brown Bear, Bow Street, July 10, 1821, he spoke
disparagingly of Shelton’s capabilities, when, after some discussion,
£20 were posted for a fight instanter, and the result was that Shelton
beat him to a stand-still in three rounds only. Carter afterwards
challenged Jem Ward to fight for £100 a-side, but when the time came for
making the match, was unable to raise that sum. In this dilemma he
proposed to back himself for £50 a-side, and trust to fortune to get the
money. This was refused by Ward; but, being hard pressed by Carter, who
entreated him as a favour to oblige him, at length consented, and it was
agreed they should fight for £50 a-side, on May 17, 1828, within one
hundred miles of London, which came off at Shepperton Range, when Carter
was defeated in sixteen rounds, occupying thirty-two minutes. (See
Memoir of WARD, Chapter I., Period VI.)

Carter was next matched with Deaf Burke for £100 a-side, by whom he was
defeated, at the Barge House, Woolwich, on the 8th of May, 1832, in
eleven rounds, occupying twenty-five minutes. (See DEAF BURKE, _post_.)

Although he survived this defeat twelve years, it was his last
appearance in the prize ring. He died at Thames Street, Manchester, May
27, 1844.




                         APPENDIX TO PERIOD V.




                   HARRY SUTTON, THE BLACK—1816–1819.


From the time of Molineaux no sable champion had achieved so great a
name as Sutton, and that, too, in a brief period. A native of Baltimore,
he ran his slavery and worked, with an industry unusual in niggers, as a
corn-runner in the Deptford granaries. Led by curiosity to see two of
his own colour, Robinson and Stephenson, display their tactics in the
ring, he repaired to Coombe Wood, May 28, 1816. While here as a
spectator, Sutton, who was a tall athletic man, was asked by a gentleman
what he thought of meeting another black who had challenged for a purse
to be given on the ground. Sutton, who was as brave a fellow as ever
sported a black suit of nature’s livery, consented readily, and another
“black job” was soon started. Richmond and Harmer seconded Sutton;
Cropley and Paddington Jones taking the other black under their most
especial care, who was inferior in every point of view—in height,
strength, make, look, and age—to Sutton. The set-to was something new
and amusing.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The long arms of Sutton looked formidable, and though he
  began in a hurry, Cropley’s black seemed equally eager to meet him.
  Such a term as science was not to be mentioned. It was slinging,
  wild hitting, dodging, and turning round, till at last they came to
  a violent hug, when much pummelling took place. They, however, broke
  away from this close embrace, and made a complete stand-still of it,
  looking at each other and panting for breath. Cropley’s black now
  folded his arms, nodded his head, and began to point his finger,
  laughing at his opponent. This so enraged Sutton that he rushed in
  and planted a chopping hit, which made Cropley’s beauty dance again.
  It was now a comic scene, and new tricks were introduced at every
  step. Sutton, in making a blow at his opponent’s nob, hit his cap
  off, and his bald pate appearing, the spectators were in roars of
  laughter; yet, notwithstanding the variety of ludicrous postures
  exhibited by these black Quixotes, some heavy milling took place.
  Four minutes and a half had passed, amid the most uproarious shouts
  and applause, when Sutton put an end to this singular round,
  grappled his opponent and brought him down.

  2.—On setting-to some hornpipe steps were jigged by Cropley’s black.
  The arms of Sutton trembled astonishingly, and his frame seemed much
  agitated. He made use of the chopping blow, and whenever his
  distance proved correct, his hits were tremendous. Some few blows
  passed, when Cropley’s black was thrown.

  3.—Cropley’s man did not seem to like it; and perhaps, had it not
  been for the charms of a purse, he would have bolted. In fact, he
  was no match for his opponent. He hopped about and hit at random.
  Sutton chopped at his opponent. Some few blows were exchanged, when
  Cropley’s black fell, and refused to come again. Thus finished this
  caricature on milling.


On June 4, 1816, at a benefit for Eales and Johnson at the Fives Court,
Sutton mounted the stage to contend with the powerful Tom Oliver. Sutton
appeared rather diffident. His sparring, however, was far from
contemptible, and, as a novice, he achieved more than could have been
expected. Oliver had very little the best of him, and it was observed
that Tom took the gloves off first. George Cooper (the late competitor
of Donnelly in Ireland, and who was reported to be dead) made his
appearance and also had a set-to with Sutton. Cooper put in several
heavy facers, and showed considerable science; but Sutton, no way
dismayed, stood well up to him, and, in a sharp rally, returned some
heavy hits and exchanged blows advantageously. Upon the whole, the new
man of colour received much applause. Cooper, like Oliver, it was also
remarked, took off the gloves first.

The milling qualities of Sutton being now better understood, he was
matched with Robinson; and these men of colour met at Doncaster Races,
September 25, 1816. The fight took place in a paddock (where each
spectator was charged three shillings as the price of admission), in a
twenty feet roped ring, for a subscription purse. Robinson, who had
twice fought with Carter, and defeated Stephenson, Butcher, etc., was
seconded by Crouch and Saunders, and, in consequence of his boxing
notoriety, five to four was betted upon him, in the metropolis, and six
to four upon his setting-to in the ring. Sutton was attended by Richmond
and Harmer. At half past twelve the signal was given, and offensive
operations commenced without farther ceremony. It appears in the first
round that Robinson sustained so severe a hit from his opponent that it
quite spoiled him as to any vigorous exertion afterwards. An appeal was
made to the umpires upon this momentous point, on which the fate of the
battle hung; but these rustic arbiters of milling, not ignorant of the
precedents of Moulsey, or the practice at Coombe Warren, and not wishing
to make a chancery suit of it, instantly ordered the fight to proceed.
The long arms of Sutton not only took great liberties with the upper
works of Robinson, but soon put the wind of the latter out of order, and
ultimately made him measure his length upon the ground. The betting now
rapidly changed, and Sutton became the favourite, with odds upon him. It
was all up with Robinson, and during twenty-five rounds he had no
opportunity of turning the battle in his favour; and in thirty-six
minutes, after receiving a severe milling, he was compelled to
acknowledge that he had had “enough!” It is but fair to state that he
was out of condition, never had any training, was overturned in the
coach, and entered the ring within a very few hours after his journey
from London. But the knowing ones asserted Sutton could beat him at any
time, and that he would soon look out for a customer much higher on the
boxing list than ever Robinson stood. Sutton was scarcely hurt, and gave
visible proof of the great improvement he had made. Sutton by the above
battle gained little more than the honour of proving a conqueror.

From the capabilities displayed by Sutton in this fight he rose in the
estimation of the patrons of scientific boxing, and was judged an able
competitor for the game Ned Painter. A match was accordingly made
between them, for 25 guineas a-side and a P. C. purse, and they entered
the lists at Moulsey Hurst on July 23, 1817.

Painter at this time had been the victor in two battles, over Coyne, the
Irishman, and Alexander, the gamekeeper; but he had two defeats, _per
contra_, with Tom Oliver (then in his best day), and with the gigantic
Shaw, the Life-guardsman, a defeat without disgrace. The betting on the
day was six to four on Painter.

Painter showed himself near the ring sitting on a basket a considerable
time before the Black appeared in sight. In fact, he was sent for by the
Commander-in-chief.[31] Sutton at length came forward with his second
and threw his hat in the ring, which was soon followed by his opponent
performing the same act of defiance. During the time Painter was taking
off his clothes Sutton never took his eyes off his person. Cribb and
Harmer seconded Painter; Tom Oliver and Paddington Jones waited upon
Sutton. The anxious moment had now arrived (ten minutes after one); the
combatants and seconds shook hands, and the battle commenced. Both men
appeared in good condition, but Painter looked somewhat thin. Five to
four upon Sutton.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Some trifling sparring occurred. Sutton’s long arm stood
  out like a pole, and upon the whole his frame looked tremendous.
  Painter hit first, but not effectively, when they got to hammering
  each other, and arrived at the ropes. Here Ned fibbed his opponent
  severely, until the strength of Sutton enabled him to break away.
  The Black now returned to the attack impetuously, but without
  judgment, and got nobbed preciously for his fury. Painter went down
  from a slight hit or a slip.

  2.—The men were now both upon their mettle, and the tremors of a
  first round had subsided. Notwithstanding the Black’s long arm the
  science of Painter prevailed to that extent upon Sutton’s upper
  works that he seemed to possess a body without a head. It was almost
  a question if he knew whether he was in or out of the ring. A
  desperate rally occurred, and, in closing, Painter endeavoured again
  to fib his opponent. The Black caught hold of his hand to avoid
  punishment, and ultimately Painter was down.

  3.—It is impossible to describe the execution which took place on
  both sides during this round. If one was bold, the other was
  fearless: it was hit for hit, in the most finished style of boxing;
  in fact, it was truly tremendous, and the amateurs were now
  convinced that the man of colour possessed “devil” enough for
  anything. At length Painter planted a body blow with so much
  severity that the Black was missing in a twinkling, and seen gasping
  for breath on the ground. (The uproarious applause that took place
  was like a fire of artillery, the confusion of tongues immense.
  “That’s the way to win my boy!” and two to one all round the ring
  upon Painter.)

  4.—It is true the Black was brought to the scratch, but his breath
  escaped from his lips like a pair of bellows in full blow. This was
  a trying round for both parties, and Painter seemed to have
  out-fought his strength. They almost tumbled against each other, so
  much were they exhausted, till they again got into determined
  milling. Here Painter gave Sutton such a tremendous pimpler that his
  head seemed to rotate on his shoulders with the rapid twirl of a
  Bologna. In closing, Painter exerted himself in fibbing his
  opponent; but Sutton resolutely disengaged himself and threw his
  adversary.

  5.—Painter now appeared bleeding, and half a minute time was too
  short for the men to appear anything like themselves, so furiously
  had the battle raged in this early period of the fight. This round,
  however, was decidedly in favour of Painter, and he stopped the
  rashness of his opponent in a scientific manner. He gave Sutton
  three such heavy facers, that the nob of the Black did not seem to
  belong to him, and gallantly finished this round by sending him
  down. (The applause here was a tumult of joy, and in the ecstasy of
  the moment five to one was offered. It was now the expressed opinion
  that Ned would win the battle in a canter.)

  6.—The fight must have been finished in this round, or at least he
  would have rendered it certain, had Painter possessed sufficient
  strength. The Black could scarcely leave his second’s knee, and had
  it not been for the skill of Tom Oliver he would not have been in
  time to meet his opponent at the scratch. They both stared at each
  other, and appeared fit for anything but milling. However, they went
  at it pell mell, and Painter received so sharp a blow on his left
  eye that the claret run down. The Black also got such a nobber that
  he was quite abroad, and moved his hands like a puppet pulled with
  strings. It was all chance work, and Painter went down.

  7.—Painter again “faced” the Black, and had the best of the round,
  but he went down.

  8.—The Black endeavoured to bore in, but he was stopped in fine
  style. Painter milled him in every direction, planted three facers
  with ease, and finished the round by levelling Sutton. (Great
  shouting.)

  9.—Both extremely distressed; and notwithstanding the many nobbers
  the Black had received, all Painter’s work in point of appearance
  went for nothing. Sutton’s frontispiece seemed to defy all hitting.
  Painter was bored to the ropes, where, in struggling, both fell.

  10.—Sutton floored his opponent by a tremendous hit in the chest.
  The partizans of Sutton here manifested their approbation.

  11.—Painter’s exertions in this round were astonishing. He had it
  all his own way. He nobbed the Black so repeatedly that his arms
  were of no use to him, as he could not place himself in a position,
  and Sutton fell from exhaustion.

  12.—Some blows were exchanged, materially to the advantage of
  Painter. His exertions, however, were more than his strength could
  support, and he ultimately went down.

  13.—Sutton had been so much beaten about the head, that he seemed in
  a state of stupor, and “time” might have been vociferated in vain
  had not his attendant roused him into action. He was literally
  pushed forward to meet his opponent, when Painter kept paying away
  till he went down from weakness. Painter planted eight facers
  without return.

  14 to 17.—In the first three rounds Painter went down; but in the
  last, notwithstanding his bad state of vision, he milled the Black
  so successfully that Sutton measured his length on the grass. (Loud
  shouting, and “Painter will yet win,” was frequently asserted.)

  18.—In this distressed state a rally occurred, and Painter was
  floored.

  19.—This was a most singular round: it was anybody’s battle. Both
  the men were dead beat. The Black turned away from Painter on his
  making a hit; and soon afterwards Painter turned from him, and went
  down. (Two to one on Sutton.)

  20.—Painter not only made some good hits, but, in closing, he fibbed
  Sutton sharply, and dropped him.

  21 to 23.—Painter was down in all these rounds, although he had the
  best of the hitting. He was distressed beyond description.

  24.—Painter seemed to have revived a little, and made a desperate
  hit on the nose of Sutton that floored him upon his back, and his
  legs rebounded from the earth. It appeared a finisher, and he was
  got upon the knee of his second with considerable difficulty. (The
  odds now changed again in favour of Painter.)

  25 to 31.—It was astonishing to witness the desperation with which
  many of these rounds were contested. Painter showed most science,
  but the Black’s strength was more than could be reduced, and the
  former was down almost every time from sheer exhaustion.

  32 to 40 and last.—Painter was almost blind and destitute of
  strength, yet he contended up to the last moment for victory. He was
  so far gone, in some instances, that he almost tried to lie down;
  and it was owing to his extreme weakness that Sutton was enabled to
  recover his strength, and brought him the smiles of victory. It was
  strength alone that won it. It is due to Sutton to state that a
  fairer fighter never entered the ring; but it is more pleasure to
  assert that no prejudice was expressed as to his colour—impartiality
  was the order of the day. Painter was led out of the ring, while
  Sutton walked from the scene of action without his clothes. The
  battle lasted forty-eight minutes and a half. A liberal subscription
  was gathered for Painter by Mr. Jackson on the ground. He returned
  to Belcher’s in the evening, where the most considerate attention
  was paid to him. He experienced no body blows of consequence, but
  his head and arms were terribly beaten.

  REMARKS.—Painter, although defeated, has not fallen in the
  estimation of his friends. His courage was equal to the task he had
  to accomplish. In point of science he was far superior to his
  opponent; but in strength he was materially deficient. It was a
  complete sporting fight, and the odds were continually changing. Two
  better men never had a meeting; and a more determined battle could
  not be witnessed. Sutton has raised himself in the opinion of the
  amateurs, and he is considered to have evinced as much pluck, if not
  more, than any man of colour that has yet exhibited. Though his
  exterior did not show much punishment, yet his cheeks had a
  “rainbow” appearance. He is not likely to remain long in a state of
  inactivity, and will certainly prove a desperate customer to any one
  who dares contend with him. His prodigious length of arm is of great
  advantage; and he is pronounced by the best informed upon this
  subject to be the hardest hitter on the present list of boxers.
  Sutton owed his success greatly to the management and prompt
  determination of his second, Tom Oliver. Painter never fought so
  well before. He stopped fifty blows at least with his right hand,
  and also punished Sutton severely about the body. Upon the whole, it
  was one of the evenest contended battles that had been viewed for a
  long time, until the last seven rounds, when, during some of these
  Painter strained every effort to turn the chance in his favour. What
  the human frame could perform towards obtaining conquest this
  determined boxer attempted. He actually fought till nature refused
  to move. So much regret was never expressed upon the defeat of any
  pugilist as upon this occasion, owing to Painter’s inoffensive
  disposition and respectful behaviour in society at all times.


The sporting amateurs of Norwich desiring a fight in their vicinity,
had, it seems, subscribed the sum of £100, £80 to the winner and £20 to
the losing man, and Painter having challenged Sutton, to a second trial,
they were offered a premium to bring off the affair at Bungay Common,
Suffolk, the day appointed being the 16th of December, 1817. The battle
was truly tremendous, and after fifteen rounds, all fighting, in one
hour and forty-two minutes, Sutton was carried from the ring. (_See_
PAINTER, _ante_ p. 79.)

The no-fight between Shelton and Oliver which took the fancy on a wild
goose chase to Blindlow Heath and Copthorne, on the tempestuous 23rd of
December, 1819, led to another black job for Massa Sutton. Kendrick, the
black, had come down that day, determined, he said, to fight anybody,
should there be a purse, after the “big affair,” and resolved, moreover,
to have “a bit of beef for his Christmas dinner.” Fifteen guineas were
collected, when Sutton, considering it an easy prize, offered himself
for a game at “black and all black.” At three o’clock the men faced each
other, Randall looking after Kendrick, and Jack Martin attending upon
Sutton.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Kendrick hit short with his left hand, and delivered his
  right well home on Sutton’s head, but his hand was open and it did
  no mischief. Sutton rushed in, closed, and threw Kendrick a heavy
  fall.

  2.—Sutton delivered a straight and well-directed blow with his left
  hand in Kendrick’s bread-basket, which made him cry “Hem!” and drove
  him back two yards. Sutton, going in to follow up his success, was
  met in the middle of the head, when a rally commenced. Some blows
  exchanged, and Kendrick was thrown. It was evident here Sutton was
  too strong for him.

  3.—Sutton put in another left-handed doubler, and followed with his
  right on Kendrick’s eye, which floored him as if shot. Kendrick bled
  freely from his nose and mouth.

  Nine other rounds were fought, in which Sutton had it all his own
  way, and Kendrick received some heavy blows and falls. In the
  twelfth round Sutton hit him with the left hand in the mark, and
  caught him on the head with the right as he was going down, which so
  knocked the wind and senses out of Kendrick that he could not be
  moved from his second’s knee. The fight lasted seventeen minutes.
  Sutton was scarcely marked, his condition being very superior to
  that of poor Kendrick, who was severely punished. A liberal
  subscription was made for him through the exertions of Mr. Jackson,
  and sympathy was expressed as it was his third defeat in succession,
  and he was “out of luck.”

  REMARKS.—Kendrick’s weakness was visible early in the fight; but,
  without taking that into consideration, he could not in his best
  trim conquer Sutton. Though without a chance of winning the purse,
  he showed himself a game man. He received a tremendous hit on the
  right eye, and also complained of a severe stomacher, that puffed
  the wind out of his empty frame like a pair of bellows; Sutton also
  fell upon him heavily. A gentleman very humanely gave up an inside
  place, and rode outside a coach, in order that poor Kendrick might
  be brought to London comfortably and free of expense; he also paid
  other attentions to his wants. Several gentlemen proposed that
  Kendrick should be sent into training, and that they would back him
  against the Gas-light Man for 25 guineas a-side. With patronage and
  training, Kendrick, it was thought, might become as it were a new
  man.


Sutton, although he attended the Fives Court and every benefit and
sparring match and prize fight, could not find a customer. His thirteen
stone nine pounds, and six feet and half an inch in height, were too
great odds for middle weights, and the big ones wanted larger figures
than Harry could get backed for. He was, however, matched with Larkin,
the guardsman, to fight on the 4th of November, 1819, and 20 guineas
posted; but in this he was disappointed, for Larkin was ordered off by
his colonel, and Sutton’s only consolation was the twenty yellow boys.
Sutton now went on a sparring tour with Jack Carter through Lancashire
and to Ireland, as may be seen in Carter’s life. As from this period
Sutton merely appears as a sparring exhibitor, we here close his
pugilistic career.




                         BILL ABBOT—1818–1832.


Bill Abbot, whose victories over Hares, Dolly Smith, the renowned Tom
Oliver, and Phil. Sampson, give him a claim to a niche in the Walhalla
of pugilism, was a Westminster lad and a disciple of Caleb Baldwin. He
stood five feet eight inches, and weighed eleven stone seven pounds. His
first battle of any note was with a man of the name of Jones, at
Wimbledon Common, whom he defeated in good style.

Abbot next fought Dick Hares on Wimbledon Common, on June 16, 1818,
after Randall and Burke had left the ring. Hares displayed his usual
good fighting and game qualities; but he was compelled to surrender to
Abbot. Hares was over-weighted.

Abbot was matched against Dolly Smith for twenty guineas a-side, and
this battle took place near the Barge House, in Essex, on Tuesday,
February 2, 1819, on which day the amateurs, heedless of rain, left the
metropolis and mustered numerously on the ground. Mr. Soares was chosen
umpire. Dolly was well known to the ring, from his combats with Hares,
Scroggins, and Cannon, though these were all defeats. Abbot, from
defeating Hares and Jones, was considered a rising boxer. At half past
one Smith threw up his hat in the ring, accompanied by his seconds,
Randall and Owen; and Abbot followed by Oliver and Shelton. There was
also an outer ring. The ceremony of shaking hands took place, when the
men set to. Five to four on Abbot.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The men appeared in good condition, Abbot the best. They
  were more cautious than was expected, and some long sparring
  occurred. If Smith had not hit first, Abbot, in all probability,
  would have remained on the defensive. Dolly, with his right hand,
  put in a sharp bodier, which, had it been a little higher, must have
  floored his opponent. Abbot returned short. Dolly hit and got away,
  when, after some exchanges, they closed. Smith went down, and the
  claret was seen on his right eye.

  2.—The caution of Abbot astonished the amateurs. Dolly again hit and
  got away. Some blows were exchanged. In closing, Dolly again went
  down bleeding.

  3.—Dolly meant to punish his opponent, and went to work with his
  right hand, but it was out of distance, and he was again on the
  ground.

  4.—Dolly was too short to get at Abbot; he could not nob him, and
  was always compelled to hit first. They closed, and some sharp
  fibbing occurred, when both went down, Dolly undermost. (Six to four
  on Abbot; the confident betters roared out two to one.)

  5.—The short arms of Dolly frequently failed in planting a blow.
  This was a tolerable round, and Smith received a severe hit that
  sent him staggering away, but he recovered himself. In closing,
  Dolly paid away, but went down bleeding copiously.

  6.—Abbot made some feints, when, after a short round, Dolly was hit
  down. (Bravo, and loud shouting.)

  7.—Dolly came quite fresh to the scratch, but he received a heavy
  body hit that floored him. (“Well done, Abbot!”)

  8.—A sharp round, and both down.

  9.—Both hit short. Long sparring. In closing, some fibbing occurred,
  when Dolly broke away. More sparring. Abbot hit short. In closing at
  the ropes, Abbot hit Dolly down. (Shouting, and “Bravo, Abbot!”)

  10.—The expected smashing forte of Abbot was not seen, and he kept
  retreating till Dolly hit first, when he then let fly frequently to
  advantage. Both down.

  11.—Dolly’s mug was painted in every direction, while Abbot had not
  received a scratch. Some sharp fibbing, and Dolly the worst of it,
  and down.

  12.—Abbot never tried to take the lead, although he generally got
  the best of the round. He was the best at in-fighting; and Dolly now
  bled copiously, till both went down.

  13.—Both down.

  14.—Dolly gave a good bodier; and, after some hard hitting, both
  again down.

  15.—Dolly put in a snorter that made Abbot’s pimple rattle again.
  (“Such another pretty Dolly,” roared out Tom Owen, “is not to be
  seen in the kingdom.”) After some sharp exchanges, Dolly was hit
  down on the right side of his head.

  16.—The punishment on Dolly’s mug was conspicuous. Both down.

  17.—The right eye of Dolly was nearly closed. Some sharp work in a
  close, but Dolly down. Thirty-three minutes.

  18.—This was a good round, but the left hand of Dolly appeared of no
  use to him, while Abbot’s right seemed tied to his shoulder. The
  latter waited with the greatest patience for the attacks of Dolly,
  which did not at all times shield him from heavy blows on the side
  of his neck and one of his jaws. In closing, some severe fibbing
  occurred, when Dolly extricated himself with some talent. Two sharp
  counter-hits. Dolly received a facer which put him in a dancing
  attitude, and he performed some new steps without the aid of music;
  but he at length recovered himself, returned to the charge like a
  Waterloo trump, and made so formidable a stand that Abbot resorted
  to some long sparring. Dolly, however, got the worst of it, and was
  floored. (Shouting on both sides of the ring. Smith shared the
  applause with his opponent.)

  19 to 24.—In some of these rounds, when Dolly was breaking away,
  Abbot made several chops at him, but without doing any material
  execution. In the last round Smith began to fight with both his
  hands, and the ear and neck of Abbot exhibited marks of heavy
  hitting. Both down.

  25.—Dolly was cleanly hit down. (“Well done, my cabbage-cutter;
  that’s the way to finish it.”)

  26.—The dose was repeated by Abbot, and the claret from Dolly’s mug
  was copious.

  27 to 32.—Dolly never could effect any change. Abbot was patiently
  waiting every round for Smith. The head of the latter was terrific.

  33.—Dolly had decidedly the best of this round. Both down.

  34.—Smith was down; but the ground was in a most wretched slippery
  state. (A guinea to a shilling was offered, but this was thought
  more bravado than judgment.)

  35 to 39.—Long sparring, and the partizans of Abbot roaring out for
  him to “go in,” “No, no,” says Owen; “he knows the advantage of
  keeping his distance better. D’ye mind me, he’s what I call a
  distance cove. By the Lord Mayor we shall win it now. Go along, my
  boy, with your left mauley, and his nob will be of no service to
  him.” In spite, however, of all the encouragement of his lively
  second, Dolly was ultimately floored.

  40 to 69.—To detail the minutiæ of these rounds would be
  superfluous. Dolly at times made some sharp hits, but there was no
  alteration in his favour.

  70 to 127.—The rain came down in torrents, but the mill went on with
  all the regularity of sunshine. Abbot showed nothing like a decisive
  fighter; and there was once or twice he did not like the nobbers he
  had received. Dolly, in the majority of these rounds, went down.

  128 to 138 and last.—It appeared Dolly entertained an opinion that
  he could not lose it; and even after two hours and a quarter had
  passed, he nodded satisfactorily to his friends that his confidence
  had not deserted him. There was nothing interesting in the whole of
  these rounds to amateurs; and Dolly endeavoured to tire out his
  adversary by going down, but without effect, when he at last said he
  could fight no more. Two hours and fifty-five minutes had elapsed.

  REMARKS.—Abbot is by no means a first-rate fighter, or he ought to
  have beat Dolly off-hand. He was all caution, and his strength
  enabled him to last the longest. He was very glad when Dolly said
  “No.” It was a most fatiguing fight; and, owing to the pitiless,
  pelting shower, and the amateurs having to stand up to their knees
  in mud, the ring was almost deserted before the fight was ended. It
  was only the out-and-outers that remained. To describe the pitiful
  appearance of the amateurs would have required the pencil of a
  Hogarth—they had not a dry thread about them. Abbot had scarcely a
  scratch upon his face; but was much distressed towards the end, and
  led out of the ring. Smith was put to bed at the Barge House. Little
  betting occurred. Owing to the bad state of the weather, no
  collection was made for Smith, but he had a benefit given to him,
  under the patronage of some spirited amateurs.


Abbot was defeated by West Country Dick in a turn-up on March 2, 1819.
(See vol. i., pp. 478, 479.)

Abbot fought with a knight of the last, to make up a fourth battle, for
a small purse, on Hounslow Heath, on Tuesday, June 1, 1819; it served
the amateurs to laugh at. Abbot had been sacrificing too freely at the
shrine of Bacchus either to stand upright or to make a hit, and the
“translator of soles” seemed also to have too much respect for his hide
to encounter even his reeling opponent. “Master Waxy” gave in upon his
pins, after jumping about in the most ridiculous postures for twenty
minutes, without having a mark to show.

The sporting world felt great disappointment on Friday, February 18,
1820, in consequence of the severe illness of Spring preventing the
combat which had been fixed for the above day. The ring was formed on
Epsom Downs, and at half past twelve o’clock Ben Burn threw his hat up,
and loudly declared he was ready to fight Spring. (See _ante_, p. 9.)
Richmond also came forward and asked if any gentleman present appeared
on the part of Spring, but no answer was given. The man of colour told
Burn not to be in any hurry, as a fight could be made up in the interim.
A purse of twelve guineas was collected upon the ground, and Abbot
entered the lists with a raw countryman from Streatham, who appeared
anxious for milling honours. Abbot was seconded by the Guardsman and
Hopping Ned; the “yokel” was attended by Richmond and Clark. At two
o’clock the men set to.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Johnny Raw, who was quite a novice in the ring (in fact it
  was his first appearance), went to work pell mell; but the science
  and experience of Abbot gave him the best of it, and after a few
  hard blows he put in a hit upon the throat of the countryman that
  floored him like a shot. For the instant Johnny was quite senseless,
  and upon Richmond’s picking him up, he asked, “Who done that? What’s
  that for? Where am I?” Richmond, with a smile upon his mug,
  observed, “Why you are in the Court of Chancery; and, let me say,
  you are not the first man that has been bothered by its practice.”

  2 to 4.—Abbot had the best of these rounds, and he explained to the
  countryman the term pepper.

  5.—The clumsy hitting of Johnny Raw gave him a turn, and Abbot
  received a tremendous floorer; and, notwithstanding the chevying of
  the lads to daunt the countryman, it was seven to four in his
  favour.

  6 to 30.—It was a sort of reciprocal milling during all the rounds;
  many hard blows passed between them. Abbot showed the first blood,
  and was also the worst punished.

  31.—Abbot got his opponent at the ropes; but with all his endeavours
  to fib the poor countryman’s nob, he failed.

  32 to 40 and last.—It was never exactly safe to Abbot till in this
  round, when he again floored Johnny by a tremendous blow on the
  throat. Johnny was now quite senseless, and all attempts to bring
  him up to time were useless. Water was thrown on his face; but Abbot
  was pronounced the conqueror after one hour and twenty minutes had
  elapsed. Abbot was by far the worst punished. On Johnny’s recovering
  his recollection, he observed, “Who done that? Dang it, have I been
  in the Court of Chancery again? I don’t like that place; it makes a
  body so stupid. But I am ready to take another turn.”


Abbot entered the lists with a sturdy navigator, at the close of Hampton
Races, 1820, for a small subscription purse. Abbot was seconded by
Purcell and Brown, and the navigator by Shelton and West Country Dick.
It was a good battle, and the navigator proved himself a very
troublesome, dangerous customer. He stood over Abbot, and was also very
strong, game, and would not be denied; but the superior science of our
hero enabled him to win it cleverly in forty-five minutes.

Abbot, in a turn-up in Harper’s Fields, Marylebone, on Monday, June 5,
1820, defeated a Birmingham man of the name of Bennyflood, for a small
purse, in the course of a few minutes, without a scratch upon his face.

Abbot fought Pitman for £5 a-side and a small purse, on Wimbledon
Common, immediately after Brown and Curtis had left the ring, on Monday,
August 28, 1820. The former was seconded by Randall and Callus, and the
latter by Bill Cropley and Joe Norton. This was a hammering fight for
thirty minutes, occupying twenty-seven rounds. Pitman was a game man,
and reminded the spectators of Pearce, denominated the Game Chicken, but
it was only in appearance. Pitman was beat to a stand-still. Abbot
retired from the contest with a slight scratch under his left eye, but
received some ugly thumps upon his head.

We now come to Abbot’s most remarkable ring exploit. A dispute with Tom
Oliver led to a hasty match, in which ten guineas a-side were posted;
but it was thought absurd, and a forfeit on the part of Abbot fully
expected. But time rolled on and the day fixed, Tuesday, November 6,
1821, came, with both men in the same mind; and the fancy received the
intimation that Moulsey was the chosen _champ clos_. At one o’clock,
Oliver, attended by Ben Burn and Bill Gibbons, threw in his hat; and
shortly afterwards, Abbot, attended by Scroggins and Tom Jones, answered
the signal of defiance. Seven to four, two to one, and in some instances
three to one on Oliver were called out, without takers. The colours—dark
blue for Oliver, light blue for Abbot—were tied to the stake, and the
men stood up.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On shaking hands it was expected that Oliver would
  immediately go to work and spoil his opponent; but, instead of that,
  Oliver thought he had a mere plaything in opposition to him, and did
  nothing. Some attempts at hitting were made on both sides, but
  without effect, when Abbot ran in and Oliver held him in his arms
  and got him down. (Shouting for joy, and Oliver for any odds.)

  2.—Abbot trembled very much on placing himself in attitude at the
  scratch. Oliver planted a slight nobber and got away. A pause. Abbot
  received another small taste, when he rushed in and pulled Tom down.
  (Shouting and laughing, “It can’t last long.”)

  3.—Abbot still shaking, yet he tried to plant his right on Oliver’s
  nob, but the latter got away. Oliver hit short. In closing, Abbot
  hung on the ropes; but Oliver seemed wanting in strength to do
  execution. Abbot at length broke away and showed fight, till they
  both went down, Oliver uppermost. (Six to one, but no takers.
  “Oliver can’t lose it,” was the general expression round the ring.)

  4.—Whether it was owing to the recollection of what Oliver had once
  been in the prize ring could alone be answered by Abbot himself, but
  his nervous trepidation was evident. Abbot, however, made a heavy
  right-handed hit on his opponent’s mouth which produced the claret.
  Some slight exchanges occurred, and, in a struggle for the throw,
  Oliver fell on Abbot in rather an awkward manner; but not wishing
  his opponent should entertain a bad opinion, Oliver said, “I beg
  your pardon; I could not help it.” “Book that,” said one of the
  time-keepers to the writer of this article, “as it serves to show
  the fancy it is a gentlemanly fight.”

  5.—Oliver got away from a hit. A pause. “Go to work,” said
  Paddington Jones: “What are ye both about?” Abbot planted a bodier,
  and not a light one. Oliver gave a facer, and followed his opponent
  to the ropes, where they endeavoured to hold each other’s hands to
  prevent fibbing, when Abbot got down. Oliver seemed to smile with
  contempt on his adversary, as much as to say, “There was a time that
  such an opponent could not have stood before me for five minutes.”

  6.—A scuffle, and both down. While Oliver was sitting on the knee of
  his second, the Gas, with a grin upon his mug, sarcastically
  observed, “Why this is a lark, ain’t it, Tom? Surely you don’t call
  this fighting.”

  7.—Oliver got away, when Abbot, in following him, hit short and napt
  a facer in return. They followed each other to the ropes, when the
  wretched condition of Oliver was evident to all the ring, for
  instead of fibbing Abbot, he literally pushed him away, gasping for
  wind; but Tom was so much the favourite of the amateurs, that they
  were completely blind to his defects. Abbot went down, and the
  shouting was loud in Oliver’s behalf.

  8.—Some little milling took place. Abbot was sent out of the ring,
  and Oliver fell from weakness. “The Sprig of Myrtle” stepped up to
  Abbot and told him it was all right. “We are sure to win it,”
  answered Scroggins.

  9.—Oliver appeared to view Abbot in the light of a plaything; still
  his blows did not do any mischief. Abbot threw Oliver and fell
  heavily on him.

  10.—Oliver threw his opponent right away from him. (Thunders of
  applause.) In fact, at every movement that Oliver made, either good
  or bad, he was cheered by the surrounding spectators.

  11.—This round was decidedly in favour of Oliver. Abbot turned
  completely round from a hit, when Oliver took advantage of this
  circumstance, planted a nobber, and sent Abbot down. (The
  costermongers were now cheering to the echo, and Ned Turner offered
  £10 to £1, but no person would have it.)

  12.—This was also a tidy round; Oliver best, but both down.

  13.—If Oliver had gone up to the nob of Abbot he might have spoiled
  his “mitre;” but he was more intent on getting away from the blows
  of his opponent than punishing him. Abbot went down from a hit.
  (Loud shouting.) The time-keeper stated twenty-two minutes had
  elapsed, which floored the bets on time, that Oliver won it in
  twenty minutes.

  14.—Abbot went sharply to work, and made a severe body hit. A pause.
  Oliver planted a header, smiling, but put down his hands as if
  tired. The right hand of Abbot, which went home on Oliver’s mouth,
  sent him staggering, and the claret flowed profusely. At the ropes a
  sharp struggle took place, when Oliver threw his opponent. (“Well
  done, Tom; go to work and finish it.” Oliver for any odds.)

  15.—The right ear of Abbot appeared slightly tinged with blood; but
  in other respects the blows of Oliver had scarcely left a mark.
  Abbot was sent out of the ring.

  16.—Oliver had the best of this round; and Abbot was again under the
  ropes.

  17.—Oliver, instead of going to work, sparred away his time; but, in
  an exchange of blows, Abbot went down, and Oliver fell on him. (“Go
  along, Tommy; it will soon be over.”)

  18.—The face of Oliver was the most punished, but he had the best of
  this round. In following his opponent he caught him at the ropes,
  when Abbot would have gone down, but Oliver held him up with one
  hand and fibbed him with the other till he was exhausted, when Tom
  dropped him. (A roar of artillery. Oliver for any odds.)

  19.—On coming to the scratch the face of Abbot did not betray the
  severe punishment which might have been expected, which was a
  sufficient proof, as the flash term is, that Oliver could scarcely
  “hit a hole in a pound of butter.” Abbot tried to obtain a turn in
  his favour, and went boldly up to Oliver, but more passionately than
  collected; he, however, put in some severe hits, which did Oliver no
  good. The latter in return, hit Abbot down. (Great applause for
  Oliver.)

  20.—If it had been any other boxer than Oliver, that is to say, not
  so old a favourite as Tom, the exertions of Abbot would not have
  been treated so slightly. He is a strong young man, not a novice in
  the prize ring, with a fist as hard as iron; and whenever he planted
  his right-handed hit, Oliver felt it, and more than once severely;
  yet the feelings of the amateurs were that Tom must win. After some
  exchanges, Abbot rushed in. Oliver stopped his opponent skilfully,
  and endeavoured to fib him as he went down at the ropes. (Lots of
  applause for Oliver.)

  21.—In point of punishment, this was the worst round in the fight
  for Abbot. The latter went in right and left, but Oliver stopped his
  efforts, milled him, and, in struggling, threw him down so violently
  on his back that the claret gushed from his nose. (“It’s all your
  own now, Tom, to a certainty.”)

  22.—Abbot made a hit, which Oliver stopped. The pause was now so
  long that Tom Jones roared out, “If you mean to fight, do, or I
  shall leave the ring.” A scuffle, and both down.

  23.—Abbot planted a heavy right-handed hit on Oliver’s ribs, and was
  going to work in a sharp manner, when he received so straight a
  stopper on the throat that he went down in a twinkling. This was the
  first clean knock-down blow. (Oliver’s friends were quite elated,
  and the cheers were very loud.)

  24.—Abbot showed that he was not destitute of science, and made some
  good stops. He also gave Oliver a facer, but ultimately went down.
  (Disapprobation. Indeed, Abbot did not appear to have many good
  wishers, except the Sprig of Myrtle, who often came to the ropes to
  cheer him up, as did also the Sprig’s father.)

  25.—Oliver napt a facer, and appeared to get weak; but his friends
  were so sanguine that they would not have it for a moment that
  anything was the matter. Abbot fought well this round; but, on going
  down, Oliver fell severely on him.

  26.—On setting-to, Randall exclaimed, “Tom, my dear fellow, don’t
  lose your fame; never be licked by such a man as Abbot. Only go to
  work, and you must win it easy.” Abbot seemed (if a man’s thoughts
  can be judged) as if a doubt existed in his mind about winning it,
  and retreated from Oliver. The latter held him up at the ropes, and
  kept fibbing him till he was exhausted, and dropped him as before.
  No favourite actor in a theatre ever received more applause than
  Oliver.

  27.—Abbot, on putting up his hand, laughed, and planted a body hit.
  A long pause, the men looking at each other. This was one of
  Oliver’s great faults: instead of commencing fighting, Oliver was
  getting away from hits. Oliver went down from a slight hit, owing to
  the slippery state of the ring.

  28.—Abbot rushed in to mill Oliver; but he got the worst of it, and
  napped a severe nobber that sent him down. (Tremendous shouting.)
  Abbot, on being placed on his second’s knee, dropped his head, and
  it was thought all was over.

  29.—Abbot wanted to make this round as short as he could by going
  down, but Oliver caught him at the ropes and administered some
  little punishment. (“Bravo, Tom, you behave handsome.” Ben Burn
  offered twenty guineas to five, but of no avail.)

  30.—This was a fine fighting round; some severe exchanges took
  place, and Abbot, at the close of the round, planted such a
  tremendous right-handed hit on Oliver’s ear that he went down like a
  shot. It was on the spot where Painter, Neat, and “the Gas” had done
  so much execution. Oliver seemed stunned: he was all abroad, and was
  lifted from the ground like a sack of sand. Randall, Sampson, Josh.
  Hudson, etc., with all their vociferation, could scarcely restore
  him to his senses to be in readiness to the call of “time.” It is
  impossible to describe the agitation of the ring, not on account of
  their losses—for there were scarce any takers—but the sorrow felt at
  witnessing this lamentable tie-up of a brave man. (Five to one
  against Oliver.)

  31.—Oliver was brought to the scratch, but no sailor three sheets in
  the wind was half so groggy. Abbot went up to him like a bull dog,
  milled him in all directions, and floored him like a log. Hogarth’s
  pictures were fools to the mugs of the amateurs—the brave Oliver to
  be sent out of the ring by a “wooden man,” as Abbot had been
  previously termed.

  32.—The old fanciers were deeply hurt in their minds at this reverse
  of fortune, and not a Westminster boy, or a costermonger, but almost
  felt for their “wipes” to dry up their moistened “ogles;” “but who
  can rule the uncertain chance of war?” Oliver put up his arms to
  avoid the punishment, and went down once more like a log of wood. (A
  guinea to a shilling, but it was of no use.) Oliver was in chancery,
  and completely at the mercy of his opponent; he was sent down by a
  push.

  33 and last.—Oliver was brought up, but it was useless. He would not
  say “No.” Abbot went in and gave Oliver the _coup de grace_, and he
  measured his length, insensible to the call of time. The fight
  occupied fifty-three minutes and thirty-eight seconds.

  REMARKS.—Not a man on the Hurst but lamented this sad finish of Tom
  Oliver, who once aspired to the championship. He was slow as a top,
  and nature deserted him. He was still brave in idea, but he did not
  possess strength or wind to second his wishes. Oliver treated Abbot
  too cheaply; in fact, he gave the battle away from this
  circumstance. The smashing of Oliver was all out of the question. He
  was no more like that Oliver who fought with Painter at Shepperton,
  “the Gas,” and Spring, than “I to Hercules.” It is true that the
  partiality of the ring towards an old favourite made them anxious
  that he should not lose his once high fame, and be licked by an
  outside boxer, and every movement that he made was construed in his
  favour. Oliver ought to have won; if he had gone in and fought
  first, he could hardly have lost. Abbot gave his head, and several
  opportunities occurred, but Tom played with the chance, laughed at
  his opponent, and held him too cheap. For the first four rounds
  Abbot trembled, and the name of Oliver seemed a terror to him. He,
  however, put in some hard hits, and had none of the worst of the
  fighting. Oliver was punished about the nob; while, on the contrary,
  his blows, although planted on the face of Abbot, did not appear to
  make an impression. Still the amateurs were all in favour of Oliver,
  as an old one, and thought he could not lose it. Abbot went down
  several times, and the word “cur” escaped from the lips of several
  of the spectators. This epithet arose more from ill-nature than the
  fact. Abbot, however, was frightened at first, or else he could have
  won it in a short time, from the bad condition of Oliver. Oliver was
  terribly beaten: he was some time before he recovered himself, and
  was able to leave the ring. Abbot then shook hands with Oliver.
  Sampson immediately threw up his hat in, the ring, and offered to
  fight Abbot for £25, £50, or £100.


A winning man does not want friends, and Abbot was immediately matched
with Sampson for £50 a-side. On Tuesday, December 18, 1821, Moulsey
Hurst was again the scene of attraction, and the day being extremely
fine, a strong muster of the fancy assembled on the above spot. When the
office was given to cross the water, the pressure of the crowd was so
great, and the lads so eager to get upon the Hurst, that some of the
boats were nearly upset, so many persons rushed into them, in spite of
all the entreaties of the watermen. The large flat-bottomed ferry-boat,
which conveys the horses and carriages across, capable of holding
between four and five hundred persons, was so overladen with passengers
that it was ten to one this motley group did not bathe in Old Father
Thames; indeed, it was only prevented by the great exertions and skill
of the waterman. The wind was so high as to drive this prime cargo of
the fancy a considerable way down the river before they had any chance
of landing, and then it was only accomplished by the principal part of
the passengers wading up to their knees in water before they could sport
a toe on the Hurst. On the return of this boat to the shore at Hampton,
the rush of persons to obtain a place in it was equally violent,
although the danger and folly of such conduct had been so recently
witnessed. A first-rate swell, who was extremely eager to get on board,
lost his foot, and went head over tip into the water, to the no small
amusement of the crowd.

The Birmingham Youth was the favourite, six and seven to four, an idea
being entertained that his good fighting would bring him through the
piece, more especially as a report had gone forth that Abbot had trained
under the auspices of “Mr. Lushington.” At a quarter past one Abbot
appeared on the ground, with a blue bird’s eye round his neck, and threw
his hat into the ring. His countenance indicated perfect confidence. He
was attended by Spring and Shelton. The Birmingham Youth, followed by
Randall and Tom Jones, also shied his “castor” with a confident air,
with Randall’s colours, green, round his neck.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On stripping, the appearance of Abbot altogether reminded
  the spectators of Tom Cribb in his early fighting days: it was
  evident a little punishment would not reduce his strength. The
  Birmingham Youth was in excellent condition; indeed, he asserted he
  was never so well in his life before. On placing themselves in
  attitude some pause occurred; but they soon after rushed into a
  close, and from the eagerness displayed, no mischief took place, and
  they were both down.

  2.—Abbot held his arms high in order to protect his nob from the
  handy-work of his opponent. This manœuvre had the desired effect,
  and the Birmingham Youth did not show off in his usual style. This
  round was similar to the first, nothing material. Sampson went down
  from a slight hit.

  3.—Sampson on the look-out to plant, but the firm guard of Abbot was
  not to be broken. The latter put in a left-handed hit on the throat
  of Sampson that sent him staggering; he, however, returned to the
  charge, when a long pause ensued. Abbot rushed and administered some
  pepper. Sampson exchanged a hit or two, but went down. Abbot also
  fell from a slip. (The odds had now changed seven to four on Abbot.)

  4.—This was a short round. After a struggle at the ropes, Abbot got
  his man down, and, in falling, his knees came heavily on the
  “Youth’s” body. (The Westminster division again chevying, offering
  two to one.)

  5.—Abbot commenced fighting, and planted one or two heavy hits. The
  Birmingham Youth showed fight, but he went down from a blow in the
  middle of his head. (Loud shouting, and in the ecstasy of the moment
  the cabbage-plant heroes offered five to one “the Birmingham ware
  must soon be disposed of.”)

  6.—Abbot went to work without delay, and the result was that Sampson
  received a hit on his face, and dropped on his knees. (“It’s all up;
  he’s going.” Two to one current betting.)

  7 to 20.—To detail these rounds would be uninteresting. It is true
  that the Birmingham commenced several rounds well, but Abbot always
  finished them in his favour.

  21 to 30.—In the twenty-seventh round it was so much in favour of
  Abbot, that a distinguished sporting man from Newmarket offered a
  guinea to a bottle of beer, but no taker appeared.

  31 to 33.—Sampson did all he could to reduce the strength of his
  opponent, but in vain. He now and then put in a good nobber, but in
  general he napped it in return.

  34.—Sampson was much distressed; but he came to the scratch like a
  man, and endeavoured to take the lead. Several of his friends near
  the ring told him “hit and get away.” Sampson was not unmindful of
  their advice, and evinced a knowledge of the art; but it was a
  matter of considerable surprise to the judges of milling that he did
  not administer pepper to the body of his opponent, which was left
  unprotected, as the principal aim of Abbot appeared to be in holding
  his guard very high to keep his knowledge-box safe, the nob in
  general of all his adversaries being the object of his attack. After
  some exchanges the Birmingham Youth received a blow near the temple
  which produced the claret profusely, and he fell on his knees.
  (Spring offered ten guineas to two on Abbot.)

  35.—The countenance of Sampson appeared dejected; he nevertheless
  exerted himself to produce a change in his favour, although without
  effect. He was floored by a severe right-handed hit. (Loud cheering
  by the lads from the neighbourhood of the Abbey in favour of Abbot.)

  36.—It was evident to every unbiassed spectator that Sampson could
  not win; and although some of his shifts were well planned, they did
  not in the least reduce the strength of Abbot. The Birmingham Youth
  was on the totter when he came to the scratch, yet Abbot did not
  commence fighting. Shelton said, “What are you shilly-shallying
  about? go right up to his head and win it.” Abbot followed his
  instructions without delay, and the result was, Sampson was floored.
  “I told you so,” cried Shelton; “another or two and the blunt will
  be in your pocket.”

  37.—Sampson went down from a heavy blow on the side of his head.
  (“He can’t come again.”)

  38.—The Birmingham Youth smiled on meeting his adversary, put in one
  or two nobbers, and made a struggle at the ropes. Sampson was again
  hit down. (“It’s all over.” Any odds.)

  39.—Singular to remark, Sampson, as a last and desperate effort,
  made play, had the best of the round, and sent Abbot down. (Thunders
  of applause, and “Well done, Sampson.”)

  40.—The punishment Sampson now received was sharp and severe. Abbot
  determined to put an end to the battle, showed fight the instant
  Sampson appeared at the scratch, and, with a right-handed blow in
  the middle of the nob, floored him. (Ten to one.)

  41.—The Birmingham Youth scarcely put up his hands, when a severe
  blow repeated on the same place floored him a twinkling.

  42.—Abbot now proved himself the better man, and grassed poor
  Sampson with ease.

  43.—One must lose. A tremendous hit in the middle of Sampson’s head
  took all the fight out of him, and he measured his length on the
  ground. For a short period after time was called Sampson remained in
  a state of stupor; he, however, recovered, and, with the assistance
  of Randall, walked out of the ring. The mill lasted forty-seven
  minutes.

  REMARKS.—If it was perceived that Abbot was only a half-bred one,
  yet it would take a good man and a heavy hitter to beat him. In but
  one round (the 39th) had Sampson the best of it, although he exerted
  himself to the utmost to obtain victory; indeed, after the second
  round it was decidedly in favour of Abbot. It is rather singular
  that, except with Dolly Smith, the Birmingham Youth has hitherto
  lost every battle; while, on the contrary, conquest has crowned the
  efforts of Abbot. The latter possesses a tolerable knowledge of the
  science, and left the ring with only a mark under his left eye. The
  Birmingham Youth was severely punished; but although he has proved
  so unfortunate, it is the general opinion of the fancy that, in all
  his battles, he has shown himself a game man, a lively, active
  fighter, and done everything in his power to win for his backers.


The battle had scarcely been over a minute, when the fancy were beat to
a stand-still, except a few who endeavoured to bolt, but could not get
away, from the effects of the “pitiless pelting storm.” Hundreds were
seen scampering to get under the wagons to avoid the hail-stones, and
flooring each other to obtain an inch of shelter. Lots looked like
drowning rats, their clothes sticking to their bodies as if they had
been pasted on; while a few of the “Corinthians” in post-chaises were
laughing at the ludicrous scene, and blessing their happy stars for the
comfort and advantages derived from the possession of “blunt.” At length
the fancy rallied, showed game, and took their places to witness another
battle.

Abbot did not refuse to meet the “John Bull fighter” when called upon,
as appears by the following letter, addressed to the editor of the
_Weekly Dispatch_.


                      “CHALLENGE TO JOSH. HUDSON.

  “SIR,—

  “In consequence of your challenge to me a few months ago, and my
  fight with Oliver being off, I now wish to inform you that I am
  ready to fight you once in eight weeks for 50 guineas a-side. If
  this meets your approbation, my friends will meet you at any time or
  place you may appoint, and make a deposit of £10 or £20 a-side.

                                                            “W. ABBOT.

  “_5th July, 1822._”


These challenges, however, ended in smoke. At length Abbot was matched
with Jem Ward, for £50 a-side, and they met, October 22, 1822. Jem had
beaten Acton, and was fast rising into fame. The particulars of this
cross will be found in the Memoir of Ward, opening the next Period.

Larkins, the Cambridge champion, was matched with Abbot for £35. The
fight took place at Fidgett Hall, near Newmarket, on Monday, November
28, 1826. Abbot was here beaten in fourteen rounds, thirty-three
minutes, with five to four betted upon him. From this time Abbot figures
as a second and bottle holder, until 1832, when, a purse having been
collected, he entered the ring with one Search, whom he disposed of in
seven rounds, at Old Oak Common, on the 28th of June in that year. The
career of Abbot has no further ring interest.




  DAVID HUDSON, BROTHER OF THE RENOWNED “JOHN BULL FIGHTER”—1818–1827.


David Hudson, a younger brother of the renowned Josh., made his
appearance about two years after his celebrated senior, namely, in July,
1818; Josh’s first battle with Jack Payne dating in 1816. He was a smart
two-handed fighter, of the inconvenient middle weight and height, which
is too much for the light ones, and not enough for the big ’uns, namely,
ten stone ten pounds, and five feet seven inches and a half in height.
He was born in Rotherhithe in 1798, and in 1817, when in his 19th year,
defeated Pat. Connelly, a reputed good man. His first regular battle was
with Richard West (West Country Dick), for 50 guineas a-side. It was the
second fight following the defeat of Tom Oliver by Neat, of Bristol, at
Rickmansworth, on Friday, July 10, 1818. Randall and Tom Jones were
seconds to Dick; Painter and Hall for Hudson. Dick was the favourite,
seven to four and two to one.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—This was a good round. The combatants soon closed, but
  broke away. A sharp rally succeeded, and Dick was thrown.

  2.—Sharp fighting. Reciprocal nobbers. A smart rally, and both down.

  3.—Dick put in two facers. Some exchanges, when, in struggling for
  the throw, in going down Hudson was uppermost.

  4.—This was all in Dick’s favour. He planted some heavy hits; and
  both going down, they rolled over each other.

  5.—Hudson’s ear was bleeding, and Dick threw him.

  6.—This was an active round; and in the corner of the ring Hudson
  fibbed Dick till he fell out of the ropes, (Applause. “Bravo,
  Hudson.”)

  7.—Both of them went to work, and some sharp exchanges occurred,
  till both down.

  8.—This appeared a severe round, and Dick got a hit on his ribs and
  went down.

  9.—When time was called, Dick tried to leave the knee of his second;
  but on getting up seemed as if bent double, and pointed to his ribs,
  when Hudson was declared the conqueror. This sudden termination of
  the fight electrified the amateurs, and the backers of Dick were
  chapfallen indeed. Great murmuring prevailed that “all was not
  right;” but Dick declared, that in falling against the stakes he had
  hurt his ribs so severely that he was not able to stand upright. The
  battle was over in fourteen minutes and five seconds.


David fought with Ballard for a trifling stake, on Wednesday, April 15,
1819, on Kennington Common. Purcell and West Country Dick seconded
Hudson, and Ballard was waited upon by Holt and Hares. It was a most
determined battle on both sides; and one hour and three-quarters had
elapsed before Ballard was compelled to acknowledge himself defeated. He
was punished severely. Hudson also did not escape without considerable
beating. The science and game he displayed on this occasion gave him a
lift among the amateurs.

After the battle between Turner and Cy. Davis at Wallingham Common, on
Friday, June 18, 1819, there was an interval of upwards of an hour,
during which time the ring was filled with amateurs, endeavouring to get
up another contest between some of the “good ones.” Sutton offered to
fight Carter, but the latter boxer pleaded want of “condition.” Hall was
also called, Martin, etc., but objections were made, when at length
Harry Holt threw up his hat, which was immediately answered by David
Hudson. Randall and O’Donnell seconded Holt and Tom Owen and Josh.
Hudson waited upon David. It was for a purse of 20 guineas. Holt was the
favourite, five to four.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The game of Holt had been ascertained upon more than one
  occasion, and his character stood well as a “pretty, scientific
  boxer.” He was not very well, and had walked all the way from London
  down to the fight. Hudson, nothing else but a “good one,” was also
  out of condition; in fact, he had only been discharged a week from
  the doctor’s hands for the jaundice, and, on stripping, his frame
  had a yellow appearance. They set-to with much spirit, when Holt
  rather took the lead. It was all fighting, and Hudson was nobbed
  down.

  2.—Reciprocal facers; sharp hitting, full of work; milling the order
  of the round. Both down, but Holt undermost. (“Bravo! this will be a
  good fight;” and the amateurs were much interested.)

  3.—Holt stopped in fine style, and planted same heavy hits. Both
  down.

  4.—Sparring. Both offering and eager to hit, but awake to each
  other’s intention, and dodging. This round was really a treat to the
  lovers of science. Holt was hit down in the corner of the ring.
  (Even betting.)

  5.—More science was displayed, when Owen began to sing “Tol de rol,”
  and said it was all right; that Hudson, of his weight, was the best
  little man in the kingdom, and that he should have nothing to do but
  merely look on. Hudson took the lead, followed his opponent over the
  ring till Holt was hit down.

  6 to 24.—To speak impartially, it would be almost impossible to say
  which had the best of the majority of these rounds. Holt repeatedly
  nobbed Hudson so severely that his head went back; but he still
  returned to the charge unconcerned. In the last round Holt got
  Hudson on the ropes, where the latter was hanging almost on the
  balance; but he threw up his arms and walked away, amidst the shouts
  of the ring. (“This is true courage,” exclaimed a Briton.)

  29 to 49.—All these rounds were contested with the utmost determined
  resolution and science on both sides. But Hudson was now the
  favourite, and Tom Owen offered ten to one. He also placed the white
  topper on his head; but would not let his knee-string, which was
  loose, be tied, for fear it should change his luck.

  50 to 64.—Holt continued as game as a pebble, and nobbed Hudson
  desperately; but he could not take the fight out of him. (The odds
  were now decidedly against Holt, and cries of “Take him away.”)

  65 to 83.—Both of their nobs were terribly punished, particularly
  Holt; but he had not the slightest intention to resign, though
  persuaded so to do by his friends and backers. It was thought Holt
  had lost it, from going down without a blow. (“Never mind,” said
  Owen, “we’ll give them that in; we can’t lose it.”)

  84 to 89 and last.—Holt continued to fight, but he could not stand
  up to receive the hitting of Hudson, and went down repeatedly;
  while, on the contrary, Hudson seemed to be getting fresher, and he
  often ran and jumped to get in at Holt. The latter would not give
  in, and he was taken out of the ring by the desire of a noble lord
  and other amateurs. It occupied an hour and three-quarters.

  REMARKS.—This was a capital fight on both sides: the men covered
  themselves with pugilistic glory. Holt was rather too stale for his
  opponent; he had also some of his teeth dislodged. Hudson promises
  to be conspicuous in the ring: a better bit of stuff cannot be
  found. A handsome subscription was made for Holt.


Hudson had now got so greatly into favour with the amateurs that he was
backed against the fearless Scroggins for 50 guineas a-side. The battle
took place on Monday, March 13, 1820, at Dagenham Breach, Essex, about
eleven miles from London.

The road exhibited much bustle about ten o’clock in the morning, and the
distance being short, the amateurs arrived at the destined spot rather
earlier than usual. However, owing to neglect somewhere, to the great
chagrin of the fancy, Scroggins had not been made acquainted with the
scene of action, and it was two to one whether he appeared at all. The
“hardy hero,” somehow, at length reached the Ship and Shovel, and waived
all impediments like a truly game man.

At half past one o’clock, Hudson, attended by his brother Josh. and Tom
Owen, threw his hat up in the ring. Scroggins, followed by Oliver and
Randall, repeated the token of defiance. The odds were both ways in the
course of a few minutes; and, from the remembrance of what Scroggins had
once been, the old fanciers rather took the latter for choice. Tom Owen,
to give an air of importance to his _protégé_, graced the ring with his
hair curled and powdered, to the no small merriment of the multitude.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On stripping, the fine condition of Hudson astonished the
  spectators, and to give him a showy appearance, he sported silk
  stockings. Scroggins did not look well; but it was observed he was
  not so bad as had been represented. The combatants sparred for
  upwards of two minutes, when Scroggins let fly with his left hand,
  slightly touching his opponent’s eye. In attempting to make another
  hit, Hudson got away. More sparring. Scroggins now went to work in
  his usual heavy style, and drove Hudson to the ropes, when, after
  some exchanges, Hudson went down, receiving a heavy hit on his ear.
  (The shouting was loud; and “Well done, my old boy, you can’t lose
  it. The stale one for £100.”)

  2.—Hudson did not wish to be idle, and went up to his man and fought
  with him, when a rally ensued, in which Scroggins had rather the
  best of it. The men separated, and Hudson put in a severe facer that
  brought the claret. In struggling, both went down.

  3.—The men were on their mettle, and fighting was the order of this
  round. Scroggins received a jobber in the front of his nob; but he
  returned to the charge with vigour, till he went down from a slight
  hit. (“Go along, Davy! a young one against an old one any time.”)

  4.—Scroggins received a sharp hit in the body; he, nevertheless,
  went boldly in to his opponent, and put in three nobbers. In
  struggling for the throw, Hudson undermost. (“Bravo, Scroggy!”)

  5.—The face of Scroggins was much pinked, and one of his eyes rather
  damaged. Some good exchanges, till Scroggins was undermost.
  (Shouting for Hudson.)

  6.—Hudson stopped the hits of his adversary well, and went again to
  the nobbing system till both down.

  7.—This was a terrible round. It was all fighting; and the struggle
  at the ropes was desperate in the extreme, till Scroggins found
  himself on the ground, undermost. The applause on both sides was
  liberally dealt out, and the combatants were pronounced good men all
  round the ring.

  8.—Scroggins began to pipe, and symptoms of a worn out constitution
  could not be concealed from his adversary. The advantages of youth
  were evident to every spectator, and Scroggins went down.

  9.—Well contested on both sides; but although Scroggins repeatedly
  hit his opponent in the face, he did no damage to him. Both down.

  10.—In this round a faint ray of the original quality of Scroggins
  was conspicuous: he put in a severe hit under Hudson’s right ear,
  and also bored him down. (Six to four was, however, offered on the
  latter.)

  11.—Sharp exchanges; but Scroggins went down so weak that Tom Owen
  offered four to one.

  12 to 15.—Scroggins had rather the best of some of these rounds, but
  never the best of the battle. He, however, threw Hudson over the
  ropes.

  16 to 18.—The first of these was the sharpest round in the fight.
  The men exchanged hits like game cocks, struggled for the throw at
  the ropes, broke away, fought at the ropes again, till both down.

  19 to 23.—It was evident the once terrific Scroggins was gone by;
  his milling period was over. He took like a glutton of the first
  appetite, but could not give as heretofore. (Six to one was current
  against him.)

  24 to 28.—In some of these rounds Hudson held up his opponent, and
  punished him down. (Owen, in the exultation of the moment, offered
  ten to one, and said he should go home, as his man did not want any
  more seconding.)

  29 to 33.—In the last round Scroggins turned his head away from the
  severe punishment he had received, and went down.

  34 and last.—Scroggins attempted to hit, but it was all up, as he
  was quite exhausted. Forty minutes and three seconds had elapsed.
  Hudson had scarcely a scratch.

  REMARKS.—It is a standing proverb among good judges that youth must
  be served, and a clearer demonstration of the proposition was never
  witnessed in the P.R. The constitution of Scroggins was gone, and no
  training could restore it. It is, however, singular to remark, that
  a knock-down blow did not occur throughout the fight. Hudson, gay as
  a lark, confident, and a boxer that can stay a good while, is not a
  hard hitter. In Scroggins’s day a different tale must have been
  told; but his once terrible mode of hitting had left him, and, as a
  boxer, he was a shadow of his former self. It is, however, but
  common justice to state that Scroggins never exerted himself upon
  any occasion more to win than he did in contending against the young
  one. His gluttony astonished all present.


Hudson and Scroggins meeting at Chelmsford Races, on Thursday, July 27,
1820, the amateurs made a subscription purse of £20. It was suggested by
the seconds that Hudson and Scroggins should divide the purse; but the
latter boxer refused, saying, he would win if he could. It was a sharp,
good fight; but Scroggins, being very much out of condition, was again
defeated in twenty-five minutes.

Hudson had risen so high in the estimation of the amateurs, that he was
backed against Jack Martin; nay, more, his friends said that he must
win, and nothing else. This battle came off at Moulsey Hurst, October
24, 1820. Martin had beaten David’s brother Josh. the year previous. The
event proved that Davy’s backers were too confident; it was soon seen he
was overmatched, and he was signally defeated. (See vol. i., p. 406.)

On Thursday, January 11, 1821, David Hudson and Green fought in a barn
at Chelmsford, at eleven o’clock at night, for £10 a-side. This fight
had been a long time “hatching up,” particularly on the part of
Green’s[32] friends, and, from every appearance, he had been in training
on the sly; while Hudson was never in such bad condition before.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Green soon let fly with his right hand, which Hudson
  stopped with his left. He then went to work till Green was floored.

  2.—A determined rally, in which Hudson met his adversary well, till
  Green was again down.

  3.—Cautious sparring. Green, however, went in without ceremony and
  napt two muzzlers, right and left, for his temerity. The claret
  appeared in profusion, and Green again down.

  4 to 7.—The men were now extremely weak. Hudson received a
  tremendous hit on his right eye, and he was blind for a few seconds,
  having lost the sight of his left eye since he fought with Martin.
  (“Go along, Green, it’s all your own; you can’t lose it;” and five
  to four offered.)

  8.—Hudson’s right hand made a dent on Green’s side; and with his
  left Davy put in such a conker that not only produced the claret in
  profusion, but he was quite abroad, and went down. These “Pepper
  Alley” touches brought it to even betting, and Hudson for choice.

  9 to 13.—The pepper-box was again administered by Hudson, who caught
  Green under his right arm, and with his left he fibbed him so
  severely that Green called out “Foul,” and said he would not fight
  any longer. The umpires were appealed to, and decided Hudson’s
  conduct to be fair, and “a bit of good truth.”

  14.—Green, determined to try every move on the board, went sharply
  to work, but Hudson stopped his efforts with the utmost ease. (Seven
  to four on Hudson, but no takers.)

  15 to 17.—Davy came to the scratch as fresh as his out-and-out
  badger, and hit Green all to pieces. By way of finishing the round,
  if not the fight, he cross-buttocked his opponent so severely that
  it was twenty to one he did not come again. Green said he would not
  fight any more while sitting upon the knee of his second. Hudson
  then went up to Green and shook hands with him, observing at the
  same time, “You are not half so good a man as I expected, from the
  chaffing there has been about you; nevertheless, I will give you
  half a guinea.” The friends of Green thought he could have won the
  fight if it had been in a ring; but Hudson’s backers were so
  confident of his success, that they immediately put down £50 to £80
  for Davy to fight him in a ring in any part of Essex. The partisans
  of Green wished it to take place in the same ring as Oliver and
  Spring. This money was drawn, to the great disappointment of
  Hudson’s party. The Essex friends of the latter offered to back him
  at any time for £100. The battle lasted forty-five minutes.


One Jack Steadman, a big one, and a good fighter, was beat off-hand by
David, to the astonishment of the spectators; Steadman standing over
“little David” like another Goliah of Gath, and weighing thirteen stone.

David now became a publican at Chelmsford, where his house was well
frequented by sporting men. In February, 1820, we find him exhibiting
sparring, having taken the Chelmsford Theatre for the purpose.

Hudson’s old antagonist, Green, seems to have by no means been convinced
by his first defeat, and, after much cavilling, a second match was made
for 50 guineas, which came off, by desire of the London patrons of Davy,
at Old Marsh Gate, Essex, about eleven miles of turnpike from town, on
Tuesday, the 27th of February, 1821. Hudson having made Chelmsford his
place of residence, and a bit of a favourite in that part of the world
among the sporting men, they were anxious that he should again exhibit.
He was backed by Mr. Thomas Belcher, of the Castle Tavern. It was
reported Hudson was upwards of twelve stone, having increased so much
during his training. This operated against him in the opinion of the
amateurs. At one o’clock Hudson, dressed in a white great coat,
appeared, and threw his hat into the ring, attended by Oliver and his
brother Josh. Green shortly afterwards entered the ropes, with Randall
and Martin. The “President of the Daffies”[33] was appointed the
time-keeper. Five to four on Hudson.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On stripping, Green appeared in the highest state of
  condition, but it was thought that Hudson was much too fat. The
  combatants, on placing themselves in attitude, stood looking at each
  other’s eyes for upwards of four minutes, without making the least
  offer to hit. Green made a trifling offer to put in a blow, when
  Hudson got away, and they dodged each other over the ring till they
  made another complete stand-still. Green made a hit, but Hudson
  parried it. Both the men seemed under orders, that is to say, not to
  go to work too quickly. Green got away neatly; and Hudson also
  stopped a severe left-handed hit of Green’s. The latter then put in
  a body blow, when David returned. The battle had now commenced.
  Green put in a facer, when Davy stood to no repairs, and tried to
  slaughter his opponent, till they got into a struggle, when they
  both went down side by side. (Loud shouting from the “over-the-water
  boys,” the Chelmsford fanciers, and the Jews, who all united in
  backing Davy for anything.) This round occupied nearly fifteen
  minutes.

  2.—This round was altogether short. They both complimented each
  other upon the nob _sans cérémonie_, and “Pepper Alley” was the
  feature, till Green went down undermost. (Six to four on Hudson.)
  The mouth of Davy showed claret.

  3.—Not quite so fast as before, and some little science necessary.
  Hudson undermost.

  4.—The claret was now running from the cheek of Green. Both
  combatants appeared a little distressed. In struggling, Hudson was
  again undermost. These were two tie rounds; but some of the
  spectators thought Green had the best of them.

  5.—Hudson took the lead gaily. Some severe exchanges took place,
  when Green was hit down. (Loud shouting, “Davy, repeat that, and
  it’s all safe to you.”)

  6.—Hudson got away well, and nobbed Green, who followed him. Some
  heavy blows passed between them till both down.

  7.—This round spoilt Green. The latter, with good courage, gave hit
  for hit with his opponent; but Davy, in finishing the round, had the
  best of the blows, threw Green, and fell so heavily upon him that
  the claret gushed from his nose, the shock was so violent. (The
  East-enders were now uproarious, and two and three to one were
  offered on Davy.)

  8.—David fell on Green again.

  9.—Almost the same, as well as the best of the hitting.

  10.—It was really a capital fight, and Green fought like a trump. He
  could not, however, change the battle in his favour. Hudson
  undermost.

  11.—Green experienced another dreadful fall. (Four to one against
  him current.)

  12.—Hudson now endeavoured to take the fight out of Green, and
  planted four facers in succession that Green went staggering from
  the hits; he, nevertheless, made several returns, till both down.
  (Five to one.)

  13, 14.—In the first round a most determined rally; but in the
  second Green was hit down on his knee. (“You can’t lose it, Davy.”)

  15.—Hudson fell heavily on Green, and nearly knocked the wind out of
  him. (“It’s all up.” Any odds.)

  16.—The nob of Green was now terribly punished, and the left side of
  his throat much swelled. He was quite abroad, hit open-handed, and
  went down exhausted. (“Go along, Davy; it will be over in another
  round.”)

  17.—Green repeatedly jobbed Hudson in the face; but none of the
  blows were to be seen—they did not leave a mark. As Green was
  falling from a hit, Hudson caught him in the face with a
  right-handed blow that almost sent him to sleep.

  18.—“Look here,” said Oliver, “my man has not a mark upon his face.”
  Green came up to the scratch much distressed. He, however, fought
  like a man; and at the ropes Hudson again fell upon him. The claret
  was running down in profusion.

  19.—Green still showed fight, and put in several facers. Hudson went
  away staggering from one of them; but the latter followed Green up
  so hard and fast that he could not keep his legs, and went down.
  (The poundage was here offered, but no takers. “Take him away; he
  has no chance.”)

  20 and last.—Green behaved like a man, and he stood up and fought in
  a rally till he went down quite done up. When time was called he
  could not come to the scratch, and Hudson was proclaimed the
  conqueror. It was over in forty minutes.

  REMARKS.—Davy, either fat or lean, out or in condition, is not to be
  beaten easily. A strong novice must not attempt it; and a good
  commoner will be puzzled, and most likely lose in the trial. There
  is a great deal of gaiety about Hudson’s fighting: he will always be
  with his man. He has a good notion of throwing, and also of
  finishing a round. Green was not destitute of courage, and it was
  not a little milling that took the fight out of him. He endeavoured
  to win while a chance remained; in fact, till he could fight no
  longer; but he is too slow for Hudson. It was an excellent battle,
  and the amateurs expressed themselves well satisfied. One of
  Hudson’s eyes is defective since he fought with Martin, which
  operates as a great drawback to his execution, particularly in
  judging his distances; but nothing can abate his courage. Both the
  Hudsons stand so high in the opinion of the amateurs as out-and-out
  bottom men, that they are designated the “John Bull” boxers. They
  increase in flesh rather too fast; and, from being “light ones” when
  they first appeared in the prize ring, they are now termed “Big
  Chaps.”


This was Dav. Hudson’s last victory. We find it noted, incidentally, in
the remarks on the above fight that the sight of one of David’s eyes was
defective. Under these circumstances, it was indeed unfortunate to match
him against the “Streatham Youth,” Ned Neale. It is true that Ned’s
wonderful fighting qualities were then comparatively unknown. He had
defeated Deaf Davis (a slow man, but a hard hitter), one Bill Cribb
(called “the Brighton Champion”), and Miller (the “Pea-soup Gardener”);
but these, as well as Bill Hall, were looked upon as mere stale men or
“roughs.” The defeat of Hudson (September 23, 1823), on the
appropriately named Blindlow Heath, will be found in the Memoir of NED
NEALE, Period VI., Chapter V.

David’s last appearance in the prize ring was with an Irishman, Mike
Larkins,[34] who had beaten Simon Byrne in Ireland, in 1825. The battle
took place at Bulphen Farm, Essex, May 8, 1827, when “One-eyed Davy” was
defeated in twenty-eight fast rounds, occupying twenty minutes. David,
in his latter days, assisted “brother Josh.” at Leadenhall; and when the
latter died, in Milton Street, Finsbury, in October, 1835, David lost
his best friend. He was already in ill health, and survived his brother
but six weeks, his death taking place November 27, 1835, in the London
Hospital.




                         PERIOD VI.—1824–1835.
    FROM THE RETIREMENT OF TOM SPRING TO THE APPEARANCE OF BENDIGO.




                               CHAPTER I.
                    JEM WARD (CHAMPION).—1822–1831.


Albeit this period does not mark any change in the “school,” or style,
nor in the rules which govern the practice of public boxing, there are
reasons to be found for a division, in the more copious, accurate, and
systematic reports of the prize-fights of this and the following
periods, due greatly to the exertions and ability of the late Vincent
George Dowling, Esq., of the _Morning Chronicle_, the editor, founder,
and establisher of _Bell’s Life in London_, for many years afterwards
“the Oracle of the Ring,” a title and function now well-nigh abdicated.
About this time, too, other able pens lent their aid. George Daniels,
Esq. (the D—— G——, whose criticisms on the drama lent large value to the
series known as “Cumberland’s Plays,” and who was for a time editor of
the _Weekly Dispatch_), was among the number. That journal also had the
services of George Kent (an enthusiastic milling reporter, whose son and
grandson yet wield the _stylus_ of manifold writers for the daily and
weekly press),[35] and of Mr. Smith, during the period of his
editorship. “Paling its ineffectual fire” before the rising glories of
_Bell’s Life_, and having lost its best writers, a late Old Bailey
attorney and alderman, finding the _Dispatch_ had lost caste with the
sporting community, turned his coat, and betook himself with the zeal
and virulence of a renegade to revile and slander the sports by which
his journal had grown and prospered. But this is by the way. From the
period we have mentioned the chronicles of pugilism have been more
accurate and minute, and therefore more worthy of preservation; hence
the greater bulk and volume of this portion of our history.

On the retirement of Spring, which that boxer announced shortly after
his second battle with Langan, the public attention was occupied with
discussing the worthiest candidate for the vacated belt. In the first
instance Langan was spoken of as the “coming man;” but though there was
some correspondence, as already noticed, with Tom Shelton and Ward, the
Irish champion suddenly retired without making a match, and went into
business at Liverpool. The champion was now to be looked for elsewhere.
Three men had at this time their respective admirers and partisans—Tom
Cannon (the great gun of Windsor), Josh. Hudson (the John Bull fighter),
and Jem Ward (the Black Diamond). The friends of Josh. urged his claim,
on the ground that he had defeated Ward on the 11th of December, 1823;
but then a fortnight after the second fight of Spring and Langan (on
June 23rd, 1824), Tom Cannon had beaten Hudson in twenty minutes and
seventeen rounds, and again (see Memoir of CANNON) in the November
following, in sixteen rounds, twenty minutes. This led to Cannon’s
challenging Ward for the championship, the details and results of which
we shall notice in due course. We now return to the biography of Ward.

Jem Ward, the eldest of seven children of Nat. Ward, a tradesman in the
vicinity of Ratcliff Highway, was born December 26th, 1800, the day of
all days of the year, known as “boxing day,” and at an early age
exhibited the talents of a boxer and wrestler, which afterwards won him
fame. At the age of sixteen, his father having failed in business as a
butcher, Jem was put to the then lucrative, but heavily laborious
calling of a coal-whipper. Jem soon became the lion of a sparring club
held at Bromley New Town, where he dimmed the shine of those who were
ambitious of a turn with “the Black Diamond,” and was never loth to
accommodate any customer, regardless of weight or strength. Ward’s fame
spread, and it was resolved by his admirers and friends that he should
quit the narrow circle of his triumphs, and give the general public the
opportunity of judging of his qualifications. Accordingly, on Tuesday,
January 22nd, 1822, on the occasion of the benefit of Sutton and
Gybletts, at the Fives Court, Jem was introduced to the aristocratic
patrons of pugilism. His appearance is thus recorded in the “Annals of
Sporting” for that month. “The principal novelty was the introduction of
a new Black Diamond, and although a little bit in the rough, yet now and
again his shining qualities so far peeped out that curiosity asked, ‘Who
is he?’ ‘Where does he come from?’ ‘Is he a novice?’ The replies were
‘His name is Ward; he is an East-ender; he has put the quilt on all who
have tried him; he is a sharp one in a turn-up, but what he may do in
the ring is another matter. However, he can be backed against anything
of his weight (twelve stone) barring the Gas (Tom Hickman).’ Ward was
pitted with Spencer. Like most newcomers, he displayed too much
eagerness, and more milling than steady science. He received good
encouragement from the amateurs present, and his nob was pronounced to
be a fighting one.”

[Illustration:

  JEM WARD (CHAMPION).

  _From a Painting by_ PATTEN, 1826.
]

The fancy were not slow in discussing the merits of Ward, and a purse
was immediately raised for the purpose of testing his capabilities. Dick
Acton,[36] considered a resolute boxer, was named as Ward’s opponent,
and on Wednesday, June 12, 1822, the battle came off on Moulsey Hurst.
Josh. Hudson (soon after to meet and vanquish his principal) seconded
Ward, assisted by Tom Jones. Acton was waited upon by Tom Spring and
Eales. The fight is thus reported in the _Dispatch_:—


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Acton on the defensive, as if wishing to ascertain what
  novelties in the art he was likely to be that day treated to by
  Ward. The latter, after a little dodging about, let fly with his
  left, but was short. Acton likewise missed; he, however, followed
  Ward, who kept breaking ground and retreating. Acton tried it on,
  but some exchanges followed without effect. The Diamond suddenly put
  in a straight one on Acton’s nob, and got away smiling. Acton
  followed him to the ropes, where he got a sharp blow on the cheek;
  Ward making good use of his legs and getting out of the corner; nor
  was he long before he planted a heavy blow on the right side of
  Acton’s conk, which drew the claret. (“That’s as good as a pinch of
  snuff to him,” cried Josh.) A pause. Ward’s left hand now took
  liberties with the other side of Acton’s nose, and the pink
  followed. Ward got away. (“Mind and keep your hand closed,” said
  Josh.) Some more blows passed, when Ward again got away. Acton
  already seemed tired and slow; indeed he had been following the new
  one to a very poor purpose. Ward put in a heavy hit under Acton’s
  right eye that produced the claret, then closed, and after some
  hitting both were down, Ward undermost. This round occupied eight
  minutes and a half, evidently to the disadvantage of Acton. (Eleven
  to four on Ward offered.)

  2.—Acton could not stop Ward’s left. The latter put in several
  facers, and got away without receiving any return. In closing, Acton
  pummelled away, and both went down, Ward again undermost.

  3.—Acton made play and put in a heavy one on Ward’s mug, but on
  endeavouring to repeat it, Ward stopped him neatly. Acton bored his
  opponent to the ropes, and, after a sharp struggle to obtain the
  throw, Ward got Acton down. (Shouts of applause for the new man.)

  4.—This round decided the fight. Acton seemed to depend more on
  stopping than hitting, and Ward had it comparatively all his own
  way. He made a good right-handed hit, and again got away laughing.
  Acton also got nobbed right and left; but Ward following him to
  force the fighting, received some heavy hits that drew the claret
  from his nose. A pause, the men looking at each other. Ward made
  play and put in so severe a body blow as to make Acton drop his
  arms. In the close, Ward had also the best of it, and in going down
  Acton was undermost. (“It’s nearly over,” was the cry.)

  5.—Acton came to the scratch staring. Ward put in two or three
  nobbers, and ran Acton to the ropes; but in the fall Ward was
  undermost.

  6 and last.—Heavy counter-hits. Ward planted a severe blow on
  Acton’s left eye that made him wink again. The left hand of the
  former was repeatedly at work, and by a sharp blow on the left ear
  Acton was finally floored. When “Time” was called, he was deaf to
  it, and three or four minutes elapsed before he was able to get out
  of the ring. Time, fourteen minutes and a half.

  REMARKS.—The science, activity, and quick hitting exhibited by Ward
  satisfied his backers, that, with a little more experience, he was
  calculated to make a noise in the milling world. Acton was too slow
  for his opponent.


Ward, who was now anxious to do business, challenged Jack Martin for
£150; and in order to keep the game alive, after Josh. Hudson had
defeated Barlow, at Harpenden Common, on the 10th of September, 1822, a
subscription purse was entered into to give Ward another chance of
showing off with Burke, of Woolwich, brother to the pugilist who fought
with Jack Randall. After he had put on his clothes, Hudson went round
the ring with his hat, and collected the needful. This fight lasted only
seven minutes, it being rather a display of wrestling than milling on
the part of Burke. The Woolwich hero was seconded by Tom Oliver and
Abbot; Ward by Tom Shelton and Harry Holt. It was a mere gift to Jem.

Some meetings were afterwards held between the parties as to the weight
of Ward, and he was eventually backed to fight Bill Abbot, for £50
a-side. And here it devolves upon us, as faithful biographers, to detail
a circumstance in the life of our hero, over which we would fain draw a
veil. In order that we may not identify ourselves with any party, we
prefer giving the account of the matter as it was published at the time,
leaving our readers to decide for themselves:—

Pugilism between Ward, the Black Diamond, and Abbot, the conqueror of
Oliver, for £50 a-side, at Moulsey Hurst, on Tuesday, October 22, 1822.

An unusual degree of interest had been excited throughout the fancy,
respecting the event of this battle, in consequence of the superior
milling talents displayed by Ward in his fight with Acton, and also in
his various exhibitions at the Fives Court, but more particularly in his
set-to with Cy. Davis. At one o’clock, Abbot threw his hat into the
ring, followed by Richmond and Josh. Hudson, as his seconds; and, in a
few minutes afterwards, Ward attended by Eales and Tom Jones, made his
appearance.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Both men appeared in fine condition; and a minute or two
  elapsed, when Ward hit short with his left hand; but he soon
  rectified this mistake, by nobbing his opponent, getting away, and
  laughing at him. In a close, both went down, but Ward had the throw.

  2.—It was already seen that Abbot was a plaything in the hands of
  Ward, for he not only nobbed him with the utmost ease, but put in so
  severe a hit on the body that Abbot went back three yards,
  staggering, and must have fallen, had not the ropes prevented him.
  Abbot, however, returned to the charge, when the round was finished
  by Ward hitting him down. (Seven to four.)

  3.—Ward, from his tapping, light play, was denominated the Chinaman;
  nevertheless, the head of his opponent was so much at his service
  that he kept pinking without getting any return. Abbot was severely
  thrown.

  4.—The backers of Ward were in high glee—it was all right; and Abbot
  received another fall ready to burst him.

  5.—Abbot received a severe hit, and fell on his knees.

  6 to 8.—In all these rounds Abbot appeared perfectly stupid from the
  repeated conkers he received, and the severe falls he experienced.
  (Five and six to one.)

  9 to 12.—Abbot was so much at a loss that his blows were thrown
  away; in fact, he had not the shadow of a chance. In the last round
  he received a tremendous cross-buttock.

  13 to 17.—The whole of the minds of the amateurs were so much made
  up in consequence of the superior talents displayed by Ward, who did
  as he liked with his opponent, that ten to one was offered, but no
  takers.

  18.—Abbot hit down, and the battle was considered all but over; so
  much so that Belcher left the ring to get his pigeon to convey the
  intelligence to town of the defeat of Abbot. On crossing the river
  at Hampton, the first party he met in a boat he asked who had won
  the battle. “Abbot,” was the reply. “Impossible!” said Belcher. He
  also inquired of another party. “Abbot,” was the answer. “It can’t
  be—you certainly must be mistaken,” rejoined the hero of the Castle.
  In the third boat he saw Abbot and his second, when he repeated his
  inquiries; and on being informed that Abbot was the winner, Tom
  replied, “I’m now satisfied,” and immediately sent up the pigeon,
  with Abbot’s name attached to it instead of Ward’s.

  19.—At the conclusion of this round, Eales, observing something
  wrong in his man, called out to Ward’s backer, who immediately
  stepped into the ring, when Eales, with much indignation, observed,
  “Ward says he means to cut it this round, he shall lose it.” “No,”
  replied his backer.

  20.—Ward now endeavoured to drop fighting, in order to give Abbot a
  chance; and actually, in an under tone, said to Abbot, “Now hit me.”
  When Eales remonstrated with him for such conduct, he observed, “I
  know my orders—I must not win it.” (A hundred to one on Ward.)

  21.—Ward gave his opponent all the opportunity he could; but Abbot
  was so distressed that he could scarcely knock a fly off a leaf.
  Ward took care to go down.

  22 and last.—Ward went down after a slight skirmish, and on being
  picked up and placed on his second’s knee, he smiled, but
  recollecting “his orders,” and for fear that Abbot should give in,
  he went off in a swoon, and when “Time” was called, he would not
  notice it till he thought proper to come to, and quit the ring.

  REMARKS.—It is impossible to describe the consternation, as well as
  the indignation, expressed by the amateurs; so bare-faced a robbery
  was never before witnessed in the annals of pugilism. The umpire,
  when asked his opinion, replied, “He could not swear it was a cross;
  but he was quite satisfied there was wrong conduct somewhere.” The
  most honourable part of the sporting people declared they would not
  pay at present; and several gentlemen who had lost heavy stakes
  agreed to meet next evening at the One Tan, in Jermyn Street, in
  order to investigate the matter. Ward, on recovering from his swoon,
  made his way out of the ring, and in his eagerness to get across the
  water to Hampton, jumped with the utmost ease over some ropes.


Thus far the ring-reporter of the day. On Wednesday evening, October
23rd, a numerous meeting of sporting men took place at the One Tun,
Jermyn Street, to investigate the suspicious circumstances connected
with this affair, when, after hearing evidence, all bets were declared
off, and a second meeting appointed at Tattersall’s, on Monday, November
4, 1822; on this occasion, after a great deal of chaffing and murmuring
amongst the betters, the president of the Daffy Club, who held the
stakes, offered the £50 a-side to each of the backers, but they refused
the offer, and the president put the £100 into his pocket, and left the
meeting. It was ultimately agreed that the matter should be laid before
the Pugilistic Club and Mr. Jackson, and that their decision should be
final; however, after considerable disputes upon the subject, the stakes
were drawn, and the backers of Ward and Abbot agreed to receive £50
each.

We cannot help remarking here, that although it was proved beyond a
doubt that Ward committed the cross above alluded to, there was also
sufficient evidence to prove that it was more an error of the head than
of the heart; for, on his being called upon for an explanation, at the
meeting at the One Tun, in Jermyn Street, he burst into tears, hung down
his head, and admitted it was a cross. He further stated that he had
been instigated to commit it by his backer, who promised him £100 if he
lost the fight. Eales, the second to Ward, also stated, “that towards
the conclusion of the battle, he wished him to go in and win it, but was
greatly surprised to hear Ward say he had his orders, and must _not_ win
the battle.” Towards the conclusion of the meeting, Tom Cribb came
forward, and in a very animated manner said, that he had never done
wrong in his life; that Ward was a deluded and ignorant young man; that
he believed he had been led away, and that he had told the truth; as a
proof of his opinion he should make him a present of a sovereign, which
he did, several gentlemen present following his example.

Ward also addressed the following letter, publicly confessing his
fault:—


  “_To the Editor of the_ WEEKLY DISPATCH.

  “SIR,

  “I trust you will excuse my obtruding upon you in requesting the
  insertion of a letter from me, whom I hope the sporting world will
  consider as much sinned against as sinning. My late fight with Abbot
  having given rise to much, I may say much merited animadversion, I
  hope in extenuation some consideration may be made for my
  inexperience in the world, and a too great reliance on those who
  have seduced and deceived me. Had I taken the advice of my trainer,
  in lieu of lending a too ready credence to the apparent friendly
  promises of my backer, I should not have to deplore the commitment
  of an act which has caused me the most bitter regret. I should be
  most happy, by way of retrieving in some degree the credit I have
  lost, to fight Abbot again for the present stakes. If I ask for too
  much in this, I am willing to meet him in the same ring with Hudson
  and Shelton, on the 19th instant, for a purse, or even for love.

                      “I am, Sir, with the greatest respect,
                                          “Your obliged servant
                                                          “JAMES WARD.

  “_November 12, 1827._”


At this time Ward was considered completely defunct in the milling
world; the P.C. expelled Jem from the use of their ropes, and it was the
general opinion that he would never again be permitted to enter the
prize ring. In fact, so strong was the feeling entertained against Ward,
that, on a proposal being made shortly afterwards to back him for £100
against Barlow, the friends of the latter scouted the proposition, and
said that he should not disgrace himself by contending with a man who
had been expelled the P.C. ropes.

Ward now remained quiet for a short time, expressed his sorrow for his
misconduct, and promised his friends to do all in his power to gain the
confidence of the sporting world. It was not long before an event
occurred which brought Ward again before the fancy, and which tended
greatly to do away with the ill-feeling which existed against him. After
the fight between Hall and Wynnes, at Wimbledon Common, on Tuesday,
February 4, 1823, he entered the ring for a subscription prize of the
value of £5. His opponent was White-headed Bob, then unknown to the
London ring, but by no means a novice. This was a good battle, Ward
finishing his man in twenty rounds, nineteen minutes.

The judges now pronounced Ward the best twelve stone man in the ring;
and he, in order to reinstate himself in the good opinion of the
amateurs, inserted three separate challenges in the _Weekly Dispatch_;
but that not having the desired effect, he determined to rusticate for a
few months. He therefore started on a sparring tour with two or three of
his pals. Bath races was the first object. There a match was made
between Rickens, a Bath man, and Jem Ward, for £20 a-side, and a
subscription purse. The battle took place at Lansdown, on Friday, July
2, 1823, Ward winning it without a scratch on his face or body.

Jem and his pals pursued their excursion, and now determined upon
astonishing the natives at Portsdown Fair. A sparring-booth was soon
knocked up for the edification and instruction of the yokels, and the
amusement of the younger branches of the “Green” family, who had never
had an opportunity of witnessing a bout at the Fives Court, in which his
companions gave their assistance. The Black Diamond (who showed himself
a brilliant of the first water) did all he could to accommodate the
numerous customers who wished for a taste of the mufflers. Much mirth
was excited by a “Knight of the Rainbow,” whose length, weight, and
vanity, led him to believe he could polish the Diamond. Jem’s mawley was
constantly rap, tap, tapping on Johnny Trot’s frontispiece, and
occasionally rung the bell of his ear, until poor Trot did not know
whether he had his own hair or a wig on. “Why don’t you look?” says Jem;
“and not wink your peepers in that way.” “Because,” says Sir Rainbow,
“you play so sharp, and I’ll have no more on’t.”

Ward next went to Southampton races to fight a man of the name of
Johnson, _alias_ Jemmy the Black. The battle took place on Shirley
Common, August 24, 1823, and Johnson was beaten to a stand-still in
three rounds—time, seventeen minutes.

These victories induced our hero to think that he might now venture to
show with a good grace in London; accordingly, at the Fives Court, in
September, he informed the amateurs that a nobleman would back him
against Josh. Hudson for £100 a-side. The match was made to take place
at Moulsey Hurst. Ward’s peace was now considered to have been made with
the fancy in general, who were anxious to witness the fine fighting of
our hero, opposed to one of the highest-couraged boxers upon the list;
but, unfortunately for Ward, on November 11, 1823, in the course of
fifteen rounds, occupying thirty-five minutes, he was obliged to strike
his colours to resolute Josh. (See Life of HUDSON).

This defeat was attributed by many to mere want of condition, and his
friends readily came forward to back him for £100 a-side against Phil.
Sampson, the Birmingham Youth.[37] On this occasion Sampson weighed
twelve stone three pounds, height five feet ten and a-half inches; and
Jem weighed but three pounds more, and was of equal stature. The match
was therefore in these respects even. The battle took place on the 21st
of June, at Colnbrook, in the same ring as that in which Barney Aaron
and Arthur Mathewson had just decided their differences. Aby Belasco and
Harry Harmer waited on Sampson: Tom Oliver and Tom Owen esquired Ward.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Ward stood with the left arm extended, and Sampson ready
  with both hands. Five minutes passed in sparring—attitudes of both
  beautiful. Sampson backed to the ropes. Ward threw out for a draw.
  Sampson returned and hit short. Sampson dropped, from a slip. No
  mischief.

  2.—Sparring again. Sampson evidently afraid of his man. Ward let
  fly—stopped; again at the body—stopped. Sampson countered, and
  slipped half down. Ward stood over, made up to hit as he rose; but
  at the moment Sampson put his hand to the ground and saved his
  bones.

  3.—Sampson began left and right. Ward broke away in gallant style,
  then countered upon him, and tapped the wine-vat. Sampson followed.
  Ward met him again. Sampson rolled down. (Three to one on Ward.)

  4.—Sampson backed to the ropes, and made up for counter-hitting.
  Ward showed fine science to get at him. Sampson let fly; Ward
  stopped it, went to work, but Sampson dropped on his knees to avoid
  Ward’s wrestling.

  5.—Ward closed on him, and played left and right on his head. He
  seemed to lay Sampson across his right hip, while he jobbed him with
  the left hand until Sampson slipped away and went down.

  6.—Sampson made play, and got one hand on Ward’s left eye. Ward hit,
  and Sampson stopped well, and tried his long shots, but he could not
  make them tell; he then dropped. It was easy to tell how all this
  was to end.

  7.—Ward made play—whack on the head at both sides, then at the wind.
  (“Well stopped, Sampson.”) Ward then hitting out plump, he knocked
  him down.

  8.—Sampson, furious from punishment, was kept writhing, from the
  rapidity of Ward’s blows, up and down. Ward chopped him on the ear,
  under the chin, and as he pleased, the blood flowing in a broad
  stream. Sampson went down.

  9.—Ward broke away from a desperate hit, and Sampson followed,
  giving the chance away. Ward met him, and closed for a fall, but
  Sampson again dropped. (Six to one on Ward.)

  10.—Ward caught him in the wind. Sampson went away nearly doubled. A
  good rally. Ward unwise to stand it. Sampson made his right hand
  tell a trifle. A close, and open fighting again. Ward’s hand,
  darting like a viper’s tongue, scarified Sampson’s face all over.
  Ward aimed a settler. Sampson ducked and dropped.

  11.—Ward chopped him over his guard on the ear, and then bang on the
  nose. Sampson, all blood and bluster, followed him like a savage.
  Ward played with him and dropped him easy.

  12.—Ward hit him left and right. Sampson down in an instant.

  13.—Sampson had no chance. Ward put all his fine fighting aside.

  14.—Sampson got Ward into a wild rally. (“Softly, Ward. What are you
  at?”) A round hit sent him under, but he jumped up merrily without
  his second’s aid.

  15.—Sampson made play, but Ward met him and knocked him clean down.

  16.—This round was all in favour of Ward.

  17.—Ward closed Sampson’s left eye, which blinked a little, and
  chopped his ear, while the blood flowed profusely. Sampson all
  abroad, looking sick and sorrowful. Down he goes again.

  18.—Ward got away from some desperate body blows. Sparring a little.
  (“Fight, Jem!” on all sides.) Jem did fight, and threw his man like
  a plaything.

  19.—Sampson hit out well, but Ward, all coolness, stopped him and
  dropped him.

  20.—Sampson made play, but was at once felled by Ward.

  21.—Sampson down again. Ward without a mark.

  22.—Ward began—one, two, both on the head; three on the ribs.
  Sampson, nearly up, rushed for a chance. Ward stopped a mill from
  him.

  For the next three rounds Sampson was brought up but to receive, and
  in the twenty-fifth round he gave in, after fighting fifty minutes.

  REMARKS.—It was delightful to witness the fine tactics of Ward, who
  reminded the spectators of the renowned Jem Belcher. His winning so
  easily against a skilful boxer and hard hitter like Sampson was a
  great feather in his cap. He won his battle in a style seldom
  witnessed, without a scratch. Another report simply adds to its
  description, “Ward may be champion if he does the right thing. He is
  far the best big man out, as a natural fighter.”


Shortly after this Cannon beat Josh. Hudson (June 23rd, 1824), and as
Josh, engaged Cannon for a second trial, Jem issued a challenge to fight
Langan for £300 a-side. This was not accepted, and Ward put forth
another challenge for the championship, in which we read,—“Having
observed in the sporting journals a great deal about who is entitled to
the championship—some saying it is Langan (who has retired), others that
it belongs to Shelton; while Hudson and Cannon, who are about to fight a
second time, have intimated that the winner of their battle will claim
it,—I beg to inform the public that I will fight any man in England,
Ireland, or Scotland, for £300 a-side; and if I do not meet with a
customer in a month, I shall lay claim to the title myself.” This offer
was not accepted; but his old antagonist, Phil. Sampson, soliciting a
second meeting for £100 a-side, Ward cheerfully closed with the
proposition, and a match was made to come off December 28th, 1824. In
the interim Tom Cannon and Josh. Hudson had fought a second time, and
Cannon had utterly crushed up his brave and broad-bottomed antagonist.

The second mill of Jem Ward and Sampson came off at Perry Lodge, on the
estate of the Duke of Grafton, about four miles beyond Stony Stratford.
The attendance of the London division was not large, but from the
neighbouring counties the muster was numerous. The total of the whole
assemblage is estimated by a contemporary chronicler at 5,000 at the
least; and although heavy rain fell throughout the day, every spectator
remained till the conclusion of the interesting contest. The men arrived
upon the ground about half-past twelve; Paddington Jones again attended
upon Ward, and had upon the same side, as his brother second, Tom
Oliver, known till our own time as the Commissary of the P.R. Peter
Crawley and a Birmingham Friend (not a Quaker) picked up Sampson. Both
men were in excellent condition; Sampson, whose weight was nearly
thirteen stone, is praised for “looking better than in their former
encounter;” we suspect the lack of physiological judgment in the
reporter here, and should say “there was too much of him.” Ward was
twelve stone seven pounds. The betting was anything but brisk—Ward, the
favourite; but his partisans were lukewarm, and the “hardware lads”
wanted long odds.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The men were brought to the scratch at a quarter to one,
  and instantly threw themselves into position. Sampson’s manner was
  firm and imposing, and his looks betokened a determination to do his
  best. Ward gathered himself into as narrow a compass as possible,
  and, throwing his head and shoulders back, worked about his terrific
  left hand with an evident intention to bring it into action as
  speedily as circumstances would admit, while with his right he kept
  a steady guard. Sparring for a short time. Ward let fly his left,
  but was stopped. Sampson countered, but was stopped also. Sampson
  broke ground, but was again stopped, when Ward rushed to fight, and
  caught Sampson on the pudding-trap, rattling his grinders in a very
  musical manner. Sampson returned very slightly, and in a close, Ward
  was thrown, Sampson on him. Ward picked himself up and laughed.

  2.—On coming to the scratch, Sampson showed first paint, from the
  larboard corner of his muzzle, but he was still firm and cheerful.
  Ward came up steady, and after a short manœuvre threw another
  chattering smack on Sampson’s gob with his right. Sampson rushed in
  to fight, but was well stopped. In the close, Sampson fell, and Ward
  close to him.

  3.—All doubts of Ward’s meaning to win had now passed away, and two
  to one was offered freely upon him, but no takers. Sampson, anxious
  to go in, hit out at Ward’s nob, and caught him slightly. Ward was
  with him, and returned with interest. Sampson, not dismayed, went at
  him again, and caught him on the face. Ward fell from the slippery
  state of the ground, and the force of the blow.

  4.—Ward stood for no ceremony, but delivered right and left on
  Sampson’s canister. Sampson rushed to a rally, but Ward got away
  with his customary activity. Ward then jumped in, was stopped at
  first, but repeating his effort, he hit Sampson on the auricular,
  and then dropped him by a blow on his frontispiece.

  5.—Sampson came up rather open-mouthed, and a little worse for the
  paintbrush. Ward commenced fighting, hit out with his left, rather
  out of distance, and slipped. Sampson, anxious to take off Ward as
  he rose, rushed in. Ward, however, was quickly on his pins, and met
  his determined antagonist with a slight tap on his victualling
  office. Sampson, in getting away, fell outside the ropes. Ward stood
  up fresh and full of spirits.

  6.—Good stops on both sides. An excellent rally followed, in which
  nozzlers were interchanged. Sampson, in getting away, fell on his
  nether end.

  7.—Ward came up merry, and Sampson was not a whit less disposed for
  mischief. Sampson bored in, but Ward got away. The men came again to
  close quarters, when Sampson delivered a slight compliment on Ward’s
  snuffler. Ward fell on his knees.

  8.—Ward delivered another unpleasant compliment on Sampson’s mouth.
  Sampson returned quickly. Ward rushed to in-fighting, when hits were
  interchanged, and Ward again fell on his knees. As this latter fall
  was supposed to have originated in the desire of Ward to escape
  punishment, there were some slight marks of disapprobation.

  9.—Sampson came up game, although rather in the piping order. Ward,
  after a flourish, once more tapped him on the mouth, and got away.
  Sampson followed him up, and on going to in-fighting, Ward again
  slipped down.

  10.—Ward busy rapping at Sampson’s ivories. Sampson rushed to rally,
  but two well-intentioned visitations to Ward’s nob were stopped, and
  Ward catching him round the neck, fibbed him severely. It was a
  ratti-tat-tat. Sampson fell, and Ward also slipped.

  11.—Sampson came up blowing like Boreas. He was determined not to be
  idle, and went in right and left. Ward, cautious, caught the blows
  on his wrists as they were given, and, in retreating, Sampson
  dropped, through the slippery state of the ground.

  12.—Ward again took the lead, and hit Sampson a terrific blow on the
  nose, which immediately entered into co-partnership with his mouth,
  in the claret line. Short sparring. A rally, in which blows were
  interchanged, and Ward fell, through a slip.

  13.—Oliver was now in the highest spirits, and exclaimed he would
  lay ten to one that Ward would not get a black eye. Sampson came to
  work a little the worse for wear, and went in manfully to fight, but
  Ward stopped him with inimitable skill, and then rushing in,
  delivered facers left and right. Sampson fell on his back, and Ward
  fell on him.

  14.—Sparring for a short time, when Ward again went to work with his
  left, and napped it slightly himself on the mouth from Sampson’s
  right. A spirited rally followed, in which Sampson received three
  flush hits on the nose and lips. Sampson received with the courage
  of a lion, and returned on Ward’s head; but Ward was with him again,
  and hit him down with a tremendous gobster.

  15.—Sampson still preserved his game, and attempted to plant a
  left-handed lunge on Ward’s head. Ward parried the blow, rushed in,
  and delivered three times in succession on Sampson’s now
  disorganized physog. He then jumped away, followed by Sampson, who,
  on receiving another tap, went down.

  16.—It was now manifest that, however well disposed Sampson might be
  to punish his man, he was unable to get at him, and his blows left
  but little impression, although we observed a slight tinge of claret
  from Ward’s proboscis. This was a short round; Ward, endeavouring to
  put in a body blow, over-reached himself, and fell on his hands and
  knees.

  17.—Sampson put in a slight blow on the side of Ward’s head. Ward
  jumped back, but again returned to the charge, hit Sampson on the
  sore spot, threw him heavily, and fell upon him.

  18.—Ward planted a severe blow on Sampson’s wind, again caught him a
  rap on the nose, closed, and threw him, adding his own weight to the
  impetus of the fall.

  19.—Sampson came up boldly, although more cautious than heretofore.
  At last, on coming in, Ward hit him a terrific right-handed whack on
  his face, and floored him, in a twinkling.

  20.—Sampson rather more on the standoff, from a deficiency of wind,
  and a consciousness that he was getting the worst of the
  in-fighting. Ward, not disposed to let him remain long in suspense,
  rushed and peppered his mug with great severity; and at length
  catching him round the neck, fibbed him with effect on the
  nut-crackers, and grassed him.

  21.—Ward scarcely bore marks of the effects of his engagement,

          “And had everything now, as Bill Gibbons would say—
          Like the bull in the china-shop—all his own way.”

  Two to one was offered on Ward, but no takers; and the Brummagem,
  though no counterfeit, was evidently fast on the wane. Still he came
  up manfully, and in no way inclined to cry “enough.” Ward, with his
  customary caution, met Sampson as he came in, and fought at him with
  vigour; when Sampson fell, Ward on the top of him.

  22.—Sampson came up groggy. Ward saw his situation, and rushed in.
  Sampson fell weak, Ward again on him.

  23.—Sampson, although unsteady on his supporters, again went boldly
  up, when Ward floored him with a heavy spank on the throttle.

  24.—Ward, as fresh as at the commencement, came up cool and
  collected. Sampson was almost stupefied. Ward tapped him on the
  snuff-box, and again downed him, falling upon him. It was thought it
  was all over, and Ward went to shake hands with his friends at the
  side of the ring. To the surprise of all, however, Phil. came again.

  25.—Sampson tried a rush, and just reached Ward’s head. The latter
  laughed and popped in a right-hander on the body, when down went
  Sampson. Two more rounds took place, but they were all one way.
  Sampson, although the spirit was willing, had not the strength to
  carry out his intention, and at length, at the end of twenty-seven
  rounds, and thirty-seven minutes and a half, his friends took him
  away.

  REMARKS.—The reporter adds: Ward, by the result of this battle, and
  the manner in which he conducted himself throughout, entitled
  himself to the approbation of the fancy, and we trust he will not
  now find any difficulty in obtaining backers against a more worthy
  opponent. We believe him to be the best fighter in the ring, and we
  know not with whom his chance of success would not be equal to his
  merits. With regard to Sampson, we should be unjust if we were not
  to say that he fought with a bravery and determination worthy of a
  better result. His confidence was certainly mistaken; but having
  done his best, his backers have nothing with which to charge him. He
  is a good man, though somewhat slow, and there are many men in the
  ring with whom he may be fairly matched; but with Ward, it was “Mr.
  Justice Burroughs’ wig to a farthing rushlight” against him.


This last conquest placed Ward upon “the topmost round of Fortune’s
ladder.” He at once proposed to try his weight of metal and accuracy of
aim against the “Great Gun of Windsor,” Tom Cannon, and thus he framed
his—


          “CHALLENGE FOR ONE THOUSAND POUNDS TO THOMAS CANNON.

  “SIR,

  “I am happy to inform you that my friends possess so much confidence
  in me that they have asked me, unsolicited on my part, to have ‘a
  shy’ for the championship of England. In consequence of this
  unexpected and very liberal support of my backers, I am enabled to
  dispute your self-elected right to the above title. My heart is in
  its proper place on the subject; my hands are ready to support my
  claim; and my legs are on the alert to perform their office, when
  called upon, in the hour of battle. It now only remains for you, Tom
  Cannon, to name your day to make a deposit; also the time when it
  will be most convenient for you to peel, and I to strip; and
  likewise the sum you will put down, to set the thing a-going. In
  order to show you that it is no bounce upon my part, and that the
  sporting world may not be baulked as to a mill between us, to obtain
  that pugilistic honour which Tom Cribb so nobly maintained for many
  years, Pierce Egan has authority from my friends to make a match on
  my behalf for £1,000. A letter addressed to P. E., 113, Strand,
  respecting your answer, the blunt will be fobbed out in a twinkling.

  “Now, Tom, having made myself perfectly agreeable as to the terms of
  your challenge, and which I am sure, must also prove agreeable to
  your feelings (as I am well assured you fancy me as a customer), I
  have only to add that I sincerely wish you in good health, and
  likewise success in all your undertakings, except obtaining the
  honour of the championship. On that head I profess myself your
  rival; but if the chance of war should prove you the better man, the
  £1,000 will be awarded to you, without any grumbling on my part, and
  the proud title of champion into the bargain. Till then, Tom, I
  remain, with a couple of hands at your service,

                                                          “JAMES WARD.

  “_February 20, 1825._”


Ward felt highly delighted when the match was made between him and
Cannon for £500 a-side.

We have now arrived at the mill which decided definitively Ward’s right
to the championship. On the 26th of May, 1825, Tom Spring took a
farewell benefit at the Fives Court, when he finally retired from the
ring. After some excellent setting-to, Spring addressed the company, and
took his leave of them in the character of a boxer; and in his address,
he impressed, upon his brother pugilists the importance of integrity. He
said this was the key-stone to their success, and without it they would
find it impossible to preserve the respect or support of their patrons.
In the course of the evening Tom Cannon, after a set-to with Tom Oliver,
came forward and said that he could be backed to fight Jem Ward, who had
challenged him, and would make the match for £500 a-side. He had
promised Mr. Hayne, his backer, that he would never more enter the P.R.,
but that gentleman finding he was extremely anxious to fight Ward, had
not only absolved him from his promise, but, as on former occasions, had
consented to post the coal on his behalf. This declaration on behalf of
Cannon was received with acclamations, and a friend of Ward’s at once
intimated that he would attend at Tom Cribb’s, and make the match.
During the same evening, Peter Crawley also advanced to the edge of the
stage, and said he had intended to challenge Ward, but as Cannon had
been beforehand with him, he would only put forward his claim to fight
the winner. At the meeting at Old Tom Cribb’s, in Panton Street,
articles were duly signed, and the men were sent into training, Cannon
to Henley-on-Thames, and Ward to York. The meeting was fixed for the
19th July, 1825. As the day of battle approached, Cannon removed to
Marlborough, and Ward to Stony Stratford. With regard to weight there
was little difference, Cannon being twelve stone eight pounds, and Ward
twelve stone three pounds.

The celebrity of the battle, combined with a second treat—between Dick
Curtis and Warren—produced many competitors for the honour and profit of
fixing the scene of action, and at length the inhabitants of Leamington
and Warwick wrote and made a liberal offer to the men, if they would
fight in their district. Freedom from interruption was guaranteed, and
the combatants had the choice of the race-course, or an enclosed ground
adjoining a factory, which would contain 10,000 persons, and to which no
person could obtain admission without leave. The latter spot was fixed
upon, and the bustle on the road and in the town was fully equal to that
which was witnessed on the occasion of Cannon’s last fight with Josh.
Hudson. Cannon, accompanied by Mr. Hayne, and some friends, arrived at
Leamington on Sunday evening, but being refused admission to the
principal hotel there, they adjourned to Warwick, from whence, after
dinner, they moved to Stratford-on-Avon. Ward arrived at Warwick the
same evening, and took up his quarters at the Hare and Hounds.
Preparations commenced early on Monday morning, but before they had
proceeded far, the Mayor of Warwick intimated an intention of spoiling
the sport. He said it would be too much to permit two mills during one
mayoralty in his bailiwick, or he would be called the “Fighting Mayor.”
On enquiry it turned out he was influenced in his determination by the
clamours of certain spoilers of sport who are always busy on such
occasions. It was known that his worship was fond of the art pugilistic,
and would not interfere of his own free will. It was represented to him
that the fact of the mill coming off at Warwick would materially benefit
the tradespeople of the town, and other good reasons for
non-interference were also brought forward, but in vain, and at length
it was determined, in order to be on the safe side, that two stages
should be erected, one in the factory-yard originally selected, and one
on a spot not far distant, which was beyond the jurisdiction of the
mayor; and as it was still thought that his worship would not, in
reality, prove “rumbunctious,” it was ordered that the men should meet
at first in the factory-yard, and only resort to the second stage in the
event of necessity.

The bustle in Warwick on Monday night was something extraordinary; every
house in the town was crammed to suffocation. Some of the fancy, who had
been to Stratford, returned with the intelligence that Cannon was in the
highest condition and spirits, but still they were shy of backing him.
What little was done was at five to four on Ward.

On the morning of fighting both stages were complete, and around that in
the meadow beyond the jurisdiction of the mayor, wagons were placed for
the spectators. These vehicles were not required in the factory-yard, in
which there was ample accommodation for every one to see without
difficulty. At ten o’clock the mayor, accompanied by other magistrates,
intimated his final resolution that no fight should take place in the
borough, and consequently there was no alternative but to take advantage
of the second stage. Mr. Hayne arrived in the town at twelve o’clock,
and with the friends of Ward, proceeded to choose umpires and a referee.
Sir John Radford and Mr. Mann officiated in the former capacity, while
Mr. Osbaldeston, “the Old Squire,” obligingly accepted the office of
referee. After this ceremony, a little more betting occurred, at five to
four on Ward, and then a general move took place to the scene of action,
which was about a mile from the town, on the Birmingham road. By the
time the men arrived, there were about 12,000 persons present, including
an unusual number of the patrician class. The heat was intense, the
thermometer standing at 91 degrees in the shade. By half-past twelve the
men were on the ground; they were in first-rate condition, but both were
affected by the heat. They quickly mounted the stage, which was similar
in form to that on which Spring and Langan fought at Chichester. Cannon
was seconded by Tom Spring and Tom Cribb, while Ward was valeted by Tom
Oliver and Jack Randall. On peeling, both seemed thin, and Cannon
appeared to have aged considerably since his last encounter, at least
there was not that ruddy plumpness observable on former occasions. Ward
was fair and sleek as a greyhound, but there was a slight rash on his
body, produced, no doubt, by the heat. He smiled, and had an air of
confidence, which put his friends in high spirits. The toss for corners
was won by Cannon, who was, of course, placed with his back to the sun.

At the moment of setting-to, there was a general bustle, and some
confusion in the crowd, but order was soon restored, and all eyes were
fixed on the stage. The men were brought to the scratch at five minutes
to one, and the seconds and bottle-holders retired to their corners.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Cannon came up as if determined to lose no time in going to
  work. The position of Ward was firm; he seemed armed at all points
  for defence. Cannon advanced towards his man, broke ground, and hit
  right and left. Ward stopped him, retreated, and smiled. Cannon
  followed him, when Ward let fly with his right, and caught Cannon
  over the eye, and drew first blood. Cannon still busy, came in, but
  was stopped with a left-handed hit in the throat, and a ruby tinge
  was again visible. A sharp rally followed, Ward retreating,
  stopping, and nobbing his man as he came in. At length they closed
  and, after a short struggle, went down together. (Cheers for Ward,
  who decidedly had the best of the round.)

  2.—Cannon came up on the bustling system, and tried for an opening.
  Ward stopped him right and left, and, stepping backward a pace,
  jobbed him as he approached, with his right hand, over the left eye.
  Cannon, not dismayed, took this compliment kindly, and returned
  slightly on Jem’s cheek. A sharp rally followed, in which Cannon
  bustled to his man, and got to a close. Ward twisted his leg between
  the legs of Cannon, and threw him heavily, adding his own weight to
  the severity of the fall.

  3.—On coming to the scratch, Ward let fly with his left; it was
  cleverly stopped by Cannon. Cannon then bored in, and Ward retired
  fighting. As he retreated he succeeded in putting in two facers, but
  was at length bored down at the rails, and Cannon fell over him.
  Ward had a lucky escape from his head coming in contact with the
  board which skirted the stage, in this round. Had this accident
  happened, in all probability his fate would have been decided. The
  chance of such injuries forms one of the strongest objections to
  stage-fighting.

  4.—On coming up it was seen that Ward had not received a blow which
  left a mark. He smiled, and stood to his guard, while Cannon, all
  energy, rushed to the attack. Cannon made a right-handed hit, but
  Ward was awake, stopped it, and drew back. Cannon immediately rushed
  in, and after a short struggle both fell, Ward under.

  5.—Cannon again endeavoured to take the lead, but Ward was too
  quick, and delivered several facers. Cannon, not discouraged,
  continued his assault in gallant style, and finally Ward, in
  endeavouring to escape a right-handed blow, slipped down on his
  hands. This was claimed by Spring as the first knock-down blow, but
  we did not view it in that light.

  6.—Cannon renewed the bustling system, but fought wildly, and was
  evidently exhausting himself by his own exertions. He missed several
  well-intentioned blows, and as he followed his man he was met with a
  nozzler. A sharp rally followed, in which Ward received a severe
  blow on the side of the occiput, and finally slipped down close to
  the posts.

  7.—Both came to the scratch panting. Cannon hit out right and left
  with great wildness. Ward retreated to the corner of the stage, and
  Cannon closed in to him. Ward met him as he advanced with a facer,
  but was unable to break away. In this situation they both stood for
  a few seconds. Ward fibbed slightly; when at length Cannon threw him
  heavily. (Shouts for Cannon; and a bet of £15 to £10 was taken by a
  good judge.)

  8.—Both men were the worse for their efforts in the last round. The
  excessive heat of the sun seemed to oppress them, and, on coming to
  the scratch, Cannon, for the first time, sparred cautiously, while
  Ward waited for him open-mouthed. At last Cannon broke ground, and
  hit Ward under the ear. Jem retreated, but Cannon fought to a rally.
  In a close Ward put in a severe muzzler, threw Cannon a heavy fall,
  and at the same time dropped upon him.

  9.—On Cannon being lifted to his second’s knee, the mischievous
  effects of the last fall were obvious; he appeared quite groggy, and
  was evidently much exhausted. On time being called, however, he came
  up to the scratch with his accustomed game. He lost no time in
  rushing to his man, but Ward stopped him with a tremendous blow on
  the side of his nut. Ward then retreated to a corner of the ring.
  Cannon followed him, and as it were fell into his arms. In this
  state they stood for some seconds, and both were apparently
  exhausted. Ward smiled, and attempted to fib, but his hand fell
  almost powerless. At length Cannon dropped nearly senseless, and
  Ward, unable to stand, fell upon him. It was now clear that the game
  was nearly up, and five to one was offered on Ward, but not taken.

  10.—Cribb and Spring both exerted themselves to restore their man to
  animation, but he seemed quite stupefied, and came up reeling as if
  tipsy. Ward saw his advantage, and instantly came up, hit him right
  and left, on each side of the head, and on the nose, and the poor
  fellow dropped to rise no more. He was immediately lifted on his
  second’s knee, but was deaf to all encouragement. His head dropped
  powerless on his shoulder, and the carmine was seen trickling from
  his nose and mouth. Loud shouts of congratulation burst from Ward’s
  friends, and he walked to the side of the stage and shook hands with
  several of them. He afterwards approached Cannon, and took him by
  the hand, but the latter was insensible to his kindly feeling. Ward
  then descended from the stage, and mounting his straw tile, he was
  placed on a grey pony, and was conducted out of the ring in triumph.
  A surgeon who was on the ground mounted the stage and attended to
  Cannon, but a full half hour elapsed before his senses were
  restored, and he was then so weak that it became necessary to lift
  him into the carriage of Mr. Hayne, which was drawn up at the side
  of the stage to receive him. The fight lasted but ten minutes, and
  the amount of money which changed hands upon the result was immense.

  REMARKS.—This battle afforded but little scope for observation, and
  still less in the way of a pugilistic treat to the amateurs who were
  present. Cannon, from the outset, pursued his bustling system, and
  seemed to think that upon that alone depended his chance of success.
  By his exertions in this way, however, from the excessive heat of
  the day, he only tended to expedite his defeat; and we have no
  hesitation in saying that his final overthrow was more occasioned by
  exhaustion than by punishment. In fact, on looking at him while in a
  senseless state, there appeared to be no very great severity in the
  blows which he had received. His principal injuries were to be
  attributed to his falls, which were certainly very heavy. Ward
  fought throughout with great steadiness, presence of mind, and
  caution, and may be said to have won without a scratch; but, like
  Cannon, we do not think he could have stood up much longer,
  notwithstanding the excellence of his condition. He had two severe
  falls, but received only one blow of any importance, which was under
  the left ear.


The friends of Ward, in the course of the evening, sent up a message to
Mr. Hayne, at the Swan Hotel, that Ward should fight any man in England
for £500 a-side. Spring, being present, immediately waited on Ward’s
backers, at the Warwick Arms, and said Brown should fight Ward for the
sum mentioned; but Brown was objected to on account of his weight.
Spring then said he would fight Ward for £500 a-side, and come within a
stone of Ward’s weight, and he would put down immediately a hundred
sovereigns to make a deposit. This challenge was not accepted; when
Spring observed, Langan should fight Ward for £500 a-side. However,
after some conversation on the subject, the parties retired without
making any match.

Harry Holt took a benefit at the Fives Court, on Friday, the 22nd of
July, when Ward was introduced. Jem ascended the stage amidst loud
approbation, followed by Harry Holt, who, in a neat, appropriate speech,
introduced the belt, which was put round the body of Ward by Oliver. The
belt consisted of the blue and crimson colours worn at the late fight,
bound with the skin of a tiger. The clasp or buckle was made of
highly-polished steel, encircled with emblematical designs, and in the
middle of the clasp was a heart, worked with gold, on which was engraved
the following inscription:—“This belt was presented to James Ward, at
the Fives Court, St. Martin’s Street, Leicester Fields, on the 22nd of
July, in commemoration of his scientific and manly conquest of Thomas
Cannon, at Stanfield Park, Warwick, on the 19th of July, 1825. This
battle, at the present time, entitles him to the high and distinguished
appellation of the British Champion.” Ward had scarcely got the belt on,
when he said to a friend with a smile, “I have got it, and I mean to
keep it.” Ward, on meeting with Cannon, shook hands with him, and asked
him how he felt himself. “Very well,” was the reply; “the heat licked
me, Jem, and not the blows. The hits that passed between us could
neither hurt you nor me, Jem.” “I feel rather stiffish,” observed Ward:
“it was hot, indeed; and at one time I had no power to strike. They all
talk of fighting me now; but I shall not enter the ring for twelve
months. Let some of the big ones fight—Peter Crawley and Brown; but,
Cannon, if you wish to fight me again, I will fight you when you like.”
“I am very much obliged to you, Jem, for the preference; and if I can
raise the blunt, you may depend upon it I will make another match.”
Harry Holt returned thanks on the conclusion of his set-to with Ward;
and the court was cleared.

A great muster of the heavy betters took place at Tattersall’s, on
Monday, July 25, to receive and pay on the above milling event.
Considerable surprise was manifested throughout the circle, when the
following letters were read by the stakeholder:—


  “DEAR SIR,—

  “Mr. Hayne has desired me to request you will not deliver up the
  stakes of the fight between Cannon and Ward until the umpires and
  referee meet to decide the fairness of the battle.

                                                    “Yours, etc.
                                                        “W. A. CARTER.

  “_Furnival’s Inn, July 25, 1825._”

                  *       *       *       *       *

                                     “_Furnival’s Inn, July 25, 1825._

  “SIR,—

  “In consequence of serious doubts expressed by Mr. Hayne of the
  character of the late fight between Thomas Cannon and James Ward,
  and those doubts having been confirmed by others, I feel it my duty
  as umpire on the part of Cannon, both for the sake of Mr. Hayne and
  the sporting world, to request that you will retain in your hands
  the stakes until a meeting shall have taken place between the umpire
  of Ward, the referee (Mr. Osbaldeston), and myself. The articles
  specify, ‘that the stakes are to be given up according to the award
  of the umpires and referee;’ and no award having been made on the
  spot, I am perhaps justified in begging this short delay. In the
  interim I shall expect that any evidence which can be produced to
  sustain Mr. Hayne’s doubts will be brought forward. By Monday next
  our decision will, no doubt, be accomplished.

                                   “I have the honour to be, etc.
                                                               “J. R.”


The delay required, “as to something wrong,” was objected to by almost
every amateur present; it being asserted there was no necessity for
time, as it was the general opinion that a squarer fight had never taken
place in the annals of boxing. After some little argument in the
subscription room on the subject, it was decided that, as the umpires
and referee made no objection at the conclusion of the battle, Ward was
entitled to the stakes, and the stakeholder had a right to give up the
£1,000 to the backers of Ward. Cannon was present, and stated that he
had lost the battle against his will; and, as he went £200 in the
battle-money, he desired, at all events, that sum might be given up to
Ward. An indemnity was offered to the stakeholder, should any legal
proceedings be brought against him. The stakeholder, with much
promptness, immediately gave up the stakes, to the satisfaction of all
sporting men. In consequence of the decision of the stakeholder, some
thousands of pounds changed masters in the course of an hour. The
conduct of the stakeholder prevented shuffling in any part of the
kingdom.

It was generally expected that Jem’s easy conquest of Tom Cannon would
at once bring forward Peter Crawley, to redeem the promise he had made
in print to make a match with the winner. Peter, however, remained
silent; nor did he make any response when Ward issued a challenge to
fight “any man in the world” for £200 or £300 a-side. It was at one time
thought that a match would be made between Ward and Tom Spring—a “tiff”
having taken place between the champions,—but when the thing was
proposed Spring stated that he would not re-enter the ring, and Ward
said he would not fight Spring unless the latter would confine himself
to thirteen stone. No other claimant at this juncture appeared to
dispute Ward’s title to the championship. Wishing to enjoy some
retirement from milling, and, like a star belonging to another stage, to
make good benefits in the provinces, he issued the following notice of
his future intentions:—


  “_To the Editor of_ ‘PIERCE EGAN’S LIFE IN LONDON.’

  “SIR,—

  “It is my intention to start on a sparring tour for a few months. I
  beg you will do me the favour, through the medium of your journal,
  to inform those who have a wish to meet me in the P.R., that I shall
  not be at leisure for seven or eight months. In the interim, the
  various aspirants to the championship may contend with each other,
  and I shall be happy, at the expiration of the time specified, to
  accommodate the winner of the main.

                                       “I am, Sir, yours respectfully,
                                                         “JAMES WARD.

  “_Mulberry Tree, Commercial Road, July 26, 1825._”


In _Bell’s Life_ of the 2nd of July, 1826, the turn-up with Sampson is
stated to have been the result of a quarrel as to the division of the
proceeds of some sparring exhibition given by the erewhile rivals at
Norwich and elsewhere. It says: “Ten determined rounds were fought, in
which as much mischief was done as in many of those fights which have
cost a hundred miles trot to witness. The superiority of Ward was,
however, conspicuous throughout. He met Sampson’s fierce rushes with
coolness and scientific precision, drew his cork, and floored him in
every assault. Sampson succeeded in planting some heavy facers, and was
even with Ward in the claret way; but still he was overmatched, and
although he proved himself no mean opponent, he was constrained, as he
had been before, to knock under to one who may be fairly pronounced the
most accomplished boxer of the age.”

In the same paper, of the following week, a letter from Sampson appears,
denying the accuracy of the above account, and stating that it was not
caused by a quarrel, but was the result of a mutual agreement to see
which was the better man, and that it took place, with the gloves, at
York. Sampson further affirmed that he had the best of it throughout,
and that he intended again to enter the ring with Ward, when the public
would have an opportunity of judging which was entitled to pre-eminence.
This intention, luckily for the “Birmingham Youth,” he never carried
out, for in two months after he made a match with Ned Neale, the
Streatham Youth, an inferior boxer to Ward, by whom he was defeated in
eleven rounds, occupying sixty-six minutes. (See Life of NED NEALE).

Seventeen months had elapsed, notwithstanding all his challenges and
industry to get a job, before Ward met a customer in the person of Peter
Crawley. During this period Jem was viewed as champion of England. The
backers of Ward having consented that he should fight for £100 a-side, a
match was made between them; and on Tuesday, January 2, 1827, the battle
was decided upon Royston Heath, Cambridgeshire. In twenty-six minutes,
occupying eleven rounds, the title of champion passed to Peter Crawley,
as will be found in the memoir of Peter. The backers of Ward were so
satisfied with his brave conduct, although in defeat, that at Holt’s
benefit, two days after the fight, at the Tennis Court, they offered to
make another match for £1,000. Peter, however, refused, said he would
not fight any more, and left the championship open to those boxers who
wished to fight for it.

In the same paper with the speech of Crawley at the Tennis Court appears
a letter from Ward, in which, after regretting that Peter would not give
him another chance, and declaring that to the accidental blow in the
second round his defeat was attributable, he says, his friends will back
him against any man in England for £200 to £300 a-side. He concludes by
saying, “I still hold the champion’s belt, and certainly shall not
resign it to any man who will not fight for it.”

On Tuesday, the 6th of January, 1827, Ward took a benefit at the Tennis
Court, which was crowded by his patrons, who then bore testimony to
their approbation of his manly conduct in his fight with Peter Crawley.
Ward was anxious to get up a fight with Brown, of Bridgnorth, but as the
latter would not come to the scratch under £500, for the present the
match went off, Ward’s friends not being strong in the shiners to that
extent. The challenge, however, was again sent by Brown, and accepted at
the price by Ward, in May, but went off after much dispute on the point
of fighting on a stage, Brown declining to fight on turf. To this Ward’s
backers would not allow him to agree. Their objection was that a stage
fight with so big a man would be such a manifest disadvantage to Ward,
that it would be throwing away too great a chance. Brown, they urged,
would fight all fifteen stone, while Ward would be twelve stone four
pounds to twelve stone seven pounds; and it must be obvious that on a
stage a heavier body propelled against a lighter must increase the
danger to the latter, as the chances were that the lesser man would more
frequently come in contact with the rails, planks, or skirting boards,
and thus suffer twofold punishment from blows and contusions. At a
meeting at Tom Cribb’s, in April, 1827, they said, “It was true that
Ward himself had no objection to the stage, that he would as soon fight
Brown there, or even in a saw-pit, and it was only to be lamented that
Brown did not show a similar spirit. It was their duty to curb the
natural and courageous impulses of Ward’s heart, and to mix up, on his
behalf, prudence with valour. The stake to be fought for was not only
great in a pecuniary point of view, but great in point of glory, for the
winner would be champion of England. This was a prize of too much
magnitude to be treated lightly, or to be risked without due foresight,
and without equality in point of advantage.” Cribb, on the part of
Brown, could not make the match except on the terms authorised by Brown
himself, and therefore nothing was done. A long angry correspondence,
not worth preserving, ensued, in the course of which Brown offered to
stake £320 to Ward’s £300, if Ward would fight on a stage. Ward, on the
other hand, offered to fight for £100 a-side on a stage, or for £300, or
even £1,000 a-side, on turf. This was declined by Brown. Finally, the
question of superiority was decided in another way. Phil. Sampson
(thrice defeated by Ward), challenged Brown, and beat him, April 28,
1828, after forty-two hard-fought rounds in forty-nine minutes. This, in
the judgment of those who can get “a line” by the comparison of
performances, set at rest the question of the respective merits of Brown
and Ward.

_Bell’s Life_ remarks on this fight: “Brown turned out a blank in the
wheel of fortune. His main dependence seems to be on bodily strength and
a terrific hit with the right hand. These requisites may be fearful when
opposed to a novice, but with a scientific professor they prove of
little avail.” These remarks must convince any one that the big man of
Bridgnorth would have proved a chopping-block for the skilful and ready
Jem Ward.

An accident happened at this period which had nearly deprived the ring
of Jem’s services. On the day after the battle on which Ned Neale (see
Life of NEALE) a second time conquered Jem Burn (November 13, 1827), the
defeated man took a benefit at the Tennis Court, Windmill Street. The
principal sparring bout was between Ward and the gigantic Bob Burn. The
fine science of Jem was greatly admired, and he jumped in and out,
nobbing the big one with both hands till Bob was so hit to a stand-still
as to hold on the rail for support. Another round was called for, when
Jem drove Burn, hitting away rapidly; Burn’s back came forcibly against
the rail of the stage, which broke, and he fell backwards to the floor
of the Court. Jem, who was in the act of delivering, pitched after him
head foremost, and every spectator feared a disastrous result. Jem, who
was lying partly upon Burn, was first picked up. He was partially
stunned by the fall, but soon recovered, and said that, except a
sprained feeling in the back of his neck, and a barking of his shins
over the lower rail which added to the ugliness of his descent, he was
scarcely hurt. Burn escaped with even less injury—“a surprising fact,”
says the reporter, “seeing he weighs sixteen stone. That neither man was
killed, or had broken bones, is astonishing.”

We have seen Jem engaged in all sorts of correspondence with leading
pugilists, especially Simon Byrne and Big Brown, when, at the beginning
of 1828, a challenge appeared from the once-renowned Jack Carter, the
“Lancashire Champion,” a former opponent of Tom Spring. Jem had been on
a tour in Lancashire, and his Liverpool patrons testified their esteem
by giving him a bumper-benefit at the Gothic Rooms, at the close of the
year, and he, together with Dick Curtis, Young Dutch Sam, and Stockman,
reaped a rare harvest in that metropolis of the north at the
commencement of 1828. Being now in capital feather and high favour, he
returned to London, and on Friday, the 28th of February, 1828, a strong
muster of the fancy took place at the Castle Tavern, to witness the
arrangements for the match between him and Jack Carter. Jem, who had
come up from Liverpool to answer Carter’s challenge in person, and who
looked extremely well, was early at the scratch, and was soon after
joined by Carter. Jem said he was ready to post the pony forthwith,
according to Carter’s proposition, to fight for a hundred; but Jack’s
friend having, on reflection, backed out of his original pledge, and all
of a sudden discovered that he liked Ward too well to lay his money
against him, poor Jack was thrown on his beam end. In this dilemma he
proposed to match himself for £50, and trust to fortune to enable him to
get the goldfinches. Ward objected to fight for so small a sum, on the
ground of its letting him down from that station in the ring which he
had hitherto maintained. When being hard pressed, however, and entreated
as a particular favour to oblige his customer, his good nature would not
permit him to resist, and, to the satisfaction of all present, articles
were drawn up and signed, by which it was agreed that the men should
fight for £50 a-side, in a twenty-four feet roped ring, half-minute
time, on the 27th of May, within a hundred miles of London. Ward then
offered to fight Simon Byrne, of Glasgow, who had been “chaffy,” for
£250 to £200, and after this took his departure for Liverpool, where he
had at this period many staunch friends.

Carter had not fought since his battle with Spring, in 1819, and, at the
time of his present match, was thirty-eight years of age. In this
respect of course Ward had an immense advantage, his years only
numbering twenty-seven. In height and weight Carter had the advantage,
in the proportions of five feet eleven inches, and thirteen stone six
pounds, against five feet nine inches and a half, and twelve stone seven
pounds. In science Ward was known to be A1, and of course the odds in
his favour were very considerable. The fight took place on Shepperton
Range, on the 27th of May, 1828, in the presence of a large muster of
the fancy. Ward was seconded by Phil. Sampson and Dick Curtis, and
Carter by Tom Oliver and Young Dutch Sam. On stripping, Ward was in fine
condition. Carter also was in robust health, but his corporation partook
a little too much of civic importance.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Both men looked “unutterable things,” and each approached
  the other as if perfectly conscious he had his work to do. Ward
  worked his guard, and poised himself on his toes in his customary
  form, ready to let fly as an opportunity might offer. Carter stood
  erect, hands back on his breast, rather on the defensive than
  otherwise. Some time elapsed in mutual caution, Carter getting away,
  and keeping out of distance. At last, after nearly four minutes had
  elapsed, Carter threw out his left, but Ward was awake and stopped
  him. The blow was too short for effect. Twice did Carter try the
  same manœuvre, with as little success. Ward now crept in, and caught
  Carter with his right on the side of the head. Another little pause,
  when Ward again got in, and hit left and right. Carter now fought to
  a rally, but hit wildly, while Ward showed great quickness and tact
  in in-fighting, planting a heavy blow on Carter’s mouth with his
  left. Carter returned slightly on Ward’s cheek with his left, and in
  the close was thrown.

  2.—More caution on the part of Carter, while Ward worked his left
  for a shy. Carter hit out with his left, but it was short, and
  stopped, as was another trial of the same sort. Ward now got within
  distance, planted his one, two, and three, and catching Carter round
  the neck with his left, hit up with fearful precision, gave him
  another deep cut on the lip, and floored him. (Five to one on Ward.)

  3.—Carter came up bleeding from the lip, and flushed in the face.
  Jem was ready, and all on the tip-toe for mischief. Carter again
  tried his favourite left hand, but was prettily stopped. Jem made a
  feint; but, although Carter left himself open, he did not go in.
  Carter kept away for a time, and got away from a well-intentioned
  smack from Ward’s left, and smiled. At last Jem stood on no
  ceremony, but rushed in right and left, jobbing well on Carter’s
  nob. Carter fought with him, but wildly, and received a fresh
  visitation to his mouth. In the close for the fall, Carter was
  thrown over on his head.

  4.—Each stopped a left-handed compliment. Carter at length went in
  left and right, in rather a scrambling manner and open-handed. Jem
  drew back and jobbed him severely on the mug. Carter caught him
  round the neck, but Jem was alive to his opportunity, and his
  in-fighting was excellent; he hit up well, and in the close threw
  Carter a beautiful cross-buttock, falling heavily upon him.

  5.—Carter stopped Jem’s left with great quickness. Jem neatly rushed
  in with his one, two, and then drawing back, hit up in admirable
  style. Carter broke away, but Jem was with him, and counter-hits
  were exchanged. Jem now made himself up for execution, and having
  tried his right at Carter’s body, got to a rally, hammering away
  with all his might. Carter stood manfully to him, and popped in a
  good left-hander on the side of the nose. This roused Jem’s choler;
  he rattled in, delivering left and right, and hitting up. A long
  struggle ensued for the fall, during which Jem fibbed with great
  quickness. Carter got down, Ward falling easily upon him.

  6.—Carter hit short at the body, and stopped Jem’s right and left
  with excellent precision. He then planted a slight blow on Jem’s
  nob. Jem, all alive, saw his opening, and hit away left and right
  with the rapidity of lightning, and the activity of a two-year old.
  His execution was wonderful, and Carter’s left eye was puffed to a
  close; still Jem peppered away, until at last Carter fell on his
  knees somewhat groggy.

  7.—Carter came up game, but Jem gave him no time for reflection. He
  at once rushed to work, delivering with terrific precision, left and
  right. Carter was wild in his returns, and on closing was dropped.

  8.—(Thirty to one on Ward.) Jem jobbed severely with his right, and
  then with his left, drawing more crimson. Carter fought manfully
  with him, but without precision. Jem was busy at in-fighting, and in
  getting away fell on his back, while Carter remained standing.

  9.—Carter stopped Ward’s left and right with good science, but Ward
  was quick upon him, made a good left-handed job, and was ready to
  let fly, but Carter kept his distance. Carter made a good stop with
  his right, but left himself open, and Ward, alive at every point,
  went in to work left and right, and again hit up with wonderful
  rapidity. Carter fell on his knees, the claret visible from all
  parts of his face, his left eye completely dark.

  10.—Carter came up strong on his legs, though winded, and stopped
  Jem’s left. Jem then closed for in-fighting, and hit as he liked
  with telling effect, and Carter was grassed without a hope.

  11.—All in favour of Ward, who had it his own way and dropped his
  man, after he had hung for a short time on the ropes.

  12.—Carter was not to be stalled off; he hit short with his left.
  Ward stopped a well-intentioned delivery, but in a second attempt he
  was not so successful, as he caught Carter’s left on the nose, and a
  slight effusion of blood followed. Jem now rushed in, and catching
  Carter round the neck, jobbed and hit up repeatedly. Carter’s arm
  got entangled in the ropes, and he tried to grapple Jem; but Jem was
  too leary, and continued to pepper him in the face till he fell.

  13.—There was now a general cry for Carter to be taken away; but he
  would not have it, and again came up strong on his legs. He bored in
  wildly, and Ward jobbed him left and right in every direction. The
  deliveries were dreadful, and at length poor Jack was hit down.

  14.—Carter came up in a melancholy plight. (Cries of “Take him
  away.”) Ward went in to finish, hitting left and right, and cutting
  away without leaving Carter the shadow of a shade of a chance.
  Carter down.

  15.—(Renewed cries of “Take him away.”) Carter came up, and was
  immediately dropped.

  16.—Jem delivered right and left, and hit Carter down weak and
  groggy.

  17.—Spring and Peter Crawley, who were time-keepers, now entered the
  ring, and entreated Carter to give in, but he would not, and having
  received additional punishment, was dropped by a flush hit in the
  face. It was now clear that to prolong the fight would be
  inexcusable, and the referee entreated Carter to desist, as there
  was no chance in his favour. “Oh!” said the gallant fellow, “I can
  foight longer yet; there’s nought the matter with me.” The _primâ
  facie_ evidence of the contrary was so obvious, however, that his
  seconds being convinced it would be inhuman to suffer him to be
  further exposed to the severity of Ward’s hitting, gave in for him,
  to the general satisfaction of the spectators, who, although they
  could not but admire Carter’s game, felt that the seconds performed
  their duty in the humane course they had adopted. The fight lasted
  thirty-two minutes, and Ward, on shaking hands with his vanquished
  opponent, generously forewent a claim to a purse of £5 3_s._ 6_d._,
  which had been collected previous to the fight. Such was the
  favourable impression which Carter’s conduct had made in the ring,
  too, that a further subscription was made, which increased the
  original sum to £16.

  REMARKS.—Few remarks are necessary where the moves were all one way.
  Ward had the lead throughout, and may be said to have won without a
  scratch; in fact, we do not think he ever had an easier, but we must
  add, a gamer customer. Youth and science completely served age, and
  poor Jack showed that in matching himself with such a man as Ward he
  had suffered his imagination to get the better of his judgment. His
  punishment was entirely about the head, and he walked from the ring
  with great firmness, being still quite steady on his legs, a proof
  that he had paid every attention to his training.


Some few months after his defeat of Carter, Simon Byrne, then “Irish
Champion,” challenged Ward to fight upon a stage. To this Ward’s friends
could not consent, contending that a champion was not bound to grant any
unusual terms to his challengers, and that the modern and fairest
practice was to fight on turf. After some correspondence, Ward gave way,
and a match was made, to come off on the 8th of September, but went off
by a default of Simon’s backers, who forfeited £50 to Ward. A second
match was made at Tom Spring’s, on the 1st of October, to fight on a
stage for £150 a-side, on the first Tuesday in February, 1829. This also
went off, and a third was made for £100, to be decided on March 10,
1829, Byrne consenting to Ward’s terms. This event proved another shadow
on Jem’s career, which, were we not honest chroniclers, we would have
omitted, as other biographers have done. By this _suppressio veri_,
however, men’s lives cease to “point a moral,” however they may “adorn a
tale.”

The 10th of March, 1829, arrived in due course, being nearly one year
from the first challenge. We will not trust our own pen on this
occasion, but rather give the account fresh and fiery as it came forth
at that period.[38] It is headed thus:—


  “HOAX UPON THE FANCY.—JEM WARD AND SIMON BYRNE.—DISGRACEFUL SCENE AT
                               LEICESTER.

  “Our readers are all aware that the fight between Jem Ward (the
  champion of England) and Simon Byrne (the champion of Ireland,
  although acting under Scotch auspices, for he was generously backed
  by certain liberals at Greenock) was fixed to take place on Tuesday
  last, at the Cricket Ground, Leicester. It would be tedious to
  recall to the recollection of our readers all the ‘fine spun’
  correspondence which preceded this match, or to reiterate the terms
  of abuse in which each man addressed his opponent. It ought not to
  be forgotten that Ward, or his friends for him, assumed the title of
  ‘Champion of England,’ and that the would-be Champion of England—the
  most accomplished boxer of the age, and the darling of the East—was
  publicly charged by Irish Byrne with being a coward! To the honour
  of the British ring this could not be endured, and, at last, out
  came Ward’s friends to back him for £150. We pass by the
  disinclination of the Wardites to go towards Glasgow, and the spirit
  with which Byrne conceded, and agreed to fight within a hundred
  miles of London; but we cannot forget the avidity with which Ward’s
  friends grasped a forfeit of £50, because Byrne’s deposit came a day
  too late, nor avoid contrasting the conduct of the northern fancy
  with that of those of the south, by reminding our readers that the
  distinct request of Byrne’s friends was, that no such advantage
  should be taken of Ward. Suffice it to say that, after the forfeit
  of £50, the match was renewed for £100 a-side, and that Jem went
  into training, determined, as he said, and his real friends
  anticipated, on taking ample vengeance on the bouncing Patlander,
  who had dared to brand him with the epithet of coward. Indeed, so
  strong was the provocation that, many of Ward’s admirers looked on
  nothing more certain than that, in the very first round, Byrne would
  have been burst like a mealy potato.

  “The morning of Monday was ushered in by much bustle at Leicester.
  The Fair Play Club, Tom Oliver, the commissary of the ring and his
  _suite_, the _élite_ of the fancy, and the most distinguished
  amateurs thronged the streets. Other matches were made, and all
  appeared in high spirits; ‘but,’ says Mr. Vincent Dowling, ‘during
  all these scenes, we were surprised to observe the apathy which
  prevailed in the betting circles: scarcely a bet was offered, and
  nothing less than five to two on Ward would be taken, while few
  seemed disposed to risk such odds. There was, in truth, a mysterious
  backwardness on all hands, which we could not comprehend.’

  “The morning of Tuesday at last broke, and a finer day was never
  witnessed at this season of the year. Every hour brought fresh
  accessions to the visitors in the town, and horsemen and carriages
  came rattling in from every point of the compass. Among the former
  were most of the distinguished members of the hunts in the
  neighbourhood of Melton Mowbray, whose scarlet costume and
  high-mettled cattle as they dashed through the streets gave a
  sporting feature to the assemblage peculiarly in character. The
  bustle and crowd in Leicester increased to a ferment: hundreds were
  assembled in front of the sporting houses. All calculated on a
  glorious day’s sport, and in turn ventured an opinion on the merits
  of the combatants; but still scarcely a betting man would open his
  mouth, either to offer or take the odds on the event.

  “The Fair Play Club’s ropes and stakes were pitched by Tom Oliver,
  and a capital ring formed in the cricket ground. Anxiety now
  prevailed for the arrival of the men; that on the part of Ward was
  soon dissipated by his entering from a gate at the lower end of the
  ground in a carriage drawn by four horses. He alighted amidst the
  congratulations of his friends, and was conducted to the house of a
  private gentleman, which opened by a back way to the cricket ground.
  Simon Byrne arrived at an early hour in a fly with Tom Reynolds, and
  was soon attended by Tom Spring, who had agreed to act as his
  second.

  “An interference on the part of the magistrates disturbed at this
  time the arrangements of the ring, and Tom Oliver took up the stakes
  and toddled to Humberston, within ten miles of Leicester. At the
  same time that Oliver received his directions, the post-boys of
  Ward’s carriage were also desired to draw up to the door, for the
  purpose of taking him to the ground. So far not a hint had escaped
  that any impediment existed to the fair decision of the fight
  according to the articles.

  “During all these arrangements a number of gentlemen, and several
  persons connected with the betting circles, were congregated as a
  sort of council in a garden behind the house in which Ward was. In
  this garden was a privy, and to this privy Ward was seen to proceed,
  attended by Peter Crawley, who seemed to keep a steady eye on his
  motions. We spoke to him as he came out: he said he was very well,
  and again returned to the house. Shortly after this Crawley came
  forth by himself, and a consultation of a private nature took place
  between him, the gentleman who brought Ward down, and one or two
  other persons, which ended in Spring, the stakeholder, and the
  reporters of the London papers, being called into a private room.
  Peter Crawley now said he could no longer withhold the fact that
  Ward was unfit to fight, and had determined not to enter the ring
  that day. Had a thunder-bolt burst among the auditors it could not
  have produced more astonishment or dismay than this declaration.
  Crawley went on to say that Ward had told him he had passed a pint
  of blood on his last visit to the garden. To this all were
  disinclined to give credit, and Crawley, who saw he was on tender
  ground, did not persevere in this assertion, but remarked he was
  sure something was wrong, and that, in fact, Ward could not win the
  fight on the one hand, and would not lose it on the other, from a
  sense of duty to those gentlemen who had behaved so kindly to him.
  He then talked of some message which Ward had received on the
  previous day, the nature of which he did not know, and in fact spoke
  so undecidedly that no clear understanding could be formed on the
  subject. Ward was then called in and interrogated, when he repeated
  Crawley’s story of the blood, and said he was not fit to fight for
  twopence. He denied having received or having been promised any
  money to lose the fight, but said he knew some of his friends would
  lose thousands by the result, and he thought it was better not to
  put either his backers on the one hand, or those who had taken the
  odds on the other, in jeopardy. It was in vain to endeavour to
  elicit more: all he added was, that ‘he could not win, and would not
  lose.’ As the only alternative, it was then determined by his
  backers that he should forfeit the money down.

  “Thus ended this extraordinary bubble. Ward was left to the
  enjoyment of his brandy and water; and those who had an interest in
  the remaining sports of the day set out for the ring, around which
  twelve or fourteen thousand persons of all degrees had already
  assembled, including at least two thousand horsemen, all of whom,
  being ignorant of Ward’s conduct, were anxiously awaiting his
  arrival. Upon this affair observation would be superfluous, as all
  must agree that it admits of no apology, although Ward, having got
  himself into the hobble, perhaps did that which, under the
  circumstances, was best. It was a question with him, too, whether he
  would have been permitted to lose the fight, for there was a party
  present who were backing him, and who, their suspicions being
  aroused, would not have failed to manifest their feelings by acts of
  violence.”


Thus far the leading sporting paper of the time. Heavy was the
visitation on Ward for his misconduct from all quarters. His backers
left him, his friends forsook him, the Fair Play Club expunged his name
from their list, and the supporters of the ring, to a man, turned their
backs upon him. His name was never heard until the August of the same
year, when a gentleman proposed to back an anonymous person against
Byrne for £500 a-side. The challenge was accepted by Byrne’s friends,
but they barred Ward; and as the party alluded to turned out to be Ward,
the challenge went off amidst groans and hootings. Byrne, however, got
“chaffy,” and offered to have a turn-up with Ward wherever he met him,
for love, not for money. Ward, in reply, insisted on fighting for a sum,
and Byrne retorted by an historical sketch of Ward’s conduct and
character, not in the brightest colours, concluding with a threat to
“treat him as a street ruffian” whenever he met him.

This nettled Jem so excessively that he answered in a letter from
Southampton, and offered to fight guineas to pounds, and as Byrne
objected to meet him in the ring, he said, in conclusion, “I will fight
him in a saw-pit or on the outside of a coach.” More letters of the same
kind followed in their turn, Byrne still taunting Ward, but declining to
meet him in the ring. Ward now found a strong advocate in a party who
wrote under the signature of an “Old Patron of the Ring,” and public
opinion took a slight turn in his favour.

On St. Patrick’s day, 1830, Simon Byrne had a benefit at the Tennis
Court, and took the opportunity, being in high spirits and excellent
humour, to propose a fight with Ward. The challenge was eagerly
accepted, and the men met the next evening at the Castle to “post the
coal” and settle the preliminaries. Ward and Byrne shook hands and took
a drop together to make things right, after which it was agreed that the
match should be made for £200 a-side. A previous battle between Byrne
and M’Kay coming in the way, it was agreed that Jem and Simon should
have their grand turn-up four months afterwards. The second deposit was
made good on the Friday following, when Ward expressed great anxiety to
prove, by his conduct in this contest, his wish to secure the respect
and confidence of the sporting world.

The fatal fight between M’Kay and Simon Byrne came off on Wednesday, the
2nd of June, and terminated in the defeat and death of poor Sandy M’Kay,
and the consequent arrest of Byrne. The following Wednesday had been
appointed for making the third deposit on the match between Ward and
Byrne. The friends of both parties attended with the money, but Simon’s
backers suggested that the stakes should be drawn, as it was not decent
to carry on arrangements for another fight while one pugilist was lying
dead, and the victor, a party to the present match, in prison on a
charge of manslaughter. Ward’s friend, however, claimed forfeit if the
cash was not put down, and Simon’s party thereupon paid up the deposit,
the match still standing for October the 5th. Ward, however, in the next
week, despite his greedy adviser, agreed to withdraw the stakes,
receiving £10 for his trouble, and the match was altogether off,
thereby, as was said at the time, obtaining by his conduct the
approbation of every honest man. Simon Byrne stood his trial, was
acquitted, and duly feasted and dinnered by the sporting world. Ward
renewed the challenge immediately for £100, but £200 was required by
Byrne, and much ink-shedding, but no battle, ensued. Pugilistic
protocols again passed between the parties, but still, as Byrne wanted
£200, and Ward could not get it, the fight was as far off as ever, and
thus ended the year 1830, Ward having now rested three years without a
round.

At last, however, but not without another preliminary misunderstanding,
the match which “_did_ come off” was made at the Castle, Holborn, on
Tuesday, March 17, 1831 (St. Patrick’s Day). The tin was posted, the
articles formulated and signed, and the whereabouts fixed. Ward was to
fight Byrne in a twenty-four feet ring, half-minute time, for £200
a-side, on Tuesday, the 12th of July, within a hundred miles of London,
on the road to Liverpool. There was a clause, that if any money should
be offered for the honour of the combat it should be equally divided
between the men. Such an offer was made from Warwick to the amount of
£60, and accepted; and, in consequence, the men received orders to shape
their course in that direction—Ward from Liverpool, where he had taken
his exercise, and Byrne from Norwood, where, under the surveillance of
Ned Neale, he had taken some degree of training. That he had not done
sufficient work, the following remarks, taken from _Bell’s Life in
London_, will sufficiently show:—

“Both men were far beyond their weight when the match was made, topping,
perhaps, not less than fifteen stone each, and to the reduction of this
Ward immediately applied himself, by constant exercise; while Byrne
remained in Ireland till within six weeks of the day of action, without
taking any steps to qualify himself for the important task he had in
view, and at that time arrived in London with all his work before him.
That this was imprudent no judge will deny, and the consequence was,
that a week before fighting he was full a stone heavier than he ought to
have been; and even on the Thursday previous to entering the ring he
took a sweat, which reduced the strength he then possessed and gave a
shock to his system which common prudence should have induced him to
avoid. On Sunday also he got drenched to the skin in a shower of rain,
and caught a cold, from the effects of which he laboured on entering the
ring. Ward, on the contrary, neglected nothing which either sense or
judgment could dictate, and could not have been in better trim. We state
these things as matters of fact, forming some apology in the minds of
Byrne’s friends for his defeat; but we have no hesitation in saying, had
he been as well as skill and strict training could make him, he would
have had no chance against the matchless tactics of his antagonist, who
fully realized the high opinion that had been formed of him.”

It being known that Warwick was the fixture, an extraordinary number of
patrons of milling betook themselves to that celebrated fistic locality
several days before that appointed for the contest. On the Saturday,
however, a meeting of “beaks” took place, at which it was resolved to
stay proceedings, either in the town or county, and a polite justice
called upon Tom Spring, who was in attendance on Byrne, to inform him of
the determination of those in authority. It being clear that their
worships were in earnest, a council of war was held, when it was
determined that as the inhabitants of Warwick had given the men £60, the
affair should be settled as near as possible to the town, without
infringing upon the bailiwick of those who had interfered. Accordingly
the neighbourhood of Stratford-on-Avon, a very few miles distant, was
selected, and in a field at Willeycutt an admirable ring was formed by
Tom Oliver and his then assistant, the renowned Frosty-faced Fogo. There
was a good gate to the field, at which a considerable sum was collected.
As it was not known in London and elsewhere that Warwick had been
tabooed, that town, despite the officiousness of the “blues,” reaped
considerable benefit from the mill, since almost all the cognoscenti
betook themselves thither on the Saturday and Monday, and sojourned
there until the morning of fighting. This was exceedingly fortunate for
the inhabitants, who were thus in some degree enabled to repay
themselves the sum they had disbursed to induce the men to come into
their district. The interest was not quite so strong as it had been on
the occasion of the fights between Cannon and Hudson, and Ward and
Cannon, but still the muster was very great, and on the morning there
was such a demand for vehicles as far exceeded the supply; in fact so
great was it that poor Simon Byrne was compelled to proceed to the
ground in a mourning coach, which was looked upon by the superstitious
as a most decided ill omen. The morning was anything but favourable for
milling: the rain descended in torrents from an early hour until twelve
o’clock, soaking many of the “toddlers” to the skin. Happily, however,
at this period the clouds disappeared, and left the sky free from speck,
a change which had an immediate effect in raising the spirits of the
company.

At five minutes past one o’clock, Ward, attended by Harry Holt and Peter
Crawley, flung his castor into the ring amidst the deafening cheers of
his friends. The brave Irishman was not long after him, and on entering
the arena, attended by Spring and Tom Reynolds, he also received a warm
welcome. The betting at this time was £300 to £200 on Ward. On the
latter being completely unshelled, he looked in admirable condition. His
countenance was clear and healthful, and his eye bright and playful; his
deep chest and broad shoulders gave him the appearance of prodigious
strength, while the general symmetry of his person presented a fine
study for the anatomist. He had evidently paid great attention to his
training, for, despite the immense reduction he had undergone—from
fifteen stone to twelve stone eight pounds—his vigour and muscle were
unimpaired.

On turning to Byrne there was a wide contrast. He was heavier than Ward
by a stone; but this bulk was more to his prejudice than in his favour,
for it threw a shade of sluggishness over his form that forbad the
impression of active vigour: the fat hung in loose collops over his
drawers, and his full habit of body showed that he was not the thing;
still he assumed an air of confidence, and prepared for action with a
smiling mug.

The men and their seconds having crossed mawleys, and umpires and a
referee having been selected, the heroes were left at the scratch to
commence—


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Both men stood on their guard, eyeing each other with
  steadiness, and each waiting for the other to commence. Byrne made a
  slight dodge with his left, but Ward was prepared. Byrne held his
  right low, and his left ready for a counter-hit. Ward made a feint
  with his left; Byrne drew back alarmed. Ward now covered his man in
  good style, and gradually drove him back to the corner of the ring.
  Byrne was ready for the assault, when Ward, quickly playing with his
  right and left, rushed in to hit. Byrne stopped the blows and
  closed, when both tried the fibbing system. Byrne hit up slightly,
  and Ward caught him on the mouth. In the close and try for the fall
  both went down, and on rising Byrne showed first blood from a slight
  scratch under the nether lip. Shouts for Ward, who showed a slight
  flush on the chin and right ear.

  2.—Ward came up all life and smiling. Byrne steady on his guard, his
  right still low, and his left ready for countering. Jem made play to
  try his man. Byrne again gradually retreated to the corner, when Jem
  made himself up for mischief, rattled in, and planted his left on
  Byrne’s mouth. A short rally followed, in which Ward had the
  advantage; and in the close Byrne went down to avoid in-fighting.

  3.—No great harm done on either side. The friends of Ward on the
  chaffing system, and exclamations of “We want no Irishman for
  champion.” Byrne’s friends called on him to be leary; he smiled, and
  said, “don’t bother me.” Ward stretched out his left and nearly
  reached Byrne’s face, but Byrne still kept his right down. “He’ll
  stand it,” cried Dick Curtis, when counters were exchanged from the
  left. Ward stopped Simon’s blow, but popped in his own. A short
  rally, in which Ward stopped beautifully, and closed. Byrne would
  not have it, and got down.

  4.—Ward made a feint with his left. Byrne steady on his guard, but
  made no attempt to commence fighting. Ward again made play, left and
  right, and darting in, planted his left on Byrne’s mug. In the
  counter-hitting which followed, Byrne was too short, and his right
  no use. He caught it again on his muzzle, and fell on his knees.
  Ward hit up with his right as he was going down, and Byrne showed
  more claret from his mouth.

  5.—Cheers for Ward, who evidently out-fought his man; and Byrne gave
  symptoms of timidity, his legs trembling under him. Ward again made
  a feint with his left, and Byrne drew back. Ward smiled. Byrne tried
  his left, but was stopped with great precision. He then hit round
  with his right, but Ward caught it on his shoulder, and got away
  laughing. Counter-hits with the left, Ward getting home first, and
  drawing more blood from Simon’s mouth. Byrne’s left was short of its
  mark. Ward again planted his left and rushed to in-fighting. Byrne
  was confused, and went down amidst cries of “Stand up and fight like
  a man.”

  6.—Jem exhibited his generalship in fine style, and Byrne could make
  nothing of him. Again did Ward pop in his left on Byrne’s nose, and
  got away. A sharp rally, in which both stopped well. In getting
  away, Ward fell on his knees, but was up in a moment and at it
  again; popped in his left twice in succession on the old spot. Byrne
  weak on his legs; Ward all alive. In the close, Byrne down, amidst
  renewed cries of “Cur!” Byrne saw he had no chance in the close, and
  was coming the cautious.

  7.—It was clear Byrne could not hit his man, who was always so well
  covered as to render assault dangerous. Byrne looked bothered, and
  was evidently alarmed for the result. The ruby was flowing from his
  nose and mouth. He stopped Ward’s left cleverly, and tried his right
  on Ward’s canister, but Ward caught it on his shoulder, which he
  threw up so as to cover his lug. Jem jobbed twice in succession with
  his left. Byrne’s left, in attempting to counter, fell short. Jem
  stopped right and left. Byrne open-mouthed. Jem again busy with his
  left. A rally, in which slight hits were exchanged right and left,
  and Jem fell on his inexpressibles. The first knock-down blow was
  here claimed for Byrne, but disputed. The referee, we understand,
  pronounced it a knock-down.

  8.—At the commencement of this round a wag let go a crow from a bag,
  which flew across the ring. Some cried “a pigeon,” others “a crow,”
  and a Hibernian praty-dealer exclaimed, “Oh, by Jabers, you’re not
  going to _crow_ over us neither.” Loud laughter from all parts of
  the ring. Ward stopped a left-handed compliment, and smiled; he then
  popped in a left-handed snorter; but Byrne, in return, caught him a
  heavy body blow with his right. Ward popped in his left twice in
  smashing style, and in a third visitation of the same sort hit Byrne
  down. This was proclaimed a decided knock-down blow.

  9.—Byrne weak, and bleeding profusely. Ward jobbed him with his left
  several times in succession with great severity. Byrne, still game,
  tried to plant his left and right, but was beautifully stopped. A
  rally, in which Ward, busy as a bee, planted right and left, hit up
  with his left, and, as Byrne was going down, caught him across the
  throat with his right, and dropped him on his seat of honour.

  10.—The fight had now lasted twenty-eight minutes, and Jem had not a
  mark visible, save on the chin, and a trifling effusion of blood
  from the gums. Byrne tried his right, but Jem up shoulder and
  stopped him. Jem now made play, and in went his left at the mouth
  and nose and no mistake. Byrne tried to return, but was stopped, and
  in the close Byrne went down weak.

  11.—Jem walked strong from his second’s knee. Byrne tried his right
  at the mark, but Jem caught it on his elbow, and Byrne having
  dropped his head, he caught him cleverly an upper-cut as he
  recovered himself. Byrne was broken-hearted from the scientific way
  in which he was stopped, but again tried a rally, in which he
  received pepper left and right, and in the close went down weak.
  (Cries of “Byrne, you’re a game fellow, but you haven’t a chance.”)
  This was obvious, but still Byrne’s friends looked forward to Ward
  becoming weak.

  12.—The punishment had been heretofore all on Byrne’s mouth and
  nose, and they continued to bleed freely. Ward caught a visitation
  on his mouth, amidst cries of “Well done, Byrne.” A rally, in which
  Byrne missed his hits, but received on the nose, and went down by
  the ropes.

  13.—Ward ready, and determined not to throw a chance away. Byrne
  tried a body blow, but was stopped, receiving in return a smasher on
  the nose—more claret. Jem’s shoulder again shielded his lug from a
  visitation. Counter-hits: Ward’s told first, and Byrne’s was
  stopped. Byrne rushed in; Ward hit up heavily, but missed, and Byrne
  went down.

  14.—Thirty-three minutes had now elapsed, and Jem showed slight
  symptoms of fatigue. (“Take your time,” cried his seconds, “the day
  is long, and you must win without a scratch.”) Byrne appeared to
  have got his second wind, and went in with spirit, but was stopped
  right and left. Ward was busy with his left, and again stopped a
  right-hander with his shoulder. A short rally, in which Byrne was
  unable to plant a blow, but was hit down with a flush hit from the
  left. (Twenty to one on Ward, which Neale offered to take, but no
  go.)

  15.—Ward made a feint with his left, and the next instant popped it
  in in good earnest. Counter-hitting. Byrne could not get home, and
  had it smartly on his mouth. Several left-handed jobs, and a
  dreadful upper-cut from Jem, when Byrne went down groggy.

  16.—Byrne tried, the left at the body, but missed, and went down
  without a blow.

  17.—Jem jobbed twice with his left, and got away. Byrne’s hits were
  well meant, but out of distance. Byrne received an upper-cut from
  the left, and went down.

  18.—Ward, all confidence, had recovered his temporary weakness.
  Byrne tried his left, but was stopped. Jem, after his feint, popped
  in his left three times, and Byrne was dropped.

  19.—Counter-hitting with the left. Ward’s blows told, but Byrne’s
  were short. Jem stopped right and left, and got away. Byrne was
  completely puzzled, and did not know what to be at. Jem tipped him a
  left-hander. Byrne once more tried the right, but Jem’s shoulder was
  in the way, and he laughed at the impotent attempt. A rally, which
  ended in Byrne being hit down by Ward’s right.

  20.—One hour had now elapsed. Ward was as fresh as a kitten,
  completely belying the rumour that he could not stand forty-five
  minutes. Poor Byrne received several severe jobbers, and went down.

  21.—Things were now apparently fast drawing to a close. Ward did as
  he liked, hitting left and right. Byrne down.

  22.—It was now admitted on all sides that Byrne showed game. He
  would not be taken away; and after receiving additional jobbers, was
  hit down, catching the upper-cut as he fell. (“Take him away,” was
  the general cry.)

  23.—Byrne made a bold effort to get a turn in his favour, and rushed
  to a rally, but his opponent was too good a general, stopping him at
  all points, and returning with great severity; in the end hitting
  him down with a sweeping blow from the left.

  24.—Jem tapped his man with his left. Byrne nodded, showing that he
  was still in hopes. Byrne made play with unexpected vigour, but Jem
  out-generalled him, popped in his left-hand teazer, and dropped him.

  25.—A guinea to sixpence on Ward. Byrne made a desperate effort, and
  left-handed counters were exchanged, Byrne catching Ward on the
  throat. (Cheers for Byrne, and the Wardites astonished.) Byrne
  fought away, and gave Ward his work to stop him. He at last fell
  from a left-handed nobber.

  26.—Byrne rather exhausted by his exertions in the last round, but
  still determined to do his best. Hits were exchanged—slight on the
  part of Byrne, but heavy from Ward; and in going down, poor Byrne
  received a heavy upper-cut.

  27.—Ward’s friends again up in the stirrups, twenty to one going a
  begging. Ward ready at all points and full of confidence. Byrne a
  heavy receiver, and hit down with a flush tap in the mouth.

  28.—Ward, fresh and jolly, hit with his left twice. Byrne bored in,
  and tumbled Ward down at the ropes, falling upon him.

  29.—One hour and ten minutes had now elapsed, and Ward, instead of
  getting weaker, gained strength, showing the excellence of his
  condition. Byrne got away from a left-handed finisher. In a new
  attempt he was caught. He popped in his left at Ward’s bread-basket,
  but as he went down had a left-handed upper-cut.

  30.—Counter-hits with the left on the mouth; both told, and were
  allowed to be the best exchanges yet made, all before being on the
  side of Ward. Byrne went down, but Ward caught him as he fell with a
  left-handed muzzler.

  31.—A slaughtering round for poor Byrne, who had it repeatedly on
  the mouth with the left, and in going down received the upper-cut
  from Ward, who was never astray.

  32.—Byrne greatly distressed. Ward went in to finish; planted his
  left three times. Byrne down.

  33 and last.—Byrne now came up to make his last effort, but he was
  too far gone to make a change, and this more from exhaustion than
  hard hitting, for the blows were not delivered in dangerous places;
  still he was constantly receiving, and now again he had pepper in
  abundance, without being able to make any adequate return. In going
  down, Ward made a desperate back-handed offer with his right, but
  missed. It was clear to Spring and Reynolds that their man had no
  chance, and they prudently acknowledged Ward to be the better man.
  Jem immediately gave an active bound, shook hands with his fallen
  foe and his friends, and quitted the ring amidst loud cheers. The
  fight lasted one hour and seventeen minutes.

  REMARKS.—Thus ended Ward’s last battle for the championship of
  England, to which it may now be said Byrne had not the slightest
  pretensions. He had the vanity to hold his antagonist too cheap,
  and, unfortunately, deceived his friends, who followed his example.
  Ward, throughout, proved himself a consummate general, and never
  gave his opponent a chance, nor did he himself throw a chance away.
  He fought skilfully and scientifically, and has fulfilled that high
  character of his talents which was never doubted. Byrne proved
  himself an easy customer: he was clearly not in tip-top-condition;
  but it was never in his nature to beat a man like Jem Ward. He must
  now look for a second-rate customer, and profit by experience. That
  he is a game man at receiving, no one will doubt; but he was clearly
  afraid of his opponent after the first few rounds. It puzzled his
  friends to account for his never trying to stop Ward’s left, nor to
  rush to a ruffianing fight; but the fact was, his spirit was broken,
  and he had not his wits about him. He says, after the third round
  his arms felt as heavy as lead, and that he never was so
  transmogrified before. It is a singular fact that neither of the men
  had a black eye; neither had an external cut worth mentioning; nor
  was there a single good fall or cross-buttock throughout the fight.
  Byrne was beaten solely by exhaustion and repeated slaps on the nose
  and mouth, which would not have prevented his coming again had such
  a step been wise.


The men reached London on Wednesday night, Ward without a scratch, and
Byrne only exhibiting a swollen mouth and nose, rather a surprising
state of his phiz considering the repetition of Ward’s left-handed jobs.

On the Thursday following the fight Jem Ward was presented with a second
champion’s belt by Tom Spring, at the Tennis Court, Windmill Street, on
the occasion of Reuben Martin’s benefit; and on the following evening,
when the battle-money was given up, he (Ward) offered to make a match to
fight any man in the world for any sum from £100 to £500 a-side. This
challenge was not accepted. Young Dutch Sam, however, offered to fight
Ward if the latter would confine himself to twelve stone, and stake
odds; but of course, as Ward could not so far reduce himself, the offer
was not accepted. On the 25th of June, 1832, Jem wrote a letter to the
editor of _Bell’s Life in London_, in which he stated that he had taken
the Belt public-house at Liverpool, that it was his intention to retire
from the ring, and to hand over the champion’s belt to the first man who
proved himself worthy of it. Several challenges were subsequently issued
to Ward, but none of them ever led to any meeting, and Jem adhered to
his intention of not again entering the prize ring. He carried on
business as a tavern keeper, first at the Star and then at the York
Hotel, Williamson Square, Liverpool. In 1853, Ward removed to London,
and became host of the Rose, in Jermyn Street. This speculation proving
unsuccessful, his friends placed him in business at the Three Tuns, in
Oxford Street, renamed the Champion’s Stores. Thence Jem Ward removed to
his native locality, the east end of London, becoming landlord of the
George, in Ratcliff Highway. The generation, however, who knew Jem as
“the Black Diamond,” had passed away, and Ward once again migrated
westward, this time opening the theatrical house, opposite Old Drury,
known by various signs, and then as the Sir John Falstaff, in Brydges
Street, a name now merged in Catherine Street, of which it is a
continuation. We last saw Jem at the ring-side, looking, as a daily
paper observed, “like a grey-moustached half-pay major,” at the wretched
burlesque of a championship-fight, performed by Jem Mace and Joe Goss,
at Farningham, Kent, on the 17th of May, 1866.

We must not omit to note that Ward possessed an inborn gift of artistic
talent. His favourite pursuit was the wielding of the painter’s brush
and maulstick. On several occasions Ward’s pictures were received with
credit at the Liverpool Exhibition, and were mentioned approvingly by
the public journals as displaying a remarkable degree of natural talent;
so much so that an art critic wrote, “had Ward devoted himself to the
study and practice of painting in his earlier years he would doubtless
have attained eminence.” The writer, on his visit many years ago to
Williamson Square, inspected in Jem’s studio, paintings (some sea-pieces
especially) which bore marks of peculiar talent and no mean skill in
manipulation. At this time too (she has retired from professional life),
Miss Eleanor Ward, a pupil of Sir Julius Benedict, was fast rising in
public esteem to the first ranks of pianoforte performers in the best of
our concert-rooms. Ward’s hobbies, painting and music, adopted late in
life, we fear injured his worldly calling as a sporting boniface, and,
after several failures, he retired, by the assistance and votes of his
friends, into that admirable institution, the Licensed Victuallers’
Asylum, in the Old Kent Road; in the parlour of one of the snug separate
dwellings of which we conversed with him, still cheery and animated, in
the month of June of this present year, 1880, in his 80th year; Jem
dating his birth, as we have already stated, from “Boxing Day” in the
last twelvemonth of the last century.

[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER II.
    PETER CRAWLEY, ORIGINALLY KNOWN AS “YOUNG RUMP STEAK”—1818–1827.


The “ponderous Peter,” who in the year ’65, passed quietly, and with the
fame of a fair, courageous, and honest man, from the scene of “the
battle of life,” made his first public bow to the fancy in a trial
set-to with a Mr. Thomas Watson, a skilful amateur and patron of the
ring, whose name continually occurs in “match-makings” of that period.
This took place at George Head’s sparring saloon, in East Harding
Street, Gough Square, on Wednesday, February 11, 1818, Peter being then
a florid youth of eighteen, six feet in height, eleven stone ten pounds
in weight, and of a courage well tested in several boyish and youthful
encounters. Among a collection of disjointed newspaper scraps in the
second volume of “Boxiana,” p. 493, is a notice of this set-to, which is
there called “a glove combat of two hours and a half.” Pierce Egan adds:
“The above set-to was pronounced by the judges upon this occasion one of
the best things of the sort ever witnessed.” We learn from another
source, “This severe trial proved so satisfactory to his friends, from
the science, coolness, and straight hitting displayed by Peter, that he
was pronounced to be capable of having a shy in the P.R., and in the
enthusiasm of the moment, the sire of Crawley exclaimed, ‘My boy bids
fair to be champion of England!’” Before, however, we trace his rise in
the ring, we will glance backward to his “birth and parentage.”

Mine host of the Duke’s Head and French Horn first saw the daylight at
the house of his father, a butcher, at Newington Green, on the 5th of
December, 1799, and was in due time initiated in the art and mystery of
“cutting up.” Peter, who was an open-hearted lad, somewhat given to
milling when attempted to be imposed upon by “the lads of the cleaver,”
was placed by his father with a butcher in Clare Market, he having an
idea that a boy learnt his business best away from home. Here the
“ruling passion” displayed itself. Having been called upon to act as
second in “the Long Fields” to a “boy” belonging to the market, words
took place between the seconds as to the fairness of the fight, and one
Hurst, a big blacksmith, of Holles Street, at once “pitched into” Peter
before he could get his hands up. “A ring” was called, and in no more
than three rounds “Young Rump Steak” had so satisfied the blacksmith’s
milling appetite that he had no more “stomach for the fray.”

George Colman, a man of superior age and some milling repute, had a
short drawn battle with Peter; and the same result followed a mill with
a dog-dealer of the name of Bennett. Tom Price, a well-known
“kill-bull,” of the same region (Clare Market), had talked much about
“serving cut” “the boy Peter,” if he got a chance. He sought an
opportunity, and promised him a sound thrashing. “Come along,” said
Peter, “I’m quite ready to do it at the _price_; in fact, I’ll do it for
nothing.” This contemptuous mode of treating the boxing pretensions of
Price so angered him that his coat was off in an instant; and a
convenient spot having been found—for in those days “peelers” were not,
and day-constables only in the form of street-keepers in the great
thoroughfares—a stable-yard saw the two heroes of the market thoroughly
peeled, with seconds and the other appliances _selon le règle_. Price
showed more impetuosity than skill, but was so steadily met that, at the
end of twenty minutes, he declared he would not fight any longer, unless
Peter would allow him time to get his wind. To this curious request
Crawley agreed, and Price immediately took a walk, as his second termed
it, to get a little air; but he never returned to finish the battle,
leaving Peter master of the ground.

Crawley changed his place of residence, and Bloomsbury Market became the
scene of his exploits. The Bloomsbury boys had quarrelled with the lads
of the Coal-yard in Drury Lane, and a strong muster on both sides of the
question met in battle array to decide the dispute. The pals of Crawley
became panic-struck, bolted, and left Peter in the lurch. Harry
Buckstone, the leader of the Coal-yard party, pitched into Peter, and
had it not been for a gentleman who was passing at the time in all
probability Crawley must have been soundly drubbed by the whole of the
squad. The gentleman offered his services as a second to Peter, to see
fair play. Crawley set-to hard and fast with Buckstone, punishing him in
all directions; the latter took to his heels and bolted, followed by his
mob, the spectators laughing and Peter receiving their applause.

The next customer that came in the way of Peter was Tim M’Carthy, in the
Long Fields. The late Jack Randall witnessed this battle. The match was
regularly made for 5_s._ a-side, and contested with as much spirit as if
it had been for £500. In the course of twenty minutes poor Pat was done
over.

[Illustration:

  PETER CRAWLEY, AT THE AGE OF 27.

  _From a Portrait by_ WYVILL.
]

During a visit to Bermondsey, Peter was abused by a saucy waterman of
the name of Tom Tyler, who had flattered himself that, in consequence of
a skirmish with Deaf Davis, he could fight a “tiny bit.” He was most
egregiously disappointed in standing before Crawley. One punch from
Peter, perhaps not altogether unlike the kick of a horse, so alarmed and
satisfied Tyler that he would not fight any more. This ludicrous
circumstance took place opposite the Green Man, in the Kent Road.

Peter had scarcely passed his seventeenth year, when he had an
accidental turn-up with a strong carman, weighing twelve stone and a
half, and about twenty-five years of age, belonging to Messrs. Shirley,
the distillers. Peter was driving his father’s cart to collect skins,
when he was met in Warwick Lane by the carman, who would not give way,
although on the wrong side of the road. Crawley remonstrated with the
carman on the impropriety of his conduct; but the “knight of the thong”
threatened to horsewhip Peter for his impertinence. “Stop a bit,” says
Crawley, “two can play at that fun.” Shirleys’ carman was well known in
Newgate Market as a troublesome customer; but Peter tackled him without
the slightest fear or apprehension of the result. The science of Crawley
soon told on the upper works of the carman; and, although a strong
fellow, in the course of less than half an hour he was so severely
punished by Peter as not to be able to keep his pins. He was carried
into the distillery of his master, and, notwithstanding every care was
taken of him, some little time elapsed before he resumed his daily
occupation. So much for the decisive handy work of Peter.

Crawley accidentally went one evening to the King’s Head, in Cow-heel
Alley, Whitecross Street, to treat an acquaintance with something to
drink, when he was rudely accosted by some Irishmen, and otherwise
roughly treated. Peter begged the Grecians not to interfere with his
company, when words arose between them. A row commenced, when Peter and
his pal Oliver (not Tom), disposed of several of the hod-men in
succession, and ultimately cleared the room of the Patlanders; but not
until one of them had made use of the fire-shovel belonging to the
landlord to crack Peter’s sconce and let out the claret. The Charleys
were brought in to take Peter and his friend to the watch-house; but the
landlord behaved like a trump, and planted Crawley in his bar until the
watch had left, when Peter departed in safety.

Owing to some trifling dispute between Crawley and an athletic brewer’s
servant in Whitecross Street, a turn-up was the result; but in the
course of four rounds the big drayman was glad to acknowledge he had
received too much.

One Paddy Flanagan, an Irishman, full of pluck, and not less than six
feet in height, much heavier than Peter, and having also the advantage
of ten years in age, had a turn-up with Crawley. Flanagan purchased a
loin of pork at the shop of Peter’s father during the bustle of Saturday
evening, and appearing well satisfied with his bargain, went away; but
in a short time he returned with the pork, after he had cut off on the
sly two of the ribs of the loin, and insisted they had deceived him with
short weight. Of course this insinuation produced a row and great
confusion in the shop, and Peter, at the request of his father,
endeavoured to turn out Flanagan. Paddy showed fight, and for a short
time was a strong, troublesome customer on the stones. Peter was thrown
flat on his back into the running kennel, and was completely wetted
through to the skin, and almost choked by the grasp of his antagonist
upon his throat. On rising, however, from this rushing hug, Peter
changed the scene. He stopped Paddy Flanagan’s rush and nobbed him, one,
two, got the lead and kept it; indeed, he tipped it to Paddy Flanagan so
completely, that at the end of half an hour he gave in. But Flanagan had
recourse to the strong arm of the law. He appeared before the
magistrates at Worship Street police office, complaining of the
unmerciful treatment he had experienced at the hands of Crawley; indeed,
“his face bespoke a heart full sore!” Armstrong, the officer, was
despatched to execute the warrant, but the father of Peter made it right
at the expense of £2. The senior Crawley, from the striking abilities
displayed by Peter over the powerful Flanagan, formed an opinion that
“his boy” would stand a good chance in due time with the best pugilists
in the prize ring.

About three weeks after the above row, Peter was standing during the
evening at the corner of Redcross Street, when three Patlanders of the
same squad rudely assailed him, and nearly pushed him off his balance.
Remonstrance was in vain, but Crawley said to them, “Do not attack me
altogether; only stand in a line, and I will lick you one after the
other.” This speech had not the desired effect—they all pitched into
Peter at once; but he soon floored two of them, and the third bolted
without waiting for a taste of Crawley’s quality.

We have seen, in the opening paragraph of this biography, how Peter
began the year 1818 by a promising bit of gloving, and he was not slow
to follow up the impression thus made. A Westminster election in those
days of fierce Whig and Tory battles was a sight to see, and the
newspapers of the time teem with accounts of the “scrimmages” arising
out of the fierce political partizanship of the rival factions. Peter
had been sworn in extra-constable at Sir Samuel Romilly’s and Sir
Francis Burdett’s election, and in the discharge of his duties was
threatened by Ben Sutliffe, also a butcher, and an understanding was
come to that their personal differences should be settled when the
political contest was over. This grew into a regular match, £20 a-side
was deposited, the F. P. C. ropes and stakes engaged, and on Friday,
August 7, 1818, after Ned Painter[39] had defeated Tom Spring, Crawley
and Ben Sutliffe sported their colours. Sutliffe was the favourite for
choice; he weighed about twelve stone ten pounds, and stood full six
feet in height. Peter did not exceed eleven stone eight pounds, and was
not so tall as his adversary by half an inch. There was no time for
training, and the combatants fought off-hand. In the short space of nine
minutes and a half, the science of Peter was so excellent, his hitting
so decisive, and his generalship so complete, that Sutliffe was defeated
without a shadow of a chance, being punished dreadfully.

This victory brought “Young Rump Steak” into high favour with the
amateurs, which Peter’s civility, respectful demeanour,
straightforwardness, and good temper, strengthened and confirmed. He was
now, however, matched against a desperate boxer, no less an antagonist
than Tom Hickman, the formidable Gas-light Man, whose exploits will be
found recorded in pages 118–137 of this volume. Peter was as yet but
nineteen years old, and was declared by the ring-goers to have “more
gristle than bone;” and Pierce Egan observes, “Crawley had outgrown his
strength,” which was only partially true. It is true, in this battle
Peter was not disgraced, although defeated; he fought bravely, and he
convinced the tremendous Gas that he (Peter) was a dangerous customer.
Crawley afterwards sent a challenge to Hickman, which was declined on
the ground of other engagements.

At several benefits at the Fives and Tennis Courts the sparring of Peter
with Tom Spring, and all the first-rate boxers on the list, was much
admired by the amateurs.

Peter about this time sent the following reply to a challenge inserted
in the _Weekly Dispatch_:—


  “MR. T. SHELTON,—

  “At the time of my addressing a letter to you in the _Dispatch_ of
  the 20th ult. I was not aware but my bodily health would have
  admitted of my doing the thing in ‘Neat’ style. At the request of my
  friends, I was advised to have the opinion of a medical gentleman,
  whose certificate is below, from which, I have no doubt, the
  pugilistic world will see no fault arises on my part in not meeting
  my challenge.

                                               “I am yours, etc.,
                                                       “PETER CRAWLEY.

  “_Royal Tennis Court, February 1, 1822._”

  “I do hereby certify that Mr. P. Crawley is not in a fit state to
  enter the ring with any one at present (labouring under a serious
  body calamity), neither do I think he will be able so to do for five
  or six months.

                                            “THOMAS HUGHES, _Surgeon_.

  “_5, Waterloo Road, February 1, 1822._”


Thus forbidden to take part in a ring contest, owing to an inguinal
rupture, Peter went on a sparring tour, and in May, 1822, he set-to with
Jack Carter at the Cock-pit at Chester, at the time of the races. During
the above exhibition, a chap denominated Bully Southerns, of the above
place, offered to take the gloves with Carter. Southerns weighed
seventeen stone, and in height he measured six feet two inches;
notwithstanding, he was light as to flesh. Southerns, full of
confidence, threatened to serve out both the fellows from town, and also
reduce the consequence of Carter, who at that period styled himself “The
Champion of England.” Carter could not get the best of Southerns, and,
after two rounds, he sat down, when the bully boasted that he would mill
Peter off-hand. The contest was long and severe between them, occupying
fifty minutes; and numerous rounds were truly terrific. The strength of
Southerns enabled him to carry on the war; but, after the first three
rounds, he was so nobbed by the fine science of Peter, floored
frequently, and punished in all directions, as to be laughed at by the
whole of the company for his vain boasting. Crawley was not only
applauded for his high courage in finishing the bully in such first-rate
style, but also well rewarded for his trouble by the amateurs who viewed
the contest. Peter was nearly five stone under the weight of his
powerful adversary—a fine example of the advantages of science over
downright ruffianism.

On Peter’s return to London, Dick Acton,[40] well known in the prize
ring, sent forth a challenge to our hero, who returned the following
answer:—


                           “TO RICHARD ACTON.

  “SIR,—

  “As I understand you have several times expressed a particular wish
  to meet me in the prize ring, I hereby inform you that I am ready to
  fight for £50 or £100 a-side, which may be most convenient to you
  and your friends; and in order to give every accommodation you can
  reasonably require, meet me at Mr. How’s, Duke’s Tavern, Seven
  Dials, on Wednesday evening, the 26th inst., between the hours of
  seven and ten o’clock, when my friends will be ready to make a
  deposit, or before that time if you like it best.

                                       “I remain your humble servant,
                                                       “PETER CRAWLEY.

  “_March 13, 1823._”


The friends of both the pugilists met according to appointment, and a
match was made for £25 a-side. This battle was decided at Blindlow
Heath, in Sussex, twenty-five miles from Westminster Bridge, on Tuesday,
May 5, 1823.

For four years Peter had exhibited only in sparring exhibitions; and,
labouring under hernia, it was generally understood that he would not
appear again in the prize ring. Acton had at this time won a battle with
Kendrick, but had been defeated by Ward. Crawley was the favourite at
seven to four and two to one. At one o’clock, Peter, attended by Ben
Byrne and Harry Holt, threw up his hat in the ring; and shortly
afterwards, Acton, followed by Eales and Scroggins, repeated the token
of defiance. Acton was in fine condition, and to all appearance weighed
fourteen stone. Crawley looked thin, but was well, and about twelve
stone four pounds.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—No time was lost, and Crawley, with his left hand, marked
  the body of his opponent. Acton missed in return, when an awkward
  sort of hugging took place. Both down, Crawley undermost.

  2.—Young Rump Steak endeavoured to cut up his opponent, and his fine
  science gave him the lead. He nobbed Acton, and got away; he also
  endeavoured to repeat, but Acton stopped him with considerable
  skill. Crawley made himself up, and by a well-measured hit, planted
  under Acton’s right ogle, the latter went down like a shot. A more
  tremendous hit was never witnessed in any battle. (In the pride of
  the moment ten to one was offered, and the general opinion was that
  Acton would not come again.)

  3.—If Acton had not been a truly game man, he would not have again
  appeared at the scratch. Milling on both sides, till Acton and
  Crawley found themselves both on the ground. (Seven to four.)

  4.—Acton had rather the best of this round, and Crawley went down.
  (Loud shouting for Acton. “You shall have plenty of wittles
  to-morrow,” said Scroggins.)

  5.—Some excellent science on both sides. Acton napped so much pepper
  that he turned round from the punishment he received; but, in
  closing, threw Peter out of the ropes. (“Well done, Acton.”)

  6.—Both were distressed. Acton hit Crawley very hard, and the latter
  was again down. (“Go along, Acton; Crawley is getting weak.” Indeed,
  it was no two to one at this moment.) Acton stood up to his
  opponent, and fought like a truly brave man.

  7.—A turn took place in favour of Peter, and the skill of Crawley in
  this round won him the fight. Acton received at every step, but
  endeavoured to ruffian it with Peter. Acton, for his temerity,
  napped a blow in the middle of his head, and the claret flowed in
  torrents; he, nevertheless, bored Young Rump Steak down. (Great
  applause on both sides.)

  8.—Acton appeared at the scratch much better than was expected. He
  gave Crawley a severe body blow, calculated to do mischief. A short,
  but sharp rally, when Crawley fell down, and Acton on him.

  9.—This was a scientific round on both sides. Acton got away well,
  and parried some tremendous blows. The latter received a chancery
  nobber, but contended every inch of ground till he went down.

  10.—Acton terribly distressed, and Peter piped a little. They soon
  closed, and Crawley, to avoid struggling, got down in the best
  manner he could. (“Mind what you’re after,” from the friends of
  Acton.)

  11.—This round was decidedly against Peter. Acton put in several
  blows, and, in closing, fell heavily on Crawley. Peter was getting
  weak.

  12.—Acton had the best of it; and Crawley, to avoid punishment, went
  down in rather a doubtful manner. (“Foul,” “fair,” etc., when
  Belcher, one of the umpires, told Crawley to recollect it was a
  stand-up fight. “I assure you,” replied Crawley, “I went down from a
  slip.”)

  13 and last.—This was a most terrific round, and a better one was
  never witnessed in any battle. Crawley hit Acton all to pieces, and
  followed his opponent all over the ring till he was floored, and
  fell on his face. When time was called, Acton was insensible to it.
  The battle was at an end in sixteen minutes; but before Crawley was
  taken out of the ring by his seconds an inquiry was made whether he
  had won the battle, to make all right. The umpires answered
  “Certainly.”

  REMARKS.—It was a fine battle. Crawley won it in superior style;
  Acton proved himself a game man, and fought till nature deserted
  him.


Peter, in order to fill up his leisure time and increase his stock of
blunt, opened a butcher’s shop in Seven Dials. Here he likewise taught
the art of self-defence in his rooms up stairs, and was honoured with
the patronage of several swells, who became his pupils. During the time
of his residence at this place, he was employed at Westminster Hall to
assist in keeping order at the coronation of George the Fourth, and also
at the time the Hall was shown to the public. After having dined
sumptuously at the Exchequer Coffee House, and drank the health of
George the Fourth, he retired to his domus rather jolly, and fell fast
asleep. Peter’s rib having occasion to go a small distance on some
particular business, was most rudely insulted in the street by a fellow
of the name of Sullivan. The proposals made to her were of the most
insulting description, accompanied by offer of money; he also laid his
hands upon her. All entreaties on the part of Mrs. Crawley to desist
were in vain, and he followed her home to the door. It was some time
before Peter could be awakened from his sleep to come to her assistance.
Sullivan, with the most unblushing effrontery, told Peter, on his
expostulating with him for his improper conduct towards his wife, “Your
wife, indeed; she’s my wife as much as yours.” “Say you so; then take
that,” said Peter, and immediately planted such a tremendous blow on one
of his ogles as to produce a serious cut over it, and making Sullivan
measure his length on the pavement. The fellow, as soon as he recovered
the use of his pins, started off, leaving his hat behind him. Crawley,
as a token of victory, publicly hung out the hat at his shop door; but
Mr. Sullivan never had the courage to claim his topper.

Crawley, while standing at his door in Lumber Court one evening, in
company with Peter Brookery, a pugilist of light weight, the latter was
rudely attacked by an engineer, a rare big one. Crawley told him it was
no match, when the engineer threatened to put his foot on the seat of
honour of our hero. This insult so raised the choler of Peter that he
pitched into the engineer _sans cérémonie_, and polished him off in the
course of four rounds.

In September, 1826, Ward again put forth a challenge to the world, which
was at length taken up by Peter Crawley, who affirmed that it was not
from fear of Ward, but from the want of “corianders,” that he had been
unable to make the match before. He said he could not now get £200
a-side, but would fight Ward for £100. This did not suit Jem, who said
it was beneath the dignity of the Champion to fight for so small a
stake. Crawley repeated that he could not get more money, and at length
Jem Ward, fearful that his pretensions to the championship would be
called in question, consented to meet Peter on his own terms, and on the
17th of October, 1826, articles were drawn up at Tom Belcher’s, Castle
Tavern, Holborn, to fight on the 2nd of January, 1827. The men shortly
went into close training, and got themselves into admirable condition.

In _Bell’s Life_ of the week previous to the fight between Ward and
Crawley we find the following remarks on the subject of the mill between
Crawley and Acton:—“It was an excellent fight. Each man did his duty
manfully; but Crawley took seven rounds more than Ward had done to
polish off the same customer, as well as a little more time. It was
thought also, by good judges, that he did not do his work half so well.
To this it must be answered, however, that he was labouring under
hernia, and was by no means so fresh as Ward, who has not the fault of
being fond of lushing. In comparing the fights, it must not be forgotten
that it was Ward’s first fight, and Crawley’s last, and also that
Crawley punished Acton more severely than Ward had done.”

The mill now under notice took place on the appointed day (the 2nd of
January, 1827). According to articles the fight was to come off within a
hundred miles of London, and the neighbourhood of Royston was selected
as most convenient, there being three counties handy in the event of any
interruption. A special messenger was sent down a day or two previous,
who made application to a gentleman possessing large landed estates to
grant a site for the combat. The trump in question liberally granted the
required permission, and a farm called Haydon Grange was selected. Here,
by the day appointed, an excellent spot was prepared by Tom Oliver and
Cannon in which to pitch the ring. In fistic circles even in those days,
however, there was the same jealousy and wilfulness we have to deplore
at the present time. The then Commissary, Bill Gibbons, in direct
opposition to his instructions, thought proper to choose a place for
himself, and instead of proceeding with the ropes and stakes to Haydon
Grange, where Oliver and Co. had prepared a place for them, he went off
to Royston Heath, and there pitched his ring, thus frustrating the
comfortable arrangements that had been made, and throwing out many old
patrons of the fancy, who went to the place first mentioned, and were
thus prevented from witnessing the greatest treat that had been enjoyed
for many years. Among others who were put to inconvenience was Mr.
Jackson, the Commander-in-Chief. The throng was by no means so numerous
as had been anticipated, many gentlemen absenting themselves on account
of the expected death of the Duke of York, which did not take place
until the following Friday. The betting in Royston on Monday, and also
at Tattersall’s, was two to one on Ward, which odds were taken to some
amount, but still much money went “a begging;” and the friends of Ward
were so anxious to be “on,” that on Tuesday (the day of battle) they
advanced another point.

At ten minutes before one the heroes entered the ring, Ward attended by
Josh. Hudson and Reuben Martin, and Crawley being under the auspices of
Tom Belcher and Harry Harmer. They approached each other with good
humour and shook hands cordially. Some time elapsed in appointing
umpires and a referee; but this done, they soon peeled for action, Tom
Belcher winning the choice of corners for Peter. As soon as they were in
fighting costume, their condition was eagerly scanned. Both were
extremely well. Crawley weighed twelve stone twelve pounds, while Ward
did not exceed twelve stone seven pounds. The odds were now eleven to
five on Ward. All being in readiness, the men were conducted to the
scratch, and commenced


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Short sparring, each man looking out for an opening, and
  both cautious. At last Crawley, anxious to begin, went in and hit
  out ineffectually with his left. Ward was awake, stopped him with
  his right, countered with great cleverness with his left in return,
  and catching him severely on the right eye, dropped him as if he had
  been shot, amidst the cheers of his friends. The blow produced first
  blood at the corner of Crawley’s eye, and thus decided at once the
  bets on the first two events. The Wardites were in extasies. (Odds
  three to one.)

  2.—On coming to the scratch the effects of the blow on Crawley’s
  ogle were clear, the flesh being a good deal puffed: still he was
  cheerful and prepared for mischief. The men again sparred for the
  first hit, when Crawley threw out his right, but was stopped. Ward
  then went in and hit right and left at Crawley’s canister, but did
  not make any impression. More caution. Ward again made play, but
  Crawley was awake, stopped his left with great precision, and smiled
  confidently. Crawley then commenced fighting; but Ward threw up his
  right and left, and got away in beautiful style. More sparring and
  mutual caution. At last Crawley saw a vulnerable point, pushed in,
  and delivering a thundering hit with his right on Ward’s forehead,
  just above the eye, dropped him in turn. (Loud cheers, and
  exclamations of “Peter, it’s all your own.”)

  3.—On Ward’s being lifted on his second’s knee he looked wild, and
  was evidently suffering from Crawley’s tickler. Josh., however,
  shook him, and brought him to the scratch ripe for action, although
  a little posed. After some sparring and admirable stops on both
  sides, evincing the superior science of the men, Ward hit short with
  his right at the body. Crawley smiled, and collecting himself up for
  work, threw out his right and caught Ward slightly on his nob. Ward,
  in endeavouring to get away, fell upon his hands and knees. Crawley
  was about to strike him jocularly on the part that was uppermost,
  when Ward jumped up, and both went to their seconds.

  4.—More good stops on both sides, when a tremendous rally commenced,
  in which the deliveries right and left excited the loudest applause.
  Ward retreated towards the ropes, and Crawley closed with him. In
  this situation there was some good exchanges, and claret was freely
  drawn from the conks of each. In the end Ward went staggering down,
  Crawley upon him. The greatest agitation was here exhibited among
  the spectators. The outer ring was broken in, and confusion
  prevailed to the conclusion of the fight, although the pugilistic
  corps, under the auspices of the Commander-in-Chief, did wonders in
  endeavouring to preserve order. Many persons got inside the roped
  ring, and were with difficulty ejected.

  5.—Both came up bleeding and a little puffy from their late
  exertions. After some sparring for time, Crawley hit out with his
  left, but was stopped, and in turn Ward was stopped by Peter, who
  had all his senses about him. At last the men came to a rally, and
  desperate hitting ensued, each countering with great force, and
  making due impression by their handiwork. Ward, in getting away,
  repeatedly hit up with his right, but missed his blows. In the end
  they closed and went down, Crawley uppermost, and both bleeding at
  the mouth and nose. During this round Josh. repeatedly cheered his
  man by cries of “Fight, Jem; fight, Jem; fight, my boy!” and Jem
  bravely, though imprudently, followed his advice, and thereby
  greatly distressed himself.

  6.—A good weaving round, in which Ward caught Crawley round the neck
  with his right, and as he pulled him across the ring hit him several
  times with rapidity. Crawley at length closed, and both went down in
  a scramble, heavily punished and distressed.

  7.—The men came up piping, and as if mutually feeling the necessity
  of recovering their wind, sparred with caution for some seconds. At
  last Crawley let go his left, but Ward got away. Another short spar,
  when Ward hit with his left, but was cleverly countered by Crawley’s
  right. A terrific rally ensued, in which all science seemed to be
  set aside, and the weaving system went on in a style of manly
  indifference to the result. Each appeared bent alone on making an
  impression, and the appearance of their pimples showed that mischief
  alone was intended. The whole ring was electrified, and a more
  courageous attack was never witnessed. The Burgundy flowed freely
  from each. Crawley retreated towards the ropes, Ward still with him,
  till at length Ward rushed in, and seizing him with the grip of a
  Hercules, threw him an appalling cross-buttock, which not only shook
  Peter himself, but the very earth on which he fell. The fall was
  allowed by Crawley’s seconds to have done him more harm than all his
  previous punishment; and a good judge who was within the ring rushed
  out and offered ten to one against him, but found no takers.

  8.—Peter came up open-mouthed and greatly distressed. It was thought
  Ward would have gone immediately to finish, but to the surprise of
  most he kept out, and only sparred at arm’s length. It was pretty
  clear, however, that he was himself the worse for wear, and did not
  consider it politic to throw a chance away. After some time Crawley
  tried with his left. Ward stopped this intended visitation, and
  returned with his right. More sparring; when the men having
  recovered their wind, once more got to work on the weaving system,
  and the interchanges were sufficient to daunt the stoutest heart;
  but still both gave and took without shrinking. Their cocoa-nuts
  echoed again with the quick following blows, till Ward, becoming
  weak, or desirous of avoiding further compliments, went down on his
  knees. Crawley went to his second’s knee, and was evidently coming
  round.

  9.—This round commenced with distant sparring. Ward attempted a blow
  at Peter’s mark, but hit short. Peter laughed, and kept out. A few
  seconds were occupied in this light play, when another terrific
  rally took place. Both men again went to work, putting science
  aside, and rattling away at each other’s nobs with downright good
  will. Hit followed hit with the rapidity of lightning; neither would
  give an inch, but stood to each other with as much _sang froid_ as
  if sparring with the gloves. Nothing could exceed the fearless
  execution of this rally, and the shouts of the multitude bore
  testimony to the determined game of the men. Ward, who repeatedly
  hit up, was met by Crawley’s left, who preserved his self-possession
  and never lost sight of his object. At length, as a sort of climax
  to terrific weaving in all parts of the ring, Crawley retreated to
  the ropes, where a close took place, and both fell, Crawley
  uppermost. Both were much distressed, and evidently fast approaching
  the close; but Ward was still the favourite, and two to one was bet
  upon him by one who professed to be a good judge.

  10.—Notwithstanding the severe exertion in the last round, Crawley
  came up smiling. Sparring was continued for a short time, when
  another most desperate rally commenced: it was clearly a most
  powerful effort on both sides to bring the fight to a close. Nothing
  could exceed the resolution which both men displayed. They followed
  each other from place to place, hitting with unprecedented game and
  courage, Ward repeatedly having recourse to his under hits. In this
  extraordinary way did the conflict continue, till both men, on
  approaching the ropes, were so exhausted as to be incapable of
  lifting their hands or striking another blow, and at length both
  went down, unable longer to stand, although supported for some time
  against the ropes. A more terrible encounter was never witnessed in
  the prize ring, and the repeated jobbing of Crawley’s left produced
  the most fearful effects on Ward’s face.

  11 and last.—Such was the state of the combatants on coming up at
  the commencement of this round, that it was impossible to form an
  opinion of the probable issue. Both were piping, and in painful
  distress, but Crawley appeared to stand best on his legs. Very
  little time was lost in consideration, and Ward, open-mouthed,
  attempted to go in. Crawley, as if aware that this round must
  terminate the fight, collected all his strength, struck out lightly
  with his left, and then drawing back a short step, he rushed in, and
  catching Ward a severe job with his left on the mouth, dropped him
  to rise no more. He fell flat on his back, and drawing his hands up
  towards his stomach, became to all appearance senseless. Josh.
  lifted him from the ground, and placed him on Martin’s knee, but he
  was no longer “himself:” he was deaf to the call of his friends and
  admirers, and, with the battle, lost his claim to the championship.
  Crawley stood looking at him, satisfied that his labours were at an
  end. He endeavoured to shake hands with his fallen foe, but poor
  Ward was insensible to this noble conduct, and Peter walked to his
  chaise. Ward was shortly after carried out of the ring, and from
  thence to his inn, in a state of insensibility. All was surprise and
  confusion. The multitude collected _en masse_ in the centre of the
  ring, and the congratulations of some, and the complaints of others,
  were scarcely less astounding than the confusion of tongues in the
  Tower of Babel. It was too true, however, the champion was stripped
  of his laurels, and the bold Peter was borne off in triumph, one of
  his backers declaring that he had won £530 by the issue. How many
  followed his example we know not; but it is certain many thousands
  changed hands.

  REMARKS.—In taking a review of the whole of this fight, it would be
  impossible not to say that both men exhibited courage and game of
  the most unquestionable description; in fact, a better battle had
  not been fought for many years. Independent of patience under severe
  punishment, great skill and science were displayed. The stopping of
  both men, under trying circumstances, was admirable. Neither
  flinched from his duty, and, with the exception of Ward’s slipping
  down on his knees in the early part of the battle, there was not a
  suspicion that he was not as game a man as ever peeled. In the
  second round Josh. Hudson described Ward as having been nearly
  blinded by the force of the blow on his head, but he very soon
  recovered his presence of mind; and in the last round there were not
  wanting some who were disposed to think that he might have come
  again. Judging impartially, however, from all that passed before us,
  we should say there was not a shadow of ground for complaining of
  Ward’s conduct in the ring, or for doubting the sincerity of his
  intention to win throughout. His deliveries were severe, although
  their effect might not have been so decisive as we had anticipated.
  It was clear that he tried his utmost to gain the ascendancy, and in
  this endeavour he reduced himself, in the tenth round, as well as
  his antagonist, to a state of complete helplessness, hitting with
  all his force, until both fell without the power of striking another
  blow. Had his object been other than honest, this never would have
  been the case. In plain truth, however, he had been over-rated,
  whilst the probable improvement which Crawley might have obtained in
  two years was altogether lost sight of. In point of length, and
  weight, and bodily strength, we may also say Ward was overmatched,
  while in science he was fully equalled; for although Crawley’s style
  of setting-to may not be so elegant, nor his stops so frequent,
  still the severity and quickness of his counter-hitting, and the
  rapidity of his motions, added to his calm reception of punishment,
  gave him on this occasion equal advantage; added to which, Peter, in
  having Tom Belcher for his second, had at least two points in his
  favour, for a better second never entered the ring, nor a man whose
  knowledge of the art better qualifies him to give good advice. We
  must admit that we have seen Ward fight in better style, and make a
  better use of his acquirements. We do not say this with a view of
  disparaging his good qualities; but had he exercised a better
  judgment, we think he would not have rushed into desperate rallies,
  intent only on administering punishment, without regard to the
  consequences which might follow to himself, but would rather have
  availed himself of his tact of hitting and getting away, and only
  going in when an opportunity occurred of closing for the fall—and
  his superiority in throwing has been repeatedly established. In the
  present instance he seemed to have lost his usual caution, and to
  have forgotten that in fighting against superior weight and strength
  he was completely giving a chance away by standing to be hit in
  close quarters. Such another fall as that he gave Crawley in the
  seventh round must have decided the battle, but the opportunity when
  offered was neglected, and having at length become weak, he was
  unable to keep his right hand sufficiently high, and thus lay
  exposed to the terrific jobbing of Crawley’s left. We have no doubt
  his seconds acted to the best of their knowledge; but situated as
  Ward was towards the close of the fight, it was anything but good
  advice to incite him to go in to rally: he should rather have played
  round his opponent, and kept at a distance till his wind was
  restored, and fresh opportunities were afforded for bringing his
  scientific and wrestling powers into play. With so vigorous an
  opponent as Crawley, it was clear he must have the worst of
  in-fighting; and that this was the case the result of the conflict
  has shown. These are points which naturally strike an observer, but
  which a man in the heat of combat, and unassisted by a cool and
  dispassionate counsellor, may not duly appreciate. It is certain
  that Ward never had so good a man to deal with before, and, barring
  the few remarks we have felt it our duty to make, it was impossible
  for him to have done more to attain the ends of his backers. In
  falling, he has fallen nobly, and must only hope for better luck
  another time. We may add that he has still few equals in the ring.
  We cannot close these remarks without stating that, in losing Tom
  Oliver as a second, Ward may be said to have lost his battle; for
  Tom’s prudence and good sense would have taught him the folly of
  bustling with superior weight. The fight lasted twenty-six minutes.


Ward was conveyed in a state of unconsciousness to the Red Lion, at
Royston, and was immediately put to bed between warm blankets. A surgeon
was then sent for, who found his pulse scarcely perceptible; he,
however, took proper precautions, and by six o’clock he recognised those
about him. He complained very much of his head, where he received the
knock-down blow in the second round, and said that such was the effect
of that hit that four rounds elapsed before he had recovered himself.
Ward arrived in London on the following Wednesday, much cut up in mind,
but still determined to put in a claim for another trial to recover his
laurels. He declared he had lost the fight by holding Crawley’s
abilities as a boxer too cheap, and had resorted to an attempt to fight
him down, in which he had exhausted his strength and his power of
hitting. He considered, too, his chances in milling Crawley as greatly
increased from the fact of the latter having hernia. This would seem
without good foundation. It is a singular fact that Joe Grimaldi—than
whom, in his pantomimic exertions, no man encountered more violent
exercise—had been ruptured from his youth, but never experienced
inconvenience in his labours.

On the 4th of January, 1827, two days after Peter’s victory, the Tennis
Court was crowded for the joint benefit of Harry Holt and Ned Baldwin,
and to get a peep at the heroes who were admitted to “show.” Ward, on
mounting the stage, was loudly applauded. His nob was covered with a
handkerchief, and his face exhibited marks of severe punishment. The
“Cicero of the ring” (in buff) addressed his patrons for Ward. He said,
“Ward had lost the battle, and, what was dearer to him, his proud
position; but still it was cheering to him to think that he had not lost
his honour. (‘True,’ and applause.) It was not in man to command
success, but he had done all that a brave man could do to win the
battle. One must lose, and Crawley was the conqueror. By every person
who had seen the battle it was admitted that Ward had established his
character as a game man, and he had no doubt, by such conduct, he would
never want friends. (Approbation.) He was sorry to observe the
subscription on the ground was trifling indeed (25_s._); but he well
knew the generosity of the fancy would be displayed to him in town. For
himself, he would subscribe a sovereign; and he was perfectly satisfied
other persons would subscribe their mite.” (“Bravo, Harry!”)

Jem’s backer presented himself, and said he would back Ward, without any
hesitation, against Crawley, or any other man in the kingdom, for from
£100 to £1,000. (Great applause.)

The hero of the tale, Peter Crawley, now mounted the stage, and was
welcomed by loud plaudits. His face was rather damaged, but not so much
as his opponent’s. With considerable modesty Peter stated, “He had been
a winning man, but he had never been opposed to a better one than Ward;
in fact, he thought him as good a man as himself. He had been lucky, and
gained the fight; and he felt proud he had obtained that honour, because
Ward had been considered the best man in England. It was impossible,
therefore, that he could have got more honour, or gained a higher
conquest. (‘Well done, Peter; you are a liberal, brave fellow.’) He was
determined not to accept any challenge, and he had also made up his mind
to give up all pretensions to prize-fighting, and, to please the King of
England, he would not again enter the ring. He meant no disrespect to
the patrons of the art of self-defence; but if he were to fight for
seven years, he could not have obtained a higher place in the fancy.
Fame was his object, and not money; he therefore left the championship
open for those who wished to fight for it, and gave up all pretensions
to that high milling honour. He hoped Ward would be dealt with according
to his merits; and, as a losing man in general stood in need of support,
he should give him two sovereigns.” (Cheers.) Peter made his bow amid
loud applause.

Peter, acting upon the adage that “all’s well that ends well,” and
having obtained a most brilliant conquest in the eyes of the sporting
world, sensibly made up his mind to leave the P.R. for aspiring heroes
to bustle in, and commenced publican. He therefore, without delay,
opened the Queen’s Head and French Horn, in Duke Street, West
Smithfield, and the fancy in general gave Peter their support.

Crawley’s “free and easy,” aided by the musical talents of his father,
brought overflowing houses. Mr. Crawley, senior, was a first-rate
chaunter, and, as a room singer, his voice in “Tom Moody,” “The Sapling
Oak,” etc., was the delight, again and again, of admiring audiences.

At the Queen’s Head and French Horn, soon after Crawley became landlord
of the house, he was visited by a blade of the name of Grays, and with
that respect and civility which always marked the conduct of our hero,
he invited Mr. Grays into his bar, to drink his wine and crack his
walnuts. But before the bottle was finished, and during the short
absence of our hero, who was waiting upon his customers in various parts
of his house, Mr. Grays made free with the character of Peter to Mrs.
Crawley, or, to use the vulgar phrase, he was nosing upon the
inconstancy of our hero, and his amours out of doors, and boasting that
he was a better man at any price than the host of the Queen’s Head and
French Horn. On Crawley becoming acquainted with his conduct, he told
Mr. Grays that he had not conducted himself like a man or a gentleman,
when Grays repeated the insult, that he was a better man in every point
of view. “That shall soon be decided,” said Peter, with a contemptuous
sneer. An appeal to arms was the result, and, in the course of two short
rounds, Mr. Grays so napped it for his impertinence that he staggered
about like a man overcome with liquor, and the boaster, as he lay
sprawling on the ground, gladly acknowledged, to prevent further
punishment, that he had been egregiously deceived in his estimate of his
own prowess, and promised Peter the next time he took wine and walnuts,
not to crack jokes at his expense behind his back, and to keep his
tongue within proper bounds.

Although Peter was one of the mildest and most inoffensive of men, the
lion slumbered within him. We will cite a small specimen of this. When
Harry Broome fought the Tipton Slasher, at Mildenhall, in September,
1851, there were strong misgivings of a wrangle, and the writer and
others firmly declined the thankless office of referee. It looked as
though there would be no fight, for the Tipton’s friends rejected
several gentlemen nominated, as being backers of Broome. Johnny Broome
rode up, and proposed to fight “without a referee.” This was very
properly declined; but at last Peter Crawley was agreed to by both sides
as an impartial arbiter. The details of the fight will be found under
the Life of HARRY BROOME, in the Seventh Period. Suffice it to say, the
Tipton hit Harry foul, and Peter gave it against “the Tipton.”
Remonstrance did not shake Peter’s decision, and the Slasher, who
thought himself hardly dealt by, used disparaging language to Peter.
Fired at the imputation on his honesty, Peter proceeded to uncase his
huge carcass, declaring he was “good for a few rounds,” and nothing but
the gentle violence of his friends, and those of the Slasher, who
separated them, prevented the brave Peter from there and then having a
turn-up with the well-trained Tipton for “love and a bellyful.” We have
seen other instances of Peter’s readiness to resent insult, though the
most placable of men if an apology was offered.

From the period he retired he held but one house, the Duke’s Head and
French Horn, in Duke Street, West Smithfield, a house interesting for
years to “country cousins,” the fancy, and those who wished a “wrinkle”
upon sporting topics. As a teacher of the art of self-defence Peter
acquitted himself with great credit, being perfectly master of the
science. Several of his Guardsmen pupils have shown their acquaintance
that they can hit, stop, and get away with the best of glove amateurs.
Peter died, generally respected, on the 12th of March, 1865, in the 66th
year of his age. Peace to his manes!

[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER III.
      TOM CANNON, “THE GREAT GUN OF WINDSOR” (CHAMPION)—1824–1827.


For a short time the name of the hardy Tom Cannon was a word of strength
in the annals of the ring. Tom, however, came out too late in life as a
public exhibitor of the art pugilistic; his first great victory being
over Josh. Hudson, in June, 1824, his last a defeat by Ned Neale, in
February, 1827; a career of little more than two-and-a-half years,
throwing out his victory over Dolly Smith, in 1817.

Eton, renowned for its College and the classic memories which surround
it, gave birth to our hero, but it does not appear that Master Tommy
profited much in the _literæ humaniores_ by the accident of his birth
under the shadows of the pinnacles of “Henry’s Sacred Fane.” On the
contrary, the son of a “Windsor Bargee,” he grew up an athletic
uncultivated young colt, distinguished for his speed as a runner, his
activity as a jumper, his strength as a wrestler, and was known as “a
lad who could box a bit.” The only parts of Gray’s “Ode” which could
apply to the young Cannon being, that he could—

                               “Ply the oar,
                       And urge the flying ball.”

Indeed, his rowing and cricketing qualifications endeared him to the
youngsters who practised on the silver Thames and verdant Brocas; as a
quoit thrower and a single-stick player, at “the Revel” in Bachelor’s
Acre, young Cannon distinguished himself, and was known throughout the
neighbourhood as “good at any game.” Tom followed alternately the
calling of a fisherman and a “bargee,” or rather mixed them both, _more
majorum suum_, and “the Merry Wives of Windsor” often relied on Tom’s
net or tackle for the delicacies of speckled trout, glittering umber, or
slippery eel, from “Thames’ silvery flood.” Apropos of this, we find
from contemporary records that Tom, acting in the spirit of Charles
Dibdin’s song,

[Illustration:

  TOM CANNON (“THE GREAT GUN OF WINDSOR”).

  _From a Portrait by_ WAGEMAN.
]

    “I be a jolly fisherman, I takes all I can get,
    Still going on my betters’ plan, all’s fish that comes to net,”

forgot one night—if ever he knew them—the privileges of the corporation
of Windsor. He was detected, with a companion, fishing, contrary to Act
of Parliament, within the preserved waters of the corporation, whereby a
fine of £5 to “our Lord the King” was incurred. Tom demurred to swelling
the royal exchequer by impoverishing his own: he put in “leg-bail,” and
for a time migrated from ungrateful Windsor to live an exile at Newbury,
whither he does not appear to have been pursued, for he was here known
as the “milling bargee.” This was in 1814. We will therefore “hark
back.”

Thus, in his early manhood, our jolly bargeman lived a life of labour,
independence, and humble competency, and like

 “The jolly miller who lived on the river Dee,
 He work’d and sung from morn till night, no lark more blithe than he.”

Tom’s earlier practice with his bunch of fives appears to have been at
wake, fair, race, or revel, with the military always abounding at
Windsor and its vicinity, and with such “rough chawbacons” as, feeling
strong in the spirit of fight, might offer themselves to his notice.

Tom’s first recorded engagement was with one Tom Anslow, a grenadier
belonging to the Staffordshire militia, in the year 1809. Anslow was the
crack boxer of his regiment, and the audacity of young “bargee” (Tom was
nineteen years of age) was laughed at by the red-coats, for Anslow was
fourteen stone in weight, and all six feet in height. The battle-money
was three guineas a-side. Cannon, on the day, was a little under twelve
stone, and stood five feet nine inches and a half. It was a desperate
battle for thirty-two minutes, when the soldier gave in, and Cannon was
carried off in triumph by his fellow-townsmen. “Boxiana” fills some
pages with notices of casual fights with nameless men, on Eton Brocas,
at Maidenhead, at Egham Races, and elsewhere, embellished with the usual
lively skimble-skamble of the inventive author. The first time Cannon
had to do with a “professional” was in this wise. At a raffle in Peascod
Street, Windsor, Dolly Smith,[41] of Hammersmith, was present, and
threatened to chastise Cannon for interfering in a dispute. “Although I
know you’re a fighting man,” said Tom, “I will not be frightened into
submission.” Dolly threw off his coat, and they adjourned to the street.
After a smart turn-up, in which Cannon claimed best, they were
interrupted. This led to a match for twenty guineas a-side, which came
off in a field contiguous to Shirley Common, near Windsor, May 6, 1817.
The battle proved a most determined one. The swell stage-coachmen—for
Dolly was a horse-keeper, known on the Great Western road—sported their
gold freely on their man, though there was a remarkable disparity in
size and weight. Smith, who was a round-built sturdy fellow, measured
only five feet five inches, and weighed eleven stone four pounds. Cannon
stood five feet ten inches, and weighed thirteen stone. The men were in
the ring as early as eleven o’clock, Dolly being esquired by the veteran
Caleb Baldwin and Dick Whale; Cannon attended by a couple of stout
countrymen. The battle was half-minute time. Six to four on Smith
offered.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Neither combatant seemed disposed to waste much time in
  sparring, and they went to work _sans cérémonie_. Cannon from his
  height, length, and strength, seemed completely to overshadow his
  opponent, but “Dolly,” not in the least dismayed, planted two heavy
  body hits, and fought at half-arm gaily, till in closing both were
  down.

  2.—Both on their mettle, and some sharp blows exchanged. Dolly
  manœuvred cleverly till he hit up through Cannon’s guard, and gave
  him such a teazer on the side of the head, that it seemed to
  electrify the “bargee’s” upper works. He seemed confused for a few
  seconds, then went in a rattler, and fought till both were down,
  Dolly first to earth.

  3 to 17.—During the whole of these rounds the combatants were far
  from being idle, and much severity of milling occurred. The claret
  had long made its appearance upon both their nobs, and their mugs
  had undergone some little change, from the repeated thumps they had
  reciprocally and liberally bestowed upon each other. Upon the whole,
  Dolly as yet might be said to stand forward in the most favourable
  point of view, and betting continued on him.

  18.—In this round Dolly gained great applause, he fought his
  opponent in the most gallant style, and milled him in all
  directions, and, by way of finishing, planted such a tremendous hit
  in Cannon’s “middle piece,” that he went off his pins in such
  quickness of style, resembling more the celerity of a cannon shot
  than being floored by the fist of a man. (Loud shouting, and seven
  to four on Dolly.)

  19 to 60 and last.—Punishment was the order of the day in all these
  rounds. The gaiety of Dolly never forsook him, and he contended
  against an opponent every way so superior with the most determined
  courage and manhood. It was a good fight throughout, and both men
  displayed true resolution. The claret flowed profusely, and both
  were so equally painted that it was remarked by a spectator they
  both belonged to one flock of sheep, they were so regularly
  “ruddled.” Their peepers were nearly obscured, and such a punishing
  mill has not been witnessed for a long time. One of Dolly’s arms was
  so much beaten, and his wrist so terribly sprained and puffed up,
  that he was reluctantly compelled to relinquish the contest at the
  expiration of an hour and four minutes.

  REMARKS.—Cannon was so much exhausted that, on his being declared
  the winner, he was led out of the ring, and upon being lifted into a
  coach by three men immediately fainted. The battle had scarcely
  finished one minute when a magistrate appeared to put an end to the
  sports; but his worship was politely informed there was no necessity
  for his functions then to be brought into action, as it was all over
  for that day. A great number of sporting men from the neighbouring
  counties and from London witnessed the encounter, and much money
  changed hands.


As this is not a record of sack-jumping, quoits, foot-racing, jumping,
and cricket playing, we shall omit the contents of some pages of
“Boxiana,” with the remark that Tom, who was good at all these, has
numerous victories for small sums placed to his account during the seven
years between 1810 and the mill with Dolly Smith just reported. For
several years Cannon remained a spectator of prize battles, until fired
with pugilistic ambition on witnessing the fight between Josh. Hudson
and Jem Ward (November 11, 1823), he publicly announced his readiness to
enter the ring with either of those boxers. The “John Bull Fighter”
hearing of the circumstance, on meeting Cannon, asked him if the report
was true. Tom replied in the affirmative, when Josh. instantly produced
a “fiver,” which was covered by Cannon, to make a match for £200. At
this period Mr. Hayne (known by the _sobriquet_ of “Pea-green,” and his
breach of promise with Miss Foote, Dowager Countess of Harrington) had
just returned from the “grand tour,” and recollecting the numerous
sporting feats of Cannon during the time he, the “Pea-green,” was one of
the _alumni_ of Eton, he became Tom’s patron and backer. Articles were
drawn up at Mr. Clode’s New Inn, Windsor, April 26, 1824, in which
Cannon agreed to fight Josh. for £100 a-side, on Wednesday, June 23,
1824, within forty miles of London. The match was laughed at by the
fancy, as “a good thing” for Hudson, and the £100 looked upon as a
“sweetener” to “keep his hand in” till he should grasp the championship.

On the appointed morn the Western road displayed a thick sprinkling of
swells and equipages, the place selected being Yateby, in Hampshire,
thirty-three and a half miles from London, on the borders of the
counties of Berks and Bucks, in a field near Everfield Churchyard.
Everything being ready, at a quarter to one Cannon entered the ring, in
a dark drab great coat, and threw up his hat, followed by Tom Cribb and
White-headed Bob as his seconds. He walked about with the utmost
composure, and was loudly cheered by the audience. His legs were
decorated with white silk stockings. In a few minutes afterwards Hudson
appeared, supported by the President of the Daffy Club and “the
Nonpareil,” threw up his “castor,” and rolled himself into the ring.
Oliver and Randall were his attendants. During the time the combatants
were preparing for action the backers of Hudson went round the ring
offering two and a half and three to one; but the friends of Cannon were
shy, and no takers were to be found. The colours, pink for Cannon and
chocolate for Hudson, were tied to the stakes. The office was then
given, and the men set-to.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On peeling, Cannon appeared so highly improved in condition
  as to excite the astonishment of every person present. He was cool
  and confident, and looked firm and “all right.” The “John Bull
  Fighter,” always “big,” in spite of the most rigid rules of
  training, was now bigger than ever; indeed, to use the words of a
  wag, who laughingly observed to his companion, “My dear fellow, you
  are mistaken as to Josh. Hudson going to fight; it’s Sir John
  Falstaff in buff.” On placing himself in attitude, Josh. smiled at
  his opponent, but still was cautious. Cannon tried to go to work,
  and let fly at Hudson’s victualling office, but the latter hero, to
  prevent a row in the interior, got away. The “Popper,” full of
  bustle, again tried it on, but, in a counter-hit, received an ogler
  that made his pimple shake again, and put him on the winking system.
  Hudson was anxious to administer pepper; but in rushing in he
  received a slight topper, and slipped down on one knee. Cannon lost
  no time, convinced the amateurs by his conduct that he was not the
  novice he had been previously represented, and kept hitting away
  _sans cérémonie_. We were surprised that Hudson did not finish the
  round by going down; as on his getting up he received a severe
  facer. A short pause. Cannon aimed a tremendous blow at his
  opponent’s nob, but he missed. (“Never mind that,” said Richmond;
  “he means to win it, and nothing else.”) Cannon showed he was not
  destitute of science; he got away from a slogger, but immediately
  commenced an exchange of blows, and had none the worst of it. Josh.
  stopped well, and also planted an ear-wigger, that rowed the upper
  works of Cannon. (A pause.) The bargeman went boldly up to his
  adversary to commence mischief, when Josh., in retreating, ran
  against the stake. Both the combatants found their way into the
  corner of the ring. Here a little fibbing occurred, and Josh., after
  a desperate struggle, succeeded in placing the Popper on the ground.
  (The East-enders in high spirits, cheered their hero, and offered
  five to two.)

  2.—Hudson came piping to the scratch; his bad condition was visible
  to all the ring. He was no longer the smashing hero as to effective
  quality, and a pause was the result. He was now aware, but too late,
  that he had treated his adversary too lightly, and also that Cannon
  was not a novice as to prize milling. But, like a trump, acting upon
  the good maxim that “dangers retreat when boldly they’re
  confronted,” he stood up to his man with the true courage of a lion.
  Cannon, extremely active, endeavoured to take the lead; but Josh.
  made two good stops. The bargeman received a heavy topper; but he
  would not be denied. A desperate rally occurred, and the claret
  first made its appearance on Hudson’s lip. Josh. tried milling on
  the retreat; but the bargeman rushed upon him, bored Hudson to the
  ropes, and, after having the best of the hitting, got Josh. down,
  and fell heavily on his abdomen. (The Windsor folks and Johnny Raws
  now gave a loud shout for joy. “Why, Cannon, you fell on a soft
  place, didn’t you? a feather-bed, wasn’t it?”)

  3.—The last fall distressed Hudson so much that he appeared scarcely
  to have a puff of wind left in his body; his face was also covered
  with claret. The mind of Josh. was eager to administer punishment;
  but his energy was leaving him fast. Cannon was determined to bustle
  the John Bull boxer, and attacked him gaily. The bargeman saw the
  exhausted situation of his opponent, and would not allow Hudson to
  recover himself. Josh. retreated, but fighting all the time, till he
  was bored to the ropes, when Cannon obtained the superiority so
  clearly, that Josh. was fibbed severely down. The East-enders were
  now on the funk: hopes and fears alternately succeeded; but
  disinterested spectators were satisfied that Cannon must win.

  4.—This was a good round. The blows of Hudson were heavy; and Cannon
  found out, if not stopped, they were likely to prove dangerous. The
  bargeman put in a sharp hit in the wind which made Josh. blow again;
  however, Cannon’s mug showed the handiwork of Josh., and the claret
  was conspicuous about it. Another rally, hit for hit, but which
  ended to the advantage of Cannon, who again got Josh down. (The
  Windsor folks were full of joy, and opened their mouths as wide as
  barn-doors, vociferating, “You have done the job.”)

  5.—Hudson, game as a pebble, stuck to his man like glue, and a
  terrible rally was the finishing stroke of the round. Both down; by
  a sudden effort of Hudson he threw Cannon over him.

  6.—The bargeman was piping a little, but nothing in comparison to
  his opponent. Some ugly thumps passed on both sides. In struggling
  for the throw, Cannon was undermost. (“Well done, Josh.!”)

  7.—Cannon found he had his work to do, although his adversary was so
  fat and out of condition. Josh. stopped his attempts; but Cannon
  bored in and nobbed Hudson. The latter in turn administered pepper;
  however, in closing, the strength of the bargeman gave him the best
  of it. He fibbed Hudson, got him across the ropes, and punished him
  down. (“Foul, foul!” “Fair, fair!”)

  8.—This was a fighting round altogether; but if Josh. put in a heavy
  blow Cannon planted two for it. The John Bull boxer was punished
  terribly till down. Twelve minutes and a half.

  9.—In this early stage of the fight the backers of Hudson saw, with
  tears in their ogles, that the chance was against him, therefore
  they now had only his game to stand upon. In closing, both down.

  10.—In all the previous battles of Hudson he was never so roughly
  handled before, without returning the compliment. Josh. now felt
  that his own weight was too much for his legs, and he staggered
  about and missed two well-intended nobbers. Cannon, in a most
  determined and clever style, floored the John Bull Fighter like a
  shot. This blow operated like the shock of an earthquake upon the
  nerves of the backers of Josh.; their peepers seemed too big for
  their heads, and they stared like stuck pigs. (The odds were
  dropped, and Cannon decidedly the favourite.)

  11.—Hudson had not strength enough to follow up his wishes; indeed,
  it was Sir John Falstaff in trouble. “Go it, my Joshy; it’s all your
  own.” “You can lick twenty countrymen yet.” “When you say ‘No,’ it
  will be a fine treat for Cannon;” and a thousand other things were
  uttered to inspire the John Bull Fighter with new ardour for
  conquest. But Josh. seemed to have lost all his chaffing—the
  customer before him was rather too serious for a joke, and his time
  was too much occupied to attempt to be funny. Hudson, full of pluck,
  endeavoured resolutely to take the lead, and certainly was
  mischievous; but the bargeman was too good: he had the best of it,
  and threw Josh. across the ropes.

  12.—This round was unimportant. Cannon slipped, and fell down while
  attempting to plant a hit. (“He’s getting weak, Josh.; Cannon will
  soon cut it.” “Walker,” replied Tom Cribb. “Cut it, indeed; why,
  he’s won it. But never mind; go on, and you’ll soon find it out.”)

  13.—This was a bang-up round on both sides, and Cannon full of
  mischief. A terrible rally; no favours asked; hit for hit given,
  till Hudson was almost abroad. In this rally Josh. put in a
  tremendous facer, that for an instant Cannon seemed almost at a
  stand-still, and in a state of stupor. He, however, recovered, and
  got Hudson down. The Windsor folks were now all happiness, laughing
  at the poor Cockneys and the knowing ones. During the time Cannon
  was on the ground he also showed great distress; and if Hudson had
  possessed anything like his strength in former battles, he might
  have gone in now with a great chance of winning. But poor Josh., on
  leaving the knee of his second, was twice as much exhausted as
  Cannon; the chance and betting was now six to four against him.

  14.—Nothing else but hammering on both sides. Hudson tried the
  pepper-box, but the Cayenne was wanting. Josh. retreated from
  wisty-castors, but Cannon would not be denied. Hudson received a
  tremendous nobber that made his peepers roll again, and the upper
  works of Master Cannon were a little disordered. In closing, Hudson
  got his nob through the ropes, and in this unfortunate situation
  Cannon played upon it as on a drum till he was tired, and then let
  him down in a state of distress truly piteous.

  15.—The exhausted state of Josh. at this period beggared
  description. A gasp of breath seemed worth “a hundred” to him, so
  dreadfully was he distressed. He was like a man almost suffocated
  with asthma. Yet, anxious for victory, in opposition to the powerful
  effects of nature against his mind, he came to the scratch full of
  pluck. Cannon determined to turn everything to good account, again
  put Josh. on the bustle. He closed with the John Bull Fighter, and
  fibbed him down till nearly all the wind in his body had deserted
  him. (Two to one on Cannon.)

  16.—The bargeman had taken several good doses, and was a little
  sickish; but, nevertheless, he was the best man now—a guinea to a
  shilling. Hudson’s bottom was good to the end of the chapter; but it
  might be urged he was fighting for breath as well as for glory. It
  was impossible he could win: he was almost choked with fat. The
  bargeman planted a nobber that made the John Bull boxer quite
  abroad; fibbed him till he was tired, and finally floored Josh. with
  the utmost ease. The bargemen, the yokels, and the Windsor folk
  united in one general shout for Cannon, and offered any odds. It was
  Windsor Castle, the Great Park, and all the deer in the bargain, to
  a potato patch against Hudson, and no chance to win.

  17 and last.—The exit of the John Bull boxer from the ropes was at
  hand. He was brought up to the scratch with great difficulty. Hudson
  still showed fight, but it was little more than putting up his
  hands. Cannon, very unlike a novice, saw there was no time to lose;
  he rushed in and administered pepper, then, with a tremendous blow
  on the side of the head, he floored his opponent. Oliver and Randall
  picked up Josh., but he was nearly insensible, and when time was
  called he could not come to the scratch. Some little demur took
  place, and also some time elapsed in debate between the umpires on
  the subject; but Spring being appealed to as a referee, decided that
  Cannon was the conqueror. The bargeman left the ring amidst the
  shouts of the populace, and was driven off the ground in the
  barouche of his patron, with the colours flying, etc.

  REMARKS.—

                           “Can such things be,
                 And overcome us like a summer’s cloud,
                 Without our special wonder?”

  The John Bull Fighter defeated by an “outside” boxer in twenty
  minutes and a half. Tell it not in the West! Hear it not in the
  East! How are the mighty fallen! How will the yokels triumph! and
  how will the Cockneys get rid of their grief? It is a severe lesson
  for the John Bull Fighter. Want of condition was the ruin of
  Broughton. We trust it will not prove the overthrow of Joshua, and
  hope he will be remembered for what he has done, and have another
  shy to recover his lost laurel. In the above battle the only thing
  sound in the John Bull Fighter was his heart; and with all the
  dilapidating powers of Messrs. Sherry, Black Strap, and Co., added
  to their immense partnerships and overflowing capital of eau-de-vie,
  daffy, ginger-beer, heavy-wet, etc., they had not subdued that
  invaluable article, the heart of the brave but fallen Joshua Hudson.
  But it should seem that his friends, instead of training the John
  Bull of the P.R., rather adopted the mode pursued by the members of
  the Agricultural Society, in fattening prize animals for the
  Smithfield Show. We were told Hudson had nothing to fight against—a
  mere novice, a muff, a yokel; in fact, anything but a milling cove.
  Under this mistaken notion, the heart of Josh. intimated to him it
  was no matter if he was as big and as full of turtle-soup as an
  alderman, or possessed the rotundity of abdomen of a Falstaff. He
  had only to peel in the ring, show his laughing, jolly face, fight a
  few rounds to put the polish on his adversary, and the battle was
  his own. Josh. trusted alone to his heart, and if that only had been
  wanted, his out-and-out true courage doubtless would have brought
  him through the piece. If the truth can be ascertained, we verily
  believe he weighed nearly, if not quite, fifteen stone. He is almost
  twice as big at the present period as at the time he commenced
  fighting in 1816. It is true, Josh. cannot be compared to, or called
  a second Daniel Lambert; but it will not be disputed that he bears a
  great resemblance to George Colman’s “Two Single Gentlemen rolled
  into One.” In a word, want of condition prevented him from having a
  chance of winning the battle; but it is the opinion of many judges
  of prize-fighting that Cannon is too good a man for Josh. under any
  circumstances. This opinion, of course, remains to be decided. After
  the first round, it appeared to us that all his former gaiety of
  manner had left him; and towards the conclusion of the battle he hit
  completely round, scarcely knowing what he was about, and quite
  abroad. His fine courage never deserted him, and nature kept up the
  desire for glory to the last effort. In the ring Hudson did all that
  a man could perform. His backers have no right to find fault with
  him for being beaten, however they may feel disposed to quarrel with
  him for his neglect of training. Josh. was severely punished about
  the head: but all the milling he received in the battle was a trifle
  light as air compared to the punishment of his mind. The “Popper,”
  in reality, proved himself a Cannon, produced a loud report, went
  off well, hit numbers of persons much harder than they expected, and
  left the field of battle with the proud title of conqueror affixed
  to it. No man has been more mistaken in being termed “a novice” than
  Cannon: his conduct in the ring rather showed him master of the
  ground than otherwise, and he never let a chance escape him. He will
  prove an ugly customer for any antagonist. Cannon hits out, and hard
  too, with his left hand, not inferior to Josh. Hudson. The bargeman
  ought rather to be praised for his courage and his ambition, as
  things have turned out, than sneered at for his presumption. Cannon
  selected Hudson as an opponent, notwithstanding the high-sounding
  pretensions of the latter, and the great fame he had acquired in the
  milling circles, as a boxer worthy of his attack. In obtaining the
  victory, his judgment has proved to be correct. It is worthy of
  remark, that during the time of the battle between Ward and Hudson,
  Cannon loudly observed, “If they call this fighting, I think I can
  lick both of them.” And again, when in training at Virginia Water,
  he met with Langan, to whom he said, “I wish you was as sure of
  winning your fight as I am of beating Josh. Hudson.” Cannon is much
  indebted to his worthy patron, Mr. Hayne, for the high condition in
  which he entered the ring, and also for some valuable tuition. The
  veteran Bill Richmond, we believe, endeavoured to put Cannon awake
  to the movements of the ring; and White-headed Bob, who had him
  under his care while training, tried to make the bargeman “fly.” It
  is said Cannon’s ambition is gratified, and that he does not intend
  again to appear in the P.R.


We may here note that the same week that witnessed the downfal of Josh.
Hudson saw the defeat of Barney Aaron by Arthur Matthewson, of
Birmingham, and of Phil. Sampson, beaten by Jem Ward, a remarkable
series of miscalculations by the knowing ones.

Hudson met Cannon in the spectators’ part of the Fives Court, at
Richmond’s benefit (June 29, 1824), when he told the Windsor hero he
would fight him in three months for £200 a-side. Cannon replied, “His
master had said he should not fight under £500; but for himself, he
should not mind fighting Josh. for any sum.” In consequence of this
conversation, the following letter appeared in _Pierce Egan’s Life in
London_.


  “SIR,—

  “In answer to Mr. Hudson’s letter, inserted in your valuable paper
  of Sunday last, I have only to observe that my patron and backer,
  Mr. Hayne, will not allow me to fight under £500 a-side.

  “I cannot conceive how Mr. Hudson should be at a loss to make good
  his stakes. Surely, after the chaffing of Mr. Randall at the Fives
  Court, where he volunteered to come forward to the tune of £300, and
  the calls Mr. Hudson intends making in the northern, southern,
  eastern, and western parts of the kingdom, there will be little
  difficulty (with the fifty my backer presents to him) in his making
  up his money.

  “Mr. Hudson expressed a wish that I should name a day and place to
  make a deposit for the mill; I therefore name Mr. Cribb’s, in Panton
  Street, on Tuesday, the 17th of this month, when I shall be armed
  with the ready to any amount that may accommodate Mr. Hudson.

  “I beg to take this opportunity of assuring the sporting world that,
  should I enter the lists again with Mr. Hudson (and which I heartily
  desire may be the case), that it will be my last turn-up in the
  prize ring.

  “I have to apologize for taking up so much of your valuable paper,
  but feeling it essentially necessary that something like a decisive
  and perfectly understood answer should be given to Mr. Hudson and
  the fancy, I have trespassed thus far.

                          “And am, sir, your obedient humble servant,
                                                       “THOMAS CANNON.

  “_August 4, 1824._”


The sporting world at the east end of the town were so confident as to
the success of the “John Bull Fighter,” in his second contest with
Cannon, that, in addition to the liberal gift of £50 by Mr. Hayne, they
made up the remaining £450 without delay, and the battle was fixed for
Tuesday, November 23, 1824. It was proposed by Mr. Hayne that the men
should fight on a stage, a proposal induced by the fact that in the
former fight some friends of Josh. had cut the ropes when they found the
fates were adverse to their pet, and had attempted to create a
disturbance and wrangle. The proposition was at once acceded to by the
real backers of Hudson, who had not been parties to the misconduct of
his admirers; and it was stipulated in the articles that the battle
should come off on a stage, similar to that on which Spring and Langan
fought at Chichester. Matters having been thus amicably arranged, Josh.
went into close training, determined to do all that could be done to get
himself into fitting condition to justify the confidence that had been
placed in him. Cannon, who, from following the calling of a bargee at
Windsor, had been elevated to the dignity of gamekeeper to Mr. Hayne,
also took immense pains with himself. Josh. had to reduce himself to the
extent of about twenty pounds, and this task he manfully accomplished,
and his weight on the day of battle was exactly thirteen stone ten
pounds. His condition was such that his friends backed him in some cases
at five to four, and commonly at guineas to pounds. Cannon, like his
antagonist, was also in prime twig: he had not a superfluous ounce of
flesh, and his weight was thirteen stone one pound.

The nomination of the place of fighting was left to Mr. Jackson, who
received applications from sundry places to bring the mill to certain
districts. Among other towns, Andover, Peterborough, and Warwick were
liberal in their offers of reward to the men. At length the advantages
appeared in favour of Warwick, and thither accordingly Mr. Jackson
ordered that the men should proceed. The race-course was, as in the case
of Spring and Langan at Worcester, preferred as the scene of action, and
an agent was sent down from London, who, in conjunction with the clerk
of the course and a committee of gentlemen, made the requisite
arrangements.

As it was expected that Barney Aaron and Dick Curtis were to fight on
the same stage as the big ones—although in the end this battle did not
take place—of course the spectacle was doubly attractive, and the
attendance proportionably great. For admission to the grand stand the
charge was 10_s._, while to the different wagons round the outer ring
the figure varied from 2_s._ 6_d._ to 5_s._ The proceeds of the
standings in wagons were divided equally between the boxers and the ring
constables. The regulations for preserving order were first-rate, as, in
addition to the knights of the mawley themselves, there were twenty-five
regular constables with their staves of office to assist. The men
arrived on the ground about half-past twelve o’clock, and shortly
afterwards mounted the stage; Josh. attended by Peter Crawley and Phil.
Sampson, and Cannon waited upon by Tom Spring and Tom Cribb. Mr.
Woodward was chosen umpire for Josh., and Captain Radford for Cannon,
and these two gentlemen nominated “the squire,” Osbaldeston, of racing
and hunting renown, to be referee. These were the days when the
patronage of sporting men raised the character of the assemblages at the
ring-side. Mr. Jackson, to fill up the interval of expectancy, called
upon Jem Ward to show his arm to the amateurs. That boxer did so, and an
eminent surgeon of the vicinity pronounced its symmetry to excel any arm
he had ever seen. Tom Oliver also stripped, and Mr. Jackson placed him
in various attitudes to exhibit the action and beauty of the muscles of
the trunk and arms. The arms of “White-headed Bob” (Ned Baldwin) and of
Phil. Sampson were shown, and declared to be studies for the sculptor
and modeller of the highest interest. On stripping, Cannon was obviously
in the better condition. His flesh was hard as ivory, and as clear and
bright. Josh. looked perfectly well, but it was evident he might have
spared a few more pounds with advantage. He was, nevertheless, as we
have said, the favourite at five to four. We have preferred the report
of _Bell’s Life_ to the rhapsodical farrago of “Boxiana,” as more
practical, actual, and life-like.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The men threw themselves into position; Josh. with a sort
  of rolling guard, Cannon with his fists straight before him. Each
  eyed the other with a determined regard, and the brows of both
  portended mischief.

            “With daddles high uprais’d, and nob held back,
            With awful prescience of th’ impending thwack,
            Both kiddies stood, and with prelusive spar
            And light manœuvring, kindled up the war.”

  Cannon was clearly resolved to lose no time; he advanced towards
  Josh. Josh. retreated, to draw his man; but Cannon was not to be
  out-generalled: he was steady, and followed his enemy. He at last
  hit out with his right, and caught Josh. on the sneezer. Josh.
  countered, but did not make much impression. Cannon then fought with
  his left, and a bustling rally followed, in which there were some
  straight and forcible returns. Josh. found it was no joke, and
  having been followed to the rails, he turned round quickly and met
  his man in another direction. Cannon followed him, and caught him
  again on the snout, drawing first blood. Josh., nothing abashed, met
  his antagonist manfully, and some desperate, but not scientific
  hitting followed. At last Josh. went in for the close, and after a
  slight struggle both fell, Cannon under. It was again proved that
  Cannon was no _petit maître_, and Josh.’s sconce exhibited woeful
  marks of his meaning. Cannon, too, had a mark under his left eye.

  2.—The men came up with courage, but Cannon appeared most collected.
  Little time was lost in sparring. Josh. broke ground with his right,
  tipped Cannon on the left eye and got away. Cannon followed him, and
  returned the compliment, when a heavy tussle again took place, smack
  for smack, and no attempt at stopping. It was regular tuck-mill
  hammering, and all head-fighting. Cannon was still busy with his
  man, and, in closing, a sharp tussle followed, in which both were
  down, Josh. under.

  3.—Josh., on coming to the scratch, was observed to pipe, although
  not much distressed. He did not wait to gain breath, however, but
  rattled in manfully to

                      “Seek the bubble reputation,
                      E’en in the Cannon’s mouth;”

  and placed a tremendous hit on the Great Gun’s eye, which drew his
  cork and produced a general cheer from the Joshuaites. Cannon took
  it kindly, and rushed forward with alacrity; he hit Josh. on the
  potato trap, which drew forth another purple stream. This led to an
  unsparing rally, in which both men gave and took with astonishing
  fortitude. Josh., in this tussle, again received heavily on the
  muzzle, and was about to return, when Cannon, from the slippery
  state of the boards, fell on his knees.

  4.—Both came up in true John Bull style, Cannon preserving his
  original straight-forward guard, and Josh. working for an opening.
  He got it, and caught Cannon on the nob. Cannon took without
  flinching, and returned with activity. It was a fine specimen of
  unshrinking courage on both sides, and slashing hits succeeded each
  other, right and left. In the end, Cannon slipped down, while Josh.
  stood firmly on his legs. Some thought this was a knock-down blow,
  but the fall was attributable only to the wetness of the stage.
  Josh. was loudly cheered by his friends.

  5.—Cannon was first on his legs when time was called, but in rising
  showed the punishing effects of the last round; still he was fresher
  than Josh., and commenced his handiwork, and as he scorned to stop,
  Josh. countered terrifically on his right ogle. Another desperate
  interchange took place, till the men closed. After a vigorous
  wrestle, Cannon threw his man close to the rails. Poor Josh. fell on
  his face, and the crimson spurted from his mouth.

  6.—Many thought it was all up with Josh. in the last round; but his
  seconds were on the alert, screwed his nob to the right bearing, and
  he again came up with undiminished courage, although a very ugly
  study for an artist. He rushed to his man with true game, and in his
  characteristic style planted a heavy blow on Cannon’s left cheek,
  close to the eye, on which he inflicted a cut, and nearly shut up
  that shop. Cannon was again active, and followed his man to the
  stakes, when a rally followed, and ultimately Josh. went down on his
  hands and knees. Both were weak.

  7.—Both men on reaching the scratch were distressed, but Josh.’s
  bellows went the fastest. Josh. retreated, and was closely followed;
  he, however, hit straight from his shoulder, and made his mark; but
  Cannon, nothing behind, returned the compliment with a terrific
  sneezer. A grapple followed, and Josh. was severely hit, and fell
  heavily.

  8.—It was now manifest to all that Cannon was the strongest man and
  in the best condition, and the backers of Josh. began to take an
  affectionate farewell of their blunt; in fact, the good judges
  thought Josh. had no chance. On coming to the assault, however, both
  men were groggy, and although they interchanged blows, the effect
  was not very apparent. A gentle tap on Cannon’s old sore assisted in
  completing that part of the mark, and the eye was completely closed.
  Cannon now bored in with undeniable spirit, and a struggle took
  place for the fall. Josh. had the advantage, and threw Cannon, but
  afterwards rolled over him. The fall was not of an effective
  character.

  9.—Cannon came up fresher than Josh., and mutual blows were given,
  neither shrinking from their weight. It was all tussle and
  punishment. Cannon at last slipped down, and it was still thought
  probable that Josh. might come round and win.

  10.—Both came up dreadfully punished, Cannon’s remaining ogle
  getting the worse for wear, and Josh. distilling the Burgundy in
  half a dozen directions. Again did the men show their unshaken
  fortitude: there was no retreating, but milling in the first style.
  At last they came to a stand-still, and their blows were as
  powerless as if they wore the gloves. In the close both went down,
  Cannon under.

  11.—Cannon’s left cheek, on coming to the scratch, was bleeding, but
  still he was first to the call, and again showed his superiority of
  condition by his active readiness. He rushed in to fight, but was
  met boldly by Josh., and interchanges followed. Cannon, in getting
  away, slipped on his crupper a third time: his shoes were without
  spikes or nails, which rendered this accident more frequent.

  12.—Both came up steady, but Josh. was “piping all hands.” A longer
  spar, or rather stand-still, took place in this round, before
  commencing, than had occurred during the fight. At last Cannon let
  fly with his right on Josh.’s canister, and Josh. returned heavily
  on his smeller. (“Well done, Josh.”) Bustle followed—tap and
  tap—when Cannon once more slipped down.

  13.—Sparring for breath. Josh. on the retreat. At length Cannon
  delivered an ugly compliment with his left on Josh.’s mug. Josh.
  returned, and they both fought to the stakes. They here showed their
  resolution and their disinclination to “take it easy;” and at length
  Cannon slipped down. Both were dreadfully punished, but Josh.’s
  physog. exhibited the strongest marks of seasoning—it was peppered
  all over.

  14.—Cannon hit Josh. with his left, and Josh. countered with his
  right. In a rally, Cannon hit and slipped, but brought up before he
  reached the boards, and rushing again to his man with thorough game,
  evidently showed his heart to be in the right place. Good milling
  followed, and both went down distressed. Nothing could equal the
  goodness of Josh.’s nature, but he was evidently on the wane. Both
  men, in fact, hit till there was not a hit left, and in this round
  Josh.’s head came heavily in contact with one of the side stakes.
  (The odds were now two and three to one on Cannon, but there was not
  much betting.)

  15.—Josh, had clearly booked himself for a suit in chancery; but
  Sampson exclaimed that he was better on coming to the mark. Both
  were anxious for the affray, and, rushing in, they struggled to the
  stakes, where several hits were exchanged; but neither of the men
  were capable of doing execution. They embraced, not very lovingly,
  and struggled hard for the fall. Josh. got it, and fell on his man,
  but the exertion did him more harm than good, and Cannon was not
  much hurt.

  16 and last.—The men fought to the stakes, and here they hit at each
  other, change for change, like smiths at an anvil, but they were
  both powerless in their blows. Josh., however, was evidently in the
  worst state, and was reduced to a complete doldrum. At last they
  broke from the stakes, and Cannon, grappling his man, threw him a
  tremendous fall, dropping on him as he fell. It was now all UP.
  Josh.’s head had come in contact with the boards, and his frame was
  shaken to a stand-still. Sampson picked him up, and did all he could
  to awaken him to time. It was in vain, however: his time for
  fighting had ceased, and he could come no more. Cannon did not seem
  conscious that it was all over, and advanced to the scratch. Spring,
  however, threw up his hat, and a general shout announced the
  termination of the contest, in a few seconds under twenty minutes.
  Cannon had some heavy bets on himself, and has cleared upwards of
  £1,000 by his exertions, which will tile him for the rest of his
  life. All the knowing ones were floored: they made certain of
  Josh.’s success, and backed him in large sums. The East-enders were
  dreadfully chop-fallen at this second disappointment of their hopes,
  and downfal to their pride. Little was said, but the elongation of
  faces and shrugging of shoulders afforded sufficient evidence of
  what was felt.

  REMARKS.—With regard to the character of this fight little is to be
  said beyond an unqualified eulogium on the bravery of both the men.
  In the first round it was clear that Cannon was the best man, and
  that his confidence in himself had not been misplaced. Neither of
  them showed science: it was, in the true sense of the word, a John
  Bull affair, in which giving and taking was the only study. He who
  could give and take most proved to be the best man. Praise is
  equally due to the one and to the other; and we consider that
  Cannon’s success is attributable solely to his superior condition.
  Josh. could not bear to be reduced beyond a certain point; and by
  his training at this late season of the year, whatever might be his
  appearance at first sight, he had evidently weakened his
  constitution. Cannon is not a showy fighter, but he holds his hands
  up well before him, and in a rally he is always doing a little. He
  was heavily punished, and was removed in the carriage of his backer
  to the Regent Hotel, Leamington, and under the medical care of Mr.
  Jeffson he recovered from his injuries in a shorter time than could
  have been expected. Hudson was taken to the Castle Inn, Warwick, and
  put to bed.


On November 29, 1824, Cannon left London with £750 of his winnings, with
the intention of opening a tavern at Windsor, with Mrs. Cannon.

Early in 1825 (February 15), in compliance with a desire of the
amateurs, Tom Cannon gave a sparring exhibition at the Fives Court, in
which Josh. and himself fought their battle of Warwick over again with
the mufflers. Josh. was pronounced, despite his fat, to have the best of
the “science,” but the activity was with Cannon. “Bravo, Josh.!” at each
hit or stop, resounded from all parts of the Court at each manœuvre of
the old favourite. The bills and advertisements were headed “Tom Cannon,
the Champion of England,” and a challenge for £1,000 was given to any
disputant of his title. The door-money was over £100, exclusive of the
sale of private tickets.

Cannon now went on a tour, after winning a foot-race of 200 yards with
“Squire Smith,” at Shepperton, for a stake of £20 a-side, February 19,
1825, in handsome style. In the following month we find him at Brighton,
with his patron, Mr. Hayne, where matches at billiards and wrestling had
been made by Mr. Hayne with a well-known Irish adventurer, Mr. Carney.
At billiards Mr. Hayne had chosen the celebrated Jonathan (Kentfield) as
his representative. It would appear that Mr. Carney caught Mr. Hayne
“upon the bustle” early one morning, and backed himself for 100 guineas,
p. p., 100 up, Mr. Hayne to find a player who should give him (Carney)
70 points! and this without consulting Jonathan on the matter. At the
same time Mr. Hayne backed Cannon to wrestle with Mr. Carney, “collar
and elbow,” for £50 a-side, “best of three falls.” Jonathan, winning the
toss, named his own table in Manchester Street, for the trial of skill.
There was a great muster of sporting men on Thursday, March 24, 1825,
and ten to one was betted that Mr. Hayne would forfeit. There was little
betting on the play, as it was the general opinion that the odds were
preposterously great. Cannon offered £20 to £15 that Carney won. The
affair was over in eighteen minutes, Carney winning straight “off the
balls,” so soon as he got the cue in hand. Carney played with judgment
and coolness, and won the match with credit to himself. He declined
another match with forty given. With regard to the wrestling, the
following placard was posted in Brighton:

“Ireland’s Royal Grounds will be a scene of great attraction this day
(Thursday). A wrestling match, for a heavy stake, will take place
between Cannon from Windsor (the celebrated pugilist) and a sporting
gentleman amateur from Ireland, at two o’clock; the best of three falls.
In addition to which, the art of self-defence will be exhibited by
White-headed Bob and Gaynor, with other gymnastic sports. Price of
admission, 2_s._ The large room will be appropriated entirely for the
ladies who may honour the above manly exhibition with their presence.
Every attention will be paid to render the amusements highly interesting
to the visitors.”

The crowd at “Ireland’s Ground” was immense, and there was no end of
wrangle as to the true definition of “collar and elbow,” the Carney
division determining to have “the pull” on their side, if possible. Then
arose the question as to whether the game allowed the elegant and humane
practice of kicking each other’s shins. Mister Carney had come with his
legs swathed in woollen list; but at last Cannon took off his boots,
Carney divested himself of his bandages and heavy shoes, and it was
finally settled that the umpires should place the hands of the wrestlers
on each other’s shoulders and elbows, and leave them. Cannon was dressed
in a new jacket and breeches, without any handkerchief on his neck.
Carney wore an old blue dress coat and light pantaloons; his fine figure
was much admired. We remember him well about town, in his fatter and
latter days, when he was a constant frequenter of “Silver Hell,” near
Leicester Square, and perpetually engaged in legal or personal war with
the notorious Barnard Gregory and the _Satirist_ newspaper; his six feet
of height, and fifteen or sixteen stone of weight, still marking him as
an opponent one would rather let alone than challenge.

There was little in the match to call for description. Cannon declared
he did not understand the style of wrestling. After a short struggle,
Carney succeeded in tripping his man, and bringing him almost sideways
to the ground. Cannon denied it was a “back fall.” The umpires
disagreed, but the referee gave it to Carney. £10 to £5, and then £30 to
£10, were offered on Carney. After some play the men were down in a
scrambling fall; Cannon was on his knees, and Carney fell over him. This
was declared “No fall.” The third and deciding bout was more spirited.
Cannon tried to show off, but Carney, with great activity, “heeled” his
man so cleverly, that down went “the Great Gun” clean on his back.
Cannon jumped up, and with the utmost good humour exclaimed that he had
lost the match. He repeated that “he didn’t understand the game.” The
whole was over in eight minutes.

White-headed Bob and Gaynor next made their bows, and set-to. The
talents of the “White-nobbed One” gave him the best of it, although
Gaynor exerted himself to give satisfaction. It was expected Cannon
would have had a turn with Baldwin; but “the Great Gun” immediately set
off for the metropolis. Five-and-twenty pounds were collected at the
doors, which were distributed among the candidates for fame, Mr. Ireland
reserving one-fifth for the use of his grounds. Mr. Carney, however,
generously made the host a present of his share.

Cannon’s pretensions to the championship were not allowed to remain
unchallenged. Jem Ward put in his claim, and, as already recorded,[42]
on July 19, 1825, at Warwick, Cannon was defeated, in ten rounds,
occupying ten minutes only. The heat of the weather was so intense that
several persons fainted and were carried from the ground. Cannon stood
£200 of his own money, and £200 in his backer’s bets. During the dispute
at Tattersall’s about the stakes, Tom publicly said, that as £200 of the
battle-money belonged to him, _that_ should be given to Ward, whatever
might be done with the rest. He added, that he should like another trial
with Ward, but that he had lost all his spare cash.

In August, 1825, Tom Cannon and Peter Crawley “starred” it at the Coburg
(now the Victoria) Theatre in a piece called “The fight at Warwick,”
which, we are told, was attractive and lucrative to the management.[43]

Cannon’s next match was with Ned Neale (see Life of NEALE, _post_), the
Streatham Youth, which was decided in an enclosure at Warfield, Berks,
February 20, 1827. Neale proved the winner in thirty minutes, after
twenty-two hard-fought rounds. The odds were at one time in Tom’s
favour, who attributed his defeat to a severe hurt in the shoulder from
a heavy fall.

This was Cannon’s last public appearance as principal within the ropes.
In November, 1827, Tom seconded Jem Burn in his second fight with Ned
Neale, on the same ground at Warfield. The day was wretchedly damp and
wintry, and Cannon caught so severe a cold that he was laid up with
lumbago, and for several months was a cripple. Cannon still found a
friend in Mr. Hayne. Though that gentleman had retired from “the turf
and ring,” he placed him in the Castle, in Jermyn Street, St. James’s.
Here, through his civility and attention, he was well supported for a
time; but Tom’s friends wore off, and new ones came not. His health,
too, was precarious, and he retired from business, not upon a
competency, we regret to say. For nearly eighteen years Tom disappeared
from an active part in ring affairs, and resided at Strand-on-the-Green,
in the capacity of a swan-watcher for the Corporation. Severe attacks of
the gout and rheumatism disqualifying him from all exertion, he fell
into a state of hypochondria, and on Sunday, the 11th of July, 1858,
terminated his existence by suicide with a pistol, in the sixty-ninth
year of his age, leaving a constant and attentive widow in narrow
circumstances to lament his loss. Jem Burn and some other friends of the
old school kindly strove to alleviate her forlorn condition.

[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER IV.
           JOSH. HUDSON, “THE JOHN BULL FIGHTER.”—1816–1826.


Among the names which a pugilistic Plutarch might find difficult to
parallel for lion-hearted, fearless, and indomitable pluck, that of
Josh. Hudson may be fairly cited. “The John Bull Fighter,” as his
friends and admirers at the East-end fondly called him, fought his way
into the battle of life at Rotherhithe, on the 21st of April, 1797.
Although fond of a mill from his youth upwards, the juvenile John Bull
earned the character of a thorough good-natured fellow, and this he
preserved through life. There was no ferocity in Josh.’s composition,
though once aroused in the fight his hitting was truly terrific, and his
gameness in receiving as remarkable as his readiness in refusing to take
an advantage of his adversary. Josh, was by no means an uninformed man,
and, barring a propensity for practical jokes—a common thing in his
day—remarkably inoffensive.

Josh.’s first reported contest was with Jack Payne, the butcher, at
Dartford Brim, October 22, 1816, for ten guineas a-side. Jack, when he
pleased, could fight well, but he was thought, not without reason, to
lose pluck whenever he had not the “lead” in his hands. He soon found he
had “caught a Tartar” in young Josh., for in thirty-five minutes he
cried “enough!”

Our hero now flew at higher game, and challenged Aby Belasco. After a
determined battle of one hour and thirty minutes the affair ended in a
wrangle; Clark and Peter Warren, who seconded Josh., taking their man
away. Belasco, however, got the stakes.

Hudson’s next battle was with Street, April 5, 1817, which he won in one
hour and ten minutes. In “Boxiana,” vol. ii., p. 477, “Street” is called
“Connelly.” It was David, Josh.’s brother, who fought and beat Connelly.
Tom Oliver and Clark seconded Josh. in this battle.

His next match was with Charles Martin, at Sawbridgeworth, for a stake
of twenty guineas, June 10, 1817. Richmond and Harry Holt seconded
Josh., who won cleverly in thirty minutes.

Thompson, an Essex coachman, and rather fast with his fists, fancied
Josh. for a “tenner,” and challenged him within six weeks of the
last-named battle. They fought at Woolwich, July 17, 1817, when, in
twenty-five minutes, Thompson dropped his whip and declined any further
proceedings.

Josh, having in a spree “milled the wrong person,” was bound over by the
magistrates to keep the peace for twelve months. He determined to keep
out of the way of mischief for that period, so engaged himself as
butcher on board the Surat Castle, Indiaman. Pierce Egan embellishes
this voyage with fights with nobodies, to fill up the story of Josh.’s
sea life. On his return, Hudson accepted the challenge of a formidable
Chatham caulker, of the name of Bowen. This rough and ready customer
stood six feet two inches in his stockings, and weighed thirteen stone
and a half without an ounce of superfluous flesh; while Josh, drew ten
stone seven pounds at scale. The battle was truly desperate; but in
seventeen minutes Josh. was knocked out of time. This occurred on March
25, 1819.

Josh. lost no time in emerging from the cold shade of defeat, and on
Tuesday, April 17, 1819, a month after the last event, he entered the
ropes with Williams, the waterman, for ten guineas a-side, in Essex,
opposite to Woolwich Warren. There were 5,000 persons present, say the
reports at the time. Hudson was the favourite at five to four. At
thirteen minutes past one Tom Owen and Donnelly conducted Josh. into the
ring, followed by Williams, who was seconded by Tom Oliver and Harry
Holt. The first three rounds were full of manœuvring, and decidedly in
favour of the waterman; but when Josh. came to force the fighting, the
scene was quickly changed. The waterman, however, proved a truly game
man: he was terribly punished before the sponge was thrown up; and
Josh., too, had napped it heavily. It was on both sides a manly fight,
and Josh. was prophesied by Tom Owen—who dubbed him “his boy”—as likely
to take a top place among the boxers of England.

[Illustration:

  JOSHUA HUDSON.

  _From a Miniature by_ T. COOPER.
]

On the 24th of August, 1819, at the renowned battle-field of Moulsey,
after Cy. Davis had beaten Boshell, a purse of 25 guineas was made up on
the ground, and Jack Scroggins (JOHN PALMER, see his life in vol. i.)
agreed to fight Josh. Hudson for the amount. Tom Owen and Sutton
esquired Hudson, Harry Harmer and Tom Shelton picked up “Scroggy.”
Scroggins hesitated, saying, he had been drinking overnight, and was in
bad condition: but, added the daring little sailor, “Here goes—I’ll have
a shy for it.” The fight requires but little description; Scroggins
rushed headlong at his opponent, scrambling for a hit, and often losing
his balance. Josh., on the contrary, was steady, and nobbed the once
formidable hero with stupefying effect. When Scroggins fell at the close
of round one, two to one was offered on Josh., and soon after three to
one was without takers. At the end of the sixth round Tom Owen
exclaimed, “It’s your own, Josh., my boy; you don’t want any seconding.
Meet him as he comes in—one more like that, and the ‘pence’ you shall
have.” In the eleventh and last round Scroggins over-reached himself,
and came down on his knees, when Josh. caught him a stinger on the side
of the head. “Foul, foul!” “Fair, fair!” echoed from all sides of the
ring, for the rough and ready “merry-andrew of the ring” had many
friends. The umpires decided the blow to be unintentional, and ordered
them to “go on.” Scroggins refused, declaring he “was not used fair.”
The purse was then awarded to Hudson. Scroggins, during the first few
rounds was as full of antics as a clown in a pantomime, but soon became
convinced that he was getting the worst of it, and broke off with an
attempt to “snatch a verdict.” About this period Phil. Sampson, the
Birmingham Youth, who had, as will be seen by his biography, a talent
for quarrelling with his friends, fell out, Phil., _more suo_, talking
about “serving out” Josh. at the first opportunity. Hence, after Ned
Turner and Martin had left the ring (see Life of TURNER, vol. i.), on
the 26th of October, 1819, at Wallingham Common, Surrey, ten guineas
a-side having been posted, and a ten guinea purse subscribed by the P.
C., Sampson intimated his readiness to meet Josh., and the John Bull
Fighter stepped into the ring with alacrity. Tom Owen and Purcell waited
upon Hudson; Shelton and Harmer seconded the Birmingham Youth. On
stripping, Owen said to Josh., “Now, my boy, remember the _multum in
parvo_.” “Is that a new hit?” asked Josh. laughing. “No, my boy,”
replied Tom; “it’s Latin for doing a lot of work in a little time.” “I’m
awake,” replied Josh.; “he won’t catch me napping.” The men stood up,
and the seconds having retired to their corners, they began—


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Scarcely had the combatants shaken hands than it appeared
  that they had no intention to protract hostilities. Sampson dashed
  in at Josh. and planted a tremendous teazer flush in his ivories.
  Josh. returned, and some rattling exchanges followed, Sampson
  literally nobbing Hudson till he reeled staggering away; but he
  returned to the attack like a bull-dog, and went on weaving away
  till he was hit down. (Tumultuous applause for Sampson, and the two
  to one offered on Hudson no longer heard. “I’ll bet six to four, and
  have Sampson,” cried a Corinthian amateur.)

  2.—Sampson again led off, and nobbed Josh. three times on the head.
  Josh. returned, and caught Phil. heavily on the ribs and side of the
  head. The men got into a ding-dong rally, right and left, in which
  unshrinking courage was displayed on both sides. The round closed by
  both being down side by side covered with claret.

  Twenty-five rounds ensued, occupying forty minutes, all of which
  were distinguished for tremendous fighting. Hudson received three or
  four flooring hits. In one instance, in the struggle, he fell with
  his knee on the private parts of Sampson, when the latter observed,
  “Is that the way you mean to win it, Josh.?” “I couldn’t help it—it
  was accident,” replied Hudson. “Well, I believe it was,” said
  Sampson. This small trait of feeling during the rage of battle is a
  fine proof of the generous courage of Englishmen. Such a good fight
  has not often been witnessed. At length victory was declared in
  favour of Hudson. It was a nice thing, and dearly bought, for Josh.
  fainted on his second’s knee after he was proclaimed the conqueror.


Hudson, from the game and milling talents he had displayed, was next
matched against Jack Martin, for 50 guineas a-side, which took place at
Colnbrook, on Tuesday, December 14, 1819, when, in the second round,
Hudson’s shoulder was dislocated, and of course he lost the battle. (See
the Life of MARTIN in vol. i.)

In the course of the evening after the battle, Hudson, in company with a
friend, called at the house of Abrams (Little Puss), near the Royalty
Theatre, to take a glass of liquor. One Guyly, a big costermonger, took
up some money which was upon the tap-room table, belonging to Hudson,
and refused to return it. The courage of Josh. made him forget the
crippled state of his shoulder for the instant, and he let fly so
severely upon the nob of Guyly that the saucy costermonger quickly gave
back the cash. Owing to this circumstance a report got into circulation
that it was untrue that Hudson’s shoulder had ever been put out by
Martin.

An off-hand match was made for Hudson against Rasher, a determined
Welshman, a butcher belonging to Whitechapel Market. The latter boxer
had the weight of Josh.; nevertheless, he fought Rasher ten guineas to
eight. This contest took place at Plaistow, in Essex, on Tuesday,
January 11, 1820. Hudson was seconded by Owen and his brother David;
Rasher by Mendoza and Cy. Davis. It occupied twenty-nine minutes and a
half, and fifteen rounds. After the first round, which was tremendously
contested, Hudson had it all his own way. The science displayed by Josh.
was much admired, and he made many clever feints with his left hand, to
get the right well into play. Rasher was covered with claret, and his
gameness astonished every one present, but he was too slow in his
movements. He was floored in the last round; and on coming to himself
wanted to renew the fight.

Hudson, still continuing to rise in the estimation of his friends, was
backed against Benniworth, the Essex champion, the hero of the country
for several miles round, for 50 guineas a-side. Benniworth was six feet
in height, weighing thirteen stone twelve pounds; nevertheless, Hudson
was the favourite. This contest took place on Tuesday, April 4, 1820, on
a common near Billericay, in Essex. Hudson was seconded by Owen and
Purcell; Benniworth was attended by his brother and another yokel.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—About a minute elapsed in sparring, Benniworth making
  numerous awkward feints, and dancing about, sometimes standing with
  his right leg first, then changing it for the left. He made three or
  four hits, but they proved short. At length Benniworth made a slight
  blow with his right hand on Hudson’s body. Josh. seeing what sort of
  a customer he had before him, made play, and let fly right and left
  in the middle of Benniworth’s nob, both of which told, and the
  claret flowed copiously. Benniworth’s left eye was much damaged. He
  rushed in to his opponent, when, in getting away, Hudson’s heel hung
  in the grass, and Benniworth made a slight half round hit on the
  neck with his left hand, flooring him. (Great rejoicings from the
  yokels.)

  2.—Hudson, with much dexterity, in a sort of half-arm rally, placed
  three straight hits on Benniworth’s nob. Josh. also drew backwards,
  and avoided all Benniworth’s half round blows. Hudson now made
  himself well up, and planted a most tremendous right-handed blow on
  the nose of his opponent that floored him like a shot. (Any odds,
  but no takers, and the Johnny Raws all blue.)

  Further description would be useless. Hudson had it thenceforth all
  his own way. He laughed at Benniworth, and nobbed him at pleasure.
  The Essex champion lost his temper, rushed in, and followed Hudson
  all over the ring, with his head leaning forward and both his hands
  open. Hudson kept retreating, and jobbing his adversary on the head
  with his left hand. Benniworth was a complete receiver-general;
  nevertheless, he succeeded in driving Hudson to the ropes; but here
  he had the worst of it, a guinea to a shilling. Josh. nobbed him
  terribly away; and in following him, floored him with a terrific
  right-handed hit on his nose. Benniworth, when “time” was called,
  was in such a state of stupor that he could not leave the knee of
  his second, whereon Hudson was declared the conqueror.

  Thus was the vaunted rustic champion disposed of in the short space
  of seven minutes. As a scientific pugilist, Benniworth did not
  appear to possess a single point: he had no idea of fighting. From
  the moment he entered the ring Hudson kept laughing at him, and beat
  him without a scratch upon his face. It certainly was a laughable,
  but not an interesting contest; and it was matter of astonishment
  how such a boxer could have obtained so terrific a character. Upon
  the Essex champion coming to himself, he exclaimed, with great
  surprise, “Be I licked?” “You are, indeed,” replied Josh., laughing;
  “but you may have a round or two for fun, if you like it, Benny.”
  “Noa, noa,” said the champion; “as I’ve lost the stakes, there be no
  fun in that loike.” Benniworth, it seems, had made so sure of
  conquest, that he invited his mother and sister to be near at hand.
  The yokels had also booked it, and provided themselves with blue
  ribbons to decorate their hats the instant victory was declared in
  Benniworth’s favour.


Josh. was suddenly called into action with Spring at Moulsey Hurst, on
Tuesday, June 27, 1820, for a purse of £20; and, notwithstanding the
disparity of size, weight, and science between the combatants, Hudson
showed himself a good man. (See the Memoir of SPRING, vol. ii.)

Hudson, during the time he was at Norwich, had a battle with Abraham
Belasco in the long room at Gurney’s Bowling Green, July 19, 1820. In
this contest, which might be termed for honour, Josh.’s shoulder went in
and out three times.

Moulsey Hurst, on Tuesday, December 5, 1820, was again the favourite
“bit of turf” for a genteel mill between a swell of the name of Williams
and Josh. Hudson. Williams was unknown to the mass of sporting men; but
those persons who knew him pretended to be acquainted with his prime
fighting qualities, and chaffed all the old ring-goers out of conceit of
their own judgment, and Williams was the favourite, six and five to
four. This sort of “whisper” importance was also kept up at friendly Bob
Lawrence’s, the Red Lion, at Hampton, where the fancy met to take a bit
of a snack before they crossed the water, and make their “books”
complete. Richmond, downy as a hammer, spoke in raptures of the swell’s
superior science with the gloves. Bill Eales, who had stood before
Williams many times, nay, who had given him instructions several years
back, pronounced him “a downright slaughterer.” The Master of the Rolls
was quite infatuated with this pink of the gloves. Martin had tried him
again and again, and not having found Williams “wanting,” was this day
£50 the worse for his opinion. Tom Shelton was also led away by the
stream, and Spring was taken in upon the same suit. Oliver, too, was out
of his know, and out of pocket in consequence. Cocker had nothing to do
with the fight in question; indeed, who could make any calculation about
an unknown man? Randall and Belcher, somehow or other, were persuaded
into the good milling qualities of their hero; in short, there was a
sort of fashion attached to the betting. The “Swell” was supported and
brought forward by the swells. Judgment was shoved, as it were, into the
background, or else a novice in the ring would never have been backed,
at high odds, against a well-known high-couraged man, one who had often
been put to the test, and admitted to be a boxer of talent. But then the
shoulder of Hudson was ricketty; no dependence could be placed upon it.
Things went on in this manner till about a few minutes before one
o’clock, when Williams appeared and threw his hat into the ring,
followed by Belcher and Randall as his seconds. The look of Williams was
swellish in the extreme. He bowed in the most graceful manner, and there
was a superior air about him. He paced the ring up and down for about
eight minutes, when Josh., with his white topper, a fancy upper
Benjamin, and a blue bird’s eye round his neck, came brushing along and
threw his castor into the ring. He immediately went up to Williams and
shook hands with him in the true open-hearted English style. To witness
the manly act, this characteristic trait of Britons, is worth more in
its influence upon society than the perusal of a thousand canting essays
tending to fritter down the courage of Englishmen. Williams observed to
Hudson, that he hoped there was no animosity between them. “Not in the
least,” said he; “we are going to fight for a prize, and to see which is
the best man.” Tom Owen and Ned Turner were the seconds for Josh. The
latter tied his colours (yellow) to the stakes, and Randall covered them
with the blue of Williams. Owen, who had never seen “the Swell” till he
entered the ring with “his boy” Josh., observed to the latter, “Why, my
chaff-cutter, if you don’t go and lick this Bond Street blade in a
jiffy, the white topper shall never more be placed on your nob. My dear
boy, the East against the West End for milling.”


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On stripping, Williams displayed a fine muscular frame, and
  good legs; but his face was pale, and his countenance showed him to
  be between forty and fifty years of age. Josh. was in high trim, and
  seemed confident of winning. Some time elapsed after the combatants
  had placed themselves in attitude before Williams let fly; but
  Hudson got away. Counter hits followed, when Josh.’s right eye
  showed blood, and the nose of the swell looked a little red.
  Williams made a right-handed hit, which Hudson stopped prettily, and
  then went to work. The exchanges were sharp and hard, but the
  wisty-castors of Josh. were so tremendous that he spoilt the
  gentility of the Swell, and positively milled him down. (Great
  applause from the plebeians; and Tom Owen smilingly said to Josh.,
  “I told you so, my boy: that’s the way to clear Regent Street in a
  brace of shakes.” Seven to four.)

  2.—Josh.’s eye was bleeding when he came up to the scratch. The
  Swell looked rather puzzled; but he touched Hudson’s other peeper so
  severely that his nob was chanceried for an instant. Hudson made a
  plunge with his right hand upon his opponent’s face that produced
  the claret, followed him up to the ropes, and punished him down.
  (Three to one, and “It’s poundable,” was the cry. Here Owen told
  Josh. he had “done the trick, and lots of Daffy were in store for
  him.”)

  3.—The confident appearance of Williams had left him; he had paid a
  visit, as Tom said, to “Pepper Alley.” Williams showed game, but he
  had no chance to win. He, however, made some sharp hits; but the
  pepper-box was again administered, and Williams went down
  distressed. (Ten to one.)

  4.—This round was the quietus; the Swell was hit out of the ring. It
  was Cayenne at every dose. Williams was completely done up, and his
  seconds dragged him up all but gone.

  5.—Williams was brought up to the scratch in a most distressed
  state. He, however, showed fight, and with his right hand put in a
  heavy body blow: it was his last effort. Josh. now went in right and
  left, and punished the Swell so terribly that he staggered and fell
  against the ropes; but, on recovering himself a little, Tom Owen
  said to Josh., “Don’t give a chance away; a finisher only is
  wanting.” The finisher was applied, and Williams was down all
  abroad. The swells looked blue, and Josh. received thunders of
  applause. (“Take him away!” was the general cry.) Josh. in this
  round did not like to hit the Swell when he had got him at the
  ropes, feeling like the British sailor, so finely described by
  Dibdin—

            “In me let the foe feel the paw of a lion;
            But the battle once ended, the heart of a lamb!”

  6.—Williams came to the scratch in a deplorable state, and Hudson
  pushed him down _sans cérémonie_. When time was called he could not
  leave his second’s knee.

  REMARKS.—Thus, in the short space of nine minutes, Josh. defeated
  this much-vaunted opponent. After remaining a short time in a state
  of stupor, Williams came to his recollection, and asked if it was
  over. The flash side were completely floored in consequence,
  according to themselves, of their calculating upon Josh.’s shoulder
  giving way. The Swell showed great steadiness in the first round,
  which occupied upwards of three minutes; but afterwards had no
  chance, and found out the great difference between sparring and
  fighting. Instead of losing so much time in sparring in the first
  round, as he was clearly a stale man, he ought to have gone to work.
  He could hit hard, and most certainly did not want for knowledge of
  the science. But he was too old to take; his mind might be firm
  enough to endure punishment, but his frame could not stand it. At
  all events, he should have commenced pugilism (if he wished to
  obtain a high place in the prize ring) some seventeen or eighteen
  years earlier. Drummers and boxers, to acquire excellence, must
  begin young. There is a peculiar nimbleness of the wrist and pliancy
  of the shoulder required, that is only obtained by early practice.
  Youth and strength, however, are indispensable ingredients in a
  pugilist. The backers of Williams, _i.e._, those amateurs who made
  the match for him, had no right to complain of his conduct. There
  was nothing of the cur about him; on the contrary, he fought like a
  game man: he never said “No,” and he tried to win the battle till he
  lost sight both of his opponent and friends.


Josh.’s combat with Ned Turner, when _Bacchi plenus_, and which ended in
a defeat, will be found noticed in the life of that boxer, _ante_, vol.
i.

A second match with his former antagonist, Phil. Sampson, was the next
public appearance of Josh. This took place on Saturday, March 3, 1821,
at Banstead Downs, Surrey. The torrents of rain did not deter hundreds
from leaving the metropolis, and several aristocrats of the highest
class were upon the ground.

At one o’clock the Birmingham Youth, followed by Spring and Randall,
threw up his hat in the ring; and in a few minutes after, Hudson,
attended by Oliver and Purcell, repeated the token of defiance. Spring
and Oliver went up smiling together, and tied the colours of the
combatants to the stakes.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On stripping, Hudson looked extremely well, but rather too
  fat. Sampson was in excellent condition: both gay, confident, and
  eager. They had tasted plentifully of each other’s quality in their
  former fight, and much difference of opinion existed among the
  spectators who had really won it. A short pause occurred, when
  Hudson made an offer to hit, and Sampson drew back. Another pause.
  Sampson endeavoured to put in right and left, which proved short, in
  consequence of Josh.’s getting away. After looking at each other for
  about a minute, Hudson went in; some sharp work took place, and in
  the struggle, Sampson was undermost. (Loud shouting, and “Josh., you
  have begun well.”)

  2.—The nose of the Birmingham Youth appeared rosy. Both now began to
  slash away, and the pepper-box was handed from one to the other,
  till Josh, either went down from a hit, or slipped on his knees.
  (“Go along, Sampson.”)

  3.—Hudson missed a tremendous hit at Sampson’s head. The latter drew
  the claret from Josh.’s mug by a facer; but Josh. rushed in and
  exchanged hits to his own advantage, and sent his opponent down.
  (The shouting was now like thunder—the old fanciers dancing
  hornpipes, the East-enders all in spirits, and the Bermondsey boys
  offering odds on their favourite, Hudson, six to four.)

  4.—The Birmingham Youth took great liberties with the upper works of
  his opponent. The round was terrific. Both went down, Sampson
  undermost.

  5.—“It’s a good fight,” was the cry all round the ring. Sampson was
  more than busy, and the face of Hudson was clareted. The latter,
  bull-dog like, did not care about receiving, so that he could go in
  and punish his opponent. He did so most effectively in this round,
  and Sampson was hit down. It is impossible to describe the joy of
  Hudson’s friends. (Seven to four.)

  6 to 9.—These were all busy rounds, and the partisans of each of the
  combatants claimed the best.

  10.—Sampson meant nothing but mischief, and at out-fighting placed
  his hits, in most with tremendous effect. In this round he went down
  from the force of his own blow.

  11 and 12.—The Birmingham Youth always good for punishment in
  commencing the round; but Josh. finishing them all to his own
  advantage.

  13.—Sampson in this round was, from the heavy blows he received,
  almost at a stand-still, till both down.

  14.—This was a terrible round on both sides. Hudson’s mug was
  terrific. The men hit each other away staggering, then returned to
  the charge game as pebbles, till Sampson scarcely knew how he went
  down. (“Go along, my Joshy; it’s as safe as the Bank.”)

  15.—Sampson was floored from a heavy blow under the listener. (The
  Hudsonites were uproarious, and offering any odds.)

  16.—Sampson came up like a true Briton, and, after several severe
  exchanges, was again sent down.

  17.—Hudson either could not, or did not attempt to, protect his
  head, and Sampson hit him down. (“Bravo, Sampson! do so again, and
  you can’t lose it,” from his friends; “you behave like a good one.”)

  18.—If Josh. had not been an out-and-out bottom man, from the
  repeated tremendous facers he received, he must have been beaten
  before this period; but the more he received the more courage he
  appeared to have, and after another desperate round, Sampson was
  sent down.

  19.—It was Pepper Alley on both sides, and neither appeared anxious
  to stop. Josh., as usual, napt it in the first part of the round,
  but finished it in prime style, and hit the Birmingham Youth down.
  (Here some hissing occurred, as it was said by a few that Hudson
  touched the head of his opponent improperly as he laid on the
  ground; but it was evident that Hudson was moving out of the way to
  avoid it. “He’s too high-couraged to behave unhandsomely to a brave
  opponent,” was the general expression.)

  20.—Sampson, after a few exchanges, was again hit down. (Two to
  one.)

  21.—It was evident that Sampson was getting weak; his knees began to
  tremble, but his courage and anxiety to win were strong. He strained
  every nerve to turn the fight in his favour, and, although he did
  not succeed in this respect, he was still a dangerous customer. All
  fighting till Sampson was down. (Three to one, and the Hudsonites
  quite up in the stirrups.)

  22.—Sampson took the lead. The face of Hudson was pinked all over,
  and his head went back twice. Sampson’s mug was also painted. The
  latter could not keep Hudson out; he would always be with his man
  till he had the best of him. Sampson down.

  23 to 25.—All milling; but, in the last round, Sampson was exhausted
  and dropped.

  26.—Sampson came up distressed, and was soon sent down. (“It’s all
  u-p up,” says an over-the-water lad. The Hudsonites all in good
  humour.)

  27.—No chance remained to win; but Sampson would not allow his
  seconds to say “No.” He came unsteadily to the scratch, but it was
  only to be sent down. (“Take him away.”)

  28.—Sampson, it is true, reached the scratch; and although Hudson
  was in a bad state, from the punishment he had undergone, yet he
  still remained fresh enough to finish the exhausted Sampson, who
  went down without knowing where he was. The shouts of victory gave
  Hudson new life; he jumped up, put on his own coat, and was
  immediately taken to a carriage.

  REMARKS.—All that a boxer could do towards victory Sampson
  attempted; but he had not strength enough to dispose of Hudson, who
  would not be denied. Sampson by no means disgraced his character in
  defeat. He was led out of the ring in a very distressed state. The
  fight was over in thirty-two minutes. Hudson received by far most
  punishment about the head; and, although quite abroad once or twice,
  his game was so out-and-out that he returned to fight with his
  opponent at each repulse as though nothing could daunt him.


A slight skirmish took place between Josh. and Jack Ford, the pugilist,
on Thursday evening, March 29, 1821, at the east end of the town, over a
pot of heavy. Ford offered to fight David Hudson, when Josh. said it was
cowardly to challenge “a blind one.” Ford immediately gave Josh. a
snorter, which produced the claret. Josh. could not return the favour
till he had put the pot and glass out of his hand, when the John Bull
boxer caught hold of Ford, and put in such a shower on his nob that he
roared out for help, and begged of the company to take Josh. away from
him, if they did not wish to see him (Ford) murdered! Josh. offered to
accommodate Ford any time in a public ring, if he liked it, but observed
that he must take no more liberties in future with his head, or he
should answer before “the beak” for such conduct.[44]

In June, 1821, Josh., by way of keeping the game alive, offered to fight
Tom Oliver for £100 a-side; and in October of the same year sent the
following to the editor of the _Weekly Dispatch_:—


  “SIR,—

  “‘The John Bull Fighter,’ as he is termed, without meaning any
  offence, or a long preface on the subject, wishes to make it known
  that he can be backed for £100 a-side against Martin, if it meets
  with the approbation of the latter. Also, the same sum is ready to
  enter the lists with Garrol, the Suffolk champion; but if Garrol
  cannot get £100, I have no objection to accommodate him for £50. I
  am to be found at all times ready to make a deposit to the above
  effect.

                                                   “Yours, etc.,
                                                       “JOSHUA HUDSON.

  “_October 10, 1821._”


The second fight which was to have taken place between Josh. Hudson and
the Suffolk champion on Tuesday, the 11th of December, 1821, after Neat
defeated Hickman, for £50 a-side, went off, in consequence of a demur
about the stakes. An appeal was made to Mr. Jackson, who advised the
money to be returned. The Suffolk champion threw up his hat in the ring,
but Hudson did not think it necessary, under the circumstances, to
answer it. Had the fight taken place, Tom Owen was on the ground to
second his boy Josh. The forfeit of £20 was given to Hudson by consent
of Garrol’s backers.

A match was made immediately after the above forfeit between Hudson and
the Chatham Caulker for £100 a-side. Bowen, six feet two inches in
height, as the reader has seen, had defeated Josh. a few years before,
at Chatham, in seventeen minutes. David Hudson had likewise surrendered
to his conquering arm. However, the gay boys—the East-enders, with ould
Tom Owen at their head—said Josh. should have another shy for it, if he
lost his stick. The odds were six and seven to four against him. “What
of that?” said Tom Owen; “do you mind me, the bigger the Caulker is, the
better mark my boy Josh. will have to hit at.” This battle was decided
on Wimbledon Common on Tuesday, February, 5, 1822.

Soon after peep of day the fancy were in motion to reach Banstead Downs,
the appointed spot for the mill; but the secret had slipped out, and the
beaks had got hold of the scent; yet timely notice was given to the
travellers, to prevent their proceeding farther than the Cock at Sutton.
Some doubts also existed upon the subject on the preceding evening at
the sporting houses in town, and several swells preferred starting for
Croydon to be in readiness for the result. Sutton, however, was the
rallying point; and after some little consideration, Smitham Bottom was
the next place determined upon, to accomplish which, two roads presented
themselves (and precious ones they were), when the company brushed off
in all directions, and bad was the best. To describe the ludicrous
incidents which occurred across the country for nearly seven miles a
small volume would scarcely suffice. In many instances several of the
horsemen, mounted on good cross-country bits of horseflesh, went the
pace in steeple-chasing style; and, by way of increasing the effect, at
one period sly Reynard appeared in view, followed by the Surrey hounds
in full cry. A few of the ring-goers, who were upon horses (now reduced
to hacks) which in better times were hunters, found their situations
become ticklish, and one of the “Jemmy Green” fraternity, who was
floored slap in the mud, observed, with a face as long as one’s arm,
“That the stable-keeper had not used him well by putting him on a
hunter, and not tellin’ of him.” The puffing and blowing of the poor
toddler, to keep up with the carriages: gigs shivered to pieces, upset,
or their springs broken; post-chaises fast up to the naves of the fore
wheels in clay, altogether formed so serio-comic a sketch that the pen
cannot do justice to it. Boreas, too, took unwarrantable liberties with
the head covers of the company, and many a hero’s tile was not replaced
on his upper story without a scampering of a quarter of a mile for it.
Smitham Bottom was at length reached in a tremendous shower of rain, the
turnpike was paid without murmuring, and all the preceding troubles were
forgotten on the ring appearing in sight. But here another difficulty
arose: the stakes had been scarcely put into the ground, when a “beak”
unexpectedly appeared, attended by his clerk, and put a stop to the
battle. This was a reverend gentleman, upon whom no remonstrances could
prevail. A funny fellow immediately observed to the preacher, “That it
would not hinder him from receiving one jot less of his tithes; but if
he was determined to prevent the contest taking place, he might, in lieu
thereof, be kind enough to give them a sarmon against the noble old
English practice of boxing. This might have two advantages—make them
disperse, if not, perhaps change their opinions upon the subject.” The
only answer elicited was, “That he would follow them all over the
county.” No time was to be lost, and the assemblage again hurried off in
all directions to gain Wimbledon Common. The sudden influx of company
which poured into Croydon, put all the good people of that place on the
stare; the doors and windows of the houses were crowded to witness the
movements of the discomfited fancy. The bipeds by this time were dead
beat; in fact, they were off their legs. The horses, too, were almost
baked to a stand-still; and the storm coming on thicker and faster, many
preferred the comforts of a good inn and a prime dinner to a doubtful
chase; indeed, numerous bets were laid that no fight would take place on
that day. The champion, Tom Cribb, with several of his friends, being of
this opinion, preferred toasting milling over a bottle of black strap to
further adventures. But the out-and-outers, whom neither wind, weather,
hail, rain, nor shine can get the best of, regardless of the pitiless
pelting storm, braved its fury for many a long mile, without a dry
thread upon their backs, till they again met Bill Gibbons, with the
stakes, on Wimbledon Common. The ring was quickly made; but the
spectators were select and few, some thousands being left behind.
Neither had the beak pluck enough to encounter the storm or distance,
the persevering ones having travelled nearly forty miles to witness the
battle. At seventeen minutes to five o’clock, Hudson, attended by Tom
Owen and Randall, threw his hat into the ring. The Caulker immediately
followed him, attended by Sutton and Jackson, a butcher, from Chatham.
The Caulker was decidedly the favourite, six and five to four. Hudson
immediately went up to his opponent and shook hands heartily with him.
The President of the Daffy Club (Mr. R. Soares) held “the ticker.”


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The person of the Caulker was unknown to the ring-goers.
  True, his fame had gone before him, and he had been represented as
  nothing else but an out-and-outer, a terror to all milling coves in
  the neighbourhood of Chatham, and the best and strongest man in the
  dock-yard. David Hudson proved a mere chick in his hands, and Josh.
  had been licked against his will in seventeen minutes. The knowing
  ones, who do not like to remain idle, and who always endeavour to
  get a guinea upon a safe suit, were thus induced to lay the odds
  upon the Caulker, and in many instances rather heavily. It was
  farther said of him that he was a second Bill Neat, and that his
  right, whenever it told, was a sort of quietus. On the appearance of
  the Caulker in the ring, the general remarks were in his
  favour—“That he was a good nobbed one, snake-headed, had the length
  of his adversary, and looked a dangerous customer.” However, on
  peeling and getting rid of the swell white upper tog (which,
  by-the-bye, seemed to fit him like a purser’s shirt upon a
  handspike), he appeared a thin, lanky man, yet with good arms. On
  shaking hands with Hudson, he stood over the latter several inches.
  The round frame and ruddy face of Josh. was in singular contrast
  with the countenance of his opponent. It was observed on all hands
  that the John Bull Fighter was too fat, when a wag remarked that the
  contest being between roast beef and soup-maigre, John Bull was
  perfectly in character. Very little sparring took place before the
  Caulker endeavoured to put in his right hand, but Hudson got away
  from its force with much dexterity. The Caulker endeavoured to
  repeat this mode of attack, when Hudson again retreated with
  success. Some hard fighting ensued, several hard blows were
  exchanged, and the length of the Caulker was thought to give him the
  superiority. Hudson planted a tremendous hit upon his opponent’s
  ivories, that not only made them chatter, but produced a pinky
  appearance upon his lips. The Caulker, however, was not behind hand
  in returning the favour, and put in such a slap under Josh.’s right
  ogle as started the claret, sent him off his balance, and dropped
  him on one knee; he would have fallen, if he had not been caught
  hold of by Tom Owen, when the round finished.[45] (The Chathamites
  were up in the stirrups at the success of their hero, and loudly
  offered to back him at six to four.)

  2.—This triumph was of short duration, and Josh. convinced the
  spectators that he was by far the better fighter, as well as the
  harder hitter. John Bull was now in his glory; laughing at all
  danger, he resolutely went in to his opponent. Some tremendous blows
  were exchanged in favour of Hudson; indeed, it was all fighting. For
  a rally, there was never a better boxer or a more determined one
  than Josh. Hudson. He finished the round in fine style, and floored
  his adversary by a terrific hit on his knowledge box, that gave the
  Caulker quite a different view of the battle. (The East-enders were
  now dancing with delight, and offering to sport their blunt like
  waste paper. In the ecstasy of the moment, five to two and two to
  one was current betting. The Chathamites looked blue. “My boy,” said
  Tom Owen, “I always knew you were good at a short cut, but I did not
  think you could play half so well at long bowls. Do you mind me,
  Josh.; another such a tickler will send all the Chathamites to
  Gravesend with pockets to let.” “I’m awake, my Tommy,” replied
  Josh.)

  3 and last.—John Bull came up to the scratch jolly, and eager to
  commence offensive operations; while, on the contrary, the Caulker
  came up slow and shaky; however, as a last resource, he endeavoured
  furiously to attack Hudson, who got away laughing. The combatants
  now got into a desperate rally, and Josh, received the most pepper,
  till he put in a Gas-light Man’s shot in the middle of his
  opponent’s mug that sent him staggering some yards; he appeared as
  stupid as a man without a nob. Hudson lost no time, but, from the
  length of his opponent, two blows fell short upon his shoulder, till
  he finished the battle by another Gas-lighter under his opponent’s
  ear, when the Caulker fell in a state of stupor, from which he did
  not recover for some time after Josh. had regained his post-chaise.
  When time was called, the battle had only occupied three minutes and
  a half and a few seconds.

  REMARKS.—This last hit was an electric shock to the backers of the
  Caulker, many of whom were naval men. Not a few of the travellers,
  too, were disgusted at so short a fight after such a long and weary
  journey. “How we have been gammoned,” said those who had been
  persuaded to lay the odds on Bowen; “this man a terror to all the
  dock-yard men and milling ‘salts’ in the neighbourhood of Chatham?
  If so, what a prize Josh. must be!” When Josh. met the Caulker the
  first time he was a stripling of ten stone four pounds; he was now
  over twelve stone, had learnt much, and by his in-fighting set at
  nought the Caulker’s great length of arm. Large sums of money were
  lost throughout Kent upon the Caulker. A bright moon and pleasant
  air, after the day’s storm, rendered the ride home doubly pleasant
  to the winners.


Josh., ever anxious to be doing, addressed the following to the editor
of the _Weekly Dispatch_:—


  “SIR,—

  “I wish, through the medium of your paper, to inform Mr. Martin that
  I am ready to fight him for one or two hundred pounds, either before
  or after his fight with Randall. Should he accept this challenge, I
  am ready, at any time he shall appoint, to meet him at Mr. Holt’s,
  Golden Cross Chop House, Cross Street, Long Acre, to make a deposit;
  should he refuse (having been once defeated by him), I must, to use
  the language he so generously adopted when challenging Randall,
  pronounce him ‘a cur.’ I also wish to inform the sporting world that
  the challenge to Ned Turner, which appeared in your paper of last
  Sunday week, as coming from me, I know nothing of; and be assured
  the John Bull Fighter, as I am termed, possesses too much of a John
  Bull heart to exult over a defeated pugilist; and Messrs. Old Tom
  and Old Time having made great inroads upon the constitution of poor
  Ned, it was farthest from my thoughts to give a challenge, which I
  know his proud heart could not brook, nor his health admit him to
  accept.

                                    “I am, sir, your obedient servant,
                                                    “JOSHUA HUDSON.

  “_Golden Cross Chop House, May 4, 1822._”


A month or two subsequently, Bill Abbot having dared Josh. to the field,
he inserted the following as an answer to Abbot’s challenge:—


  “SIR,—

  “With reference to your letter of Sunday last, I shall be happy to
  accommodate you for fifty a-side, and any day this week you will
  find me or my money at the Cock and Cross, Red Cross Street, London
  Docks, to make the match. If your friends will back you for £100, I
  wish to say my money is ready, and in that case I will wait upon you
  to make a deposit of £20, as far West as you may appoint. I went the
  other evening to Mr. Belcher’s, and did hope to have found you, or
  some friend, to have made the match; but was there informed by one
  of your backers it was a mistake.

                                         “I am, sir, yours obediently,
                                                     “JOSHUA HUDSON.

  “_July 14, 1822._”


The John Bull Fighter was matched, at short notice, with a countryman of
the name of Barlow, called the Nottingham Youth, for £50 a-side. This
battle was decided on Tuesday, September 10, 1822. Great sums of money
were pending, and the road from London to St. Alban’s was covered with
vehicles of every description, their inmates anxious to behold the “new
hero” make his _début_. Barlow, according to report, had beaten twelve
of the best men in Yorkshire, and the knowing ones were persuaded into
the delusion that he would swallow Josh. at a bolt, afterwards dispose
of Shelton, and ultimately put out “the Gas.” So many wagons on the
ground well filled with country gentlemen (particularly from Yorkshire)
had not been witnessed for a long time. A few minutes before one, Josh.
threw his white topper into the ring with more than usual animation, as
much as to say, “I mean to win, and nothing else!” He was followed by
that “special original,” Tom Owen, and Randall, also in white hats.
Hudson was loudly cheered by the spectators. The backer of Josh.
accompanied him within the ropes, wearing the same emblem. Barlow was
not forgotten by the crowd on making his appearance arm-in-arm with
Belcher and Harmer. Hudson went up and shook hands with him. Josh.
peeled instantly, and got ready; but the countryman was so long in
preparing, George Head lacing his shoes carefully, and a number of
officiating attendants crowding about him, that Tom Owen sung out, “What
are you arter, Mr. Bel-s-h-a-r; you are keeping us waiting? Your man
don’t seem to like it much. D’ye mind me?” Hudson also observed, “Come,
what are we waiting for; I’m ready—let’s go to work.” Five to four on
Barlow.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On peeling, the frame of the Nottingham hero did not appear
  calculated to punish, and most of the pugilists present made up
  their minds Hudson must win. It is true, the John Bull Fighter was
  rather too fleshy; nevertheless, he was in fine condition, and,
  united with his laughing, open, and confident countenance, setting
  defeat at defiance, made a considerable impression in his favour
  with the surrounding multitude. On setting-to, Josh. stood firm as a
  rock, with his left arm extended, nearly touching the fists of
  Barlow, for half a minute; on the contrary, the knees of the
  countryman shook (by-the-bye, he was a bad-legged one); he appeared
  puzzled, and at a loss how to commence the attack. Josh., finding
  his opponent in no hurry to begin, let fly, and counter-hits took
  place. The ivory box of John Bull received a small taste; but the
  nose of Barlow napped a rap which produced the claret. Josh.,
  laughing, said to the umpires, “First blood.” This decided numerous
  wagers. (The East-enders began to chevy it was all right, and the
  “special original” offered ten to one on Hudson, when Belcher
  replied, “I’ll take it.” “Stop till the round is over,” said Owen,
  “and it will be twenty to one.”) Hudson put down his hands and
  rubbed them on his drawers, but the countryman did not take
  advantage of this opening. Josh. saw that he had got him, stepped
  in, in the Randall and Curtis style, and, without ceremony, planted
  a tremendous hit under the listener of Barlow that sent him down
  like a shot. The countryman seemed all abroad. The shouting by the
  boys from the Tower was uproarious in the extreme, and five to one
  was offered all round the ring. Anything like description must fall
  short in portraying the emotions of the various countenances. The
  chaff-cutting countrymen, who had been so jolly before, were all
  struck of a heap; the few knowing ones, too—who knew everything
  about the feats of Barlow, and had been let into the secret, “as how
  the Nottingham boy had beaten twelve men in the country, had knocked
  Tom Belcher about in a private set-to, and had got the best of Gully
  in a bout with the gloves”—began to drop down a little, and to look
  blue; while the sages of the East offered “little all” that John
  Bull would again prove victorious. “Do you mind me, Josh.,” said Tom
  Owen, “it’s as right as the day; you have only to go in and lick him
  off-hand.” “Yes,” replied Josh., laughing, “I’ve got him safe enough
  now; I liked him when I first saw him.”

  2.—The countryman was reduced to a mere dummy: he was quite puzzled,
  and came up to the scratch to be floored by Josh. in a twinkling.
  (Ten to one offered, but no takers. Hudson as strong as a horse.)

  3.—Similar to the last: Barlow again measured his length on the
  turf.

  4.—Barlow, although without a chance to win, showed himself a game
  man, and came to the mark for another shy; but it was only to be hit
  down. (Here the president of the Daffy Club interfered, and
  requested he might be taken away. The long faces of “I’s Yarkshire”
  beggared all description.)

  5 and last.—Barlow came again to fight, but soon found himself in
  Pepper Alley. Belcher satisfied that he could not win, put up his
  arm to stop further punishment, and he fell down. Josh. jumped out
  of the ring as conqueror, only six minutes and a half having
  elapsed.

  REMARKS.—The friends of Barlow showed great want of judgment in
  selecting such a well-known, often-tried, high-couraged man as Josh.
  Hudson for his trial opponent in the London prize ring. It was a
  hundred pounds to a farthing against Barlow after the first round;
  indeed, it was next to an impossibility that he should recover from
  the stupefying effects of so tremendous a hit. That he was a game
  man there is no doubt: his conduct in the ring decided that fact.
  This battle afforded no opportunity of judging accurately upon the
  subject of Barlow’s real capabilities. Hudson had not a single mark,
  and said it was one of the easiest things he had ever had in his
  life. On recovering from his surprise, in the post-chaise, Barlow
  wished his friends to let him renew the combat on the ground.


Josh., anxious not to let his faculties lie idle, addressed the
subjoined letter to the editor of the _Weekly Dispatch_:—


  “SIR,—

  “You will oblige me by inserting the following challenges in your
  valuable paper. I understand that the friends of the Suffolk
  champion have been at the other end of the town to make a match
  against me; in answer to which I have only to say my friends are
  ready to meet them any day next week, where they think proper, to
  make a deposit, for 100 guineas a-side, to fight once within two
  months. I am also informed that Mr. Abraham Belasco wishes to have
  another trial with me. If any gentleman will make the match for
  Belasco, my friends will meet them at Randall’s any day next week
  they shall choose to appoint. I have only to add that, if either of
  them wish to do as they say, they must enter the ring before
  Christmas, as I mean to be like the rest of the pugilists, and
  declare off. Answers from the Suffolk champion and Belasco will
  oblige me, that I may know where to meet them on the subject, if
  they mean to come to the scratch.

                                  “I remain, sir, your humble servant,
                                                        “JOSH. HUDSON.

  “_Cock and Cross, Redcross Street, October 4, 1822._”


Tom Shelton, after some delay, was matched with Hudson for £100 a-side,
the mill to take place on Tuesday, November 19, 1822; but, owing to some
reports having got into circulation that it was to be a cross on the
part of Shelton, Mr. Jackson refused the use of the P. C. ropes. The
friends of Shelton, nevertheless, were so satisfied with his integrity
that they immediately made the following match:—


                               “_Golden Cross, Cross Lane, Long Acre._

  “Thomas Shelton agrees to fight Josh. Hudson on Tuesday, the 10th of
  December, in a twenty-four feet ring, for £100 a-side, half-minute
  time; to be a fair stand-up fight. Mr. Jackson to name the place,
  and to hold the stakes of £200. £6 a-side are now deposited in the
  hands of the P. of the D. C., and the remainder of the stakes, £94
  a-side, to be made good at Mr. Holt’s, on Saturday, the 23rd of
  November, between the hours of eight and ten o’clock in the evening,
  or the deposit money to be forfeited. An umpire to be chosen on each
  side, and Mr. Jackson to name the referee.

  “_November 22, 1822._”


This remarkable contest came to issue on Harpenden Common, near St.
Alban’s. Josh. was defeated in less than fifteen minutes, and fourteen
rounds. He was hit out of time, and Shelton was so dead beat that it was
with difficulty he appeared at the scratch to answer the call of “time.”

On the 17th of December, 1822, Josh. (full of Christmas before it began)
had a turn-up in a room with Tom Gaynor, the carpenter, a strong, wiry
chap, then little known, and said to be a bit of a plant. Hudson’s hands
were quite gone, and altogether he was not in a fit state to fight, and
if he had any friends present when the row took place, they ought to
have prevented the battle. The high courage of Josh. brought him through
the piece; but he was severely milled, and met with a very troublesome
customer for thirty-five minutes, before Gaynor could be choked off. To
mend the matter, it was for love. Josh.’s defeat weighed on his mind,
and he thus proposed a renewal of hostilities in a letter:—


  “SIR,—

  “My late defeat by Shelton having occurred through accident, has
  induced me to wish to meet him once more in the ring, for the
  satisfaction of myself and friends and the sporting world, for which
  purpose I have seen Tom personally; but, for reasons best known to
  himself, he declines fighting any more, at least with me. I am
  therefore disengaged; and as my friends are ready to back me for
  £100 against any one (that fact coupled with the idea I entertain of
  myself), I wish, through the means of your valuable paper, to say,
  should either Bill Neat or Tom Spring have a leisure hour, once
  within three months, to display in real combat the scientific art of
  self-defence, I am ready, at any time and place either of these
  gents may appoint, to make a deposit to fight for the above sum.

             “I am, with respect to Neat and Spring, yours obediently,
                                                       “JOSHUA HUDSON.

  “_Cock and Cross, Redcross Street, London Docks, January 25, 1823._”


The second match was made between Hudson and Shelton for £100 a-side,
but on Thursday evening, May 23, 1823, Josh. and his friends attended at
Shelton’s house to make his money good for the fight on the ensuing 10th
of June. The money of Hudson, fifty sovereigns, lay on the table for ten
minutes. Shelton in reply, said he was under recognizances, and should
not fight nor would he forfeit. Thus the battle went off, and Hudson
received £30.

Hudson was anxious to make a match with Neat, but the friends of the
latter never appeared at the scratch. Hudson attended at Randall’s house
for the purpose on May 30, 1823.

The John Bull Fighter never let a chance go by him, and the following
epistle clearly decides his anxiety at all times to accommodate a
customer:—


  “_To the Editor of the_ WEEKLY DISPATCH.

  “SIR,—

  “On perusing the daily papers, I understand that Ward challenged me
  at the Fives Court on Tuesday last; you will therefore have the
  kindness, through your sporting journal, to inform him that the John
  Bull Fighter, whether abroad or at home, is always ready to
  accommodate any of his friends, to afford a ‘bit of sport.’ If Mr.
  Ward, or his backers, will call at Mr. Randall’s, the
  Hole-in-the-Wall, Chancery Lane, on Thursday evening next, Hudson
  will make a match either for £100 or £200 a-side, as may suit his
  opponent.

                                          “I remain, sir, yours, etc.,
                                                        “JOSH. HUDSON.

  “_Birmingham, August 28, 1823._”


On the arrival of Hudson in London, the following articles were agreed
to:


                                   “_Hole-in-the-Wall, Chancery Lane._

  “Josh. Hudson agrees to fight James Ward for £100 a-side. To be a
  fair stand-up fight, in a twenty-four feet ring. Half-minute time.
  Mr. Jackson to name the place of fighting. The battle to take place
  on Tuesday, November 11, 1823. The men to be in the ring, and ready
  to fight, between the hours of twelve and one o’clock. An umpire to
  be chosen on each side, and a referee to be appointed on the ground.
  £10 a-side are now deposited in the hands of a person well known in
  the prize ring; £40 a-side more to be made good at Mr. Shelton’s,
  Hole-in-the-Wall, Gate Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, on Tuesday,
  October 7, 1823, between the hours of eight and ten o’clock in the
  evening, or the £10 a-side to be forfeited. The remainder of the
  stakes, £50 a-side, to be made good a fortnight before fighting, on
  Tuesday, October 28, 1823, at Mr. Randall’s, Hole-in-the-Wall,
  Chancery Lane, between the hours of eight and ten o’clock in the
  evening, or the money deposited to be forfeited.

                                “Signed,
                                              “For JOSH. HUDSON, G. H.
                                                “JAMES WARD.

             “Witness, B. BENNETT.
  “_September 4, 1823._”


Upon the above articles being signed, six to four was offered to be
taken by the friends of Ward, and several bets were proposed that Ward’s
money would be made good.

The following remarks were made respecting the milling capabilities of
the combatants previous to the match:—

“The friends of the Black Diamond in the rough (Jem Ward) flatter
themselves he is so much polished by his recent experiments on the nobs
of the provincials, as to be able to take a high number among the
metropolitan boxers. Ward, in point of frame, is a second Hen. Pearce,
so say the ould ones; and his chest is thought to be equal in point of
anatomical beauty and immense strength to any boxer on the P. L. Ward is
likewise a most scientific fighter, active on his legs, and mills on the
retreat in first-rate style. The principal drawback is said to be, that
he is more of a tapper than a heavy punishing hitter; and it is also a
question at present, which time can only answer (in order to make his
resemblance to the Chicken complete), whether the little but important
word ‘game’ is to be added to his character. Ward, on account of his
youth, is much fancied by a great part of the betting world at the west
end of the metropolis, who assert, and back their opinion, he will win
it easily. On the contrary, something like grief has escaped the lips of
the coveys near the Mint; and the Sage of the East has also been caught
on the sly wiping his ogles, that necessity should compel the ‘two Stars
of the East’ to be opposed to each other. Josh. and Ward being
positively in want of a job, and sooner than remain idle, or stand
still, are anxious to take each other by the hand, no opponents from any
part of the kingdom offering to enter the lists with them. Their match
seems made upon the same principle as that of the late Tom Johnson and
Big Ben. ‘Tammy,’ said the latter, ‘you and I never fell out, and that
is the reason why I think we ought to fight.’ This is exactly the
opinion of the John Bull Boxer, who delights in fighting, but detests
quarrelling, laughing heartily at the incidents of a mill, and weeping
over any real distress. Great sums of money are already betted upon the
battle between Hudson and Ward. The former hero is thought to be too
fleshy; but his lion-hearted courage, among his staunch admirers,
overbalances all defects; and numbers take Josh. for choice, while
others are so fond of him as to bet the odds.”

The fight took place on the 11th of November, 1823, on Moulsey Hurst.
Hudson was the favourite at six to four some days before the battle; but
by a dodge on the evening when the final stakes were to be made good, he
reduced the betting to evens, and finally six to four on Ward. He
stuffed himself into a great coat, a dress coat, and seven or eight
under waistcoats, which gave him such a puffy appearance that many even
of his own friends imagined him out of condition. Hudson was always an
attractive feature in the prize ring; and Ward, by anticipation, was
expected to turn out a hero of the first milling class. From the time
Dutch Sam fought Nosworthy, so many vehicles were not seen upon Moulsey
Hurst. A sprinkling of Corinthians ornamented the ring, numerous swells,
a great variety of heavy-betting sporting men, thousands of independent
respectable spectators, lots of commoners, and plenty of persons a shade
below the last mentioned, and, lastly, a multitude of chaps still a
shade lower. The whole was conducted in the most respectable and orderly
manner, under the direction of the Commander-in-Chief, seconded by the
efforts of the Commissary-General. The exertions of Oliver, Scroggins,
Harmer, Sampson, Turner, Carter, etc., also tended in a great degree to
give every individual an opportunity of viewing the fight. Five and
seven shillings each person was demanded for a standing place in the
wagons; and the watermen who ferried the crowds across the Thames were
well paid for their exertions. The Red Lion at Hampton was head
quarters, and every room in the house overflowed with company. Between
twelve and one o’clock Josh., in a drab white coat, with a blue bird’s
eye round his neck, attended by his seconds, Randall and Peter Crawley,
followed by Jem Burn, threw his hat into the ring. Hudson was received
with loud shouts. He looked cheerful, nodded to several friends, and
appeared quite at his ease. After walking about the ring for the space
of ten minutes, “Ward, Ward,” was the cry. “He ought to have been here
before,” said Josh.; “half past twelve o’clock was the agreement.” The
Black Diamond was seen, arm-in-arm with his backer and trainer, making
his way through the crowd, followed by his seconds, Spring and Aby
Belasco. He was cheered as he passed along, and threw his hat spiritedly
into the ring. Ward looked extremely pale on entering the ropes; and the
contrast between the mugs of the combatants was decidedly in favour of
Hudson. While the Black Diamond was sitting on the knee of his second,
preparing for action, he turned round and surveyed his opponent from
head to foot. Randall tied the colours of Josh., “true blue,” to the
stakes, and Spring placed Ward’s, green, alongside of them. “Go to
work,” was now the order of the day.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Hudson, on throwing off his togs, amused the spectators by
  a dramatic touch—a new feature in the prize ring—something like the
  comic business in Hamlet. On getting rid of his linen, which had
  been nicely got up by his laundress for the occasion, a flannel
  cameza was discovered, and the eager peepers of the amateurs were
  disappointed in not beholding Josh.’s canvas, a second layer of
  Welsh obscuring it. “Hallo!” said the Nonpareil, “how many more of
  them have you got on?” “Why, you are made of flannel,” rejoined
  Peter. “Leave it all to the cook,” replied Josh., smiling; “ask Ward
  about that by-and-bye.” To the great astonishment of the crowd
  Randall divested a third from his frame before Josh.’s rotundity of
  abdomen, broad jolly shoulders, and round arms were exposed for
  action. At length the John Bull Fighter appeared all in his glory:
  “His soul in arms, and eager for the fray.” “Let no person assert
  that Josh. has not been careful of himself,” observed a young sprig
  of aristocracy. “Careful, indeed!” replied an old sporting man; “do
  not say a word about being careful: he is in no condition at all; he
  is not fit to fight. For myself, I never make any calculations upon
  his training; no, no, system and Hudson are not pals; and the old
  Sage of the East, Tom Owen, has deplored this defect in his darling
  boy times and often with watery ogles. It is his invincible bottom
  that never flinches while nature holds her empire over his frame
  that renders Hudson a safe man to back at all times. Recollect Ben
  Burn’s character of Tom Cribb, ‘I wouldn’t mind fighting Cribb,’
  said Ben, ‘but Tom has not sense enough to leave off; he never knows
  when he has got enough.’” The John Bull was now only waiting to
  shake the hand of his opponent to show the spectators that animosity
  had no place in the contest, fame and glory being his only object in
  view. Ward was in tip-top condition; in fact, he could not have been
  better: he was nearly, if not quite, as heavy, without the grossness
  of his opponent, and thus possessed the advantages of training. The
  bust of the Black Diamond was pronounced “beautiful” by the admirers
  of anatomy; indeed, the whole figure of Ward was of so manly an
  appearance, that a sculptor might have long looked for such a model
  of a pugilist. The combatants placed themselves in attitude. Hudson
  stood firmly with his left arm extended, looking steadfastly at his
  opponent, ready for any chance that might offer, well knowing that
  he had an active and scientific boxer before him. The forte of Ward
  immediately showed itself: hitting and getting away seemed to be the
  object he had in view. After a short pause, and both moving a few
  paces on the ground, Josh. let fly with his left, but the Black
  Diamond got away with activity. Ward endeavoured to make a hit, but
  his distance from Josh. was too respectful to do any mischief.
  Hudson looked cheerful and Ward smiled. Hudson aimed a heavy blow
  with his right hand, but the Black Diamond was not to be had, and
  retreated. Josh., perceiving that long bowls were of no service,
  determined to try if a broadside would not bring his adversary into
  action; he went to work _sans cérémonie_, and an exchange of heavy
  blows was the result. The Black Diamond napped a blow on the side of
  the neck, which, if it had been planted a little higher, might have
  been mischievous. In closing at the ropes Ward commenced the weaving
  system actively, but the situation of Josh. gave him the opportunity
  of beating the back part of Ward’s neck and head. In struggling for
  the throw, Ward obtained it cleverly, Hudson being undermost.
  (Shouting, and “Well done, Jem! that’s the way, my lad; you can win
  it by throwing only.” “Walker!” said an old sailor from the Cock and
  Cross; “lick my old messmate by a throw indeed! You don’t know
  him.”)

  2.—Josh.’s forehead was a little rouged, and the right ear of the
  Black Diamond vermilioned from the effects of the last round. Ward
  would not make play, and Hudson found his man very difficult to be
  got at. A short time was occupied in dodging, when Hudson again
  resolutely commenced the attack. Several blows of no tender nature
  were exchanged between them till they fought their way into close
  quarters. Ward, with great spirit and activity, fibbed his opponent
  _à la_ Randall, but not without return. After severe struggling they
  separated, and both went down.

  3.—Josh. stopped well, and also got away from a heavy hit. Ward
  smiled. A smart rally took place, in which Hudson received a rum one
  that caused him to stagger, stagger, and stagger till he went down
  on his rump. It is true it was from the effects of the hit; but
  perhaps it would be too much to term it a knock-down blow. In the
  above rally Ward also received a teazer on the tip of his nose which
  produced the claret, and he dropped, a little exhausted, on one knee
  at the conclusion of the round. (“Ward will win it,” from his
  partizans; “he’ll be able to make a fool of the fat one in ten
  minutes.” The odds decidedly on the Black Diamond.)

  4.—This round was short, but very sweet to the backers of Hudson.
  The latter, on setting-to, floored Ward like a shot. (The joy was so
  great on this event that the Bullites roared like bulls, the Black
  Diamond’s friends looking a little blue at this momentous triumph.)

  5.—This was an out-and-out round on both sides. Ward was on his
  mettle, and nothing else but milling followed. Josh. made play, and
  Ward turned to with equal gaiety. Some heavy blows passed between
  them, and Josh. turned round in breaking away from his adversary. A
  short pause, when Hudson kept creeping after Ward, who was
  retreating, till another rally was the result, in which the Black
  Diamond had the best of it, till Josh. again broke away. Hudson was
  terribly distressed, and Ward committed the error of letting the
  John Bull Fighter make a pause till he recovered his wind; in fact,
  Ward would not fight first. The high-couraged ould one, puffing and
  blowing like a grampus, again commenced play, but received three
  facers for his temerity. Another pause. Hudson was now at a
  stand-still, and his bad condition was visible to every one, but he
  would attempt to mill undismayed, till he received a tremendous blow
  on his left cheek-bone, which sent him down in a twinkling. This was
  a clean knock-down blow. (The Black Diamonders were now in turn
  brilliant. “That’s the way, my Jem’s eye; it’s all your own. We’ll
  back you now two to one, nay, three to one. You can’t lose it.”)

  6.—The heart of Hudson was as sound as ever, and his eye still
  possessed its wonted fire, but his distressed state was evident. Two
  severe counter-hits separated the combatants from each other, and
  both of them felt the severity of the blows. Ward retreated fast
  from Josh.; but the latter kept creeping and creeping after him till
  the Black Diamond was near the ropes, and compelled to fight. Here
  the John Bull Fighter found himself at home, that is to say, at
  close quarters, a sort of yard-arm and yard-arm fighting, where all
  his blows told. Josh. not only stopped skilfully, but he put in two
  such tremendous hits on Ward’s body, that the face of the Black
  Diamond exhibited excruciating grimaces. Hudson also finished the
  round by throwing Ward. (Another uproarious shout. The spectators
  all alive, and the John Bull Fighter, if not the favourite among the
  betting men, seemed to have the interest of the unbiassed part of
  the audience.)

  7.—Hudson, while sitting on Crawley’s knee, appeared exhausted, but
  not in pluck, and laughed at Randall’s telling him to recollect his
  invitation of dining with the Lord Chancellor to-morrow. On time
  being called, Josh., with much judgment, kept sparring at the
  scratch to recover his wind. Hudson cleverly stopped a heavy blow.
  In closing at the ropes the activity displayed by Ward in fibbing
  his opponent was the admiration of the ring, but it was more showy
  than effective. Hudson, though awkwardly held, nevertheless
  administered most punishment. Ward again threw his opponent
  cleverly.

  8.—Some pausing occurred, Ward waiting for his opponent to make
  play. “You must come to me, Jem,” said Josh.; “I shall not go after
  you; I shall stand here all day.” “So can I,” replied Ward. Hudson
  soon broke through his resolution, and went to work, Ward fighting
  and retreating till he was against the ropes. Here the combatants
  closed, and the Black Diamond endeavoured to fib his adversary,
  until Josh., in rather a singular manner, extricated himself from
  the gripe of his adversary, and found himself outside of the ring,
  when he put in a blow across the ropes which floored the Black
  Diamond. (Loud shouting in favour of Hudson; but in betting
  generally Ward was the hero of the tale.)

  9.—The face of Hudson was red and puffy, and it was astonishing to
  witness a man fight so well who laboured under such an evident state
  of distress. The skill of Ward, added to his goodness on his legs,
  should have given him confidence to have fought immediately with
  Josh. on his appearing at the scratch. Owing to the want of this
  confidence, he gave a chance away. “The John Bull” again commenced
  play, but Ward would not be hit. Hudson, on the creeping system,
  gently followed Ward all over the ring, until the latter was in a
  situation that he was compelled to fight. A slaughtering rally took
  place, hit for hit, till both the men went down. (Spring, on picking
  up his man and looking at Hudson, observed, “I should like to have a
  calf’s head as fat as Josh.’s face.” “Softly,” said Crawley, “you
  don’t know how soon your own mug may be in a worse condition.”)

  10.—This was a fine fighting round altogether, exhibiting skill,
  bottom, and bravery. Josh., after a short pause, endeavoured to feel
  for his adversary’s nob, but Ward retreated. The Black Diamond,
  however, returned upon Hudson quickly, and missed a tremendous blow
  aimed at Josh.’s head; it alighted upon his shoulder. A severe but
  short rally occurred, till the combatants separated from distress.
  Hudson was determined to put his opponent to the test, and the
  exchange of blows was severe, till they were compelled to make a
  pause. “To lick or be licked,” says Josh., “here goes!” and hit for
  hit occurred till both the men went down.

  11.—This round led to the decision of the battle. Ward was pinking
  Josh.’s nob and retreating, as the John Bull kept creeping after
  him, till a severe rally was the result. Josh. put in a tremendous
  blow under Ward’s left eye, which closed it. The Black Diamond was
  wild and quite abroad from its severity, hitting at random. It was
  now blow for blow till Ward was floored.

  12.—It was evident that Ward could not measure his distance
  accurately, and his blows were given like a man feeling for his way
  in the dark; nevertheless, this was a complete milling round.
  Hudson’s mug was red in the extreme, and he did not appear to have
  wind enough to puff out a farthing rushlight. Ward was also
  distressed; indeed, it was the expressed opinion of some of the old
  fanciers that “it was anybody’s battle.” When time was called, a
  minute, if it could have been allowed, would have proved very
  acceptable to both parties. After a short pause at the scratch Ward
  got away from a heavy body blow. At the ropes a smart exchange of
  blows occurred, when they separated. Hudson stopped a heavy lunge in
  great style. At the ropes another sharp encounter took place, till
  both of the men were at a stand-still. Ward endeavoured to put in a
  nobber, which Josh. stopped so skilfully as to extort applause from
  all parts of the crowd. In a struggle at the corner of the ring Ward
  was sent out of the ropes, and Hudson fell on one of his knees. (The
  backers of both parties were on the funk. There seemed no decided
  certainty about it: hope and fear were depicted on the faces of the
  friends of both men at this juncture. It was an awful moment for the
  cash account—the transfer of some thousands was at hand.)

  13.—Hudson’s little smiling eyes, although nearly obscured by the
  bumps and thumps above and below them, had not lost their fire, and
  he said to Randall, on coming to the scratch, “I am satisfied, Jack,
  I have got him.” The face of the Black Diamond was completely
  metamorphosed, and his peepers nearly darkened. On setting-to Hudson
  planted a nobber, which sent Ward staggering two or three yards, and
  he was nearly going down. Hudson followed his opponent, and some
  blows were exchanged; when, in closing, Josh. fell on Ward with all
  his weight. (“John Bull for £100; five to one,” and higher odds.
  Victory was now in sight. “Hudson can’t lose it,” was the general
  cry.)

  14.—Badly distressed as Josh. appeared to be, on coming to the
  scratch he was by far the better man of the two. Ward did what he
  could to obtain a turn, and, in closing at the ropes, endeavoured to
  fib his adversary; but Hudson pummelled Ward so severely behind his
  nob, that in a confused manner he let go his hold. A few blows were
  then exchanged, when the John Bull gave Ward a _coup de grace_ that
  sent him down flat on his back. (“Ward will not come again; it’s all
  over!”)

  15 and last.—When time was called, Spring brought his man to the
  scratch, but Ward was in so tottering a state that he was balancing
  on one leg. (“Take him away!” “Don’t hit him, Josh.”) The John Bull
  Fighter, with that generosity of mind which distinguishes his
  character, merely pushed his opponent down, when the battle was at
  an end. Josh. took hold of Randall’s hat and threw it up in the air,
  and at the same time he tried to make a jump. If not quite so light,
  graceful, nor so high as the pirouette of an Oscar Byrne, yet, it
  was that sort of indication that he did jump for joy. Hudson
  immediately left the ring amidst the shouts of the populace, crossed
  the water, and prudently went to bed at the Bell, at Hampton. The
  battle was over in thirty-six minutes.

  REMARKS.—Ward must be pronounced a fine fighter: he completely
  understands scientific movements, and, perhaps it is not too much to
  assert, he is master of the art of self-defence. His most
  conspicuous fault in this battle appeared to be in not fighting
  first, and evincing too great anxiety to avoid the blows of his
  opponent. The Black Diamond is excellent upon his legs—few, if any,
  boxers better; but, in his fondness for retreating, his blows,
  however numerous, did not reduce the courage of the John Bull
  Fighter. It has been urged that Ward was shy of his adversary. The
  name and character of Josh. Hudson, as one of the gamest of the game
  boxers on the list, no doubt has some terrors attached to it, and we
  think it had a little effect upon the feelings of Ward. Hudson was
  now in his twenty-seventh year, and victory had crowned his efforts
  sixteen times. In the battle with Ward the extraordinary courage he
  displayed was the theme of every one present. To courage, and
  courage alone, he may attribute his success; but at the same time we
  are sure that he might have been in much better condition, if he had
  paid more attention to his training. Hudson, we must assert, relied
  too much upon his courage; in fact, he was so completely exhausted
  two or three times in the fight, that his most sanguine friends were
  doubtful of the result. Ward proved himself a troublesome customer,
  and difficult to be got at. Josh. won the battle out of the fire.
  Ward was considerably punished about the head, and put to bed
  immediately after the battle, at Hampton. Upon the whole it was a
  fine manly fight.


On the fight being over, “Home, sweet home,” was the object in view, and
the night fast approaching, the proverb of the “devil take the
hindmost,” seemed to be uppermost. The toddlers brushed off by thousands
to the water’s edge, and, in spite of the entreaties of the ferrymen,
the first rush jumped into the boats in such numbers as nearly to
endanger their own lives. However, the watermen soon got the “best of
it,” by demanding a bob or more to carry over in safety select
companies. Yet so great was the pressure of the crowd, and so eager to
cross the water to Hampton, that several embraced Old Father Thames
against their will, amidst the jeers and shouts of their more fortunate
companions. A nice treat, by way of a cooler, in an afternoon in
November, sixteen miles distant from home. The other side of the Hurst
produced as much fun and laughter, from the barouches, rattlers, gigs,
heavy drags, etc., galloping off towards Kingston Bridge through fields
covered with water, to save time. Several were seen sticking fast in the
mud, the proprietors begging assistance from those persons whose horses
were strong enough for the purpose; but “a friend in need” was here out
of the question. Two or three drags that were overloaded with “live
stock” broke down in similar situations, which a wag observing, sung
out, by way of consolation to the Jacks in the water, “that they were
going home swimmingly.” One block up of this kind operated on a string
of carriages upwards of half a mile in length. Upon the whole, it was a
lively and amusing picture. The vehicles were so numerous, that two
hours had elapsed before the whole of them had passed over Kingston
Bridge, to the great joy and profit of the proprietors of the gates. For
miles round Moulsey Hurst it proved a profitable day for the inns; and
money that otherwise might have remained idle in the pockets of persons
who could afford to spend it, was set to work in the consumption of
articles tending to benefit hundreds of tradesmen, who otherwise (like
Dennis Brulgruddery) might have been long on the look-out for “a
customer.”

Josh. purchased several pieces of blue silk handkerchiefs, and as a
convincing proof to his friends that he meant nothing else but winning
the battle, he presented one to each of them on the condition that if
he, Hudson, won the battle, he was to receive a guinea; but if defeated,
not a farthing was to be paid to him. Hudson cleared £100 by the above
speculation several of his backers presenting him with £5 a-piece for
the blue flag.

Hudson, on meeting with Ward in London the morning after the battle,
enquired after his health, shook hands with him, and presented him with
a £5 note.

At a meeting of the Partiality Club, held at Mr. Tuff’s, the Blue
Anchor, East Smithfield, on Thursday evening, November 13, 1823, it was
proposed by Pierce Egan, seconded by Tom Owen, and carried unanimously,
that a silver cup, of the value of 100 guineas, be presented to the John
Bull Fighter for the true courage displayed by him at all times in the
prize ring. The room was small, the company but few in number, yet in
less than five minutes, so glorious was the East-end upon this occasion,
that the subscriptions amounted to £20. The money was immediately put
down, and Mrs. Tuff (wife of the landlord), as an admirer of true
courage, begged the favour of being permitted to add her guinea.

At Crawley’s benefit at the Fives Court, Wednesday, November 12, 1823,
on Hudson showing himself on the stage, he was warmly congratulated by
his friends. “Gentlemen,” said Hudson, “I have been informed by Mr. Egan
that Shelton has made an assertion that Ward received £100 to lose the
battle with me. I will bet any person five to one that he does not prove
it. (Bravo!) I will also fight Tom Shelton for from £25 to £200 a-side
when the time he is bound over for expires. If Ward is in the Court let
him come forward and meet this charge made against him.” (Applause.)
Shelton appeared upon the stage and said, “I have been told by Ben Burn
that Ward received £100. I merely repeated it, and give up the author.”
“That’s right, Tom; you’ve cleared yourself.” Burn then appeared and
said, he had heard in casual conversation what he had repeated to
Shelton. Here Ward rushed up the steps and said, as he stood between
Shelton and Burn, “The whole is a direct falsehood;” and added
indignantly, “I will fight either of them, gentlemen, for £100, and cast
back the slander. (Applause.) I now publicly assert that no individual
whatever ever offered me one single farthing to lose the battle. I felt
confident I could win.” (Great applause.) Josh. Hudson: “And I will
fight Ben Burn any day he likes to appoint, my £100 against his £60.”
Vehement cheering, during which Uncle Ben tried a reply. He had no more
chance than an unpopular candidate on the hustings. All that could be
heard was a declaration that he had not had fair play, and they did not
act towards him like Englishmen. The suspicions, if any had legitimately
existed, as to the fairness of the fight between Hudson and Ward, were
utterly dissipated.

Hudson and Sampson were matched on the bustle for £100 a-side, owing, it
would appear, to a word and a blow, Sampson—always very
fast—entertaining an opinion he had improved, not only as a boxer, but
was a better man in every point of view than heretofore, while the John
Bull Fighter always thought he could polish off Sampson at any period in
a twenty-four foot ring.[46] Articles were entered into; but Josh., in
order to gain three weeks in training, forfeited £10 to Sampson, at Mr.
King’s, the Cock and Cross, East Smithfield, on March 8, 1824, and a new
match was made the same evening, for £100 a-side, to come off on
Tuesday, May 11, 1824.

PRESENTATION OF A SILVER CUP TO JOSH. HUDSON.—On Thursday, May 6, 1824,
previous to this trophy being deposited in the hands of the John Bull
Boxer, the Partiality Club dinner took place at Mr. Tuff’s, Blue Anchor,
East Smithfield. The festive board was truly inviting; the wines
excellent; and a silver cup which had been given to a gentleman of the
name of Docker, for his spirited conduct in behalf of the oppressed poor
in the parish—as one of the links connected with “true courage”—was also
placed in view of the visitors. On the cloth being removed, the John
Bull Fighter’s cup, filled with five bottles of port, was placed in the
front of the Chairman, and Hudson took his seat on the right hand side
of the President. Pierce Egan occupied the chair, and accordingly fills
six pages of “Boxiana” with a newspaper report _apropos_ of—nothing. The
health of Hudson having been drunk, he received the cup with great
emotion. “Gentlemen,” said Josh., “I cannot make a speech, but, believe
me, my gratitude and thanks are sincere, and as you have honoured me
with this cup in the name of true courage, why I will endeavour to
support my character for true courage to the end of my life.” The cup
then passed round. The healths of Mr. Jackson, Tom Cribb, and the
leading supporters of the prize ring, were drunk, and Josh. departed to
the country to finish his training for his fight with Sampson.

The cup bears the following inscription:—

                               “THIS CUP
                          Was presented to the
                           JOHN BULL FIGHTER,
                   ON THURSDAY, THE 6TH OF MAY, 1824,
                          As a Reward for the
                              TRUE COURAGE
                                 which
                             JOSHUA HUDSON
              Displayed throughout all his Contests in the
                              PRIZE RING.

           John Bull in the ring has so oft play’d his part,
           The form let it be in the shape of a heart—
           A true British one! at its shrine take a sup:
           Can a more noble model be found for a cup?—P. E.

                  *       *       *       *       *

            This Piece of Plate was raised by Subscription;
                         The Contributors were
                Several Members of the PARTIALITY CLUB,
                 a few frequenters of the WIDOW MELSOM;
   (and in confirmation that ‘_None but the Brave deserve the Fair!_’
                  The HOSTESSES of the above houses);
         And by those Amateurs who are supporters of the Noble
                         ART OF SELF-DEFENCE.”

The cup, as indicated in the doggrel to which P. E. is engraved, is
heart-shaped. On the cover is the figure of a sailor, with an anchor and
foul cable. The report goes on:—“In front of the cup a small heart
appears over four divisions, intended for the boxers’ coat of arms. The
first division represents the pugilists in attitude. The second portrays
one of the combatants down on his knees, his opponent with his arms held
up walking away, in order to show that he will not take any unfair
advantage. The third division exhibits the battle at an end, the
defeated man sitting upon the knee of his second in the act of shaking
hands with the victor, to evince that no malice exists between them. The
fourth depicts the honours of conquest—the conqueror carried out of the
ring upon the shoulders of his seconds, with the purse in his hands.
Several other appropriate embellishments appear on the different parts
of the cup, on the bottom of which the lion is seen with the lamb
reposing at his feet; and at no great distance from the lion is the
English bull-dog, as a second to the king of the forest.”

The affair of Hudson and Sampson was fixed for Tuesday, May 11, 1824, at
Haydon Grange Farm, forty miles from the metropolis. Hudson was
originally the favourite, at five and six to four, and heavy sums were
laid out on him at Tattersall’s at these figures. But on the day before
the fight there was a rush to get on to Sampson, and the odds went about
at six to four on the Birmingham Youth. This sudden change terrified the
East-enders, and many tried to get off.

At one o’clock the ring was formed in a most delightful situation, and,
punctual to time, Josh. threw his white topper into the ring. Just
before, however, the backers of Sampson declared that they preferred
forfeiting the £100 stakes to the risk of losing more than £1,000, as
numbers of sporting men had declared off, and that they would not pay if
Hudson lost the battle. Hereupon Hudson’s backers offered to cancel the
old articles, and post £100 for a new match to come off there at two
o’clock. This was refused, and the altercation became violent, but
Sampson’s backers said he should not fight that day. The wrangle having
subsided, two Cambridge men, Samuel Larkins[47] and William Shadbolt, of
local fame, and both styled “champions,” threw their hats into the ring.
The Cantabs, who were in force, took great interest in the result.
Paddington Jones and Jem Ward seconded Larkins, and Tom Oliver and Ned
Stockman picked up Shadbolt. Larkins, in nineteen rounds, polished off
Shadbolt completely.

Hudson walked round the ring, conversing with his friends during the
battle. The John Bull Fighter was never in such excellent condition in
any previous battle, and loudly expressed himself dissatisfied at
receiving the battle-money without a fight. “The sporting world,” said
Josh. “are my best friends; to them I owe everything, and I am sorry
they should have come so many miles on my account to be disappointed. It
is not my fault, and I hope they will not blame me for circumstances I
have nothing to do with.” On leaving the ground, and passing the Grange
Farm House, Hudson met with Sampson, when they shook hands together. The
ground was soon cleared, and the company was off. Hudson returned to
London in a post-chaise and four, and arrived about two o’clock in the
morning. Sampson also moved for the metropolis with the utmost speed.
The sporting houses were filled with company, and every one out of
humour at having travelled nearly a hundred miles to be laughed at for
his pains.

By the advice of his best friends, and in consequence of his
constitutional tendency to corpulency, which resisted the effects of
ordinary training, Josh. now took leave of the P. R. in an address at
the Tennis Court. His next step was to “commit the crime the clargy call
matrimony,” with the complicity of a very amiable and respectable young
woman, who quickly developed into the agreeable hostess of the Half Moon
Tap, in Leadenhall Market, where “Jolly Josh.,” brimful of fun and
facetiousness, held his opening dinner on the 23rd of January, 1825.
Josh., though he retired from activity as a principal, kept up his ring
connection, and was foremost not only in backing and match-making on
behalf of the East-enders as in rivalry with the Corinthians of the
West, but never spared himself in the anxious and often laborious duties
of seconding any man worthy of his care and patronage, or of setting-to
for his benefit, as may be seen in these pages on many occasions. A
paragraph which we find in a newspaper of this period may show that
Josh.’s “right hand” had not “lost its cunning” by reason of
bar-practice, and also throws a side-light on our hero’s manly readiness
to champion the defenceless.

“GALLANTRY.—As Hudson, the well-known pugilist, was passing along
Ratcliff Highway, a clumsy coalheaver elbowed a pregnant woman off the
pavement into the road. The feelings of Josh. were roused at this
unmanly conduct, and he remonstrated pretty forcibly with Coaly for his
bad behaviour. The reply he got was a cut from a trouncing whip. This
was too much. Without further ceremony Josh. judged his distance and
gave Coaly such a pile-driver that he went down on the stones as if he
had been shot. It was a minute or two before he recovered, and then,
declining to get up for ‘another round,’ Josh.’s name being upon every
one’s tongue, the humbled bully sneaked into a public-house to talk the
matter over with his brethren of the sack.”—_Sunday Monitor_, July,
1825.

Among Josh.’s generous qualities were his grateful remembrance of past
services and favours and his firm adherence to a friend in adversity. Of
this there is extant an instance so creditable to both parties
concerned, that we cannot forbear its repetition.

An old friend of Josh.’s early days having, by reverse of fortune, by no
means unfrequent among sporting men, fallen into a difficulty which
called upon him for the immediate payment of some £50, applied, in his
extremity, to mine host of “the Half Moon.” Josh., who had not the cash
by him, was sadly annoyed at the idea of being compelled to refuse such
an application from one from whom he had received favours. A sudden
thought struck him. There was his “Cup,” lying snug in its case in his
iron safe. On that he could raise a temporary loan, and nobody the
wiser. Desiring his friend to make himself at home while he went for
“the mopusses,” Josh. possessed himself of the piece of plate, hurried
out at the side-door, and after a sharp toddle presented himself,
blowing like a grampus, in one of the small boxes of a neighbouring
“Uncle” in Bishopsgate Street. Josh. was not only a well-known public
character, but it so happened that “mine Uncle” was an admirer of the
“noble art.” Josh. unlocked his box, and drew forth his well-earned
trophy. The assistant eyed him with some curiosity.

“How much?”

“Forty pounds!” gasped Jolly Josh. not yet recovered from his run.

The assistant stepped into his employer’s sanctum, who instantly
returned with the shining pledge in his hands.

A brief colloquy explained the position of affairs. Josh. wanted forty
pounds.

“Mine Uncle” proceeded to his desk, but not to make out the “ticket”
required by law. He merely wrote an acknowledgment, to be signed by
Josh., that he had received a loan of forty pounds. This “mine Uncle”
presented to him for signature. Josh. was overwhelmed.

“No, no,” said mine Uncle! “Take back your Cup, Josh., you must not be
without it. Pay me, as I know you will, as soon as you are able. I’ll
not have _that_ piece of _wedge_ go to sale anyhow.”

Josh returned to the Half Moon with both money and cup; discharged the
duty of friendship, and the pawnbroker lost nothing by his confidence.

We must preserve the name of the generous pawnbroker (strange coupling
of epithets!), it was Folkard, and the assistant was the youth who, in
after years, was the well-known Renton Nicholson, of newspaper and
“Town” celebrity, from whose lips we have often heard this little
episode of “John Bull and his Uncle.”

        “Mine host in the market, a prime jolly fellow,
          As rough and as ready as here and there one;
        In his lush-crib when seated, good-humoured and mellow,
          Looks very like Bacchus astride of his tun.
        But more to advantage, with Davy beside him,
          This John Bull, the picture of frolic appears,
        Discoursing on battles, which those who have tried him
          Confess to have rung a full peal in their ears.”

In 1827, Mrs. Hudson presented, as a second offering, a son and heir,
which occasion the friends and admirers of the father celebrated by a
festival on Christmas Day, whereat a silver cup was presented to the
young “John Bull,” inscribed: “The gift of a few friends to Josh.
Hudson, junior, born February 28th, 1827, within the sound of Bow
Bells.”

The free life of a publican, with one who certainly had no inclination
to check free living, was not long in telling its tale. Josh. was now
visited with increasing frequency by gout and its too common sequel,
dropsy, and died at the age of thirty-eight, on the 8th of October,
1835, at the Flying Horse, in Milton Street, Finsbury.

[Illustration]




                               CHAPTER V.
              NED NEALE (“THE STREATHAM YOUTH”)—1822–1831.


In the memoir of the redoubtable Tom Sayers, in our third volume, will
be found a few remarks on the persistency with which Hibernian reporters
and newspaper scribes, old and new, claim an Irish origin for fighting
heroes, naval, military, and pugilistic. Ned Neale furnishes another
instance of this assuming proclivity. Indeed, at the time of Neale’s
appearance, the talented editor of _Bell’s Life in London_, Vincent
George Dowling (himself of Irish descent), and Pierce Egan, were the
recognised reporters of every important ring encounter—the clever but
eccentric George Kent, who for twenty years had been its most active
chronicler, having previously gone to his rest in the churchyard of
Saint Paul’s, Covent Garden. The _Bell’s Life_ and _Dispatch_
accordingly prefixed a “big O” to the name of our hero, and plentifully
larded their reports of Neale’s doings with Hibernian humour,
misspelling his name “O’Neil,” until, in a letter to _Bell’s Life_,
signing himself “Ned Neale, the Streatham Youth,” the young aspirant
disclosed his parentage and place of birth, depriving “ould” Pierce’s
rhodomontade of its applicability and point.

Ned Neale first saw the light in the pleasant village of Streatham, in
Surrey, on the 22nd of March, 1805, of humble but respectable parents.
His youth, it may be remarked, was passed in a period when the ring had
for its patrons noblemen, gentlemen, and sportsmen, and among its
professors Gully, the Belchers, Randall, Cribb, and Spring. At an early
age he was in the employ of Mr. Sant, an eminent brewer near Wandsworth,
and a staunch patron of the ring. Neale often stated that the first
battle he witnessed was the second fight between Martin and Turner, at
Crawley, on the 5th of June, 1821, and from that moment felt convinced
that he “could do something in that way” himself. That he was not
mistaken, his career, as here recorded, will bear witness.

Neale now placed himself under Harry Holt, and by glove practice with
that accomplished tactician soon became a proficient in the use of both
hands.

His patron, Mr. Sant, gratified his desire to figure in the “24–foot” by
backing him for £20 a-side against Deaf Davis, a well-known veteran, a
game man, and a hard hitter. The battle came off at the Barge House,
Essex, opposite Woolwich Warren, on the 21st of May, 1822, Neale being
then in his eighteenth year. The odds were seven to four against “the
youth,” as he was booked to lose the battle by the knowing ones. Neale
was seconded by Harry Holt and Paddington Jones, while Davis had the
skilful seconding of Ned Turner and Dick Curtis. The contemporary
report, which is brief, remarks of this battle, that it was “a rattling
mill for the first forty minutes,” prolonged for another hour by Davis’s
“manœuvring and going down,” without even getting a turn in his favour.
In the “remarks” we are told “Neale proved himself a good hitter, a
steady boxer, and one who can take without flinching; we shall no doubt
hear more of him by-and-by. His youth and good condition carried him
through triumphantly.” We may here note that in “Fistiana,” by a
typographical error, the battle is set down as for “£100” and lasting
“20 minutes.” It should read “100 minutes and £20 a-side.”

The ordeal passed, Ned did not long stand idle. After Brighton Races, on
the 21st July, 1822, a purse was subscribed, and the announcement being
made to the London pugilists, some of whom were exhibiting their skill
in the booths on Lewes Downs, Peter Crawley proposed that Neale should
offer himself to “any countryman on the ground.” One Bill Cribb, a
brick-maker, who held among his companions the title of the Brighton
champion, and known as an exhibitor at the Fives Court, accepted the
challenge. Neale was seconded by Peter Crawley and Peter Warren, Cribb
by Belasco and Massa Kendrick (the man of colour). No time was lost, and
the men at once began.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The Brighton man looked hard and muscular. He at once went
  to work right and left, but was short, from his opponent’s activity.
  Neale nobbed his man prettily, but Cribb returned in a rally, with a
  sounding body blow. “Well done, Brighton.” Neale stopped prettily,
  and in closing sent his man to grass.

  2.—Neale, after a feint or two, stopped a right-hander and sent in
  one, two, cleverly, got away, and repeated the pepper. Cribb stood
  it gamely, like his namesake, but he could not get home well. In the
  close Cribb got Neale under.

  3.—Cribb’s dial much battered, but he took it cheerfully and tried
  to lead off. Neale again gave him a postman’s double knock on the
  middle of the head that sent him back into his corner. He, however
  fought his way out, but slipped down.

  4, 5, 6, 7.—Similar to the third round, except that in the last
  Neale hit Cribb clean off his legs. Two to one offered.

  8.—Cribb could not keep Neale’s fist from his face, yet he fought
  game till his strength failed, and he got down anyhow.

  9.—Neale set aside the efforts of his opponent with ease and
  coolness. Cribb could not keep him out, and was again down.

  10.—The Brighton man, still game, was up determinedly, and showed
  fight, getting in a slovenly crack or two in a rally until punished
  down.

  11, and last.—Cribb, without a shadow of a chance, bored in; Neale
  caught his head under his left arm and fibbed him severely, until he
  broke away quite groggy. Neale sent him down, and he was deaf to
  “time.” Over in fifteen minutes.

  REMARKS.—Neale out-fought his man at all points. It is clear no
  yokel must meddle with the Streatham youth. Hickman, the Gasman,
  held the watch, the ring was well kept, and the subscribers declared
  themselves well pleased with the short but sharp battle. Neale was
  without a mark on the face.


Three days after, on the 3rd of August, 1822, Neale being at Lewes
Races, and a purse being declared, Miller, a London pugilist, known by
the odd sobriquet of “The Pea-soup Gardener,” offered himself. Young
Ned, “to keep his hand in,” accepted the challenge. Neale on this
occasion was waited on by his late opponent, the Brighton champion, and
Peter Warren—Miller by young Belasco and a friend. The fight was a
fiasco. Pierce Egan says, “The _pea-soup_ cove was made _broth_ of in
the first round.” The affair went on for six more rounds, when Miller
gave up the battle, saying “he would fight any man of his weight.” Over
in seven minutes.

This little provincial practice brought Neale forward, and his next
appearance was on the London stage, with Hall, of Birmingham, as his
opponent. Hall had just distinguished himself by defeating the
once-famous Phil Sampson, of whom more anon. The affair came off at
Wimbledon, on Tuesday, November 26th, 1822, Hall being the favourite at
six to four, and much money was laid out by backers of Hall from the
“Hardware Village.”

The road exhibited a good sprinkling of the fancy, particularly the
milling coves. Martin, Randall, Shelton, Spring, Oliver, Abbot, Lenney,
Brown, Hickman, Stockman, Carter, A. Belasco, Ned Turner, Scroggins,
Barlow, Dolly Smith, Spencer, &c., assisted in keeping a good ring. This
fight was announced to be on the square, and “lots of blunt dropped on
it.”

At one o’clock Hall, accompanied by Josh Hudson and Jack Carter,
attempted to throw his nob-cover into the ring, but the wind prevented
it reaching the ropes. Neale soon followed, attended by Harry Holt and
Paddington Jones. Hall was favourite, at six to four.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Hall displayed a fine frame, and his features reminded some
  spectators of Tom Reynolds, while others declared his figure to
  resemble the formidable “Gasman” (Tom Hickman). Neale also looked
  well, but was by no means in as good condition. Hall began, breaking
  ground and working round, but by no means cleverly. Neale faced him,
  armed at all points. Hall went in with a half-arm hit, and Neale,
  stepping back, caught him a flush left-hander on the nose. Hall
  staggered, and as Neale went in, slipped down. The Streathamites
  uproarious. “Take him back to Brummagem! he can’t stop, except with
  his head!”

  2.—Hall tried to shake off the last facer. He sparred, shifted
  ground, and stopped one or two blows neatly. Neale forced the
  fighting and the men closed. Hall got hold of Neale to fib, but the
  Streatham Youth extricated himself, not, however, before Hall had
  damaged his nose and mouth by a round hit or two. Neale went down.

  3.—Neale planted a heavy blow on Hall’s ear. Hall bored in and got
  hold of Neale, hugging him on the ropes, and trying to fib, but not
  effectively. Neale got down. Hall was evidently the stronger man,
  but the worse fighter.

  4.—Hall rushed in, got a nobber, but closed and threw Neale heavily.
  Cheers from the hardware lads.

  5.—The Streatham Youth met his man boldly and coolly, hit him twice
  on the head, avoiding the return, and after a sharp rally sent Hall
  down. The odds changed, Neale for choice, 5 to 4.

  6.—Hall fought rather wild—Neale steady, and active in defence.
  Again Neale visited Hall’s right eye heavily, raising a large mouse.
  A severe struggle. Hall fell through the ropes. 6 to 4 on Neale.

  7.—Hall was piping. He did not like to commence milling, for fear of
  consequences. “You have been a soldier,” said Josh. “Fighting is
  their business; why don’t you fight?” A good round was the result,
  and Neale was thrown.

  8.—It was “bellows to mend” with Hall; and Neale was none the better
  for the throws. A long pause, both combatants sparring for breath.
  “How is your wind?” said Josh. “Like a horse,” was the reply from
  Hall. “Then go to work, instead of standing as independent as a
  gemman,” Hudson said. Neale thrown in a struggle.

  9, 10, 11, 12.—More struggling at the ropes than effective blows,
  although lots of fibbing took place.

  13.—Neale took the lead in this round, nobbed Hall over the ring,
  till he went down. A Babel shout of applause.

  14.—Neale showed weakness; in closing he went down.

  15.—The Streatham Youth went to work in this round, put in three
  facers without any return, and got Hall down.

  16, 17, 18.—Hall showed plenty of game, but he could not fight; in
  close quarters he had generally the best of it.

  19.—Neale, on setting-to, floored Hall; but the latter instantly
  jumped up, put up his hands, and said, “Oh, that’s nothing at all.”

  20.—Hall came to the scratch in a shaky state, when Neale planted
  some sharp hits, till he went down.

  21.—Hall ran Neale off his legs furiously.

  22, 23.—Struggling at the ropes, till both down.

  24.—Hall was so distressed that on setting-to he caught hold of
  Neale’s hands, when both went down in a struggle; not a blow passed
  between them.

  25.—It was evident a round or two more must finish the fight. Much
  execution had been done on both sides; Neale was severely peppered
  about the body; he slipped down.

  26, and last.—The Birmingham man getting bad in struggling at the
  ropes to obtain the throw he received so severe a fall on his head,
  that his seconds had great difficulty in lifting him from the
  ground. When time was called, Hall was insensible, and remained in a
  state of stupor for more than five minutes.

  REMARKS.—It was a manly fight, and the heavy hits of Neale did
  considerable execution. Had he been well, it was thought that Neale
  could have won the battle in twenty instead of thirty minutes. Hall
  knows little about scientific fighting; he is a random hitter, a
  strong wrestler, can pull and haul a man about, and does not want
  for game. Opposed to science and straight hitting he is lost.


Ned was now the conqueror in four succeeding battles, when Dav
Hudson[48] (brother to the John Bull fighter) was matched against him
for £40 a-side. The fight took place on Tuesday, September 23rd, 1823,
on Blindlow Heath, in Sussex, twenty-four miles from London. Early in
the morning the fancy were in motion, the amateurs grumbling at the long
distance they were compelled to go to witness a minor fight, when
Wimbledon Common would have answered the purpose. Hudson came on the
ground in first-rate style—a barouche and four—accompanied by a mob of
East-Enders. At one o’clock Dav threw his hat into the ring, followed by
his seconds, Tom Owen and Josh Hudson. Neale, a few minutes afterwards,
waited upon by Harry Holt and Jem Ward, repeated the token of defiance.
Six to four on Neale.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Hudson appeared too fat, while Neale looked as fine as a
  star. David hit short; Neale also got away from a second blow. In
  fact, it was a long scientific round, displaying considerable boxing
  skill on both sides, but no work; ultimately a few blows were
  exchanged, yet no mischief done. In struggling for the throw, Hudson
  was undermost.

  2.—This was a similar round. Neale would not fight first, and showed
  great agility in getting away. It was evident in this early stage of
  the fight that Hudson was too short for his opponent; the loss of
  his eye was also a great drawback. Hudson often missed his
  adversary, hitting at random, owing to the above defect. In closing,
  both down.

  3, 4, 5, 6.—Neale received two severe cross-buttocks, but he did not
  appear to be injured by them.

  7, 8, 9, 10.—Tedious to the spectator and of no interest to the
  reader.

  11.—This round reminded the amateurs what Davy was in his prime. He
  went to work boldly, when a sharp rally commenced, but the length of
  Neale gave him the best of it. Hudson received a tremendous hit on
  the left ear; the claret flowed profusely.

  12.—This was a similar round, but Neale went down. Great shouting
  from the East Enders. “Go it, my little Davy!”

  13.—Neale received another cross-buttock. David was the better
  wrestler.

  14, 15, 16.—Hudson was terribly distressed. He was too puffy. Neale
  was piping a little. Neale was thrown by Hudson, alighting, like a
  tumbler, on his hands. Seven to four on the Streatham Youth.

  17, 18, 19, 20.—The truth must be told. Stale cocks must give way to
  younger birds. Davy had been a publican, and the ill effects of the
  waste-butt here began to peep. Davy thought himself now as good a
  man as when he beat Harry Holt, disposed of West Country Dick, and
  defeated Scroggins. That his courage was equally good cannot be
  denied. But nature will not be played tricks with; and training
  cannot make a young man, though it may help an old one. In all the
  above rounds Hudson could not reduce the strength of his adversary.

  21, 22.—Hudson’s face had received pepper, and Neale’s mug was
  rather flushed. Each seemed to be anxious to throw the other, and
  closed quickly.

  23.—Neale received a severe hit between his eyes, that made him wink
  again. He, however, recovered, and made the best of a rally, till,
  in closing, both went down. Two to one on Neale.

  24.—Hudson fought like a Hudson. For high, if not the highest,
  courage in the Prize Ring, no boxers stand better than Dav and Josh.
  But a man cannot have his cake who has eaten it. This was another
  sharp rally, but terribly to the disadvantage of Hudson, who was
  nearly finished.

  25, and last.—Neale, as the term goes, had “got” David, and by a
  very severe hit on the latter’s throat, floored him. On Josh picking
  up his brother he said he should not fight any more—a proper and
  humane decision. It was over in fifty-three minutes. Josh carried
  David in his arms out of the ring. A collection to the amount of six
  pounds was made for Hudson.

  REMARKS.—It was by no means the smashing fight which had been
  previously anticipated. If Neale had gone to work, instead of being
  over-cautious, he must have won it off-hand.


Neale, by his repeated conquests, now became an interesting object to
the fancy, and was matched by his friends against the scientific Aby
Belasco for £50 a-side.

To render the battle more interesting to the sporting world, the day was
fixed by mutual consent for the 7th of January, 1824, to fight in the
same ring with Langan and Spring. Both the combatants were in attendance
on the ground ready to fight at Worcester; but owing to the lateness of
the hour when the championship battle was decided, the fight unavoidably
was postponed. This untoward circumstance was a great mortification both
to Belasco and Neale.

A short time after this disappointment Ned accepted a challenge from Tom
Gaynor, at the Fives Court, at the benefit of Tom Reynolds, for £50
a-side. This battle was decided at Shepperton Range, on Thursday, the
24th of May, 1824.

The ring was soon made, and at one o’clock Gaynor appeared, and
attempted to throw his hat into the ring, but the wind prevented its
arrival; one of his seconds, Callas, picked it up and threw it into the
ropes, Gaynor’s other second being Ben Burn. Neale soon followed, and
dropped his castor gently into the ring, under the protection of Josh.
Hudson and Harry Holt. The colours were tied to the stakes—dark blue for
Neale, and blue mixed with yellow for Tom Gaynor. Two to one on Neale,
but numerous bets that the latter did not win in an hour.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Neale was quite up to the mark in point of condition and
  confidence, and really looked a formidable man. Gaynor was well
  enough, but by comparison the greatest novice must have taken Neale
  for choice. Gaynor, who was a carpenter by trade, had been
  represented as a tremendous hitter, which accounts for the caution
  observed by Neale. Five minutes passed without a blow being struck,
  Neale being prepared at all points. Neale made several good stops,
  and at length put in a rum one on the body of his opponent. (“That’s
  the way, Ned!”) Feints, offers, retreating, occurred till nine
  minutes were past, when Neale gave Gaynor a sharp left-hander on the
  side of his nob. An exchange took place, and in closing, both down,
  Gaynor undermost.

  2.—Gaynor’s left eye was touched a little, and after a number of
  movements, similar to the first round, Gaynor rushed in and threw
  Neale.

  3.—Twenty minutes had elapsed and no claret seen, so great was the
  caution on both sides. This round was concluded by Neale putting in
  two or three clumsy thumps, Gaynor falling forward and Neale upon
  him.

  4–10.—Neale had not a mark about him, but Gaynor had napped
  punishment, and went down tired.

  11.—Gaynor, it was said, went down without a blow; but the umpire
  was appealed to, when he gave it as his opinion that blows having
  been struck in the round it was not foul.

  12–17.—Neale had got his man to a certainty, and Gaynor was all the
  worse for the fighting. The nob of the carpenter was damaged, and
  his upper lip cut through. In one of the above rounds a singular
  circumstance occurred. The men struggled at the ropes, got through
  them, and fought a good round outside in the open. One hour and
  three minutes.

  18–21 and last.—Gaynor had not a shadow of chance in any of these
  rounds, and at the conclusion of the last, in which Gaynor was
  thrown heavily, Cribb stepped into the middle of the ring and said,
  “I will give in for Gaynor.”

  REMARKS.—It is impossible to please all parties—in fact, a man
  cannot at all times please himself. Many persons called the above
  battle a bad fight, others said it was not half a good one, while,
  on the contrary, several excellent judges insisted that Neale had
  won it “cleverly.” It is true Neale obtained the victory without a
  scratch, and that alone is saying something for a man, after
  fighting one hour and ten minutes with a boxer who had been called
  “a tremendous hitter.” Neale was determined not to give a chance
  away—he meant winning and nothing else; his backers we are sure will
  not find fault with him on that account. We never saw the Streatham
  Youth so cautious before. At all events Neale has won all his
  battles, and it will take a good man indeed to make him say, “No;”
  indeed, the Streatham Youth asserts the word “no” is not to be found
  in his spelling-book.[49]


Neale had now risen so high in the estimation of the patrons of boxing
that he was backed without hesitation by his friends for £100 a-side
against Edward Baldwin (White-headed Bob). The battle was fixed for
Monday, July 26th, 1824. The bill of fare at Shepperton [three fights]
was rather inviting to the fancy, or, as the professionals belonging to
another stage phrase it, “a good draw.” There was accordingly an immense
attendance of all classes at Shepperton. At the appointed hour Neale was
there, and threw his hat into the ring. Baldwin soon after arrived in
the carriage of his backer (Mr. Hayne). But, alas! it was but the shadow
of the stalwart White-headed Bob of a few months previous. His
complexion, as old Caleb Baldwin facetiously remarked, might have earned
him the name of “White-faced Bob.” Imprudent indulgence, late hours,
loose associates, women, and wine had prostrated him; and his
“Pea-green” backer, alighting from his drag, said, “Bob’s health is such
he can’t fight with anything like a chance; so, as I don’t want to creep
out, or to expose a brave fellow to defeat, I now declare Neale entitled
to the stakes as a forfeit.” And thus ended round the first, by the
transference of a cool hundred to the pocket of the Streatham Youth,
without even holding up his hands.

In a few weeks, the medicos having doctored the White-headed one sound
in wind and limb, a new match was made for £100 a-side; the day fixed
was the 19th of October, 1824, and a field contiguous to Virginia Water
selected as the _champ clos_. A goodly muster of the Corinthian order,
as “the Upper Ten” were then designated, surrounded the lists. Baldwin
endeavoured to throw his hat into the ring, but the wind prevented its
falling within the ropes. He was seconded by no meaner men than the
champions, Tom Cribb and Tom Spring. The castor of Neale arrived at its
proper destination, and both men were loudly greeted. Harry Holt and Jem
Ward attended upon the Streatham Youth. The colours were tied to the
stakes—blue bird’s-eye for Neale, and crimson for Baldwin. Five to four
had been previously betted upon Neale; even betting, however, was about
the thing—the Streatham Youth for choice.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—So eager were the men to begin that they were both in
  attitude before the umpires were chosen. This deficiency was soon
  remedied, and both on the look-out for an opening. The frame of
  Baldwin was muscular and fine: Neale also had a robust appearance.
  Both shy, cautious, and nothing like work. Feints on both sides,
  shifts, stops, and no go. “Are you afraid, Bob?” from a voice in the
  crowd. Baldwin made a good stop with his left. Counter-hitting; a
  slight shade of the claret appeared on the right side of Neale’s
  nose. A long pause; both ready, but no opening; at length an
  exchange of blows took place, Baldwin retreating to the ropes; Neale
  in the struggle for the throw showed most strength, and the
  White-headed one was thrown. This round occupied nearly seven
  minutes.

  2.—The ear of Neale looked red; Bob attempted to do “summat,” but
  missed. Neale planted a clean facer, but he napped one in turn. Both
  were now busy, but Baldwin was again undermost.

  3.—Neale took the lead in this round in gay style; he gave a facer
  so hard and sharp that Bob’s pimple shook again; indeed, he was upon
  the stagger from its severity. Ned repeated the dose twice with
  success; and over Bob’s left eye appeared a cut. Neale ran in to do
  execution, but Bob put up his left hand, and bobbed his head away to
  avoid punishment. In the struggle both down, Neale undermost. (A
  shout for Baldwin.)

  4.—This was a gallant round. Baldwin planted a severe hit on the
  middle of the Streatham lad’s face; the claret ran down in streams.
  Counter-hits and good work. Neale was thrown.

  5.—Bob was now advised to fight first, but he did not take the hint.
  Caution again the order of the day. (Here Cribb mimicked the
  attitudes of Harry Holt, who was eloquently advising his man.) Bob
  retreated, and Neale hit him on the back as he was going down.

  6.—Nothing; of no use to either side.

  7, 8.—Not effective; Bob was a difficult man to be got at. Both
  down.

  9–12.—Bob napped a rum one on his body which made him twist. In the
  eleventh cries of “foul” occurred; Neale was in the act of hitting
  as his opponent was going down. It was not intentional. Bob went
  down in a close at the last round covered with claret.

  13.—The superiority of Neale was evident; he nobbed Bob
  successfully; and at the ropes the White-nobbed one went down
  exhausted.

  14.—The left peeper of the Streathamite was considerably damaged;
  and his friends were alarmed lest it should soon be dark. Neale
  obtained a point towards victory in this round; he threw Baldwin
  heavily, and fell upon him.

  15.—This was a hotly contested round, and both men did their best.
  Bob proved himself a much better man than Neale had anticipated;
  giving and taking were prominent, but the round finished in favour
  of Neale, who threw Bob on his head.

  16.—A good rally, but Bob appeared to be at a loss in sharp attacks;
  out-fighting should have been his game. The faces of the combatants
  exhibited severe punishment. Both down. Serious faces all round the
  ring and great doubts who had the best of it. The truth was, at this
  period of the fight, it was almost anybody’s battle, though Neale
  hit swiftest and straightest.

  17, 18, 19, 20, 21.—All these rounds were fought manfully; and Neale
  satisfied all his backers that he was nothing else but a game man.
  He was severely punished, but his courage was so high that he never
  flinched. The friends of Bob still thought he might win it. The
  Streatham Youth gave Bob such a severe cross-buttock that the latter
  showed visible symptoms of bellows to mend; yet a tolerably good
  judge cried out, “Bob will win this battle!”

  22.—Six to four was offered freely at the conclusion of this round.
  The nob of Bob was at the service of his opponent, and in getting
  him down Neale rolled over his man.

  23.—Severe counter-hitting, Neale undermost in the fall. The
  Streatham lad appeared rather weak, yet his eye was full of fire.

  24.—“It is a capital fight,” was the general cry; and the hard
  hitting and gaiety displayed by Neale gave his friends confidence
  that he would last too long for Bob. Neale went down on his
  opponent.

  25.—This was a severe round, and considerable execution was done on
  both sides. More than an hour had elapsed, yet bettors were shy as
  to the event. Neale went down rather exhausted.

  26.—Spring whispered to Baldwin to fight first—to lead off with his
  left hand, and it would be “all right.” Bob tried it, but Neale got
  away, hit him in retreating; in closing Bob was thrown.

  27.—Counter-hits effective, but nothing to anybody but the
  combatants; “lookers on” will find fault at times. Neale slipped
  down by the force of his blow, which missed the object intended.

  28.—In this round Bob seemed to be recovering his wind a little, and
  endeavoured to take the lead. A rally; but Bob did not appear to
  advantage in close fighting. Neale down, and Bob with him.

  29.—The right hand of the Streatham Youth felt for the face of his
  antagonist three times in succession. Bob went down weak.

  30.—Neale napped a smart one on his nose, which produced the claret;
  he was anxious to return the compliment, and in attacking Bob, the
  latter attempted to retreat, but fell.

  31.—Ward, who was the bottle-holder, thought it prudent to give
  Neale a small taste of brandy, which had the desired effect. This
  was a milling round on both sides, until both measured their lengths
  upon the turf.

  32.—Neale put in a sharp body blow, which almost doubled up poor
  Bob. The latter, at times, appeared a little abroad, and Neale took
  advantage of every opening that offered itself. The Streathamite had
  the worst of the throw, and Bob fell upon him.

  33.—Neale now proved himself to be the more effective boxer; he hit
  and followed Bob till he went down at the ropes. Neale could not
  stop himself in the act of delivering, and cries of “foul” were
  repeated.

  34.—Bob was getting very weak, and went down from a slight hit.

  35.—The story was nearly told; without an accident, it was almost a
  certainty Bob must lose it. The latter fell on his face.

  36.—Neale planted three successive facers, and by way of a climax,
  threw White-headed Bob. Three to one.

  37.—Baldwin was so weak that he almost laid down. “Take him away!”

  38.—Short but sweet to Neale; the stakes nearly in his hands; he hit
  Baldwin down cleverly.

  39.—It was almost useless to show at the scratch, but Baldwin did
  not like to resign the contest. Bob down.

  40, and last.—Bob was no sooner up than he was down. Cribb said he
  should not fight any more. Neale jumped several times off the
  ground, so much was he elated by his conquest. It was over in one
  hour and thirteen minutes.

  REMARKS.—Some would-be critics declared that Neale did not fight
  well; we think he won the battle with great credit to himself. He
  has clearly manifested to the sporting world that he possesses two
  good points towards victory—Neale can take as well as give. It
  should be remembered Neale had not yet numbered twenty years, yet he
  had attained, step by step, the high situation he held upon the
  milling list. Bob asserts he was not well. He might have been ill,
  but still he might have made use of his left with more effect, and
  not bobbed his head back so often. At all events, it was a capital
  mill.


Neale, gaining higher ground in the fancy, was matched against Jem Burn,
for £200 a-side. On Tuesday, December 19th, 1824, this battle was
decided at Moulsey Hurst. Neale was decidedly the favourite.

At one o’clock Jem Burn, attended by his uncle Ben, and Tom Oliver,
threw his hat into the ring; and almost at the same instant Neale,
waited upon by Harry Holt and Sam Tibbutt, repeated the token of
defiance. The colours, blue for Neale and a dark grey for Burn, were
tied to the stakes; hands were shaken in token of friendship, and the
fight commenced.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Jem, on peeling, obtained the approbation of all the
  spectators, and “He is a fine young man,” was the general opinion
  round the ring. Neale was cool and steady, and seemed quite aware of
  the height and length of his opponent. Jem, in a hurry, went to
  work, and with his right hand touched an old place, damaged in the
  fight with White-headed Bob. Neale got away from two or three more
  attempts of Jem; but the young one, at length, succeeded in planting
  another sharp blow over Neale’s eye, which produced the claret.
  (“First blood!” exclaimed Uncle Ben.) Neale still on the defensive,
  till they got close together at the ropes, when Ned put in one or
  two good ones. In closing, Neale got his man down, and fell upon
  him.

  2.—Burn, full of spirit, made play on witnessing the claret
  trickling from the forehead of his opponent, and obscuring his eye.
  (“Go it, Jem! it’s all right!”) The length of Burn enabled him to
  plant a facer; but Neale returned sharply. This round also finished
  by Burn being undermost in the fall.

  3.—Jem showed himself more troublesome than Neale expected, but it
  was evident he wanted stamina. Small symptoms of piping betrayed
  themselves; Burn had been getting on beyond his strength. Neale
  planted two sharp hits with his right; some good fighting took
  place, and Burn, by his stops, convinced the spectators he was not
  destitute of science. Counter-hitting; but the blows of Burn, from
  his length, were the most effective, and the claret flowed freely
  from Neale’s damaged peeper. A rally, when they separated. A pause;
  a little wind necessary for Jem. In closing, Uncle Ben’s “nevvy” met
  with a heavy fall.

  4.—The Streatham Youth cleared away the blood from his eye. This
  round was decidedly in favour of Burn; and, after an exchange of
  blows, Neale was knocked clean down by a blow on his chest. This
  event decided two bets in favour of Burn—first blood and first
  knock-down blow. (“We shall win it, for a thoosand!” cried Uncle
  Ben. Loud shouting for the young ’un, and his friends, quite nutty
  upon him, took the odds.)

  5.—In point of punishment, the appearance of Neale was the worse,
  but his confidence never forsook him, and he stood firm as a rock.
  The men closed, but after an attempt at fibbing, separated. The
  right hand of Neale did a little now and then, and Burn did not make
  such good use of his left as he might have done. Burn again lost the
  throw, and Neale went down heavily on him.

  6.—In this round Neale gave his opponent pepper, met him right and
  left, and threw him at the ropes. (“Well done, Ned!”)

  7.—Jem showed weakness, when the Streatham Youth drove him to the
  ropes, and in closing, Jem, with great activity, planted a facer;
  but Neale laid hold of his adversary so tightly as to throw him over
  the ropes.

  8.—This round was “a chalk” for Neale; he took the lead, kept it,
  and milled his opponent down. (“That’s the way, Ned—never leave
  him!” Two to one on Neale.)

  9.—Burn commenced the rounds in general well, but Neale finished
  them. Jem again thrown.

  10.—Jem got away well, but Neale was after him, and planted a body
  blow with his right hand that nearly made an S of Burn; his game,
  however, was so good that he shook it off. Neale met with a stopper
  on his head, but nevertheless he threw Jem.

  11.—The weakness of Jem could not be disguised, and he hit short.
  Neale began a rally, and Jem was determined not to be behindhand
  with him. In closing, Neale, with the utmost ease, gave his opponent
  a complete cross-buttock.

  12.—Nothing; Burn slipped down.

  13.—Jem got away from several blows, and Neale did not do so much
  execution as heretofore—in fact, the length of Burn rendered him
  extremely difficult to be got at. In closing, Neale slipped on his
  hands, but napped it on his ribs.

  14.—Nothing the matter, and Jack as good as his master. Burn was
  thrown.

  15.—If the fight had not been taken out of Burn, it was clear to the
  unbiassed spectators that he wanted stamina. Jem put up his hands to
  defend himself, but he did not show any disposition to go to work.
  Neale waited for him, when he went to mill, and poor Jem was not
  only fibbed, but Neale fell upon him so hard as almost to force the
  breath out of his body. (“It’s all your own, Ned!”)—three to one on
  the Streatham Youth, by some desperate bettors.

  16.—The fight was nearly over in this round, and if Jem had not
  proved himself a game man, it would have been to a certainty. A
  sharp rally took place, when Neale put in a slogger with his right
  on Jem’s nob, that dropped him like a shot. (“He will not come
  again!—Take him away!—He’s done for, poor fellow!”) However, a
  little brandy revived him, and, when time was called, Jem appeared
  at the scratch.

  17.—This was short, and to add to the distress of Burn, Neale fell
  upon him.

  18.—Burn was down almost as soon as he appeared at the mark.

  19.—After some futile attempts on the part of Burn to stop his
  opponent, he was hit down.

  20.—“It will soon be over,” said the friends of Neale. “Not for
  three hours,” answered Uncle Ben. Jem was again sent down.

  21.—Burn napped a facer, and was soon down, owing to weakness.

  22.—Jem a little better; he appeared to be getting second wind, to
  the great joy of his backers; he also made play, and planted a
  couple of hits; but at the end of the round the finishing was on the
  side of Neale, who got Jem down.

  23.—This was a singular round. Neale bored his opponent to the
  ropes; and in closing Jem struggled himself out of the ring. Burn
  showed fight outside, but as Neale could not reach him, he returned
  to the scratch, and sat himself down on his second’s knee. Burn then
  entered the ropes, and followed his example, and so the round ended.

  24–26.—In the last round, Jem dropped weak.

  27.—The battle might now be said to be at an end; the event was
  almost reduced to a certainty. Fighting, as to execution, was out of
  the question on the side of Burn, and Neale was determined not to
  give the slightest chance away. Burn went down.

  28.—Jem now bobbed his head aside to avoid the coming blow, and was
  hit down distressed.

  29.—A severe cross-buttock nearly shook out the little wind left in
  Jem’s body.

  30.—After a trifling exchange of blows Jem went down.

  31–54.—It would be a waste of time to detail these rounds; suffice
  it to say that Burn fought like a brave man in all of them, and
  never resigned the contest till Nature completely deserted him. We
  repeat he is a brave young man, and ought to have been taken away
  half an hour before the battle was over, which occupied one hour and
  thirty-eight minutes.

  REMARKS.—Neale was opposed to superior length, height, and an
  active, aspiring young man, and moreover was in nothing like such
  good condition as when he fought White-headed Bob; his hands also
  went a little, and he had too much flesh upon his frame; yet he
  never had the slightest chance of losing; his firmness never forsook
  him, and he always kept the lead. He left off nearly as strong as
  when he commenced. Neale is not a showy fighter, but the truth is,
  winning eight battles speaks a volume as to his milling character;
  and any boxer who enters the P. R. with Ned will find a good deal of
  work cut out before he says “No.” Ned is an honest man, and
  deserving of support; he is a civil, quiet, inoffensive fellow,
  which entitles him to the attention of the fancy, and a great enemy
  to “Lushington,” which renders the Streatham Youth a safe man at all
  times to back. Jem was put to bed at the “Red Lion,” Hampton, and
  Neale started for London at the conclusion of the battle.


By the advice of his friends, Neale inserted the following letters in
the sporting journals as to his future conduct in the P. R.:—


          “_To the Editor_ of ‘PIERCE EGAN’S LIFE IN LONDON.’

  “SIR,—In order that Baldwin’s (better known as White-headed Bob)
  journey may not be delayed an hour on my account, I take the
  earliest opportunity of acquainting him that it is not my intention
  to appear again in the Prize Ring at present. As he has declared he
  will fight no one but a winning man, he must excuse me if I am a
  little particular upon that point, as I have never been beaten.

  “My determination is adopted in deference to the wishes of those of
  my friends by whom I consider it an honour to be guided, and who
  possess the strongest claims to my grateful respect. When it is
  recollected that I have fought and won three battles, besides
  receiving forfeit, within seven months, I trust the liberal portion
  of the sporting world will consider me entitled to a cessation from
  labour for the present.

                             “I am, Sir, yours respectfully,
                                                       “EDWARD NEALE.”

  “_Streatham, Jan. 15, 1825._”


          “_To the Editor of_ ‘PIERCE EGAN’S LIFE IN LONDON.’

  “SIR,—It was with much surprise I saw a paragraph in the _Dispatch_
  of last Sunday stating that Cannon had declared, at Harry Holt’s,
  his readiness to fight me for five hundred pounds. He probably was
  not aware that in your paper of the 16th ult. I declared my
  intention not to appear in the Prize Ring _at present_; he may,
  therefore, save himself the trouble of again challenging me in my
  absence. I believe I may with safety claim the merit of being cool
  and steady in the ring, and I trust I shall always be firm and
  consistent out of it; and if I could be induced to change my mind,
  my late brave and manly antagonist, Baldwin, certainly claims the
  preference.

  “If, however, Cannon is particularly anxious to fight me, _and is
  not in a hurry_, I am ready and willing to make a match with him for
  three hundred pounds, to be decided the first week in the next year,
  and shall be happy to meet him at any time or place, and put down a
  deposit of fifty pounds. If I hesitate to meet his terms, it is
  because I think five hundred pounds too great a sum to call upon my
  backers for, to contend against a man so much my superior in weight
  and height, and particularly one who aspires to the Championship of
  England—a title which, I believe, is a considerable distance from
  both of us. If, however, the chance of war should place the laurel
  upon his brow this year, I will endeavour the next to remove it to
  that of

                                       “Your obedient, humble Servant,
                                                   “EDWARD NEALE.

  “_Streatham, Feb. 12, 1825._”


Neale, in consequence of the above declaration, having plenty of time
upon his hands, was induced to visit Ireland—not only as a tour of
pleasure, but as a profitable spec., under the wing and mentorship of
Pierce Egan. The _Dublin Morning Post_ thus notices him:—

“THE FANCY.—On Monday night there was a grand muster of the fancy at the
Raquet Court, Winetavern Street, for the benefit of Neale and Larkin.
They were patronised by an immense number of swells and tip-top
Corinthians of this city. O’Neal, the big Irishman, displayed a ‘pretty
considerable’ deal of science in a set-to with his trainer, Pat Halton.
Larkin next put on the gloves, and gave a newly-arrived Corkonian a dose
that may probably induce him to relinquish any relish he might have had
for the pugilistic profession. Minor candidates then mounted the stage;
they forgot, in their ardour for punishing, that a good boxer, like a
good reader, always minds his stops. Just as the meeting was about
dissolving, a sprig named Jackson, anxious to gather some ‘Olympic
dust,’ challenged any man in the ring to a turn-up for fun. Neale, the
Streatham Youth, who was standing near him, offered his services, merely
for the pleasure of accommodating the young customer, whom he soon
convinced of having been under a mistake with respect to his prowess.
Five times did Ned treat the ‘aspiring youth’ to a smashing facer, and
five times did the boasting would-be pugilist (Jackson) fall to his
mother earth—

      “‘——Like a full ear of corn,
       Whose _blossom_ ’scaped, but wither’d in the _rip’ning_.’”

“TO THE SPORTING WORLD.—Ned Neale, the Streatham Youth, will have the
honour, on Monday night (for the first time in this kingdom), of
soliciting the patronage of his countrymen, at Fishamble Street Theatre.
He begs leave to state—and he trusts it will not be considered egotism
in him to mention it—that he has already contested the palm in eight
battles, with eight different candidates belonging to the Prize Ring of
London, and as yet he has not been the cause of a stigma on his country.
On this occasion a correct representation of that famed spot Moulsey
Hurst, with a view of a wood. In the foreground the ring, with umpires,
seconds, bottle-holders, fighting men, &c., &c. He begs to state that
Pat Halton, who is backed to fight the Chicken on the 4th of August,
has, assisted by all the first-rates of this city, offered his services
for this night only. A youth from Cork, named Donovan, will appear, who
wishes it known that he will peel with any man in the world of his own
weight. Ned begs leave to add that no exertion on his part shall be
wanting to show as much and as good sport as possible to those friends
who may honour him on Monday evening with their company. Boxes, 3s. 3d.;
Pit, 2s. 2d.; Gallery, 1s. 1d. Doors open at seven, and sparring
commences at half-past seven o’clock.”

Neale, on his return to England, made the happiest match of his life, in
which the “Ring” was also concerned, and, singular to remark, the name
of Baldwin was attached to the register as a witness. It was thus
announced in the journals of the day: “Fancy Marriage.—Married, on
Wednesday, June 29th, 1825, at St. Luke’s, Old Street Road, Mr. Edward
Neale to Miss Mary Weston. The happy pair, after a sumptuous breakfast
at Bob Watson’s, the ‘Castle,’ Finsbury, started for Margate to spend
the honeymoon.”

Neale was now installed Boniface of the “Black Bull,” Cow Lane,
Smithfield, one of the many old inns swept away by the modern Farringdon
Road and Smithfield improvements.

Sampson, who was always a restless and quarrelsome fellow, was
continually taunting Neale upon his “judicious retirement,” &c., and at
length, after some quires of correspondence, Neale declared his
readiness to accommodate him, to finally set at rest the question of
“best man.” Articles were signed to meet in June, 1826, and at the
signature Neale backed himself for an even £50.

The next week brought an afflicting event. In March, 1826, Mrs. Neale
died in childbed, and on the night of the second deposit at Holt’s,
Sampson, in a handsome and feeling manner, declared he should not claim
forfeit, and that the third deposit should be made as the second, on
that day month. The friends of Neale, however, declined the
postponement, and forfeited the money down. Thus matters rested until
the month of August, when Neale declared himself ready to meet Sampson
for not less than £200 a-side. The articles, now before us, run
literally thus:—


   “_Articles of Agreement entered into this 11th of September, 1826,
               between Edward Neale and Philip Sampson._

  “The said Edward Neale agrees to fight the said Philip Sampson a
  fair stand-up fight in a four-and-twenty foot ring, half-minute
  time, for £200 a-side, on Tuesday, the 12th day of December, 1826.
  In furtherance of this agreement £10 a-side are now deposited in the
  hands of Mr. Pierce Egan. A further deposit of £40 a-side to be made
  good on Wednesday, the 4th October, at Harry Holt’s, the ‘Cross,’ in
  Cross Lane, Long Acre. A third deposit of £60 a-side to be made good
  on Tuesday, the 7th of November, at Edward Neale’s, the ‘Black
  Bull,’ Cow Lane, Smithfield. And the fourth and last deposit, of
  £100 a-side, to be made good on Tuesday, the 5th of December, at
  Josh. Hudson’s, the Half Moon Tap, Leadenhall Market. The fight to
  take place within thirty miles of London, Mr. Egan to name the place
  of fighting. The men to be in the ring between twelve and one
  o’clock; and in the event of failure on either side to comply with
  the terms of these articles, the party failing to forfeit the money
  down. Two umpires and a referee to be chosen on the ground, and if
  any dispute shall arise, the decision of the referee to be
  conclusive, and the battle-money to be given up accordingly.

                                                          “EDW. NEALE.
                                                          “P. SAMPSON.

  “Witness—JOHN ROOKE.”


On Tuesday, December 12th, 1826, at South Mimms Wash, Middlesex, fifteen
miles from London, this interesting contest was decided. Sampson was
thought by his friends to have improved considerably in frame and
science since his second contest with Jem Ward—nay, so much so that he
was placed as the “second best” on the list of pugilists; indeed, to
make use of Sampson’s own words, he acknowledged Jem Ward as his master,
but styled himself “foreman to the champion.” In calculating the
advantages he possessed over the Streatham Youth, three points were
considered in his favour—length, height, and weight; and another point
was added by some—the best fighter. Sampson’s immediate friends
therefore booked his winning as a certainty, urging, as a proof of their
good opinion, that Neale had never beaten or stood before so capital a
boxer as Sampson. The latter pugilist also supported this opinion by
offering to take long odds that he won the fight in fifteen minutes, and
without a black eye. Equally confident were the friends of Neale. They
urged that Ned had always proved himself a conqueror, and acted upon the
general rule adopted by sporting men—always to back a winning horse and
a winning man to the end of the chapter. Five and six to four were
betted in numerous instances upon the Streatham Youth.

As the time of fighting drew near the interest upon the battle
increased, and large sums of money were sported on the event. At the
John Bull Fighter’s dinner, when the whole of the four hundred
sovereigns were made good, Sampson and Neale met, but not upon the most
friendly terms. Sampson informed the company that he had heard Neale had
spoken of him in a disrespectful manner, and he now gave him the
opportunity of offering a contradiction to the aspersions he had made
upon his character. Neale, with considerable warmth, replied: “You
behaved unmanly to me in my own house, Sampson, while I was in a bad
state of health, and I will never forgive you till you and I have
decided our fight in the ring. Give me five pounds and I will bet you
one hundred that I lick you.” To prevent an open row it was judged
necessary by the backers of both of the men that they should separate as
soon as possible.

Every precaution was used to select a secure place for fighting; and
after an assurance that it was likely no interruption would take place,
Dunstable Downs was the spot appointed. Sampson left the “Crown” at
Holloway, his residence during the time of his training, on the
Wednesday previous to the battle, and took up his quarters at the
“Posting House,” in Market Street. Neale did not leave the house of his
backer at Norwood until Monday morning, when he was placed, on his
arrival in London, under the care of Mr. William Giles. Neale, in
company with the gay little Boniface of the first market in the world,
and Harry Holt, in a post-chaise, reached the Crown Inn at Dunstable
about eight in the evening of the Monday.

It might have been anticipated that in consequence of Sampson having
pitched his tent in the neighbourhood of the scene of action, a buzz
would be created that a prize-fighter was on the spot, and the
magistrates would become acquainted with the circumstance. It proved so,
for on the Monday morning a notice was sent that he must not fight in
the counties of Bedford and Buckingham. This information got wind early
on the Monday afternoon, and the town of Dunstable, which otherwise
would have been filled to an overflow, was completely spoilt, as the
amateurs preferred halting at Redburn and Market Street to proceeding
forward on a matter of doubt.

During the whole of the night carriages filled with persons were on the
road. An hour before daylight another magistrate arrived in Dunstable,
in his gig, declaring himself a magistrate for three counties, and that
no mill should take place in Bedfordshire, Buckinghamshire, or
Hertfordshire. On his meeting with Sampson, Phil promised the gent he
would not exhibit in either of the proscribed counties. It therefore
became necessary to hold a council of war. Sampson wished to proceed to
Stony Stratford, as a spot where no interruption was likely to take
place, but Pierce Egan, on whom the selection of the ground had
devolved, decided for Middlesex, acting upon the articles agreed to,
which stated the fight was to be within thirty miles of London. The
office being given “towards home,” confusion began, and “The devil take
the hindmost,” was the word. The northern stage coaches were all filled
inside and out, for the sudden turn round had nearly thrown most of the
passengers bound for the fight out of distance. All the post-chaises and
horses had been previously hired, so nothing else was left to numerous
persons, with plenty of cash in their purses, but to toddle for miles
through mud, slush, and heavy showers, to the scene of action. It was
truly laughable to see lots of heavy swells, with their thick upper
toggery tucked up under their arms, trudging along as if pursued by an
enemy, their brows covered with perspiration, and their hinder parts
splashed with dirt. The muster of the motley group was immense, and the
turn-out of Corinthians more numerous than had been seen for months past
at a fight. A crowd of fours-in-hand, tandems, curricles, post-chaises
and fours, cabriolets, gigs, drags, &c., were all trying to get the best
of each other to be early on the ground, and so obtain a good place. At
length Mimms Wash appeared in view, a large sheet of water, when Bill
Gibbons dashed through the stream with as much _sang froid_ as if he had
been crossing a kennel in the streets of London. “We are not going to be
outdone by the Ould One!” exclaimed some costermongers, following Bill,
and suffering for their temerity by going head over heels in the muddy
water mixture, to the no small chaffing and laughter of the crowd.
Several pedestrians, regardless of cold or consequences, waded the Wash
with as much indifference as if it had been a summer’s day. A swell, who
had plunged in up to his middle, invited his fellow-travellers to
accompany him through the flood, exclaiming: “I’m a philosopher! Come
along! Follow me. I’m not wet at all. You only _fancy_ it is water!” But
even this logic had not the desired effect, and his companions preferred
being conveyed across the Wash in a coach. The ring was soon made, upon
a rising spot of ground in a field hard by, and at a quarter past two
o’clock Sampson threw his hat into the ring, amidst loud cheers,
followed by his second and bottle-holder, Jem Ward and Jem Burn. Neale
soon afterwards repeated the token of defiance, attended by Josh Hudson
and Harry Holt. Sampson deliberately tied his colours (pink) upon the
stakes; and Holt placed the dark blue bird’s eye for Neale upon those of
his opponent. The men were not long in peeling, and at twenty-five
minutes after two they shook hands, and the battle commenced.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Both men appeared in excellent condition. Sampson was quite
  tip-top, but Neale, it was thought, was not exactly weight—that is
  to say, what he ought to have been—and the judges hinted he was
  rather thin. The attitudes of the combatants claimed attention; in
  fact, the contrast was singular. Neale held his left hand firmly
  above his nob, operating as a kind of office that he was perfectly
  aware of the danger of the Strong Man’s right mauley. Sampson’s
  guard was low, but his ogles were on the alert, and he kept a good
  look-out to do mischief. In most fights, the first round, if not
  tedious, is generally expected to show superiority of science in one
  of the men as the first blow is considered of consequence; but in
  this instance it was extreme caution against extreme caution.
  Sampson, however, had previously asserted that only let him have the
  chance of getting Neale before him in the ring, and he would cut his
  nob to pieces. Such is the difference between theory and practice;
  Sampson soon found out the difficulty of going to work off-hand with
  his clever opponent; and Neale, like that great master in the art of
  war, the Duke of Wellington, was determined not to give away a
  chance, and preferred the retreating system. Several minutes were
  occupied in making offers, retreating, dodging, and pacing all over
  the ring without any effect, Neale jumping back from every attempt
  of Sampson. The goodness of Ned upon his pins attracted the
  attention of all spectators. After numerous attempts to do “summat,”
  Neale having retreated to a corner of the ring, Sampson went in and
  planted a slight facer. Ned, having no opportunity to make a hit,
  closed with his adversary. In struggling for the throw, Sampson down
  and undermost. (The Streathamites opened their chaffing-boxes, and
  gave him the benefit of their red rags, by repeated shouts of
  approbation.)

  2.—The left arm of Neale was again raised, and Sampson could not
  make him out. The latter boxer did not at all seem prepared for the
  mode of defence resorted to by his adversary. Neale, it should seem,
  had made up his mind to a certain mode of fighting, and was not, by
  any stratagem of Sampson, to be led away from it. Neal kept walking
  round his adversary, anxious to obtain an opening, and retreating
  when anything like danger showed itself. It was remarked by a
  spectator that “if the one was afraid, the other dared not commence
  fighting.” Several minutes passed away in looking at each other, and
  in making feints. Phil at length went to work, but missed a slashing
  hit, which was calculated to have done mischief. Neale returned, but
  it was not effective. In closing, Neale threw Sampson heavily.
  (“Bravo, Neale!” from his partisans.)

  3.—Sampson eyed his opponent from head to foot. Both combatants were
  tired of holding up their arms, or appeared to be so, and Sampson,
  finding nothing was to be done, dropped his guard, and stood still.
  Neale also crossed his arms, and viewed his opponent. In fact, it
  was a complete suspension of hostilities—the spectators at length,
  became impatient, and expressed their disapprobation. Each man
  several times made himself up to do mischief, and every peeper was
  upon the stretch to witness some hits, instead of which retreating
  was again the order of the day. Sampson, in following Neale, got the
  latter boxer again in the corner of the ring, when he hit out right
  and left, and caught Neale on the mug, but Ned returned the
  compliment. In closing, Sampson went down on his knees, and brought
  down Neale with him. Odds were betted on Neale.

  4.—“He’ll go to work soon,” said Ward, pointing to Sampson, “and
  give Neale a slogger.” “I should like to see it,” said an old
  ring-goer; “I never saw such a mill before!” “I call it anything but
  fighting,” replied a third. The men looked at each other, and
  Sampson, with all his cleverness and experience, could not put Neale
  off his mode of fighting. An exchange of blows, but no mischief.
  Sampson made a good stop, or his wind-market must have been
  disturbed. Neale, however, got another turn, and planted a rum one
  on Sampson’s canister. (Loud shouting from Neale’s friends.) Sampson
  missed one of his wisty-casters at the nob of his opponent, or Ned’s
  upper works might have been in chancery. In closing, Sampson
  endeavoured to fib his adversary. Ned was thrown, Sampson uppermost.

  5.—This was a short round. Neale rushed in and got Sampson down.

  6.—A little bit of fighting this bout. Sampson tried all he knew,
  but Neale would not be had, and got away from all his opponent’s
  feints. After some manœuvring Sampson again had Neale in the corner
  of the ring, and planted one of his heavy right-handed hits on his
  temple. Ned for an instant appeared stunned, and fell on his knees,
  but jumped up directly to renew the fight. Hudson, however, pulled
  him down on his knee, and the round was finished.

  7.—After some little dodging about the ring, each crossed his arms
  and stood still. Barney Aaron begged the fight might be put off, and
  begun again the next day with daybreak. “No, no,” exclaimed an Old
  One, “recollect there’s moonlight.” “I am happy,” exclaimed Josh,
  “that I am a patient man.” These, and a thousand such remarks,
  occurred all round the ring, but still the combatants were not
  roused into action. (“Come,” said Sampson to Neale, “why don’t you
  fight?”—“When I like,” answered Ned; “you begin, I’ll soon be with
  you.”) This round was tediously long. Counter-hitting, Neale planted
  a sharp blow on Sampson’s nob, and the latter returned with his
  right. (“He can’t make a dent in a pound of butter, Sampson. Go to
  work, and hit him as you did me,” said Jem Burn.—“Be quiet,” said
  Harry Holt; “look to your man. It’s as safe as if it was over.” This
  latter remark seemed to make Sampson angry, and with a sneer he
  observed, “What signifies what a fellow like you says?”—“I’ll give
  you one presently for that,” answered Neale; “he is my second, so
  you don’t like him.”) Neale napped a heavy one to all appearance on
  his head; but Sampson received a smart body blow. A variety of
  feints—great preparation—retreating, but no blows. In closing,
  Sampson fibbed his antagonist slightly. Both down, Neale undermost.
  The friends of Sampson here gave him a chevy for luck. During the
  short space of time Neale sat upon Josh’s knee, he said to him,
  “Sampson is but a light hitter.”—“Well, then,” replied the John Bull
  Fighter, “there can be no mistake about your winning!”

  8.—Sampson said “First blood!” pointing to a slight scratch near
  Neale’s mouth. “Don’t be foolish,” replied Hudson; “it is only a
  touch of the scurvy on his cheek—a pimple irritated.” Neale stopped
  in style a tremendous right-handed hit. A pause. Sampson made a
  stunning hit on the head of his opponent, which nearly turned Ned
  round. (“What, you’ve caught it at last,” said Jem Ward, rubbing his
  hands. “Another blow like that, and good night to you, Master
  Neale.”—“Walker,” replied Josh. “Why, Jemmy, you are all abroad, to
  talk so!”) In closing, Sampson obtained the throw.

  9.—This was an excellent fighting round. After the numerous
  standstills which had occurred—feints, getting away, &c.—Neale
  seemed quite ripe for execution. Sampson received a rum one on his
  listener, but returned cleverly on Neale’s index. Some good stopping
  occurred upon both sides, and it appeared to the spectators that the
  fight had just commenced. Neale stopped one of Sampson’s tremendous
  right-handed hits so well that several persons exclaimed,
  “Beautiful!” Sampson missed one or two blows. A short rally
  occurred, when Sampson went down from a slight hit. Ned, as yet, had
  scarcely the slightest mark of punishment. His friends were
  satisfied he was so good upon his pins that he would wear out his
  opponent if it came to staying.

  10.—Neale saw an opening, and without hesitation turned it to his
  advantage. He commenced milling with severity, and planted two good
  hits. He also repeated the dose by a heavy right-handed hit on the
  jaw of his opponent, which took Sampson off his legs as if shot. He
  was picked up by his second like a log of wood. His eyes were
  closed, and his nob was swinging on his shoulder as if it did not
  belong to his body. “It is all U P,” was the cry—“the Strong Man is
  done over.” Any odds in favour of Neale. Ward endeavoured to keep
  Sampson’s head steady, and led him to the scratch.

  11, and last.—Sampson appeared incapable of keeping his legs,
  neither did he attempt to put up his arms. He was of no use. Neale,
  by way of finisher, planted a light blow, and Sampson again measured
  his length upon the grass. When time was called, Sampson did not
  leave the knee of his second. Holt threw up the hat, and victory was
  declared in favour of Neale; Sampson observing he would “fight no
  more,” when asked by Ward, and requesting his second to take him out
  of the ring. Neale jumped about the ground for joy, and soon left
  the ring for London, neither fatigued nor hurt. Sampson was taken by
  some of his Birmingham friends to Market Street. The fight lasted
  one hour and six minutes.

  REMARKS.—That this fight was not a good one was certainly not the
  fault of Neale. He expected, from the boast of Sampson, that he
  would go in and win off-hand, or fall in the attempt. Hence Ned’s
  over-caution, as it proved. Neale never was a showy pugilist; on the
  contrary, he was steady, cautious, and safe. Sampson, when he found
  he could not confuse his man by impetuosity, fell off sadly, and the
  affair, which it was anticipated would be a rattling fight, became a
  tedious succession of bouts of sparring, with short intervals of
  hitting, in which Neale was slowly but surely establishing his
  superiority, and Sampson was beaten against his will.


Many of the friends of Cannon, the “Great Gun of Windsor,” were of
opinion that their man was just the sort of pugilist to “make Ned
fight.” Accordingly a proposal was made for a meeting for a stake of
£200 a-side, and accepted by Neale. On Tuesday, February 20th, 1827, the
men met at Warfield, in Berkshire. The morning was intensely cold, and
both men appeared at the ring-side with their nobs covered with Welsh
wigs, Neale having slept overnight at the “Crown,” in Windsor, and
Cannon driven over from his training quarters, the New Inn, at Staines.
The men shook hands with smiling cordiality, each assuring the other he
“felt quite well.” The colours were then tied to the stakes, a blue
bird’s-eye for Neale, and crimson with a white spot for Cannon. Peter
Crawley and Harry Harmer waited upon Cannon, Harry Holt and Josh Hudson
on Neale.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The Great Gun, on stripping, showed excellent condition;
  but in spite of good skin training, age cannot be concealed; and
  Cannon, according to the exclamation of “The Gas,” was “an old man.”
  The fact is that Neale was not yet twenty-three years of age, while
  Cannon had passed his _thirty-sixth_! Cannon appeared cheerful,
  smiling, and confident. The body of Neale was covered with spots,
  like a leopard—his condition was anything but good; he had a slight
  cold, and his flesh was soft; yet the grand points in his favour
  were youth, and a “heart in the right place.” On setting-to, Cannon
  did not display that bull-dog sort of eagerness which characterised
  his efforts in his second battle with the John Bull Fighter, but he
  was upon the alert, ready to punish, and anxious to obtain an
  opening. Cannon commenced offensive operations, but his wary
  opponent “would not have it,” and got away. Cannon tried it again,
  but it would not do; Ned endeavoured to plant a hit, but the Great
  Gun was not to be had, and retreated from mischief. Sparring on both
  sides, but no hitting. Neale at length went to work, and with his
  left mauley slightly touched his opponent’s canister; Cannon
  returned sharply. A short struggle occurred, and Cannon went down.

  2.—The milling qualities of the Great Gun were prominent, and he was
  upon the bustle to do business; but Ned was “up and dressed,” and
  his left hand again told upon his opponent’s mug. Cannon was not
  behindhand, and some sharp blows were exchanged. Milling on the
  retreat (after Tom Cribb’s successful mode) was now adopted by
  Neale; he planted a tremendous blow under the listener of his
  adversary, and the claret followed profusely. If this heavy blow had
  been a little lower, it might have been “Good night to the Great
  Gun!” Cannon, rather confused and wild, rushed in to work—he
  obtained the throw, Neale went down, and Cannon also; in falling,
  his nob came in contact with the stakes. Neale was the hero of the
  tale.

  3.—Cannon, like nothing but a game man, appeared at the scratch
  smiling. This was a short round. The Great Gun tried to fire a heavy
  shot, and boldly went up to his man; but the Youth hooked him round
  his neck, and endeavoured to fib. Cannon proved himself the stronger
  man, got Neale down, and fell on him.

  4.—The Streatham Youth got away from mischief, and made good use of
  his pins. Some blows were exchanged, when they closed. A desperate
  struggle occurred for the throw; both down, Neale undermost.

  5.—The Great Gun, as gay as a lark, went to work, but napped a
  conker; yet he would not be denied, and a sharp rally was the
  result. Some heavy hits were exchanged: the fire proving too hot,
  Ned turned round from mischief; the Great Gun pursued him, when
  Neale turned and rushed to the attack; some clumsy thumps passed. In
  closing, Ned had the best of it, but fell on his head. Neale was
  much shaken by the fall.

  6.—The Great Gun was all for fighting, and kept to his work. Neale
  was ready, but nevertheless kept a good look-out. In a rally, both
  their faces napped punishment, but Ned retreated in style. In
  struggling for the throw, both down, Neale undermost.

  7.—The weakness of the Streatham Youth was visible to his friends,
  but they still felt satisfied he must win. A good rally, and Cannon
  up to the mark, giving hit for hit. In closing, they both stood
  still, trying to hold the hands of each other. Ned broke away, and
  tipped it to Cannon in his victualling office; he ultimately
  obtained the throw, and the Great Gun came down on his nob, a
  shaker. (“Neale for a thousand!”)

  8.—The Great Gun showed distress on appearing at the scratch. Ned
  tried to be with him, but Cannon closed in by catching Neale round
  the neck. The fibbing system was adopted by Ned, and upon Cannon
  getting the worst of it he dropped upon his knees. The coolness of
  Neale was here seen to great advantage; he was in the act of
  hitting, when he stopped himself and held up his arms, amidst loud
  cheers from all parts of the ring. (“Bravo, Ned! well done, it’s
  manly!”)

  9.—The Great Gun was rather unsteady; but his pluck was as good as
  gold. The science of Neale gave him great advantages, although he
  was out of condition; he watched the movements of Cannon with the
  keen eye of a general till it answered his purpose to commence
  fighting. Ned planted a facer, but Cannon countered. In closing,
  holding of hands to prevent punishment was again the feature; and
  Neale was so weak that he could not get the best of his opponent in
  his usual workman-like style. The struggle became long and
  desperate, when the Great Gun went down undermost.

  10.—This round was all in favour of Ned. He planted a rum one on the
  muzzle of the Great Gun, repeated the dose with his left, then
  brought in his right to great advantage. In closing Cannon did his
  best to grasp his opponent firmly; but Neale broke away cleverly,
  and planted a heavy body blow with his right hand. Cannon fought his
  way into another close; in struggling both down, the Streatham Youth
  undermost.

  11.—The Great Gun wanted breath, and sparred for time, but anxious
  not to be idle, went to work. Ned was ready for him, and some blows
  were exchanged. Cannon rushed in determined, as it were, to have the
  fall. In struggling he threw his opponent, although he went down
  himself. Neale’s nob came in sharp contact with the ground, his face
  underwent a momentary change, and he appeared hurt by the fall. He
  rested his head upon the back of his bottle-holder, and his friends
  became alarmed for the consequences. But when time was called, he
  was ready.

  12.—Neale seemed anxious to recover the accident, and put in with
  the utmost ease two teasers on Cannon’s nob, right and left, that
  made his pimple shake again. A sharp rally followed, and “Jack was
  as good as his master.” It was Millers’ Place, Cannon Row, and
  Pepper Alley, all brought down from town. Neale had the worst of the
  punishment; he, however stuck close to his man. Cannon was sent out
  of the ropes, and Ned also went down.

  13.—Good on both sides; Cannon always ready, and no flincher. In
  fact, he appeared as cheerful as if he was at work on the river.
  Neale got away from mischief, but Cannon would follow him, till a
  rally was the result. In closing Cannon received a cross-buttock
  that shook him seriously.

  14.—Neale was much distressed, and the Great Gun tried to have the
  best of him by bustling. In closing he got Neale’s nob under his
  arm; and the latter, for a short time, could not release himself
  from his perilous situation. (“Bravo, Cannon, now’s your time! you
  have got him—don’t let him go!”) Cannon at length let Neale down.
  The backers of the Great Gun flattered themselves the chance was in
  their favour, and actually took him at evens.

  15.—Neale, aware of his weakness, acted upon the defensive; and
  Cannon went to work, as the best means to turn the tide. The Great
  Gun, in closing, again caught hold of Neale, the latter trying to
  hold the hands of his opponent. In this unpleasant situation, both
  to themselves and the spectators, they continued for a minute, until
  quite exhausted they both went down, Neale undermost; Cannon for
  choice, and some were jolly enough to offer 5 to 4.

  16.—The Great Gun, acting under the advice of his seconds,
  endeavoured to have his opponent upon the bustling system, and went
  to work. He bored Neale to the ropes, and here another disagreeable
  struggle took place, both for a short time hanging upon the ropes,
  till they fell outside of the ring. The Great Gun was undermost.
  (“Cannon for ever!” was the cry. “He can’t lose it! The battle is
  changed! 6 to 4 on the Great Gun!”)

  17.—At the scratch Cannon appeared the fresher man of the two. Ned
  was out of wind, and sparring was necessary for both. Neale tried
  his right hand, but without effect. A cessation of arms for a short
  period, and both on the look-out. Cannon at length rushed upon Neale
  with an intent of punishment, but Ned, wide awake, retreated,
  followed by his opponent. At the ropes Cannon went to work, but Ned
  put on the stop capitally. The Streatham Youth broke ground, when
  Cannon would not be denied, but he napped a facer. In closing Ned
  threw Cannon, and fell upon him severely.

  18.—The Great Gun, rather unsteady, bored in to punish his
  adversary; but Neale, who was now getting better, made use of his
  pins to great advantage, and got away with ease. One severe facer
  Cannon napped, a second followed without any return, and a third
  finished the round, the claret running from Cannon’s nose, when he
  fell exhausted. (Loud shouting for Neale, and 6 to 4 on him.)

  19.—Cannon was game to the backbone, and appeared at the scratch
  like a trump. Neale, with great judgment, made himself up to do
  something good; he viewed his adversary well, then let fly a
  tremendous nobber, which sent Cannon staggering back to the ropes;
  Ned followed him and threw him heavily.

  20.—Neale was on his mettle; he commenced play with his right with
  good effect, and Cannon’s nob met punishment. The Great Gun was now
  reduced to a little gun, nevertheless he showed fight like a brave
  man, by returning hits. Ned put in another severe facer, and in
  closing Cannon went down on his back, Neale upon him. (2 to 1, and
  no takers.)

  21.—Cannon came up quite groggy, but the fight was not out of him.
  The courage and game he displayed were admirable, and he earned the
  praise of all spectators. But in boxing term he was of “no use.” Ned
  put in a nobber that almost stunned him, and Cannon staggered about
  like a drunken man. In closing, Ned again obtained the throw, and
  the fall was indeed severe. Cannon lay on the ground, declining to
  be lifted up till the call of “time.”

  22, and last.—The Great Gun came up like nothing but an
  out-and-outer, but his shot was not point-blank, and he swerved and
  reeled unsteadily. Neale put in a left-handed push, when the Great
  Gun rolled through the ropes and fell outside. He was in a state of
  stupor. His seconds brought him into his corner, but while they were
  busy the umpire declared he had not answered the call of “time.” The
  referee agreed, and the victory was declared to Neale. The battle
  lasted only thirty minutes. Neale cut several capers at the
  announcement, and returned to his carriage, while the defeated man
  was taken to his quarters at Staines.

  REMARKS.—The report here given leaves little room for comment.
  Cannon, whose courage had “moulted no feather,” was beaten by
  freshness, activity, and a better style of boxing than his own. This
  was his last fight, and thus, after his defeat by Jem Ward, the once
  formidable bargeman, like many another champion who has “trusted to
  the energy of a waning age,” furnished one more instance of the
  truism that “youth will be served.”


At Sam Tebbutt’s opening dinner on the occasion of his taking the
“Bull’s Head,” Saffron Hill (another of the demolished purlieus of Old
Smithfield), Uncle Ben expressed his “Nevvy’s” desire to meet Neale once
more in the lists, provided Ned would deposit £250 against £200 of “mine
uncle’s” money. Neale closed with the proposal, and posted £10, but
Neale’s principal backer considering the conditions imprudent, he wrote
from Brighton, whither he had gone, forfeiting the £10 down.

A few weeks afterwards, however, articles were signed at the “Castle,”
Holborn, for Neale to fight Jem Burn, £120 to £100, and the day fixed
for Tuesday, Nov. 13th, 1827. So confident was Neale of the result that
he named Monday, Nov. 12th (the day before the fight), for his benefit
at the Tennis Court. After the sparring, Neale, accompanied by Harry
Holt, started for Bagshot, to be near the proposed field of action.

Early on Tuesday morning the road to Staines was covered with all sorts
of vehicles from London, and Shirley’s, the New Inn was overflowing with
first-rate company. Winkfield Plain, in Berkshire, was the spot in view,
and the fancy lost no time in surrounding the ring. Near the appointed
hour Jem Burn threw his hat into the ropes, accompanied by Tom Belcher
and Tom Cannon as his seconds. Neale was close at his heels, and
delivered his tile with the utmost confidence, attended by Josh Hudson
and Harry Holt. The colours—blue, with a white spot, for Ned, and a
Belcher handkerchief for Burn, were tied to the stakes. The men shook
hands smilingly, and at eight minutes past one commenced


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On peeling, Jem looked the picture of health. He weighed
  thirteen stone, and was three inches taller than his adversary.
  Neale did not exactly answer the expectations of his friends; he
  looked pale, and his back and bosom were covered with a scorbutic
  eruption. Ned did not exceed twelve stone. He held his left hand
  remarkably high in defence, and in every other point seemed prepared
  for attack. Burn kept manœuvring to obtain an opening, but Neale was
  too wary to give a chance away. Jem at length let fly at the body,
  but Neale was away. Jem then tried left and right, but Neale, as
  before, got out of mischief. Burn, puzzled, made another attempt
  with his left hand, which alighted slightly on Ned’s left ogle.
  Neale, in return, endeavoured to plant a heavy right-handed hit on
  the nob, but it fell short on the shoulder. Burn, anxious to do some
  execution, again let fly right and left, but out of distance. Ned
  took advantage of the mistake, went in to his man, and by a heavy
  right-handed blow on the side of his head, floored Burn like a shot.
  First event for the Streatham Youth.

  2.—Jem came well up to the scratch, and commenced offensive
  operations right and left, but Ned, laughing, said it was “no go,”
  and got out of the way of mischief like a skilful tactician, yet
  instantly returned to the attack, when Jem napped another floorer,
  to the great joy of the Streathamites. The Yorkites began to look
  blue.

  3.—Jem could not measure his distance, and again threw his blows
  away, when Neale went in to punish _sans cérémonie_. (“Hit with
  him,” says Tom Belcher. “Yes,” replied Josh, “he will get much the
  best of that.”) Burn stopped some hits, and returned on Neale’s nob.
  The latter, however, soon resumed the lead. Jem was once more sent
  down with comparative ease, and Neale rested himself on his second’s
  knee.

  4.—Short but sweet to the Streatham Youth; Jem could not plant his
  blows, when Neale put in a throttler which sent Burn down in a
  twinkling. It is impossible to describe the exultation of the
  friends of Neale. Two to one offered.

  5.—This was more a wrestling than a fighting round; both combatants
  were down side by side.

  6.—Neale seemed perfectly awake to every move of his adversary, and
  got out of trouble with the utmost _sang froid_. In closing, Jem
  struggled hard, and both down.

  7.—Jem endeavoured to plant two well-meant hits, but the science of
  Neale rendered them harmless. After a little manœuvring, Ned went to
  work, when Jem was soon sent down on his latter end.

  8.—Jem had a small slice of luck at the opening of this round, by
  planting a left-handed hit on the right peeper of Neale, which
  produced a slight tinge of the claret. (“First blood,” was claimed
  by the friends of Jem, but the Streatham Youth laughed, and said, “I
  shall soon make that even.”) A sharp rally concluded the round, in
  which Jem threw many blows away, while Ned administered pepper until
  Jem went down staggering.

  9.—Burn endeavoured to do something, but his blows generally fell
  short. Ned was always with his adversary upon the slightest mistake,
  and Jem was ultimately down.

  10.—This was a well-fought round on both sides. Jem’s right hand
  told on the side of Ned’s head, and several other blows of Burn were
  also planted with effect, when Ned fell on the ropes and went down.
  (“Go along, Jem! that’s the way to win! Keep it up, my lad,” from
  his backers.)

  11.—Burn put on the stopper well; and in closing Burn got down
  cleverly from the fibbing system attempted by his adversary.

  12.—The nob of Jem looked rather the worse for wear; but he planted
  some slight facers. Neale fought his way into a rally, had the best
  of it, and in closing Burn was down.

  13.—Jem went to work rather wild, but planted a hit or two. Ned,
  however, was with him, and dropped Burn by a blow in the mouth, like
  a shot.

  14.—This round proved extremely serious to the Burnites. The
  combatants soon got into a rally, in which the blows of Neale
  operated like cannon-shot, till Jem was quite abroad, and went down
  of no use. (This severe punishment operated so severely upon the
  feelings of Uncle Ben that he fell on his back on the ground
  dreadfully convulsed. Several men who immediately ran to render
  Uncle Ben assistance could scarcely hold him during the time he was
  bled by a surgeon. On his recovery, he was immediately conveyed to
  Staines, and put to bed in a very exhausted state of body and mind.)

  15.—Jem appeared at the scratch quite in a groggy state. The
  pepper-box was again administered in the most effectual manner by
  Neale; resistance seemed almost out of Jem’s power, until he once
  more measured his length on the grass.

  16.—Burn could not measure his distances, and fought wildly. Ned had
  it all his own way, punishing right and left, until Jem was down.

  17, 18, 19.—In all these rounds Jem not only napped it in all manner
  of directions, but was sent down.

  20.—Burn missed a well-aimed left-handed blow at the head of his
  opponent, when Neale, in return, planted a tremendous hit on his
  sensitive box, which not only produced the claret freely, but
  floored him. (Any odds, but no takers.)

  21.—The quality of game could not be denied to Jem; he stood and
  took the milling like a receiver-general. He was knocked off his
  pins without any ceremony.

  22.—The left hand of Neale met Jem bang in the middle of the head,
  which produced the claret in torrents, as he measured his length on
  the grass.

  23.—Jem hit down before he had scarcely got up his arms.

  24.—Jem slipped down by accident.

  25.—Burn was piping, and almost abroad; but Belcher was on the alert
  to keep Jem at his work. (“Be ready, my dear boy,” cried Tom; “hit
  with him, he’s coming.” “Yes,” replied the John Bull Fighter, “Ned
  is coming, and your man will soon be going—or rather, like the
  auctioneer, gone!”) Neale received a facer which produced the
  claret; but he returned the favour with interest, and Jem was again
  sent down.

  26.—Jem now tried desperate fighting, hitting away in all
  directions; but Ned was too leary. The latter boxer got a stopper on
  the nob; but Jem was again down. (“You must admit, gents,” observed
  the elegant Holt, “that Jem is a _down-y_ one; he has been down
  almost to the end of the chapter. The finish is also near at hand.
  I’ll bet any odds.”)

  27, 28, 29, 30.—In all of these rounds the lead and punishment were
  decidedly in favour of Neale, and Jem was sent down in every one of
  them.

  31.—Jem showed fight, and planted a facer; but it was too slight to
  do anything like damage to Neale. The latter followed Jem all over
  the ring, until he sent him down. (Tom Cannon, by way of raising the
  spirits of Burn, said, “He can never lick you, Jem.” “Yes,” replied
  Ned, “and you afterwards, and no mistake; and I’ll try it, if you
  like.”)

  32, 33, 34, 35, 36.—It is true that in some of these rounds Jem
  planted facers which produced the claret, but he could not turn a
  single round in his favour. Ned was continually administering
  punishment, and Jem was down in all of these rounds. (“Take him
  away!”)

  37.—Jem was cruelly distressed, but he would not say “no,” and
  showed fight at the scratch. He napped lots of milling in a rally,
  and went down as heavy as lead. (“Take him away! he’s of no use!”)

  38.—Down, and no return; so much did Neale show his superiority over
  Jem.

  39.—Of the same class; he appeared at the scratch only to be milled
  down. (“It’s a shame to bring him up! Take him home, Belcher!”)

  40.—Burn, almost as a forlorn hope, went to work with more spirit
  than could have been expected from his exhausted state, and planted
  several hits in better style than in most of the preceding rounds;
  but this exertion was now too late, and he was milled down flat on
  his face. (The cries were extremely loud: “Take him away; you’ll be
  lagged else.” “Why don’t you listen to the advice of your friends,”
  said Josh, “if you wish to prevent serious consequences to
  yourselves?”)

  41.—It was all the cash in the Bank to a ninepence that Jem must
  lose it; in fact, his backers and seconds ought to have had him
  taken out of the ring. Jem down, with his face on the earth.

  42.—Nearly U P; Burn was down as soon as he appeared at the scratch.

  43, and last.—Jem could scarcely show at the scratch, he was so
  completely exhausted. He staggered about like a drunken man, when
  Neale did little more than push him down. It was all over; and when
  picked up by Tom Belcher, his head fell on his shoulder, and he was
  insensible. The fight continued forty-six minutes. Jem was bled on
  the ground; nevertheless, he remained in a state of stupor for
  several minutes. He was severely punished about the head, while
  Neale was scarcely the worse for the fight. In truth, so little did
  he care for the punishment he had received that he offered to fight
  Tom Cannon off-hand, for £100 a-side, and it was a matter of
  difficulty that Neale’s friends made him quit the ring. £7 10s. only
  were collected on the ground for Jem Burn.

  REMARKS.—The perusal of the rounds of the above battle are so
  decisive in themselves as scarcely to require any observation. Ned
  had it all his own way, from the beginning of the fight to the end
  of the contest. His superior confidence, united with the science
  which was conspicuous in every round, pronounced him a master of the
  art of self-defence. Coolness is a winning faculty on the part of
  Neale, who possesses it in an eminent degree. Jem fought bravely, no
  one can deny; but contending in long blows instead of close quarters
  rendered his blows non-effective, and he was completely beaten at
  out-fighting. It is, however, due to Jem Burn to state that he
  contested every inch of ground like a man of the highest courage. He
  would not say no, and refused to be taken away, which he might have
  done without compromising his character as a pugilist. He never left
  the scratch until nature had deserted him; and the best man in the
  world must, like Jem, submit to the fortune of war. Neale, in this
  conquest, obtained in such a superior style, placed himself high in
  the ranks of pugilism; and his backers entertained so high an
  opinion, not only of his talents, but of his integrity and thorough
  trustworthiness, that it was resolved to match him against the
  accomplished Jem Ward.


The very next day, at Burn’s benefit at the Tennis Court, Neale, whose
face was but slightly disfigured, mounted the stage after the principal
bout, between Jem Ward and big Bob Burn, in which Jem sent the burly one
off the platform with surprisingly little damage to his sixteen stone
carcass, and presented himself to the amateurs. He offered, such was the
readiness of good men in those days, to meet Baldwin for £250 to £200 or
£500 to £400, that day week, or that day month, or two months, at his
option; or he would fight Tom Cannon, Reuben Martin, or any twelve stone
man in England, for any sum they pleased; or he would fight the three
men named within three months, with a month’s interval. This sweeping
challenge brought up Ned Baldwin, who said he was not at that moment
prepared to make a match, but would appoint an evening for the purpose,
and give Neale notice to attend. Tom Cannon next showed. “Gentlemen,”
said the Windsor Gun, “I am out of condition, and both my shoulders are
bad. I have now plaisters on my chest. But I hope to be well by April,
when Neale shall not want a customer.”

At a sporting dinner on Thursday, Nov. 22nd, 1827, at Sam Tebbutt’s, the
“Bull’s Head,” Peter Street, to celebrate Neale’s victory, Ned was
surrounded by backers and friends. The chairman (Pierce Egan) reviewed
the victorious career of Neale, stating his battles, and that his name
had never yet been associated with defeat—that he had proved himself as
honest as he was brave, a dutiful son, an affectionate brother, a
kind-hearted husband, and a sincere friend—in short, a true man in all
the relations of life. He therefore proposed a subscription to present
him with a silver cup of the value of one hundred guineas, as a
testimony to his upright and brave conduct. The proposition was agreed
to, and twenty-one guineas subscribed in the room.

The subject of a match between Jem Ward and Ned Neale was on the carpet
at the Castle Tavern, Holborn, on Tuesday, Nov. 20th, 1827, when two
gentlemen posted £5 a-side, to be made £100—£15 a-side to be posted the
next evening. On the Wednesday Neale’s backer announced that he had not
been able to see Neale, and wished a postponement; but Ward’s friend
claimed forfeit, and it was paid over accordingly. £20 was then
deposited by a friend of Neale’s, to be made £200 if Neale consented to
fight Ward in two months—the money to be returned (less half-a-dozen of
wine) in the event of Neale’s non-compliance. On Friday, Nov. 23rd, an
immense assemblage of the fancy took place at the “Castle,” when, Jem
Ward not being present (he did not appear during the whole evening),
forfeit was claimed. The gentleman who backed Ward demurred, stating he
knew Jem was ready to go on with the match, and he was ready with a
further deposit. Neale, who was in attendance, said, as the deposit had
been made to fight for £200 within two months, he must decline complying
with those terms. He did not think he could get into sufficient
condition to meet such a man as Jem Ward, and he was resolved never to
peril his own reputation, and the interest of his friends, by entering
the ring unfit. The deposits were hereupon drawn.

Ned Baldwin now offered himself once again to Neale’s notice for £150
a-side. To this Neale replied, offering to fight Baldwin, as once
beaten, for £250 to £200. Articles were formulated and signed, and
Tuesday, March 11th, 1828, fixed as the day. Baldwin left town for
Leicestershire to train. Here a trivial occurrence had well-nigh wrecked
Baldwin’s chance and money, as will be seen by the subjoined letter to
the editor of the _Weekly Dispatch_:—


                                             London, _Feb._ 2nd, 1828.

  “SIR,—On my return from Melton Mowbray I was sorry to find my
  character had been assailed by a Leicester paper, in which my
  conduct has been entirely misrepresented. I refer to the account of
  a dispute which took place between two respectable coach
  proprietors, who, I hope, have settled their differences amicably.
  It is stated I took an active part in the ‘disturbance.’ Now, sir,
  the truth is that I was merely a passive spectator of the quarrel,
  and never interfered by word or act—in fact, I was equally a friend
  to both parties. Like others, I laughed, but knew my situation too
  well to interfere. I knew that I was backed against Ned Neale, and
  that by joining in such a dispute I should be ‘throwing a chance
  away’—conduct of which even my enemies would scarcely accuse me. For
  being present, however, I was taken before a magistrate, and held to
  bail till the sessions, which will be held at the beginning of
  April; but even this fact did not justify the false statement to my
  prejudice made in the _Leicester Herald_. However, as my
  recognisances only stand good till the sessions, I shall continue to
  make my deposits with Ned Neale good; and I have too much reliance
  on his honourable feeling not to believe, even if I am obliged to
  put our meeting off for a month, that he will willingly grant me
  that time. He has said that he means fighting, and so do I; and as
  the articles express that the stakes shall remain till we have
  fairly decided who is the best man, upon that understanding I mean
  to act. I shall attend with my backers at Tom Cribb’s, on Tuesday
  next, with the needful, and hope to meet my antagonist on friendly
  terms. With regard to the worthy magistrate who held me to bail, I
  have no doubt he felt he was justified; but when my trial takes
  place, I shall be able to prove my entire innocence of any illegal
  act whatever. By my profession, if fighting a few battles can be so
  called, I have been taught to love ‘fair play.’ I know enough of the
  sporting gentlemen of Leicestershire to believe that they are equal
  admirers of that truly British characteristic; and I rest perfectly
  satisfied that I shall not be sacrificed to any unjust prejudice
  which may have been excited against me from my being a member of the
  P. R.

                                             “Yours respectfully,
                                                     “EDWARD BALDWIN.”


On Tuesday evening, the 5th of February, the time appointed for making
the fifth deposit, the “Union Arms,” in Panton Street, was overflowing
at an early hour. Neale and Baldwin were both present, and on “time”
being called, both said their money was ready. Baldwin, alluding to the
late unfortunate affair at Leicester, although perfectly innocent of any
act of disorder whatever, said he had been held to bail to appear at the
sessions, and also during the intervening period to keep the peace
towards all His Majesty’s subjects. This was an event which he had not
foreseen, and he hoped Neale would liberally assent to the match being
postponed for such a time as would allow him to appear at the sessions,
when he should be enabled to show that he had been the victim of
prejudice. Neale had said he meant fighting; so did he, and he hoped the
stakes would be permitted to remain till the event came fairly off.

Neale said he was willing to give his antagonist every indulgence, and
to meet his wishes to the fullest extent.

The articles were then altered according to the new arrangement, the men
to fight for an even £250 a-side, and the match fixed for the 22nd of
April. If Baldwin should be bound in recognisances at that time, he
would pay Neale’s expenses to go to France; and if imprisoned, he would
agree to forfeit £200 of the stakes down. With this all parties were
satisfied, and Baldwin was applauded for the spirit he had displayed.

On Tuesday evening, March 4th, 1828, a meeting was held at Harry Holt’s
for the purpose of making good the last deposit towards the £250 a-side.
Neale’s money was ready, but Baldwin had been disappointed in the
expected arrival of a friend, who was to have posted a portion of the
needful on his behalf. Neale said that he would not claim the forfeit.
The word of a gentleman being therefore given that the required sum
should be placed in the hands of the stakeholder in the course of a
week, it was considered as understood that the whole of the money was
made good. Another alteration was then made in the time of fighting.
Baldwin remarked that the 22nd of April (the day then fixed) was in the
week appointed for the Newmarket meeting, and this might prevent many of
the turf men from being present. Baldwin therefore proposed an
adjournment of the fight for a week. Neale said a week would make no
difference to him; but if he acceded to Baldwin’s wishes, he ought to
have the right to name the place of meeting. To this Baldwin at once
agreed, and it was therefore arranged that the fight should stand over
to the 29th of April, and that Neale should have the right to say
“where.” Ill luck, however, pursued the fixture; and on Thursday, April
29th, 1828, many hundreds left London, and returned, few of them until
the next day, after a weary journey to Liphook, in Hampshire, thence to
Guildford and Godalming, to find that warrants against Neale and Baldwin
were out in Surrey, Sussex, and Hampshire. A move into Berks was decided
on, and Bagshot made the rendezvous. Here, at Hatchard’s Lane, in the
parish of Wingfield, the ring was pitched, and shortly after Neale
arrived in the carriage of his patron, Mr. Sant. Ned quietly alighted,
and threw his hat into the ring, attended by his seconds, Josh. Hudson
and Harry Holt. Bob was equally on the alert, and repeated the token of
defiance, followed by Peter Crawley and Dick Curtis. Bob won the toss,
when the colours were tied to the stakes, a bright purple for Baldwin
and a dark blue bird’s-eye for the Streatham Youth. The betting was
seven to four on Neale. At half-past one o’clock the fight commenced:—


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The condition of Neale appeared good on stripping, but a
  few of his friends thought he was rather too fat, and blotches on
  his body were, as usual, prominent; Bob was also well, but he looked
  pale. Ned was confident, and after a little manœuvring for the first
  advantage, Bob hit out with his right, but Ned was leary, and it
  fell short; Bob then commenced the bustling system, when a few blows
  were exchanged. In closing Bob napped one on his cheek as he was
  going down. Neale fell on him. “Well done, Neale!”

  2.—Bob, still on the bustle, hurried to his work, but again hit out
  of distance and fell on his hands. Ned missed a heavy upper-cut with
  the right, that might otherwise have done mischief.

  3.—Both hit short. Baldwin missed in a second attempt; but Ned
  planted a nobber, then went to work in right earnest, and not only
  put in a teaser on the side of Bob’s head, but closed and gave the
  white-headed one a cross-buttock.

  4.—Bob planted a slight facer, but received a severe return. In
  closing, Ned fibbed his opponent, and then threw him like a
  first-rate wrestler.

  5.—On Neale’s coming to the scratch, Curtis claimed “first blood”
  from Ned’s nose, but the umpires could not perceive it. This was a
  short round, facers on both sides, the White-headed one again
  thrown.

  6.—Ned planted two severe facers; Baldwin, in return, hit out
  wildly, and lost his distance. Neale repeated the dose on the left
  ear of Bob, which produced the claret, and the event of first blood
  was decided in favour of Neale. In closing Baldwin got down
  skilfully to prevent being thrown.

  7.—The right hand of Neale again told, but in struggling for the
  fall Ned was undermost. “Bravo, Bob!”

  8.—Nothing. Both men hit out of distance, when Bob ran in wildly
  after his adversary, missed him, and fell.

  9.—Bob fond of bustling, but in rushing in he napped a snorter, the
  claret following the blow. In going down Neale was successful in
  planting two hits.

  10.—This round looked like fighting; both men were on their mettle,
  and anxious to do mischief. Ned’s right hand told—ditto, ditto, and
  ditto; yet Bob was not idle, and returned well; nevertheless,
  Baldwin was hit down. (“It’s as right as the day,” said the John
  Bull Fighter; “Ned’s turned auctioneer; he knocked down the last lot
  cleverly, and Mr. Baldwin bought it.”)

  11.—The right hand of Bob would have been mischievous if he could
  have timed his blows; but he appeared so much in a hurry that they
  fell short. Baldwin put in a heavy body blow, but was thrown.

  12.—Ned took the lead, and nobbed his adversary; Bob, endeavouring
  to return, missed. In closing, Baldwin slipped on his knees. Ned
  threw up his hands and walked away, amidst thunders of applause.

  13.—Neale again had it all his own way; he threw Baldwin. Four to
  one and no takers, so satisfied were the spectators that Neale would
  prove the conqueror.

  14.—Baldwin’s left hand told on Neale’s cheek, but the latter
  countered with effect. Bob received another severe cross-buttock.

  15.—Bob could not change a single round in his favour, hitting
  wildly, and quite out of distance. He received a heavy blow on the
  nose. In closing Bob was thrown on the ropes.

  16.—Bob did not heed scientific movements; he endeavoured to
  overwhelm Neale by bustling in helter-skelter, missed his aim, and
  fell.

  17.—Of no importance. Bob piping. Ned planted his right hand. In
  closing, both down.

  18.—A straight facer, and ditto by Neale, Bob returning as wild as a
  novice. Baldwin thrown.

  19.—Bob had a small turn in this round. He planted a heavy hit on
  the left peeper of Neale, and another blow, which produced the
  claret on Neale’s cheek. In going down Neale was undermost. (“That’s
  the way to win,” said Dick Curtis; “wait for him and make your right
  tell.”)

  20.—Both milling, counter-hits. Bob tried the bustling system again,
  and bored Neale down. (“Well done, Bob!”)

  21.—Bob stopped Ned’s left hand cleverly, and gave Neale a teaser on
  his left eye. In struggling for the throw, both went down.

  22.—This was a milling round. Bob seemed steadier, and returned hit
  for hit; but Neale planted a tremendous blow on his opponent’s left
  eye, and threw him cleverly.

  23.—Ned got out of mischief like an able tactician. He, however,
  soon returned to the charge, and with his right floored the
  White-headed one. This was the first knock-down blow.

  24.—Bob came to the scratch rather abroad; he ran in wildly,
  slipped, caught hold of Ned, and fell on his knees. Neale again
  walked away, receiving lots of applause for his forbearance. In
  fact, he actually helped him up, which kindness Baldwin returned by
  a shake of the hand.

  25.—Bob, full of pluck, fought his way into a spirited rally, and
  give and take was the feature for a short period, until Ned finished
  the round by giving Bob a severe cross-buttock.

  26.—Bob commenced fighting as wild as ever. Ned endeavoured to stop
  his rush, when Bob slipped down with his hands up. Neale, though in
  the act of hitting, restrained himself, to prevent anything foul.

  27.—Ned planted his right and left with success, Bob hitting out of
  all distance, as heretofore. In closing both down.

  28.—Baldwin retreated to the ropes, followed by Ned. In closing at
  the ropes Neale tried fibbing, and also threw Bob.

  29.—Had Baldwin steadied himself, and measured his distance, he
  could not have thrown so many right-handed hits away. Ned planted
  some slight taps, when both went down.

  30.—The blows of Ned did not appear to do so much execution as
  heretofore; his friends thought he hit with his left hand open;
  Baldwin was met in his rush by a flush hit on his nob. In closing,
  Ned went down.

  31.—Baldwin, by a sort of scrambling hit, felt for the left peeper
  of Neale, but the latter made good his right and left. In closing,
  both down.

  32.—Neale again triumphant. He went up, _sans cérémonie_, to
  Baldwin’s nob, and floored him. (A tremendous shout of applause from
  all parts of the ring.)

  33.—Decidedly in favour of Neale; the right hand of the latter told
  with severity on Baldwin’s already damaged listener; another
  desperate cross-buttock closed the round against Baldwin.

  34.—The game exhibited by Bob was loudly praised; both men were
  fighting at points in this round. The advantage, however, was on the
  side of Neale, and Bob was ultimately thrown out of the ropes.

  35.—Counter-hits. In closing, both went down; Neale struck his nob
  rather in an awkward manner.

  36.—In spite of all the advice given by Dick Curtis to Bob he would
  still rush forward to attack his adversary. Ned, like a skilful
  general, got out of the way of danger, rendering the attempts of
  Baldwin abortive. Bob was thrown.

  37.—The rounds now were short. Ned hit right and left, but not
  severely. Both down.

  38.—Neale took the lead, and planted several hits; both again went
  down.

  39.—Baldwin almost ran in to punish his adversary, which Neale
  perceiving stepped aside nimbly, and Bob fell.

  40.—Up to this period of the battle Neale was the favourite. The
  latter got away from Bob’s fury, and in closing Baldwin was thrown.

  41.—Bob got a small turn in his favour in this round. It is true he
  was the most punished, but he did not appear reduced much in
  strength. Bob again missed with his right; but in closing he made a
  desperate effort, and threw Neale a severe cross-buttock. (The
  friends of Bob gave him thunders of applause, and the disinterested
  spectators were not backward in crying out, “Bravo!”)

  42.—Both men countered well; and after a long struggle, in closing,
  both down.

  43.—(“Hit with your right hand,” said Dick, “and the battle must be
  your own. Don’t run at your man like a mad bull.”) But all advice
  was thrown away—Bob acted as heretofore, when Ned got neatly out of
  trouble. Baldwin received a heavy right-hander on the side of his
  head, which he endeavoured to return with his left; in so doing he
  fell on his knees, but instantly jumped up to renew the fight, when
  Ned obtained the throw.

  44.—Ned made play with his right hand, but Bob was again on the
  bustle, and in struggling for the throw got Neale down.

  45.—This was a short but busy round. Both on the
  alert—counter-hits—a rally, and in closing for the fall, Ned was
  thrown.

  46.—Ned, as if determined to finish off his man, went to fight,
  _sans cérémonie_. He caught Baldwin on the right side of his nob,
  threw him a heavy cross-buttock, and fell over him.

  47.—Neale’s right and left told; Bob bored in, caught hold of his
  adversary, and fell on his knees. Ned, instead of punishing him,
  patted Baldwin on the back, and once more walked to the knee of his
  second, amidst uproarious applause.

  48.—Neale took the lead right and left. Bob, wild at such treatment,
  closed, and got Neale down.

  49.—A fighting round; capital counter-hits. Bob received so severe a
  facer that he went down like a spinning-top.

  50.—The game displayed by Baldwin was the admiration of the
  spectators; his mug was punished, and his eyebrow badly damaged. Ned
  took the lead; and Bob, anxious to return, fell in the attempt.

  51.—Bob was piping, and rather abroad; nevertheless his right hand
  was always dangerous; he was again unlucky in his distance. Ned
  planted his right hand, and Bob found his way to grass.

  52.—Bob without delay fought into a rally, when Ned got out of
  trouble by turning round, but immediately resumed milling. In
  closing, Bob obtained the throw, and Neale came heavily down on his
  neck.

  53.—Bob was no sooner at the scratch than he rushed in without any
  system, and succeeded in getting Neale down.

  54.—The execution of Neale was not so severe as in the early part of
  the battle; and his left hand was open. In closing, Baldwin obtained
  the fall.

  55.—Each trying for the best; stopping and hitting until both down.

  56.—Neale appeared angry, and did not deliver his blows so steadily
  as heretofore. In closing, Baldwin found himself on the turf.

  57.—The left hand of Neale was a little puffed, but he planted his
  right severely. Both down.

  58.—Bob now stood higher in the opinions of the spectators; his
  strength was not so much reduced as might have been expected; but
  high odds were still offered on Neale. In closing, both down, and
  both weak.

  59.—Baldwin certainly appeared better, and did not pipe so much as
  he had done in several of the preceding rounds. Neale went to work
  right and left, Bob endeavouring to be with him, but Ned obtained
  the throw.

  60.—Bob left all system out of the case, and hit in all directions.
  Exchanges, when Bob, in closing, almost pinned Ned to the ground by
  superior strength.

  61.—Counter-hits, Baldwin soon down.

  62.—The right of Neale told: but with his left he could not do any
  execution. Bob went down from a slight hit.

  63.—Baldwin crept into favour with the spectators this round, by the
  game he displayed, and his determined mode of fighting. Ned made
  play, but Bob was with him; and some smart exchanges took place. In
  closing, after a severe struggle, Bob got his opponent down.

  64.—Bob, revived by a nip of _eau-de-vie_, planted his right well;
  but Ned countered, and mischief was done on both sides. Bob pushed
  on his luck, and boring in, laid hold of Neale by the neck, and in a
  severe struggle for the fall the Streatham hero received a dangerous
  twist, and fell in a singular manner. Ned was quite abroad for a few
  seconds. Dick Curtis exclaimed, “We have won it!” The anxiety of the
  spectators was intense; but Ned revived, and was ready at the
  scratch when time was called.

  65.—Neale was distressed by the late fall, but he began his work
  well. Some sharp counter-hits. In closing, Bob again tried for the
  throw, but he was not so successful. Neale punished Baldwin as he
  was going down.

  66.—The White-headed One was kept on the alert by his admirable
  little second, Curtis, and slashed away like a good one. Had his
  distances been anything like correct at this juncture, he had yet a
  chance of winning. In closing, Neale was again thrown, and he told
  Harry Holt “to take care of his neck” as he was picking him up.

  67.—Baldwin was quite alive to the position, and neglected no
  opportunity to turn it to account. He again kept Neale on the
  bustle, caught the latter round the tender place on his neck, and
  obtained the throw. (“Bravo, Bob! you’ll win it now, if you mind
  what you are at!”)

  68.—Neale still distressed; Bob to all appearance the stronger man.
  The White-headed Blade now thought the bustling mode to be
  successful, and tried it on at once. Neale fearlessly met him. In
  closing, Baldwin squeezed his opponent, got him down, and fell on
  him. (“Why, Bobby,” said Curtis, “you have found out the way at
  last. You are doing the trick.”)

  69.—Neale commenced milling. In closing, Bob’s strength enabled him
  again to get the fall. At this moment a great bustle was heard on
  one side of the ring, and a cry of, “The beak! the beak!” An
  elderly, pale-faced gentleman in black was observed making his way
  for the ring. He proclaimed himself a magistrate, and called upon
  all parties to desist. The smooth-tongued blades of the Fancy tried
  all their eloquence to appease the wrath of the beak, by stating to
  him what a pity it would be, at such an interesting period, to put a
  stop to the event, which, as a matter of course, an hour having
  elapsed, would end of itself in the course of a few minutes.

  70.—During the argument time was called, and the men appeared at the
  scratch. Neale was ready, and Bob equally so—no flinching, until
  Baldwin was floored.

  71.—Neale rallied himself, and went to work with considerable
  spirit; Baldwin attacked his adversary wildly. Both down.

  72.—The beak endeavoured to break through the crowd to get at the
  combatants, but he could not. Hitting away on both sides, but Neale
  now and then jobbing the nob of his adversary. In closing, both
  down.

  73.—(“Now’s the time,” said the Pet to Bob; “go to work, hit steady
  with your right hand, and you can’t lose it.” “What nonsense!”
  replied Hudson; “how can you mislead the poor fellow so!”) Both on
  their mettle, and several blows were exchanged. In closing, Baldwin
  obtained the throw.

  74.—The rounds were now very short. Baldwin bustling, while Neale
  was endeavouring to catch him as he was coming in. Both down, Neale
  undermost.

  75.—Exerting themselves like brave men, regardless of danger, until
  both of them fell out of the ropes.

  76.—Neale successively planted three jobbing hits; nevertheless, Bob
  returned to the attack undismayed. In closing, Baldwin pulled down
  his adversary.

  77.—Counter-hits, and a good round altogether, until both went down,
  Baldwin uppermost.

  78.—The fight had materially changed. Bob, who, in the early part of
  the battle, in the opinion of nearly all the spectators, had no
  chance of success, was viewed with a different eye. Neale’s left
  hand was of little use to him. Both down.

  79.—Neale took the lead, and planted his right and left. Baldwin
  fell on his knees.

  80.—Counter-hits, but not heavy enough to put a finish to the
  battle. In closing, both down, Neale undermost.

  81.—(The disinterested part of the ring—those persons who had not a
  copper on the event seemed to think that it was anybody’s battle.)
  Neale, always ready, went to work; Bob, on the bustle, endeavoured
  to be with him. In closing, both down, Neale undermost.

  82.—Neale hit with his left hand half open, then planted a facer
  with his right. Baldwin, still wild, but determined, endeavoured to
  return. His distance as heretofore proved incorrect. He rushed into
  a close, when both fell.

  83.—Neale had not lost his gaiety, and tried to administer
  punishment. In closing, the struggle was desperate for the throw;
  after a severe encounter, Bob was uppermost. Both men much
  distressed.

  84, and last.—Baldwin at the scratch, and Neale also ready to the
  call of “time.” Both combatants went to work without hesitation.
  Some sharp hits were exchanged, when both men went down in the
  corner of the ring, close to the magistrate. One hour and a quarter
  had elapsed.


His worship now waxed angry at the want of attention paid to his
authority, exclaiming, in a peremptory tone of voice, “I’ll endure this
no longer!” Laying hold of the arm of Josh Hudson, he told Harry Holt of
the consequences which must result to the whole of them, if they did not
put an end to the battle. Hudson, obedient to the law, resigned his
situation as second, when an amateur rushed into the ring and gave his
knee to Neale. The magistrate then spoke to Neale and Baldwin, and
observed that he had been sent for by a gentleman in the neighbourhood,
to interfere and put a stop to the fight: that he entertained no
hostility against any person present, and if they immediately quitted
the ring peaceably, he should take no further notice of what had
occurred. “If the battle is continued,” said he, raising his voice, “the
combatants, seconds, and every individual present aiding and assisting
must take the consequences.” The magistrate, however, good-naturedly
acknowledged that he had met with more civility and attention than he
could have expected from such a multitude. His worship then retired from
the scene of action, amidst loud cheers from the spectators.

Further opposition was voted imprudent, and hostilities ceased. Bob and
Ned shook hands together, left the ring, and walked to their vehicles.
The reporter asked Baldwin how he felt, when he emphatically replied,
“What should be the matter with me?” It was thought advisable by the
friends of both parties that the combatants should return to Bagshot,
and be put to bed.

It was not to be supposed that the question of superiority would remain
thus undecided between two such courageous and well-matched men; so,
after some little debate upon the “draw,” consequent on magisterial
interference, they agreed to add £50 a-side to the stakes, and to meet
once more—the time the 28th of May, 1828, the place No Man’s Land, in
Hertfordshire. How gallantly Neale fell, after a desperate battle of
sixty-six rounds in seventy-one minutes, may be read in Chapter VII. of
this volume.

Neale’s friends and admirers did not desert him in defeat. At Neale’s
benefit at the Tennis Court, on the 21st of July, 1828, at which Tom
Spring, Peter Crawley, Holt, Curtis, and the leading men appeared, a
silver cup of the value of 100 guineas was presented by Pierce Egan as a
testimonial of his “bravery, honour, and incorruptible integrity.” This
trophy for many years formed one of the treasures of the “Rose and
Crown.”

Reuben Marten now proposed to back John Nicholls for £100 a-side against
Neale, and the cartel being accepted, the match was made off-hand, at
Marten’s house, the “City of London,” Berwick Street, Soho. The deposits
were duly made until £60 was down, when Nicholls’s backers were absent,
but Neale waived the forfeit, and generously agreed to take £25 when the
fight should come off; £50 being promised by a gentleman, a backer of
Nicholls, for the fight to take place on his estate. We note this, as on
another occasion, with Baldwin, Neale waived his claim to forfeit when
£170 was down.

The day was fixed for the 23rd September, 1828, the place Fisher Street,
in Sussex. Nicholls—a fine, powerful young man, whose recent victory
over Dick Acton, a pugilist thought good enough to be matched against
Jem Ward and Peter Crawley, had raised him by a jump to the pinnacle of
fame—had good friends. The sporting men of London, however, did not
believe in a comparative novice being pitted against the victor of a
dozen battles, and seven to four was laid at the “Castle,” “Queen’s
Head,” and “King’s Arms,” on the Streatham champion.

On Tuesday morning Guildford, Godalming, and the villages near the scene
of action were all alive, the amateurs having left London overnight. An
immense cavalcade was soon on the move towards Fisher Street, where, at
the Royal Cylinder Works, the property of Mr. Stovell, preparations had
been made from an early hour. Banners were displayed, two military
bands, and six small pieces of cannon in a turf battery were discharged
occasionally, and a general rustic merry-making, more like a fair than
the preliminaries of a fight, was going on. Tables and forms, with
eatables and drinkables, were provided gratuitously for certain visitors
within the houses and factory of Mr. Stovell. In an enclosed piece of
ground a twenty-four feet ring of turf, laid and levelled, was roped in,
with seats for the umpires and referee. At a distance of twelve feet a
roped circle kept back the spectators, while round all was a double line
of wagons, the inner ones sunk in the ground by holes dug as deep as
their axletrees, the outer line being on the level of the field. The
ground was kept by 150 stout countrymen with staves, in white smocks,
with blue ribands in their hats, marshalled by the indefatigable Mr.
Stovell.

At eleven o’clock a curious procession approached. Reuben Marten and
Nicholls, in a light two-wheeler, followed by some friends, were
succeeded by Neale in a barouche, in which were seated Tom Spring and
Harry Holt, the “ribands” handled by Will Scarlett, the renowned
“dragsman.” The men were accommodated with separate apartments in Mr.
Stovell’s house till the hour of battle arrived.

At ten minutes past one Nicholls dropped his hat within the ropes, and
Neale immediately followed his example. Neale was attended by Tom Spring
and Harry Holt, Nicholls by Jem Ward and Reuben Marten. Nicholls won the
toss for corners, and both men sported true blue for their colours.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Nicholls justified the report of his superior personal
  requisites. He stood nearly two inches over Neale, and his weight,
  thirteen stone four pounds, was well and evenly distributed. He was
  indeed the model of an athlete. Neale, whose weight was twelve stone
  four pounds, looked hard, brown, and muscular, and well capable of a
  long day’s work. Great caution on both sides. The men stepped round
  and round each other, making feints, for full five minutes—the
  seconds of Nicholls advising him to use caution and let his man
  “come to him,” which Neale did not seem inclined to do. At last
  Nicholls sent out his right at Neale’s throat. It was short, for
  Neale jumped away. More tedious sparring and manœuvring, until both
  men seemed weary of holding up their hands, the young one most so.
  Neale, seeing a favourable opening, sprang forward, delivering a
  straight right-hander on his adversary’s collar-bone. It was
  intended doubtless for the side of his head, but fell lower from the
  superior height of his opponent. It was a terrific blow, and sounded
  like the crack of a pistol-shot, leaving a broad red mark, that soon
  after swelled, as a token of its force. A rally followed, in which
  Neale planted a heavy body blow with the right, and his left on
  Nicholls’s mouth, who returned on Neale’s head. Neale finished the
  round prettily by getting hold of his huge adversary and throwing
  him neatly from the hip. Immense applause from the Londoners.

  2 to 12.—All similar in character. Neale drew his man and punished
  him for coming in, Neale now and then getting down to end the round.

  13.—Nicholls, finding himself out-manœuvred, rushed in ding-dong.
  Neale met him coolly, and actually sent him off his legs. (“It’s all
  U P,” cried Ned Stockman. “Who’ll take two to one?”)

  14 to 17.—In every round Neale made his right and left tell with
  effect, getting away or stopping the return, until poor Nicholls was
  a pitiful spectacle. In the sixteenth and seventeenth rounds Neale
  sent Nicholls down with a straight left-hander. Cries of “Take him
  away.”

  18, and last.—Nicholls tried to get in at his man, but was literally
  hit out right and left. Neale closed and threw his man heavily. Jem
  Ward stepped forward and said his man should fight no more, and
  Neale, stepping up to the umpires and referee, was told he was the
  conqueror.

  REMARKS.—This one-sided affair hardly calls for comment. It merely
  adds one more instance to the innumerable proofs that mere strength
  and courage are more than balanced by the skill, readiness, and
  precision of the practised master of the science of defence.


Roche, a publican of Exeter, whose provincial reputation as a wrestler
was higher than his boxing capabilities, was matched by his overweening
friends against Neale. The preliminaries duly arranged; the stakes, £100
a-side, made good; and the day fixed for the 2nd December, 1828; the men
met on the North Chapel Cricket Ground, Sussex, forty-four miles from
London by road. Neale trained at Milford, in Surrey, and there, it
afterwards came out, he was “interviewed,” as modern reporters would
style it, by an envoy from Roche’s party, who offered to secure to him
£500 to lose the fight, and a further sum of two hundred if he would
give in under fifty minutes. All this Neale communicated to his backers;
and so well was the secret kept that a double defeat awaited the
“Knights of the x,” in the disgrace of their champion and the depletion
of their pockets. Had the countermine been discovered, the defeated
Devonian declared, “all the King’s horses” should not have drawn him
into the ring. In order yet further to keep up the “fool’s paradise”
into which these bucolic knaves delivered themselves, the emissary
presented Neale with a new suit of clothes and £18 “earnest money,”
keeping £2 for commission; and on the very morning of the battle he
added £8 out of £10 entrusted to him for the same nefarious purpose. The
“cross coves,” assured that all was right, freely backed their man, and
were not aware of the mine until it burst beneath their feet, scattering
to the wind their hopes and calculations. Roche, who had come up to
London, finished his training at the renowned Johnny Gilpin’s house, the
“Bell,” at Edmonton, then a charming rural retreat, with its flower and
tea gardens; now a well-accustomed modern ginshop, resplendent in
gilding, gas, and plate glass, and belted in with brick, mortar, and
shops.

Roche, who reached Godalming overnight, set out a little before twelve
in a barouche; while Neale, in a four-horse drag, started from Milford,
and soon overtook him on the road. Tom Spring, the “Portsmouth
Dragsman,” Harry Holt, and other friends, were on the roof of Neale’s
coach, and were first on the ground. Roche soon after alighted, under
the care of Ben Burn and young Dutch Sam, who were engaged as his
seconds. His colours were a light blue, Neale’s a dark blue bird’s-eye.
The toss for corners was won by Harry Holt for Neale, who was also
waited on by Tom Spring. As the men stood up, the contrast was striking.
Roche, who stood nearly six feet, weighed, it was reported, fourteen
stone. His advantages in weight and length, however, were fully
counterbalanced by his apparent age and staleness. His superfluous meat
hung in collops over the belt of his drawers, and he was altogether soft
and flabby. The Streatham man, _au contraire_, looked bright, sinewy,
fresh, and active, though he had trained rather lighter than on some
former occasions, weighing twelve stone two pounds. The umpires and
referee having been chosen, the men stood up, at ten minutes to one, for


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—As Roche held up his arms and moved half round to face the
  movements of Neale, he betrayed the yokel in every move. The
  Streatham hero eyed him with satisfaction, and walked round him with
  his hands well up. Roche flourished his long arms awkwardly, with no
  particular object but defence, and as soon as Neale saw an opening
  in he dashed, delivered with his left a half-arm hit on Roche’s eye,
  following it by such a tremendous bodier with the right that down
  went the mighty wrestler on the broad of his back, amid the shouts
  of the Londoners, the long faces of the provincials, and the
  consternation of the “ready-made luck” division, who were utterly
  dumbfounded at such a commencement. As Roche was picked up and taken
  to his corner he looked towards Neale with a mixture of surprise and
  reproach, as if to say, “Is this the way I am to be served?”

  2.—A repetition of Round 1. Roche made play awkwardly; Neale
  retreated and shifted, stopping him cleverly. At length he in turn
  stepped in, delivered his one, two, cuttingly, and down went the
  Devonian. Roche was evidently remonstrating with his seconds in his
  corner, while his friends of the + division were running about
  frantically, hedging their bets if they could.

  3.—This round only differed from the two preceding in the fact that,
  after some exchanges, in which the balance was all in favour of
  Neale, the latter suddenly closed, and giving Roche his leg, clearly
  threw the wrestler, amid the shouts of the Londoners and the
  astonished silence of the men from the “West Countrie.”

  4, 5, and 6.—Ditto, ditto, ditto. Roche tried, however, a little
  up-hill fighting, and hit Neale twice or thrice, but with little
  effect, while Ned’s left-handers operated like kicks of a horse.
  (£100 to £10 on Neale offered.)

  7.—In a bustling exchange Ned sent his left obliquely over Roche’s
  shoulder, who instantly clutched him, and endeavoured to bear him
  down. To the surprise of all Ned fairly lifted his ponderous
  adversary, and sent him down heavily by the back-heel, falling on
  him. (Utter dismay among the Devonians, and uproarious joy among the
  regular ring-goers. Ten to one going begging.)

  It would be a mere waste of space to detail further the ensuing
  rounds, which went on up to the 30th. Roche, however, cut up game,
  and manfully did his best when he found how he was “sold” by his
  friends, who were themselves deservedly “sold” in turn. In Round 29,
  Ned being called upon by Spring to “put on the final polish,” went
  and delivered a left jobbing hit; Roche shifted, and in returning
  got Ned by the neck, under his arm, and fairly lifted him off the
  ground. Neale was for a few seconds in a critical position, but
  Roche, as he hung his weight on him, did not know what to do with
  him, and instead of being severely fibbed Ned got down cleverly, to
  the great relief of his anxious friends.

  30, and last.—Neale broke ground cautiously, but confidently, making
  play with both hands, first delivering on the head and following it
  with a body blow, in the coolest and most workman-like manner, Roche
  “standing it like a lamb,” as one of his backers bitterly remarked.
  Neale after following him round the ring, at length caught him a
  straight one on the nose, then a flush hit on the mouth, and Roche
  went down on his back, Neale falling over him. When Roche was in his
  corner there seemed to be a sort of conference, when Ned walked
  across and assured Roche that he “meant to win and no mistake, so he
  might go on if he liked.” This plain hint was duly appreciated, and
  Roche declared he would “fight no more.” Time, thirty minutes.

  REMARKS.—A less accomplished fighter than Roche never stripped to
  contend with so tried a boxer as Ned Neale. Independent of heavy
  slowness, his ideas of defence and stopping were of the clumsiest
  and most puerile description. Though no doubt superior to Ned as a
  mere wrestler, even in this he was taken by surprise and signally
  overthrown. Great pains were taken to circulate stories of the
  strength and prowess of Roche, to cover the arranged defeat of
  Neale, as the vanquished man afterwards confessed. There is no doubt
  that Roche first issued his challenge inconsiderately, and, from an
  undue estimate of his own boxing capabilities; but that his
  confidence was based upon the information that he was to have an
  easy victory, all matters being made smooth for the result. Poor
  Roche, in truth, was a mere tool in the affair, and paid the penalty
  of his presumption and credulity.


Neale returned to the Swan Inn to dress, and after his ablutions met a
party of friends from Portsmouth at dinner, his features being without a
scratch. In the afternoon his “caravan” set out, decorated with blue and
white favours, and accompanied a pair of Kentish-keyed bugles—the
predecessors of our modern cornets-à-piston—on a drive through the
villages, amid the cheers of the multitude, to Milford, where, on
reaching his training quarters, he found the house ornamented with blue
and white bunting, and bannerets of blue and white ribbons, with mine
host Mandeville at the door, his old wrinkled face cracking like a mealy
potato as he announced dinner number two, which was prepared in his
spacious and convenient club-room. A score of smiling friends welcomed
the victor, and Ned’s health was drunk with enthusiasm. Neale declared,
in returning thanks, that “he was never happier, and hoped he had
convinced his friends that he would not deceive them, as honour was
dearer to him than money. He had punished those who would have had him
rob those to whom he owed his fame and good name, and to deceive those
who meant wrong he considered both fair and honest.”

Far different was the case with poor Roche. After being taken back to
his inn and bled—for which one of his chapfallen backers tendered the
operator a shilling—he was deserted, and but for one friend might have
been almost penniless. That the downfal of the “clever ones” was signal
was manifest, and those country friends whom they “let into the secret”
were loud in their protestations of the whole affair being “a fluke.”
Two or three London houses used by the conspirators, which had prepared
illuminations in honour of the “certainty,” were conspicuous for their
total eclipse when the real news arrived.

Neale and Roche showed on the following Thursday, at Harry Holt’s
benefit, Roche exhibiting heavy marks of head punishment, while Neale
had not a scratch.

With the close of 1828 came our hero’s retirement from the P. R., and it
is to be regretted that mine host of the “Rose and Crown”—for he had now
settled down as Boniface in the pleasant village of Norwood, then
celebrated for its rurality and gipsy encampments—did not adhere to this
resolution; but it was not to be. Some taunting words of a very “fast”
young boxer, Young Dutch Sam, led to Neale’s acceptance of his challenge
for £100 a-side. The fight came off at Ludlow, April 7th, 1829, and
after a gallant struggle of seventy-one rounds, in one hour and
forty-one minutes, Neale succumbed to his youthful and scientific
opponent. Dissatisfied with the issue, Neale lost no time in challenging
Young Sam to a second encounter, which, after an arrest of Neale and a
postponement, came off near Bumpstead, in Essex, on the 18th of January,
1831. Here the result was again defeat, this time in fifty-two minutes
and fourteen rounds. It was clear that Neale’s best days had gone by.

Prompted by courage rather than prudence, he made yet one more
appearance in the P. R. It was with an early opponent, Tom Gaynor (See
LIFE OF GAYNOR, Chap. IX., _post_), and here again he had miscalculated
his energies, succumbing after a gallant battle of 111 minutes, during
which forty-five rounds were contested.

The fistic career of Ned Neale thus closed, as with so many other
athletes, in defeat. Yet he retired with his laurels unsullied, his
character for courage and honesty unsmirched; and respected by all who
knew him, he shuffled off “this mortal coil” at the “Rose and Crown,”
Norwood, near the place of his birth, on the 15th of November, 1846.




                              CHAPTER VI.
                    JEM BURN (“MY NEVVY”)—1824–1827.


The sobriquet “My Nevvy” with old ring-goers long survived the sponsor
(Uncle Ben), who first bestowed it upon his _protégé_ on introducing Jem
Burn to the P. R., an event which took place in 1824.

Jem first saw the light at Darlington, in the county of Durham, twenty
years previous—namely, on the 15th March, 1804—and was in due time
apprenticed to a skinman (_vulgo_, a “skiver”) at Newcastle-on-Tyne. We
need not say that Jem came of a fighting stock—both his uncles, “Big
Bob” and “Ben” being well known within and without the twenty-four-foot
roped square miscalled the “ring;” the latter at this period being the
popular host of the “Rising Sun,” in Windmill Street, Piccadilly, in
after years the domicile of “Jolly Jem” himself.

Now the fame of his muscular relatives had reached the remote northern
residence of Jem, and, like Norval, “he had read of battles, and he
longed to follow to the field some warlike chief;” so, having tried “his
’prentice han’” on a north country bruiser of some local fame, hight
Gibson, he, like other aspiring spirits, looked towards the great
Metropolis for a wider field for the exercise of his talents.

It is recorded that Jem’s battle with Gibson was a severe one, occupying
one hour and twenty minutes; and that in another bout with a boxer named
Jackson, a resolute fellow, Jem, in a two hours’ encounter, displayed
such quickness and ability as to spread his fame throughout the
district.

Brown, a twelve stone wrestler, with some fistic pretensions, challenged
“Young Skiver,” as his comrades then called him. In twenty-five minutes
he found out his mistake, retiring from the ring with second honours,
while Jem was comparatively without a mark.

As a matter of course, on his arrival in London Jem made his way to
Uncle Ben’s, where he was received with a hearty welcome, had the run of
a well-stocked larder, and was soon hailed as a “morning star” of the
first magnitude, and fit herald of new glories to the “Rising Sun.”

Uncle Ben lost no time in presenting “My Nevvy” to the Corinthian
patrons of his “crib;” and as Jem was certainly clever with the
mufflers, stood five feet ten in his shoes, with good arms, no lack of
confidence, and great youthful activity and dash, he was looked upon as
a likely aspirant, at no distant day, for the championship of England,
recently vacated by the accomplished Tom Spring, after his two fights
with Langan.

The friends of Uncle Ben, however, were too prudent to risk Jem’s
opening prospects by matching him with a first-class professional. At
this period there was an immense immigration of heavy “Patlanders,”
chiefly _viâ_ Liverpool, of whom Pierce Egan was the literary Mæcenas,
and Jack Langan the M.C. Among them was one styled “Big O’Neal,” who
must not be confounded with the “Streatham Youth,” Ned, whose name, for
some time, Pierce insisted on printing with the national prefix “O’,”
though he expunged it from the fifth volume of “Boxiana,” and on his
presentation cup.

Articles were drawn for the modest figure of £25 a-side, witnessed by
Langan and Uncle Ben, and the day and place fixed for the 26th of July,
1824, within fifty miles of London. At the appointed time the men met at
Chertsey Bridge, near Staines. O’Neal, attended by Langan and Peter
Crawley, first threw his hat into the ring, and “My Nevvy” soon followed
suit, esquired by Tom Owen and Uncle Ben—so that all six, principals and
seconds, were emphatically “big ’uns.” The Irishman was the favourite,
at six to four, his fame having “gone before him.” The colours, a green
bandanna for O’Neal, and a chocolate with light blue spot for Burn,
having been tied to the stakes, the men lost no time in peeling, and
stood up at a few minutes past one for


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On stripping, it was any odds in favour of O’Neal; it was a
  horse to a hen by comparison; indeed, some said that it was a shame
  for Ben Burn to have matched his nephew against a man of such
  superior weight. “The young one can foight a bit, I know, and we’ll
  soon tell’ee all aboot it,” replied Ben. Burn went to work with
  considerable judgment, held up his hands well, shifting round
  cleverly, and milling on the retreat, Cribb’s favourite mode. Burn
  put in two nobbers, and got well away; when O’Neal, like novices in
  general, kept following his opponent all over the ring, napping
  punishment at every step, till the Young One was bored upon the
  corner of the ropes, when he dropped. (Loud shouting for Burn; and
  “My Uncle quite proud of his nephew.”)

  2.—O’Neal wiped his peeper; in fact, he had received a nasty one
  between his ogles, that had placed them on the winking
  establishment. Burn was a little too fast. He stepped in to draw his
  man, when Pat met him with a smart jobber on his nose, which
  convinced the North Country Sprig that he must avoid O’Neal’s clumsy
  fist as much as possible, or his fine science might be of little
  service to him. O’Neal made a hit, but Burn returned the blow with
  interest. The Sprig kept the ring well, and Pat was compelled to run
  all over the ground to make a blow. Burn went down from a slight
  hit.

  3.—The mug of O’Neal was altered a little; the claret was streaming
  down from his temple, and his right eye was damaged. Burn fought in
  great style; he made a number of good hits without any return. The
  Irishman was bothered: he got a lick every now and then, and he
  looked about him, as much as to say, “Where the devil did that polt
  come from?” Burn finished the round by going down.

  4–10.—In all these rounds, except the last, Burn had the “best of
  it;” and it was evident, if his strength stayed with him, he could
  not lose the battle, but he was getting weak. Burn was hit cleanly
  down. (“That’s the way,” said Langan. “Do that again, and I can make
  money by you, if it is only to floor oxen for the butchers.”)

  11–15.—The nob of O’Neal was sadly disfigured, and he was almost a
  blinker. He gave every chance away, instead of fighting his
  opponent. (“Long Bowls,” said the Sage of the East, who was close to
  the ring, “will never do for a novice, especially when he has got
  weight on his side. O’Neal ought to be placed close to his man, and
  told to hit out, and never leave off till he has put the gilt on his
  antagonist.”) Burn, after bestowing all the pepper he was able to on
  O’Neal’s face, went down weak.

  16–20.—The gameness of O’Neal could not be questioned; and although
  so bad a fighter, he was backed as a favourite on account of his
  strength. He got Burn down, and fell heavily upon him.

  21–25.—The last round was the best contested during the battle; the
  Irishman, though nearly blind, administered some heavy hits, and
  finally knocked Burn down.

  26.—It was anybody’s battle at this period. Burn was getting
  extremely weak, and O’Neal in such a dizzy state that he threw most
  of his blows away. The fighting of Burn was highly praised; he
  planted three or four nobbers on the old places; but the Yorkshire
  Youth was hit down.

  27–30.—O’Neal was nearly in the dark, and Burn nobbed him as he
  thought proper; in fact, the Irishman was completely at the mercy of
  the fists of his opponent. O’Neal went down in a state of stupor,
  and Langan could scarcely get him up. (“Take the game fellow away!”)

  31.—O’Neal was quite abroad—he could not see his opponent, and, in
  making a hit at the air, stumbled forward on the ground.

  32, and last.—On time being called, O’Neal left his second’s knee,
  and turned away from the scratch. He was completely blind. Over in
  fifty minutes. Langan gave in for him.

  REMARKS.—Great credit is due to young Burn, not only for the pluck
  he manifested throughout the battle, but the science he displayed,
  and the mode he persevered in to win the battle. We never saw better
  judgment displayed upon any occasion. It may be urged, we are well
  aware, that he had nothing to fight against but weight: yet, if that
  weight had been brought up to him on setting to every round, there
  was a great probability that that weight would have so reduced his
  exertions as to have prevented young Jem from proving the conqueror.
  He ought not to be overmatched again. O’Neal did all that a brave
  man could do. He proved himself an excellent taker, and there is
  some merit even in that quality belonging to a man who enters the P.
  R. We have seen several fine fighters who do not possess the taking
  part of milling, but who have been most liberal in giving handfuls
  of punishment to their opponents; but to give and not receive is one
  of the secrets of prize-fighting. We never saw a man more interested
  in the success of another, or exert himself more, than Langan on the
  part of O’Neal; but O’Neal is not of the stuff of which clever
  pugilists are made.


Sir Bellingham Graham, who viewed the contest, was so pleased with the
exertions and courage of Jem Burn that he made the young pugilist a
present of five sovereigns.

Jem was matched by Uncle Ben against Martin (the well-known “Master of
the Rolls”) for £300 a-side. This match was to have been decided on
Thursday, October 26th, 1824, and was looked for with anxiety, as the
goodness and skill of Martin were well established.

On the day appointed the cavalcade had reached Staines, when part of the
secret was let out, that “it would be no fight between Martin and Jem
Burn.” Upwards of an hour having elapsed in consultation, the mob
started off to Laleham, to take a peep at the ring. It was ascertained
at Laleham that Martin would not show; but in the midst of the doubts a
magistrate appeared. Luckily for the backers of the Master of the Rolls,
this circumstance saved their blunt, otherwise the stakes must have been
forfeited to Jem Burn. Something wrong evidently had been intended; but
that wrong could not be performed so as to deceive the amateurs of
pugilism, and therefore the fight did not take place. Jem Burn threw his
hat into the ring, declared he meant to fight a fair battle, and
demanded the battle-money. This, however, was contrary to agreement, as
the magistrate remained, and declared he would not allow a breach of the
peace.

Jem was backed against Aby Belasco, to fight on the 18th of November,
1824, but the stakes were drawn by the consent of both parties. This was
in consequence of a meeting at which Ned Neale offered himself to “My
Uncle’s” notice, who thought this a better match. Articles were drawn
and signed for Jem to do battle with Neale for £100 a-side; to come off
on Tuesday, December 19th, 1824, on Moulsey Hurst. After an obstinate
contest of thirty-one rounds, occupying one hour and thirty-eight
minutes, Jem was defeated, as related in our last chapter.

Our hero was next matched with Phil Sampson for £50 a-side. This battle
took place at Shere Mere, in Bedfordshire, on Tuesday, June 14th, 1825.
Jem did all that a brave man could to win the battle, and his backers
were perfectly satisfied with his conduct; but, after twenty-three
rounds, occupying one hour and ten minutes, Burn again sustained defeat.

Jem stood so well in the opinion of his friends, notwithstanding he had
lost his two last battles, that he was matched against Pat Magee for
£100 a-side. Magee, in Liverpool, was patronised by the fancy of that
place, but he was only known by name in milling circles in the
Metropolis. He had beaten a rough commoner of the name of Boscoe, a fine
young man of amazing strength, and a tremendous hard hitter with his
right hand; but, in a second contest, Magee had surrendered his laurels
in turn to Boscoe. Such was the history of the Irish hero, Magee. It was
asserted, however, that he had recently made great improvement as a
boxer, and as he was determined to have a shy with a London pugilist, he
was backed against Jem Burn.

It was agreed the mill should take place between London and Liverpool;
but the backers of Magee having won the toss, it gave them the advantage
of twenty miles in their favour, and Lichfield race-course was selected
as the place for the trial of skill. A more delightful situation could
not have been chosen; from the windows of the Race Stand the prospect
was truly picturesque and interesting.

On Tuesday morning, July 25th, 1826, the road from Birmingham to
Lichfield exhibited some stir of the provincial fancy; and although the
races at Derby and Knutsford and the Nottingham Cricket Match might have
operated as drawbacks to the spectators at the fight, not less than six
thousand persons were present.

On Monday evening, Burn and his uncle took up their abode at the Swan
Inn, in the city of Lichfield; Magee and his friends patronised the
“Three Crowns.” The ring was well made, and everything conducted
throughout with the most perfect order. Randall, Oliver, Sampson, Dick
Curtis, Ned Neale, Fuller, Barney Aaron, Young Gas, Fogo, Harry Holt,
Tom Gaynor, and Arthur Mathewson, appeared on the ground to render their
assistance to the combatants. The swells in the Grand Stand were
admitted at the low figure of six shillings per head. Previous to the
combatants appearing in the ring, it was whispered that two men,
“dressed in a little brief authority,” were in attendance to stop the
fight; but this matter was soon disposed of, and made “all right,” when
Jem Burn threw his castor into the ring, attended by Tom Belcher and
Phil. Sampson. In a few minutes afterwards, Magee, arm-in-arm with
Donovan and Boscoe, also repeated the token of defiance, by planting his
pimple-coverer in the ropes. The colours were yellow for Burn and green
for Magee, which were tied to the stakes. The odds were six to four on
Jem. Burn weighed twelve stone one pound, and Magee thirteen stone five
pounds. Donovan won the toss for the latter boxer, when hands were
shaken in friendship, and the battle commenced.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On stripping, Magee reminded us of Ned Painter. Magee was
  in excellent condition; but some friends thought him rather too fat.
  The comparison between the combatants was obvious to every one
  present. Burn looked thin and boyish before his opponent; but,
  nevertheless, he had been well trained, and no fault was found with
  him by his backers. Magee, at the scratch, planted himself in a
  fighting attitude, kept up his hands well, and was not the novice
  that had been anticipated by the Londoners. He had been for some
  time under the tuition of Jack Randall in Ireland; and by the advice
  and practice with such a master Magee must have profited a good deal
  as to an acquirement of science and hitting. Pat made play, after a
  little dodging about with his right and left hands, but he was out
  of distance from the leariness of Burn, and nothing was the matter.
  Jem was extremely cautious, looked upon his opponent as a dangerous
  customer, and the hit he made alighted slightly on Magee’s canister;
  but the latter countered without any effect. A tiny pause, and both
  on the look-out for squalls. Pat, quite alive to the thing, planted
  a blow under the left eye of Burn, which produced a small drop of
  claret. Donovan quite elated, exclaimed, “First blood!” Both now
  went to work, and Magee bored Jem to the ropes; here a blow or two
  was exchanged, when Burn went down. Pat viewed the circumstance for
  a second, and then fell upon his opponent.—Disapprobation was
  expressed by the spectators, but Donovan said, “Magee could not help
  it.”

  2.—Burn with much dexterity planted a body blow, and got away. Some
  sparring, when Jem returned the compliment for Pat’s favour in the
  last round, and drew the claret from Magee. Both of the men were on
  their mettle; but it appeared that Magee was the stronger man. A
  sharp rally occurred, and Pat’s left ogle napped it. Magee, however,
  bored Burn to the ropes, where he went down, and Magee fell upon him
  with his knees upon the abdomen, which operated so severely that he
  uttered a loud groan.—Loud expressions of disapprobation—“foul
  fighter,” &c.

  3.—Jem appeared at the scratch in pain, and extremely weak; Magee,
  too, exhibited symptoms of “bellows to mend.” Sharp work for a short
  time, the blows telling on both sides, when Jem was compelled to
  retreat to the ropes, where he fell with his back upon the ropes. In
  this situation, Magee with all his weight lay upon him; and the
  struggle was so great for the advantage that Randall exclaimed,
  “Burn’s eye is out.” The claret was pouring from his peeper. (Cries
  of “shame”—hisses—and a tremendous uproar in all parts of the ring.)
  Jem, after extreme difficulty, extricated himself from his perilous
  situation, and with much skill planted a conker on his adversary. In
  closing, both down; Magee uppermost.

  4.—A pause. An exchange of hits and another pause. Well done on both
  sides. The science of Jem gave him the advantage; but his extreme
  caution in several instances operated as a drawback. Magee went in
  with much spirit, and Burn went down with a slight hit. (“That’s the
  way, my boy; try it again, Magee, and you can’t lose it,” from his
  Irish friends.)

  5.—Pat fought this round with much ability. He stopped well, and was
  successful in planting his blows. A sharp rally; and at the ropes
  Magee had the best of it, punishing Burn till he went down. (“It is
  all your own,” cried Donovan.)

  6.—This round was soon over. Magee stopped very neatly a left-handed
  blow, and obtained the praise of Randall. Burn in planting a facer
  appeared weak, and slipped down.

  7.—Magee was in full force, and bored Burn to the ropes. In close
  quarters, some sharp fighting occurred, till the nob of Jem was
  under the cords, and he was screwed up tight by his opponent. Burn
  ultimately succeeded in getting away, and with much quickness put in
  two facers. Magee was almost wild, and he ran at his opponent like a
  bull, forcing him again to the ropes till “My Nevvy” went down.

  8.—Magee stopped the left hand of his adversary extremely well, but
  Jem at length had the best of it. As Magee bored in he gave him a
  tremendous teazer on his ivories, which operated as a stopper for a
  short period. Magee, full of game, was not to be deterred, and
  pursued his opponent to the ropes, till Burn went down.

  9.—In the minds of several of the spectators the battle did not
  appear so safe to Jem as had been anticipated. Magee, in this round,
  fought with skill and spirit, and stopped and countered his man
  well. Jem nobbed Magee right and left; a sharp rally took place,
  when Jem went down rather weak.

  10.—Burn was out of wind, and endeavoured to get a little time by
  sparring. Pat made play with his adversary, and Jem retreated to the
  ropes, when he fell on his knees. Pat lifted up his hands, and was
  loudly applauded for his conduct.

  11.—Jem was extremely cautious, in fact, rather too cautious, as in
  retreating from his adversary several of his blows were ineffectual.
  The right ogle of Magee received so severe a hit that he was again
  on the wild system, and pushed Jem to the ropes. As the latter was
  balancing, Magee fell on him, and with his knees hurt Burn severely.
  (A tremendous roar of disapprobation; “shame! shame! cowardly!” &c.
  &c.) Jem ultimately fell on the grass, and Magee upon him, and his
  face appeared full of anguish. Belcher complained to the umpires of
  the conduct of Magee.

  12.—Burn was in great distress, from the conduct he had experienced
  in the last round, nevertheless he endeavoured to do some mischief.
  The nob of Magee was again peppered, although he made several good
  stops. In a rally, both of the men were bang up to the mark, till
  Jem went down.

  13.—Burn appeared to be rather better, and went to work without
  delay, but Magee stopped his left hand. Burn pinked his opponent
  with dexterity, and retreated. Magee always forced Jem to the
  extremity of the ring, as if to obtain the superiority. Burn was now
  in a dangerous situation; his neck was on the ropes, and Magee, with
  all his weight, upon his frame. (Loud cries of “foul! foul!” and
  hissing from every part of the ring. Several of the fighting men
  were round the combatants, but none dared to interfere, as Burn was
  in a balancing situation on the ropes.) Jem, quite exhausted, fell
  to the ground, and he was placed on his second’s knee almost in a
  state of stupor.

  14.—The friends of Burn were now in a state of alarm, lest the
  repeated pulling and hauling he received at the ropes should take
  the fight out of him, as Jem came up to the scratch in a tottering
  state. Magee, by the advice of Donovan, went to work without delay,
  but Jem met him in the middle of the head like a shot. Magee,
  however, was not to be deterred, and rushed upon his opponent in a
  furious state, and drove him to the ropes, at which Jem got out of
  his difficulties and went down like an experienced milling cove.

  15.—In this round the fighting of Jem was seen to great advantage.
  He put in three facers without any return, till the strength of
  Magee compelled him to retreat. Magee again fell upon Burn, and more
  disapprobation was expressed by the spectators.

  16.—The blows Jem had received were “trifles light as air,” compared
  with the injuries he had sustained upon the ropes. “My nevvy” was
  recovering a little, and Magee soon found it out by the pepper-box
  being administered upon his nob. Some good fighting occurred on both
  sides, until Magee endeavoured, as usual, to finish the round at the
  ropes. Once more Jem was at the mercy of his adversary, by hanging
  across the ropes; but unlike the days of the “Game Chicken,” who
  exclaimed, when he found Belcher in a defenceless state, “Jem, I
  will not hurt thee!” and walked away, Magee threw the whole weight
  of his person on him, and was also not nice as to the use of his
  knee. (Disapprobation, and “the foulest fighter that ever was
  seen.”)

  17.—This was a short round, and although Burn was the weaker of the
  two, yet he pinked his adversary to advantage. Magee’s nob exhibited
  considerable punishment, but it is right to say of him that he never
  flinched from any blows; he also stopped the left hand of Burn with
  good science. Jem had the best of the round, and was fast improving
  in the opinion of his friends.

  18.—Burn was now decidedly the hero of the tale—“He’ll win it now,”
  was the general cry. It was ditto, ditto, ditto, and ditto, as to
  facers upon Magee’s pimple, and then Jem got away without return.
  Magee seemed abroad, and in a wild manner ran after Burn to the
  ropes, but Jem got safely down.

  19.—“My Nevvy” went gaily to work, and “my uncle” said, “Jem Burn
  for £100.” Magee napped a severe body blow, but he returned a rum
  one for it. Magee also hit Jem down in style—the only knock-down
  blow in the battle. (Donovan observed, “Pat, see what you have
  done—you have almost finished him: another round and it is all your
  own.”)

  20.—Jem had now reduced the “big one” to his own weight, and had
  also placed him upon the stand-still system. Magee, on setting-to,
  stopped the left hand of Burn, but, on endeavouring to rush in and
  bore his opponent to the ropes, he received such a stopper on the
  mouth that he almost felt whether his head was left upon his
  shoulders. Pat wildly again attempted the boring system, and in
  retreating from his adversary Jem fell down: Magee also went down
  with his knees upon his opponent, amidst one of the most tremendous
  bursts of disapprobation that ever occurred in the P. R.

  21.—The case was now altered: Jem Burn the stronger man. “Bellows to
  mend” upon the other leg, and Pat in trouble. Burn peppered away
  right and left, until Magee was as wild as a colt. He pursued Burn
  to the ropes, when he again hung upon him. (“Shame!” hisses, &c.)

  22.—The finish was clearly in view, and Pat was nobbed against his
  will. Magee was distressed and piping, when Jem, on the alert,
  punished him right and left. Magee again bored his adversary to the
  ropes, and also fell upon him.

  23, and last.—Magee was quite abroad, when Belcher said, “Go to work
  and put the finish to it.” Jem took the hint, and slashed away right
  and left a good one. Every step Pat moved he got into some trouble,
  and Jem continually meeting him on the head, as he was boring
  forward. Pat became quite furious, and rushed in scarcely knowing
  what he was about, and having got Jem upon the ropes, he caught hold
  of him in a foul manner. It is impossible to describe the row and
  indignation which burst forth from all parts of the ring at the
  unmanly conduct of Magee. An appeal was immediately made to the
  umpires by the seconds: the umpires disagreeing on the subject, the
  matter in dispute was left for the referee, who decided the conduct
  of Magee to be foul, and contrary to the established rules of
  fighting. The seconds of Magee insisted upon renewing the fight, and
  declared they should claim their money if Burn left the ring; but
  Belcher took Jem out of the ring, observing at the same time his man
  had won the battle, yet he would instantly back him if they would
  commence another fight.

  REMARKS.—Had not this wrangle taken place, we have not the least
  doubt that Burn would have been proclaimed the victor in less than
  half-a-dozen more rounds: as Jem had “got” his man, who only wanted
  polishing off, which “My Nevvy” would have done in an artist-like
  manner. Magee is a game man, and better acquainted with the science
  of milling, as far as stopping and hitting goes, than the cockneys
  had anticipated; but as a boxer he is one of the foulest fighters we
  ever saw in the P. R. If any apology can be offered for his conduct
  in this, we hope it will be imputed to his ignorance of the rules of
  boxing as established by Broughton, rather than to intention. The
  referee not only acted with promptness, but his decision ought to
  have a good effect, by making boxers more careful in future.


The victorious Jem partook of a hearty dinner at the “Swan” at
Lichfield, in the evening. He declared himself none the worse for Mr.
Magee’s fistic visitations, but sore from the pulling and hauling he got
while being hugged at the ropes.

Burn now rested upon his laurels for a few months, and during this
interval, in the autumn of 1826, he took unto himself a spouse, in the
person of Miss Caroline Watson, daughter of Bob Watson, of Bristol, of
milling fame, who was brother-in-law to Tom Belcher.

The honeymoon had scarcely waned when the friends of Ned Baldwin
(“White-headed Bob”) made another sort of “proposal” to jolly Jem. It
was that he should box their man for £100 at his own convenience. Jem
placed the matter in the hands of Uncle Ben, and April 24th, 1827, was
set down in the articles, for Jem to meet another sort of “best man”
than that of a bridegroom.

During the three months from signing Baldwin was decidedly the
favourite, at six to four, as Jem had taken a public (the “Red Horse,”
in Bond Street), besides (though he was never a heavy drinker) being a
sought-for chairman and companion at Uncle Ben’s and elsewhere. Tom
Belcher, however, took Jem in hand as mentor and trainer, and this was a
great point—while on the night before the battle a gent at Tattersall’s
took Burn for a “cool thousand” at evens.

The road to St. Albans on Tuesday, the 24th April, 1827, was thronged
with vehicles, No Man’s Land, Herts, on the borders of three counties,
being the rendezvous. Baldwin, with his mentor, Tom Cribb, took the road
from his training quarters at Hurley Bottom, and reached St. Alban’s
overnight; while Jem remained at Kitte’s End, near Barnet, where he had
taken his breathings for some weeks previous. Jem’s weight was twelve
stone eight pounds; Baldwin’s, twelve stone ten pounds.

The morning was cheerless and stormy, but this did not damp the spirits
either of spectators or combatants; and shortly before one o’clock the
veteran Commissary, Ould Caleb, having completed his arrangements, Jem
Burn, attended by Tom Belcher and Harry Harmer, threw his white castor
inside the ropes. He looked the picture of health, youth (his age
twenty-three), and smiling good humour, and was warmly cheered. Baldwin
quickly followed, Tom Cribb and Ned Neale (his late antagonist) being
his seconds. The operation of peeling soon took place, and the active
condition of the men attracted all eyes. Bob looked full of muscular
power, but was thin in proportion to Jem. His countenance did not
exhibit that florid glow which characterised Jem’s, nor did we recognise
that confidence which his previous declarations betokened. Jem had the
advantage in height and length, and on shaking hands it was clear that
he had screwed his courage to the sticking-place. It was all or nothing
with him, and he advanced like a man about to play for his last stake.

The seconds and bottle-holders all agreed to stake colours against
colours, which were all tied to the stakes, and at the moment of
setting-to, Ned Neale bet, and Tom Belcher took, six to four on Bob.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Baldwin placed himself with great coolness in front of his
  antagonist, as if prepared more for defence than attack, while Jem
  seemed all anxiety to begin. A very few seconds were occupied in
  sparring, when Jem went to work upon the hay-sack[50] system; he hit
  out with quickness with his left, and caught Bob slightly, a sort of
  half-hit; his right then went out with great activity and force, and
  alighting on Bob’s cranium, dropped him cleverly, amidst loud
  cheers.

  2.—Ned came up smiling, but Jem left him no time for reflection, for
  he again went to work left and right. The former was stopped, but
  the latter came in contact with Baldwin’s muzzle, and again floored
  him, while it loosened his grinders and drew first blood. More
  acclamations in favour of Jem. Bob looked both surprised and
  alarmed. The odds were now five to four on Jem.

  3.—Ned, on coming up, was bleeding from the mouth, and his phiz was
  a good deal flushed. He again assumed a posture of defence, but Jem
  had no intention to spar. Mischief was his maxim, and to it he went
  left and right, putting Baldwin’s guard aside, and catching him with
  terrific force on the left ogle. The visitation was awful; Baldwin
  was hit off his legs in the most finished style. Nothing could
  exceed the consternation of Bob’s friends. “He is licked,” was the
  cry; and the White-headed one, on getting to his second’s knee,
  seemed anxious to ascertain whether his eye was yet in its proper
  position, and if possible to stop the swelling, which was rapidly
  advancing. During these rounds Bob had not made a single return, and
  Jem was as gay as one of his uncle Belcher’s larks.

  4.—Neale now urged Bob to go in, as he evidently saw that he had no
  chance at out-fighting. “Yes,” said Bob, but he kept still _à la
  distance_, when Jem again burst upon him, and delivered right and
  left with great force, while Bob was getting away, and trying to
  stop. Jem followed him up, and was well stopped in some of his
  straight ones, but he succeeded in planting another floorer, and
  away went Bob for the fourth time off his pins.

  5.—On coming up it was seen that Baldwin’s left eye was completely
  closed. Jem saw his advantage, put aside Bob’s science, tipped two
  facers, right and left, and then catching him on the sneezer, tapped
  the claret in a new quarter; and in the close, Bob was down again.

  6.—Bob, though dreadfully punished, came up game. Neale shouted to
  him to go in, and Bob replied, “he knew what he was about.” A good
  rally followed, in which Bob went boldly to his man. Some good
  exchanges followed, right and left, in which Jem received a heavy
  blow on his left cheek, which was cut, and bled freely. He returned
  as good as he got, and Bob fell on his knees. (“Bob is not beat
  yet,” said his friends; and hopes were entertained that Jem would
  fall off. Bob was still strong on his legs.)

  7.—Jem pursued his old game, hitting left and right with great
  severity. Baldwin made some good returns, but in a rally which
  followed had the worst of it. In a close by the ropes, Jem was
  pushed down.

  8.—Bob stopped Jem’s left with neatness. Short sparring, when Jem
  again went in with his left, his right hand being a good deal
  puffed. Bob stopped him, and was rushing to hit, when Jem slipped
  down.

  9.—Jem again went to work with energy. Bob stopped him cleverly at
  first, but Jem would be with him, and planted a rattler on his nose
  with his left, drawing more of the carmine. Bob shook it off, and
  went to fight, when a good rally followed, in which Bob was almost
  hit stupid. Again did Neale call upon him to fight. He rushed in and
  bored Jem to the ropes, when Jem went down to avoid harm, and Bob
  fell on him with his knees.

  10.—Bob stopped a well-intended visitation from Jem’s left, but Jem
  succeeded in jobbing him several times. A close at the ropes, in
  which each tried for the advantage. At last Jem broke away, and in a
  rally Bob hit him down with a random blow. Jem now showed weakness,
  and piped, although his spirit seemed unbroken, and Bob showed most
  fearful marks of punishment.

  11.—Bob now thought there was a chance in his favour, and rushed at
  once to his man to increase his distress. Jem, however, was ready,
  though puffing, and met him with a couple of facers. Bob fell on his
  knees.

  12.—Bob again made a desperate effort to increase Jem’s exhaustion,
  but Jem broke away, hitting him with his left as he approached, in
  the middle of the head. Bob planted a slasher on Jem’s mouth, but
  Jem countered in good style. Jem then bored him to the ropes, and
  both went down piping.

  13.—Jem threw in a nobber. Bob nodded, and put in a good body blow.
  Jem returned a facer with his right. A long and desperate rally
  followed, in which good hits were exchanged. In the end, Bob went
  down. Both were much distressed, but Bob decidedly the worse.

  14.—Bob came up as if determined to strain every nerve to make a
  turn in his favour, but it was in vain. Jem, after sparring for
  wind, repeatedly jobbed him right and left on the old spots, and
  both eyes were nearly on a par in point of darkness. Bob retreated,
  stopping Jem’s slashing hits, but Jem never left him, and he fell
  heavily at the ropes.

  15.—Jem pursued the jobbing system, and Bob, though he stopped some
  blows, received too many to be agreeable. He stood for some time
  almost stupefied. Jem peppered away, until he fell in a dreadful
  condition as to punishment. Any odds on Jem, and Bob’s friends
  wished him to give in, begging that he would not fight a second
  beyond his own inclination. He would not, however, be persuaded to
  stop, but again got up with a resolution to do his best.

  16.—Jem rushed to his man, and after a severe struggle both fell out
  of the ring.

  17.—Bob only came up to be hit down.

  18.—Jem seemed to get fresher with the consciousness of victory, and
  caught Bob a nasty one on the body. He then followed him up, jobbing
  as he went. In the close, both went down.

  19.—Jem jobbed his man right and left, and he went down at the
  ropes.

  20. and last.—Jem popped in a body blow. Bob, still disposed to make
  a desperate struggle, after a short rally, seized Jem by the ropes,
  and held him fast for a considerable time, in the exertion getting
  his finger in Jem’s mouth. Jem at last got a little free, and then
  forcing Bob with his back over the upper rope, poised him equally,
  and delivered three finishers with astounding force in the middle of
  the head. Bob tumbled over, and was senseless. Jem was, of course,
  pronounced the conqueror, amidst the shouts of his friends. He
  walked with great firmness to his drag, while Bob was carried to a
  post-chaise, and driven off the ground to St. Albans.

  REMARKS.—The result of this fight excited no small surprise in the
  minds of many who profess to be good judges. Bob, it was said, never
  fought worse. He never seemed to be firm on his legs, but kept
  hopping back as if sparring. It was also obvious that he did not go
  in to his man with that determination which could alone give him a
  chance of victory until too late. When jobbed in the head, he kept
  nodding as if he considered all he was getting was nothing compared
  with what he was about to give; but the giving time never came, and
  with the exception of the blows on the cheek and mouth, and a
  tolerably good body blow, he never made any impression. On the other
  hand, Jem’s blows all told with tremendous effect, and the game and
  resolution with which My Nevvy conducted himself throughout was
  highly creditable. He set out with a determination to hit out left
  and right at Bob’s nob, and he stuck to this system till the close
  of the battle, winning in very gallant style. Towards the middle of
  the fight he certainly was distressed, and Bob did all he could to
  take advantage of his piping, but was himself too far gone, and Jem
  by keeping away gained his second wind and made all safe. Jem’s
  right hand was a good deal puffed, and the skin was knocked off most
  of his knuckles, from coming in contact with Bob’s masticators. In
  other respects he was not damaged, and in fact, when he arrived at
  Wildbore’s, at St. Albans, he sat down to dinner with a large party,
  and ate as heartily as if he had been merely taking a morning walk.
  After dinner he paid a friendly visit to Bob, who was in bed, and
  completely blind. Poor Bob said he didn’t know how it was; he felt
  he had not fought as he was wont to do, and attributed his
  misfortune to the severe hitting in the first three rounds, which he
  said completely took away his senses. The fight lasted thirty-three
  minutes. Jem, after offering his fallen opponent some pecuniary
  consolation, returned to town in a swell drag and four.


On the Thursday after the fight, Jem Burn took a benefit at the Tennis
Court, at which Baldwin showed, and expressed his regret at having been
beaten, more, as he said, for his friends’ than his own sake, and
announced his readiness to make a fresh match, to come off as soon as
possible. Burn was by no means disinclined to consent to a new trial,
and on the very next evening, at a meeting at Belcher’s, the Castle
Tavern, Holborn, articles were duly signed for a meeting on the 3rd of
July. Betting was begun by “Uncle Ben” laying seven to four on “My
Nevvy,” and so the wagering went, especially at Tattersall’s, where
seven to four in hundreds was taken by one of the best judges of the
day. The sequel proved the soundness of Mr. John Gully’s opinion.
Baldwin defeated our hero, after a desperate contest of eighty-five
rounds, occupying ninety minutes, as may be seen in the life of BALDWIN,
Chapter VII. of this volume.

On the 13th of November in the same year (1827) Jem a second time met
Ned Neale, but after a hard battle of forty-three rounds, occupying
forty-six minutes, had again to succumb to the conquering arm of the
Streatham Youth. (See Life of NEALE, _ante_, Chapter V., p. 310.)

This was Jem’s last appearance as a principal within the ropes of the P.
R. As a second, a backer, and a demonstrator of the art, the Press and
the sporting public never lost sight of him. His house, the “Queen’s
Head,” Windmill Street, Haymarket, which he kept for some years, was the
resort of all lovers of jolly companionship, and those who wished to
keep themselves _au courant_ to all sports of the ring.

Jem’s Master of the Ceremonies at his sparring _soirées_ was for some
time the accomplished light weight Owen Swift; and many an M.P. slipped
away from St. Stephen’s, and many a smart guardsman from a Belgravian
dinner-party, to give a look in at Jolly Jem’s snuggery; an inner
sanctum, communicating with the sparring-room, and set apart for “those
_I_ call gentlemen,” as Jem emphatically phrased it. The inscription
over the mantelpiece of this room, from the pen of “Chief Baron
Nicholson,” was appropriate:—

           “Scorning all treacherous feud and deadly strife,
           The dark stiletto and the murderous knife,
           We boast 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.”

In vain did mere playmen, or “calico swells,” attempt to gain a footing
in Jem’s “private room.” Jem instinctively detected the pretender.
“There’s just as much difference in the breed of men as there is in the
breed of horses,” he would say. “I read that fellow in a minute; the
club-room’s his place.”

In his later days Jem shifted his domicile to the “Rising Sun,” in Air
Street, Piccadilly (previously kept by Johnny Broome), where many a
night burly Jem was to be found, enjoying his pipe and glass, surrounded
by the few surviving members of the old school, and visited during the
season by many youthful saplings of the Corinthian tree, to whom Jem
would mirthfully and cheerily impart the adventures and sporting
experiences of his earlier days.

                             “A merrier man,
               Within the limit of becoming mirth,
               I never spent an hour’s talk withal.
               His eye begat occasion for his wit,
               For every object that the one did catch
               The other turned to a mirth-moving jest.”

For several years, as Jem grew in years and in portliness, and, though
not a hard drinker, fully enjoyed the good things of this life, he was
subject to intermittent attacks of gout, which, towards 1862, assailed
him with increasing frequency, yet failing, when they gave him even a
short truce, to subdue his natural fun and frolic. It was during one of
unusual severity that we looked in to inquire after Jem’s health, and
his pleasant daughter (Mrs. Doyle) having taken up our name, the
bedridden boxer desired us to be “shown up.” We expressed our sympathy,
regarding at the same time with some curiosity a contrivance suspended
from the curtain-rods of the four-poster in which Jem was recumbent.

“Ha! old fellow,” said the merry Yorkshireman, “you’re wanting to spell
out the meaning of that. I’ll tell you, if this blessed crab that’s just
now got me in _toe_ don’t give his claw an extra squeeze. If he does,
why, I’ll strike, and he shall _tow_ me into port at once.”

“No, Jem, it’s not come to that yet.”

“But it very soon must, if it don’t stalk. See here,” said he, pointing
to a strong cord stretched from the top rail across the bed, from which
another cord was suspended midway, and made fast to the handle of an
old-fashioned corkscrew. “If it warn’t for this tackle I’d get no sleep
night nor day. Inside the bedclothes I’ve got a bung—good idea for a
licensed victualler—into that I screws the corkscrew through the
bedclothes, which I then raise tent-fashion by this hal’yard, and that I
make fast down here to the bedpost. There’s a wrinkle for you, Miles’s
Boy; but I hope you’ll never want it for yourself.” Poor Jem we never
saw again. His arch-enemy ascended to his portly stomach, and on the
morning of the 29th of May Jem slept with his forefathers.

                            “——Men must endure
            Their going hence, even as their coming hither,
            Ripeness is all.”




                              CHAPTER VII.
             EDWARD BALDWIN (“WHITE-HEADED BOB”)—1823–1828.


Ned Baldwin, whose sobriquet was suggested from the profusion of his
pale flaxen hair, was born at Munslow, near Ludlow, in Herefordshire, on
the 6th May, 1803. His youth was spent in his native county, in which,
and in Shropshire and Worcestershire, several unimportant battles are
placed to his credit by “Boxiana.” After a gallant contest on Worcester
Racecourse with a local boxer named Souther, whom he defeated in an hour
and a quarter, a gentleman well known in the London Ring, finding him an
active, civil, and intelligent fellow, engaged him as his groom, and
brought him to London. A trial battle in Harper’s Fields, Marylebone,
with a big Irishman named O’Connor, in which the youngster displayed
more pluck than science, led to his master putting him under the tuition
of the scientific Bill Eales, who then superintended a boxery at his
house in James Street, Oxford Street. Here he rapidly improved his
style, and gained the reputation of a quick and fearless hitter, with
some skill in defensive tactics. In February, 1823, he went down to
Wimbledon, and there, after Hall and Wynes had settled their
differences, Bob, as he was now called, threw up his hat to accommodate
any man who had not yet fought in the Prize Ring, for £10 of his
master’s money. Here he was made the victim of a not very creditable
“plant.” The afterwards renowned Jem Ward, who had already defeated Dick
Acton and Burke (brother to “Warrior” Burke), and fought a draw with
Bill Abbott, habited in a countryman’s smock frock, was introduced as a
“yokel” aspirant. The men set to, but the _ruse de guerre_ was soon seen
through, and after nineteen minutes Bob’s friends took him away, though
Bob was game enough to have fought it out with defeat staring him in the
face.

[Illustration:

  EDWARD BALDWIN (“WHITE-HEADED BOB”).
]

After a disappointment with Harry Lancaster, Baldwin was matched with
Maurice Delay, for £50 a-side, and the battle came off at the classic
ground of Moulsey, on the 11th of February, 1824. Bob was brought upon
the ground in a carriage, in a smart Witney upper, and threw his hat
into the ropes, esquired by Bill Richmond and Paddington Jones; Delay,
accompanied by Josh Hudson and Ned Neale, quickly followed. Tom Owen
fastened a green bandanna to the stakes for the East Ender, and Richmond
tied a blue bird’s-eye over it for Bob. The seconds and principals shook
hands, and the men threw themselves in attitude. Five to four on Maurice
Delay.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Delay on peeling looked an effective man; and the
  White-headed One also appeared well as to condition. Bob did not
  weigh more than 11st. 7lb. Delay was heavier by several pounds. The
  latter made himself up for mischief, although he wore a cheerful
  smile, and Bob had also a grin upon his countenance. Very little
  time was lost in scientific movements, when Bob made a feint, but it
  would not do. Delay hit out, and Bob got away. Delay stopped well
  the right hand of his opponent. (“Stopping is very well,” said the
  John Bull Fighter, “but hitting is better; be with him, he’s coming,
  Maurice.”) Delay put in a heavy body blow, but Bob prevented a
  repetition. A tiny bit of sharp work occurred, in which Delay’s lip
  showed a slight tinge of claret, when the man of colour called out,
  “First blood for a hundred!” The lads tipped it each other heavily.
  In a sharp rally Delay was rather too much for his opponent; Bob
  went down, and Delay hit him as he was going down. (A tremendous
  shout from the East Enders; Tom Oliver offered 2 to 1 on Delay.)

  2.—The left side of Delay’s temple, also his eye, exhibited
  specimens of the handiwork of Bob. This was a short but a good
  round, and Bob again went down. (The East Enders were “all
  happiness;” and Maurice gave them the office it was as right as the
  day.)

  3.—Maurice, full of spirits, gave Bob’s chest an ugly touch; ditto,
  and ditto. (“What are you arter?” said Tom Jones to his man. “Go to
  work, he can’t hurt you.”) Bob countered in good style, also caught
  Delay’s nob under his arm, and fibbed him down. (“Well done, Bob!”)

  4.—Bob was piping a little. The White-headed One took the lead,
  fibbed Maurice severely, and hit him twice as he was going down.
  (“Where’s the umpires?” from the John Bull. “We must look after this
  man. We will have nothing foul.”)

  5.—Short and sweet to Bobby; a sharp rally; Delay went down
  distressed.

  6.—This was nothing else but a good fighting round; it was give and
  take like a couple of good ones. Maurice satisfied the ring that he
  was a game man; but Bob convinced the amateurs he was the best
  fighter. After a sharp rally in which some ugly counter-hits
  occurred, Maurice went down on his knees.

  7.—Delay bored Bobby all over the ring, till he went down
  distressed.

  8.—Nothing. At the ropes a struggle took place for the throw;
  Maurice was undermost.

  9.—The counter-hits of Bob did precious mischief to the phrenology
  box of Delay. He bothered Maurice’s order of caution. Bob also got
  into his wine-cellar without a key, and tapped his claret without
  the aid of a corkscrew. “Only look,” said Paddington Jones, “here’s
  a bit of good truth,” while Bob kept fibbing his opponent till they
  both went down, Maurice undermost.

  10.—Wind was necessary on both sides, and both found that a little
  pause was agreeable to their feelings. Delay’s hand told on Bob’s
  body. After an exchange of blows, Bob again got Delay’s nob under
  his arm, and tipped it to him _à la_ Randall, till he went down.

  11.—Both had quite milling enough in this round. It was hit for hit
  when they separated, and both fell.

  12.—When time was called, Maurice came up as gay as a lark, and
  endeavoured to mill his adversary all over the ring. Bob stopped two
  heavy hits skilfully, and in closing got Delay’s head under his arm,
  and punished him so severely that Delay fell down stupid. (“Go
  along, Bob, it’s all your own!”)

  13.—This might be called a Big Ben and Tom Johnson round. Maurice’s
  face was completely changed, his left eye nearly closed. He made one
  or two good stops, and also planted a stomacher, but game was more
  prominent than science. They stuck to each other blow for blow, till
  they were both distressed to a stand-still. At the conclusion of the
  round they merely pushed each other down.

  14.—The strength, however, appeared on the side of Delay, and he
  bored in to mill his adversary. Some severe blows were exchanged,
  when Bob went down from a left-handed blow.

  15.—The White-headed One had the best of the fighting; and at the
  commencement of this round Delay bored his antagonist to the ropes,
  when Bob put in two tremendous nobbers, and in turn drove Delay
  across the ring, and sent him down on his knees.

  16.—Bob was piping, and it was the opinion of several of the
  amateurs that the strength of Delay would ultimately bring him
  through. Maurice again drove Bob before him to the ropes, and got
  him nearly down, when the White-headed Cove, full of pluck,
  recovered himself on his pins, and milled away, till both went down.

  17.—Very short. Delay napped several nobbers, and went down terribly
  distressed.

  18.—Hudson, with all his industry and attention towards his man,
  could not keep him clean. Still he would bore in upon Bob—this
  conduct brought him terrific punishment. The White-headed One
  planted one, two, and three blows in succession, right in the middle
  of his already damaged face. He was positively hit to a stand-still;
  but on recovering himself, he went resolutely in to mill, and got
  Bob down. (“His game will win for him!” was the cry.)

  19.—Both as good as gold; true courage displayed at every step, with
  conduct and fortitude, adding honour to the character of Britons.
  (Our eye at this instant observed the French Hercules in a wagon, in
  company with another Frenchman, expressing their admiration, and
  applauding the manly and honourable mode of settling a quarrel in
  old England.) Delay commenced this round with the pluck of a
  gamecock; and the gluttony he displayed astonished the ring. At
  every step he received a jobber, sending him back; nevertheless he
  would not be denied, and absolutely bored in, fighting hand over
  head till he sent Bob down. “It’s as right as the day,” said Maurice
  to his second.

  20.—The counter-hits of Bob told unmercifully upon Delay’s nob. This
  was a manly-fought round, good on both sides, when Delay dropped,
  Bob also very much exhausted.

  21.—This was a terrific round. Bob, although extremely weak, had
  decidedly the best of the milling; he planted his hits effectually,
  and in several instances he broke ground well. Delay, who was met at
  every movement on the nob, would not retreat, but contended for
  victory like the best out-and-outer upon the list. The determination
  of Maurice enabled him to send Bob down.

  22.—This round decided the battle. It appeared to us that Delay
  wanted elasticity about his shoulders—his blows were not effective.
  Yet with as fine game as any man ever exhibited in the Prize Ring,
  he persevered without dread or fear. Delay appeared at the scratch
  undismayed, and after receiving three severe hits, pressed upon his
  antagonist, and, strange to relate, he sent Bob down.

  23.—Of a similar description. Delay went down exhausted. “Bob for
  any odds!”

  24.—This was short but effective against Delay; he had the worst of
  the hitting, and in going down Bob fell upon him. (“Three to
  one—take him away!”)

  25.—This was a sharp round. Delay would not give up an inch of
  ground; but he stood up only to receive additional punishment. He
  however got Bob down.

  26 and last.—Nature had done her utmost, but Delay, game to the end
  of the chapter, appeared at the scratch, and fought “while a shot
  remained in him.” Bob did not like to punish his opponent any more,
  and Delay went down quite exhausted, falling forward upon his hands
  and knees. Here the John Bull Fighter showed his true character to
  the spectators. Josh loves winning; but he was satisfied that
  Maurice had done all that a brave man could perform; so, with
  consideration and humanity, he loudly exclaimed, “My man shall not
  fight any more!” The battle was over in forty-two minutes. The first
  words uttered by Delay to Josh, after his recollection returned,
  were, “Have I won it?”

  REMARKS.—Bob did not win the battle without receiving a sharp taste
  of Delay’s quality. The White-headed One was not in such good
  condition as his backers wished him to be; in fact, he was sick and
  ill from a cold four days before fighting. It was countering with
  his opponent that gave him the victory. In the middle of the fight
  it was by no means safe to him; nay, it appeared to us that he was
  so weak as almost to leave off fighting. But he recovered himself,
  and turned the tide in his favour till the 22nd and 23rd rounds,
  when some of the best judges declared it “anybody’s battle.” In the
  11th round Bob turned round to avoid the punishment of Delay; but
  the sun was so powerful at that period as to deprive him almost of
  viewing his antagonist; he therefore shifted his ground with
  dexterity. In the 3rd round Bob hurt one of his hands considerably
  against his adversary’s nob; and Baldwin has since asserted that the
  latter circumstance, and also having the sun continually shining in
  his face, prevented him from winning the battle so soon as he might
  otherwise have accomplished. Baldwin’s back was cut by the ropes.
  Delay was put to bed at the “Bell,” at Hampton, and every attention
  paid to him that humanity could suggest, backed by the advice and
  assistance of a medical man. A collection was made on the ground for
  one of the bravest pugilists that ever took off a shirt in the Prize
  Ring.


This manly battle placed the milling talents of White-headed Bob in a
favourable point of view with the amateurs. He aspired to riding inside
a carriage instead of holding the horses; and thus, unfortunately for
himself, the injudicious patronage and loose companionship of swells
were brought within his reach.

Bob might now be said to have obtained a footing in the sporting world,
and he was determined to push his fortune without delay. Notoriety in
the Metropolis is a taking feature, and Bob was determined not to remain
in obscurity; he visited most of the places of amusement, and manifested
indications of his fondness for a “bit of high life.” He soon
recommended himself to the notice of Mr. Hayne, then and afterwards
known as “Pea-green Hayne,” and for his affair with Miss Foote and
Colonel Berkeley; and Bob had the art to induce this liberal-hearted
gentleman to become his patron and backer. Baldwin was fond of dress,
and knew its advantages; he was frequently seen in the company of swells
of the first water, at the “Royal Saloon,” and other resorts of “fast
life” where the “Corinthians” of George the Fourth’s time “most did
congregate.” As a proof that Bob possessed some knowledge of
“character,” he appeared at one of the masquerades at the Argyll
Rooms,[51] habited “as a fine gentleman” of the modern time!

Bob took his first benefit at the Fives Court on Tuesday, May 14th,
1824, when he was well supported.

Soon after his benefit Baldwin was matched against the Streatham Youth,
for £100 a-side. The parties met on Monday, July 26th, 1824, at
Chertsey. Bob appeared on the ground in the drag of his patron, and
would have entered the ring, but Mr. Hayne, on account of his bad state
of health, preferred forfeiting £100 rather than risking his reputation.
So much for dissipation.

A second match for £100 a-side was immediately made between Bob and
Neale at Harry Holt’s, and three months were allowed to Bob to get
himself right. This battle was decided at Virginia Water, on Tuesday,
the 19th of October, 1824. The fight continued for one hour and thirteen
minutes, occupying forty rounds, when Cribb said Bob should not fight
any more. Fast living is fatal to athletes.

Bob, anxious to recover his lost laurels, inserted the following letter
in the sporting journals, to the editors:—


  “SIR,—Having recovered from my recent illness, to which alone I
  attribute the loss of my fight with Neale, I feel anxious for
  another job; and as Neale is matched with Jem Burn, and Jack Langan
  does not appear to fancy Shelton for a customer, I am ready to
  accommodate Langan for £200 a-side, as soon as he pleases. If Langan
  does not accept this challenge I shall offer myself to the notice of
  the winner of the next fight between Neale and Jem Burn.

                                                “Yours, &c.,
                                                      “EDWARD BALDWIN.

  “_November 26th, 1824._”


Baldwin did not wish to leave London for Scotland (January 9th, 1825)
without announcing his intention to Neale, that his friends were ready
to back him for £200 a-side; but if the time was too soon for Neale to
enter the ring, he was open to any twelve stone and a half man in
England.

To the surprise of the admirers of scientific pugilism, Bob was matched
against George Cooper, distinguished in the annals of boxing as a
fighter of superior pretensions, for £200 a-side. This battle was
decided at Knowle’s Hill, thirty miles from London, on Tuesday, July
5th, 1825. It was completely a foregone conclusion in the minds of the
“judges” that George Cooper must win in first-rate style; nevertheless,
the ring was surrounded by amateurs of the highest distinction. At ten
minutes before one Bob threw his hat into the ring, attended by Holt and
Oliver. He was applauded by a few backers, but his countenance was
angry, and he complained of having been neglected by his friends, and
said that if it had not been for the kindness of one gentleman (Mr.
Hines) he might have arrived completely unattended at the ring. George
Cooper was seconded by Hudson and Shelton.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Condition was not wanting on either side, and every
  spectator was perfectly satisfied that both men had paid the
  necessary attention to training. The frame of Cooper was fine and
  manly, but it did not exhibit that muscle and strength which
  characterised the body of the White-headed One. The knowing ones,
  the old ring-goers, booked it as a certainty that Bob would be
  little more than a mere chopping-block for the display of Cooper’s
  great milling talents, and the John Bull Fighter, the Nonpareil, Tom
  Belcher, and Tom Shelton, looked upon the event as a certainty.
  Under such flattering circumstances, and backed liberally at odds,
  George Cooper entered the ring, equally confident in his own mind
  that victory was within his grasp. Bob, on the contrary, had but few
  friends, excepting his late opponent Ned Neale, who observed, “Bob
  will turn out a better man than is expected, and I have no doubt he
  will win the fight.” However, this opinion had no weight, as it was
  thought Ned was paying himself a compliment. The attitude of Cooper
  was elegant, and Bob seemed perfectly aware that he was opposed to
  no commoner, by the caution he displayed. The White-headed One
  hopped away from a feint of Cooper’s, but at length he tried the
  bustling system, and planted a single hit on his opponent’s cheek.
  (Applause, and “Well done, Bob!”) Cooper, however, returned a
  swinging right-handed hit on Bob’s ribs. Bob did not seem to mind
  it, but rushed in, and gave Cooper a facer; the latter returned on
  the body. Exchange of blows, and Bob as good as George; the former
  also made a good stop. (“Bravo, Bob!”) Cooper napped another facer.
  George, on the alert, put in a severe ribber, and also produced the
  claret from Bob’s right eye. (“Mind, Pierce,” cried Josh, “this
  decides first blood.”) The White-nobbed One displayed more science
  than was anticipated against such a skilful fighter as Cooper. He
  took the lead gaily, bored Cooper to the ropes, who acted on the
  defensive till he napped a rum one on the side of his head, when
  George went down. (Uproarious applause for Bob, symptoms of
  uneasiness among the friends of Cooper, and the majority of the
  spectators exclaiming, “Why, Bob will win!”)

  2.—This slice of luck put Bob on terms with himself, when he
  observed George’s face displayed some of his handiwork. Cooper
  planted a ribber with his right, but Bob said it was “no go” with
  his left. The fighting was excellent on both sides; Cooper found out
  he had indeed a troublesome customer, one not to be disposed of as a
  matter of course. Bob had sense enough to see that out-fighting was
  dangerous to him, therefore he resolutely went in, hit George’s
  sensitive plant, and in struggling for the throw Cooper went down
  and was undermost. (“Hallo, where’s the six to four now?”)

  3.—This round was decidedly in favour of Bob. He found out that the
  bustle of a young one is very tiresome and dangerous to an “old
  cock,” and he went in _sans cérémonie_. Bob took the lead, planting
  blows right and left, and also by a well-planted hit on the nose of
  George the claret flowed freely, and he was also sent down
  completely out of the ropes.

  4.—Bob’s rush was stopped by a facer, but he was not dismayed, and
  in endeavouring to get in at his opponent he fell.

  5.—The spectators were now satisfied that the capabilities of Bob
  had been treated too lightly, and that more danger was in him than
  had been anticipated. Cooper again planted his favourite hit on the
  ribs of his opponent, but injured the knuckles of his right hand.
  The science of Cooper was delightful, and although bored by Bob, he
  stopped several blows. The White-headed One, however, would not be
  denied, and the result was Cooper went down weak. Bob was now the
  favourite, and five and six to four was offered on him.

  6.—George had the best of this round. He administered the pepper-box
  in style, and Bob put up his hand. Counter-hits, and severe ones;
  Bob, in closing, had the advantage, and Cooper went down.

  7.—Short. Bob rushed in, caught hold of Cooper, and both went down.

  8.—The White-headed One had made up his mind to adopt the bustling
  system, and rushed in to work, but he met with a precious stopper,
  very near his middle piece. Bob recovered himself, and was resolved
  to “try it on” once more; but Cooper, on the alert, put in a cracker
  on the jaws, and Bob went down on his hands and knees. The friends
  of Cooper recovered their spirits, and George was once more the
  favourite.

  9.—This round amounted to nothing; it was almost over before it
  began; a struggle at the ropes, and both down.

  10.—Fighting on both sides, till Cooper took the lead, punishing his
  opponent with his left hand, until Bob went down across the ropes,
  and fell out of the ring.

  11.—George appeared anxious to go to work, and although Bob stopped
  his left with great skill, Cooper fought his way into a sharp rally.
  Harry Holt, who was behind Bob, was forced against the stakes, and
  the bottle broken which held the water. Both combatants were on
  their mettle, and some hard hits were exchanged, till, in closing,
  Bob was thrown.

  12.—Cooper had not done enough to make it satisfactory to all his
  friends that he must win, although his backers flattered themselves
  that his fine skill, united with his game qualities, would
  ultimately bring him through. On appearing at the scratch, both went
  to work like good ones, particularly Bob, who stood to no repairs,
  and rushed at his opponent, determined to do mischief. In struggling
  at the ropes, both down.

  13.—The White-headed One was determined to tire George, if possible,
  and to reduce his skill and strength. Bob’s scheme did not succeed,
  and George stopped his efforts with science. Bob likewise showed
  science. Some rum ones passed between them; in closing, both down,
  Bob undermost.

  14.—Youth must be served; and Bob, in this respect, had the best of
  it. Cooper appeared weak, and in struggling for the throw, went
  down, and rolled over his opponent. Bob astonished the spectators by
  his good fighting.

  15.—The science of Cooper told to advantage, and Bob’s nob napped it
  in two instances; but the latter was now confident that to bustle
  his man was the way to win it; he therefore fought his way in, but
  in closing Bob went down, Cooper on him. The friends of George
  flattered themselves he would win it by his skill; and some even
  betting, for small sums, occurred at the close of this round.

  16.—Bob received punishment on going in, but would not be denied.
  Cooper was now compelled to fight on the defensive, and in
  retreating went down at the ropes.

  17.—Although Bob was almost sure to receive it in the bustle, he
  preferred that mode; he got two stoppers, and by way of a finish
  George threw him. The friends of Cooper cheered.

  18.—The right hand of George was puffed, and was nearly, if not
  quite, gone. In point of strength, it was now two to one in favour
  of Bob. A severe struggle took place for the fall, and by a
  desperate effort on the part of Cooper, he succeeded in giving Bob a
  tremendous back fall.

  19.—Bob had completely proved himself a game man, and also a good
  fighter. He was now decidedly the favourite, and two to one offered
  on him. Bob went to work uncommonly sharp, and planted a heavy
  facer. In struggling for the throw, Cooper got his leg twisted in
  going down. During the short space of the half-minute, he
  communicated to Hudson that he had hurt his leg, but before it could
  be examined “time” was called.

  20.—Cooper stood up at the scratch, but his leg gave way, and he
  fell without a blow, as Bob was making himself up for a hit. (Loud
  murmurs, “Foul!” “Foul!”) “His leg is broken,” said Josh. “We’ve won
  it,” observed Holt—“do not leave the ring, Bob”—when time was
  called.

  21, and last.—Cooper, although in great pain, endeavoured to meet
  his man in the highest style of game, when Bob dropped him by a
  straight hit. It was ascertained (by a surgeon) that one of the
  small bones of Cooper’s ankle was fractured, when Hudson gave up the
  contest in favour of Bob. It was over in twenty-six minutes and a
  half.

  REMARKS.—Cooper’s accident leaves the event of the battle in some
  doubt; but in canvassing the matter fairly the opinion of the
  majority was in favour of Bob. The courage he showed was excellent;
  he was not deficient in science, and his judgment was equally good
  in the mode he adopted in fighting an older man, by keeping him at
  work. Scarcely an amateur would allow Bob a shadow of chance against
  such an accomplished boxer as George Cooper. The front piece of Bob
  was rather the worse for the engagement, but in other respects his
  strength was undiminished; and as a proof he put on his clothes, and
  walked about the ring, to witness the battle between Young Dutch Sam
  and Stockman. Bob also observed he was extremely sorry for the
  accident, and had much rather the battle should have been terminated
  by fighting, as he felt confident of winning. Upon recapitulation of
  the whole affair, Bob had the advantage of fourteen years in age,
  but proved a much better and cleverer man than was calculated upon
  by the _cognoscenti_.


Bob, still soaring into swelldom, in imitation, _longo intervallo_, of
John Jackson, opened what he called “The Subscription Rooms,” in
Pickering Place, St. James’s Street, for the purpose of “giving private
lessons in the art of self-defence,” having previously, as a
contemporary wit said, “studied Chesterfield in the stable,” to qualify
himself for the professorial chair. Like other “stars” Bob now took a
provincial tour with Jem Burn, Neale, and others, and was well received
at Liverpool and in the north. A severe illness, said to be “the
measles,” laid Bob up during the summer of 1826; a retirement from
London life restored him, and in January, 1827, at the “Castle,”
Holborn, Baldwin was matched with Jem Burn for £100 a-side, to meet on
Tuesday, April 24th, 1827.

At No Man’s Land, on the day appointed, in nineteen rounds, occupying
thirty-three minutes, Baldwin was knocked out of time and the stakes by
the fresh and vigorous arm of “My Nevvy.” (See life of JEM BURN, in
preceding chapter.)

Baldwin took a benefit at the Tennis Court on Wednesday, May 9th, 1827.

The difference between winning and losing a battle, Bob asserts, was
clearly proved to him on that day. However, a respectable muster of the
amateurs assembled to witness the sports. The sets-to were effective,
particularly the bout between Tom Belcher and Jem Burn, which proved a
high treat of the art of self-defence. Scroggins, as Clown to the Ring,
afforded much fun in his set-to with Deaf Davis.

It was not to be supposed that Baldwin, whose stamina certainly
improved, thanks to youth and a good constitution, whenever he was under
a cloud, and compelled, by what he called “the neglect of his patrons,”
to practise self-denial, would long lie idle. Hence, on the day of
trial, July 3rd, 1827, when Bob peeled at Ruscombe Lake, he was “himself
again.”

The second trial for £100 a-side took place on a fine piece of common
about a mile from Twyford, Berks, called Ruscombe Lake, from its being
covered with water in winter time. From the facility with which Bob was
beaten by Burn in their previous encounter, and the rumours, of course
exaggerated, of Bob’s “saloon” exploits in “the wee hours ayont the
twal,” Jem was the favourite at six and seven to four; Uncle Ben having
actually booked two to one “rather,” as he said, “than not do business.”
There were those, however, who thought, with us, that there was nothing
in the comparative qualities of the men to justify odds, and it was
impossible with those who witnessed the former battle not to see that
Bob was not only not “all thar,” as the Yankees have it, but so utterly
surprised by Burn’s mode of attack in the first three rounds that he
never recovered his fighting tactics. Nevertheless, there was a period,
in the middle of the fight, when Jem became so distressed that had
Baldwin a vestige of strength left, he might have snatched the victory.
The long odds were therefore freely taken by many, and especially at
Tattersall’s. The sequel proved that the opinions thus founded were
fully borne out, and that a solitary instance of defeat under peculiar
circumstances ought not to deprive a man of the chance of redeeming his
credit. Both men quitted their training-grounds on Monday, and proceeded
to Twyford, Burn taking up his quarters at the “Bell,” and Baldwin at
the “King’s Arms Inn.” They were accompanied by their friends, and
professed themselves to be equally confident. In point of condition,
too, they appeared to be pretty much on a par. Bob’s weight was twelve
stone and a half. Jem Burn never lost a day during his training, and
could not have been better. His weight was twelve stone, six pounds.

On the morning of action Twyford exhibited the usual lively scene;
vehicles of every denomination were seen pouring in from the surrounding
country, and among them were many carriages and four; in fact, few had
witnessed a more slap-up turn-out of the Fancy. An excellent ring was
formed at an early hour in the morning by Tom Oliver, Fogo, and Jack
Clarke, in the centre of an immense number of wagons, within which there
was an inner roped circle, so as to confine the spectators to a proper
distance from the stakes. The veteran Bill Gibbons arrived just in time
to perform his part of the duty, and all was in readiness soon after
twelve o’clock—the weather delightful, the crowd numerous, but orderly,
and not the most distant apprehensions of an unfriendly beak. Orders
having been issued from headquarters, the men left their respective inns
for the place of rendezvous, Bob dressed in a smock frock, sporting his
blue fogle, and Jem in a post-chaise, wearing a yellow squeeze with
black stars. Both were cheerful, and on their departure scarcely an
inhabitant was left in the village.

Shortly before one they entered the ring; Bob attended by his backers,
and his second and bottle-holder, Jem Ward and Dick Curtis, and Jem Burn
by Tom Belcher and Harry Harmer. The ceremony of peeling was soon
performed, and the excellent condition of both men became visible. Bob
showed most muscular strength and sturdiness of frame, but Burn was the
longer and taller man. Jem was still a marked favourite, and just before
setting-to was backed at two to one, but there was little money laid out
on the ground. At last the interesting moment arrived, and the men were
placed at the scratch, Baldwin having won the toss for choice of
position.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Jem did not now, as on the former occasion, let fly the
  moment his man was placed before him, but having the sun in his
  face, veered a little round, to get rid of that disadvantage. Bob
  soon showed that he had not come on a waiting job. He at once rushed
  to work, and hit out right and left at Jem’s nob. Jem stopped him,
  and got away, but immediately returned, and caught Bob with his
  right on the left ogle. Bob pursued his quick system, and hit away
  with rapidity, but did not succeed in planting any important blow.
  Jem fought with him, and again jobbed him with his left, while he
  caught him on the body with his right. Bob stopped some
  well-intended compliments, and after a bustling rally, was forced
  against the ropes, where a long and severe struggle took place,
  equally exhausting to both, which ended in their going down, Jem
  uppermost. (“That’s the way,” cried Bob’s friends, “wear him out; he
  can’t stand bustling.”)

  2.—Bob, true to his orders, lost not a moment in going to work, but
  commenced hitting right and left. Jem stopped him cleverly; some
  slight wild returns followed, and, in the close, Bob was thrown,
  scratching Jem’s face with his nails as he went down, to the
  dissatisfaction of the spectators, who cried out against such
  practice.

  3.—The moment the men were at their posts counter-hits were
  exchanged on their canisters, and Bob proceeded to pepper away as
  quickly as his power would permit. Jem was all alive, and hit with
  him, but science was laid aside, and nothing but downright rattling
  followed. In the end, Jem bored Bob to the ropes, and threw him. It
  was obvious, however, that these rapid movements set his bellows to
  work, and the judges exclaimed, “If Bob keeps to that, he’ll win
  it.”

  4.—Jem came up flushed, and Bob was at him. Jem was ready, and hit
  away, straight, but wild. Some hits were exchanged, when Jem, in
  hitting, went down.

  5.—Bob pursued the bustling game, and threw in a blow with his right
  on Jem’s ribs. Jem returned on his face. A desperate rally followed,
  to the advantage of Jem in hitting, but the pace seemed too fast for
  him. At last, after a severe assault, both fell in different
  directions from the force of their own blows, and on rising Bob
  showed first blood from the eye.

  6.—Bob again took the start, and hit Jem on the body. Jem returned
  on his canister, and both closed at the ropes, when another severe
  struggle took place; both down, Bob under. In this round Jem made a
  right-handed up-hit, as Bob was following him, with great success.

  7.—Bob came up piping. Bob stopped Jem’s right and left, but did not
  return. Jem was more successful in the next attempt, and touched him
  heavily on the ogle, drawing more blood. A spirited and rapid rally
  followed, hits trod on the heels of hits, and both received heavily.
  A close and violent struggle at the ropes followed. Both down,
  blowing.

  8.—Bob came up black in the peeper, but game. He hit out with his
  right, but the blow went over Jem’s shoulder. He received a
  right-handed job in return, and Jem forced him back on the ropes,
  himself falling over him on his head, out of the ring.

  9.—Bob came up rather more cautious. Jem jobbed him right and left
  in the face. Bob fought wildly, and missed several blows. He fought
  round, and did not hit at points. Jem was more steady, and had him
  repeatedly. Bob, in boring in, was thrown.

  10.—Bob took the lead, but his right hand again went over Jem’s
  shoulder. Jem closed, threw him, and fell heavily on him.

  11.—Jem put in two of his favourite nobbers, but received in return
  slightly on the head and body. The weaving system now commenced, and
  both men fought wildly, but interchanged several blows. A close at
  the ropes, and a struggle in which both went down, Jem under.

  12.—Bob made some good stops, and again held off on the defensive.
  Jem rattled at him and caught him for the fall, but Bob slipped
  through his arms and went down.

  13.—Bob made a good stop, but had a jobber in the next trial. Wild
  weaving followed, Bob planting a few blows on Jem’s ribs, which Jem
  returned on his head. In the bustle Jem went down on his knees.

  14.—Bob again stopped Jem’s right and left, and then hit away, Jem
  retreating and jobbing. A close at the ropes, and Bob pulled Jem
  down.

  15.—Jem delivered right and left. Bob instantly closed, and both
  went down.

  16.—Jem popped in a good body blow with his left, and then
  retreated. Bob followed him wildly, and was hit up in good style on
  the mouth, from which more claret was drawn. In the close Bob was
  thrown, Jem on him.

  17.—Bob rushed in on the bustling system, but Jem met him right and
  left on the canister. Jem then retreated, and Bob, in following,
  fell on his face.

  18.—Bob received a right-handed facer, and in attempting to close
  for the throw, fell on his knees.

  19.—Bob kept his hands well up, and stopped Jem’s jobbers. He still
  preserved his strength, and went in to mill. Jem got away, hitting
  as he retreated. At last Bob, in a wild effort to punish, fell
  forward, scrambling down by Jem’s legs.

  20.—Bob came up abroad, and rushed in to fight open-handed. Jem
  caught him right and left. Bob, urged on by Dick Curtis, bored in
  with his right, but the blow passed over Jem’s shoulder. In the
  close Bob was thrown, Jem standing over him.

  21.—Jem, elated, went to work. Bob fell on his knees, and
  immediately jumped up to renew the round, but his seconds prevented
  this unnecessary display of game.

  22.—A scrambling round, hitting away without judgment on either
  side. Jem went down by the ropes, but no mischief done.

  23.—Bob came up as lively as a lark, although his left eye was
  completely closed, and he bore other marks of severe punishment. He
  delivered a right-hander on Jem’s body. Jem countered on his nob. A
  spirited rally followed; both worked might and main, and at last Bob
  was thrown across the ropes, Jem upon him.

  24.—Jem became a greater favourite, and the moment Bob came up he
  rushed at him. Bob retreated, and they reached the corner of the
  ring. A violent struggle followed, Bob hanging on Jem, and
  attempting to fib. He did, in fact, catch Jem on the paunch, below
  the waistband. We thought the blow a foul one, but it was not seen
  by the umpires. Bob was at last thrown, and was weak. The fight had
  now lasted thirty minutes, and some bets were decided on Bob’s being
  licked in half an hour.

  25.—Bob stopped well Jem’s jobbing manœuvres. He then went to work.
  Jem was ready, stopped Bob’s rush, and caught him right and left. In
  the close both down.

  26.—Bob, still holding his hands well up, again stopped Jem’s right,
  but did not return. Jem caught him on the nozzle. Bob bored in; both
  down, Bob uppermost.

  27.—Bob, on the bustling system, but fought open-handed. Jem nobbed
  him and closed. Bob showed great strength. He threw Jem over the
  ropes and fell on him.

  28.—Bob, desperate, fought away without reflection. Jem was ready,
  and after a short rally, in the close both went down.

  29.—Bob showed most physical strength. He rattled to Jem and put in
  a blow on the ribs. Jem let fly right and left, but Bob stopped the
  favours and bored in to a close. A long struggle followed at the
  ropes. Bob at last got the fall, and was loudly cheered. Jem piped
  woefully, and another change took place in the betting; Bob, from
  his lasting qualities, reducing the odds to even betting.

  30.—Jem distressed, and Bob not much better. Jem delivered right and
  left, and Bob fought wildly, missing his blows. In the close both
  down.

  31.—Bob’s face was now much punished; one eye shut, divers gashes on
  his phiz, his conk distilling the ruby, and lips pouting. Jem also
  showed his marks, but nothing like so severe; his body was red and
  scarred from the ropes, his right hand puffed, and his bellows in
  full play, while his right eye was a little swollen. Jem
  occasionally popped his fives into Harry Harmer’s jacket pocket, in
  which there was a supply of powdered resin, to assist him in keeping
  his hands tight. Jem made his left good on Bob’s right ogle and
  closed, when both went down heavily. Bob very weak.

  32.—Jem came up as bold as brass, and made up his mind for quick
  work. He rushed at Bob, caught him right and left, and Bob fell on
  his knees distressed. Another change for Jem, who was the favourite
  at five to four.

  33.—Bob bored in wildly; Jem met him in the canister with his left,
  and Bob fell.

  34.—Jem now had recourse to the brandy bottle. Bob came up wild as a
  colt, and went sprawling down.

  35.—Jem missed a tremendous jobber with his right. Bob fought to a
  scrambling rally, and, in the close, was thrown on the ropes.

  36.—Bob, cheered on by Dick, bored in to bustle, and forced Jem down
  on the ropes.

  37.—Jem met Bob, as he rushed in, on the conk with his left, and in
  the close Bob was thrown.

  38.—Again was Bob hurried in, fighting open-handed, and was thrown.

  39.—Bob, game, followed Dick’s orders and rushed in, but Jem was
  ready, hit away, and in the end floored him.

  40.—Jem put in a jobber between Bob’s guard with his left, and got
  away. Bob pursued him, and Jem fell in the retreat.

  41.—Good counter-hits for Bob was still determined, though groggy.
  Jem jobbed him right and left, but as his left hand had now gone as
  well as his right, his blows wanted force. In the close Bob was
  thrown across the ropes, Jem upon him. The latter fell out of the
  ring.

  42.—Bob was first to go to work, but Jem was awake, and after a
  short and fruitless rally, threw him.

  43.—Bob, urged on, hit away, but Jem retreated, and met him as he
  advanced, right and left. Bob at last closed in and Jem fell, Bob
  getting weaker.

  44.—Jem now seemed to make certain of his work, and nobbed away in
  good style to finish. Bob went down from a clink on his noddle, all
  abroad.

  45.—Bob, still alive, was cheered on by Curtis. Counter-hits. Bob
  went in to weave, but made no impression, Jem getting away in good
  style. Bob, in pursuing, fell on his marrow-bones.

  46.—Bob rushed in wildly, closed upon Jem, and pulled him down.
  Fifty-four minutes had now elapsed, and it was thought it could not
  last much longer.

  47.—Jem set to work to polish off his customer. Bob, almost blind,
  was hit right and left, and then turned his back to his man. Jem
  tipped him two luggers right and left, and dropped him. Both men
  remained on their seconds’ knees a minute after time was called.

  48.—Bob stupid. Curtis roared in his ear. He then bored in, and hit
  Jem on the body, and fell over the ropes.

  49.—Bob, still a stickler, rushed in to mill, hit wildly, was
  jobbed, and thrown.

  50.—Bob’s stubborn gameness surprised the ring. He went in to
  bustle, and received Jem’s right and left, but, as we before
  remarked, the force was deadened by the state of Jem’s hands.
  Weaving on both sides. Bob down weak, and almost dark of both ogles.

  51.—Jem made another attempt to finish, rushed to Bob, hit him right
  and left, and threw him at the corner of the ring.

  52.—Jem again took the lead, but Bob was with him, wild, though
  weak, and grappling with Jem, at last threw him, and fell heavily
  upon him.

  53.—Jem had another sup of brandy. The fight had now lasted an hour.
  Both men got to work on coming to the scratch, and were both greatly
  distressed, but Jem succeeded in throwing Bob from him.

  54.—Jem, on the cautious system, to repair his bellows, kept off.
  Bob was hallooed on by Dick, and in he went, neck or nothing. Both
  fell, side by side.

  55.—Jem very weak. Bob rushed to him, and was the first to fight.
  Jem rattled away, right and left, and as Bob was falling on his
  knees, caught him on the ear.

  56.—Bob made a body hit, but not in the right place. A close at the
  ropes. After a struggle, Jem went down, Bob on him.

  57.—Both groggy, but Bob the first to begin. Wild fighting; no
  discretion. Bob, in getting away, fell heavily on his back, Jem upon
  him.

  58.—It was now considered that Bob had every chance of winning, as
  Jem was unable to steady himself with sufficient precision to finish
  his work, and both, on “time” being called, seemed much disinclined
  to quit their second’s knees. Still Jem was the favourite, and “My
  Uncle,” seeing his distress, called upon him not to hurry himself.
  In this way, to the 65th round, Bob bored in to bustle, and was
  loudly cheered by his friends, who assured him that he had every
  chance of victory. In the closes, Jem went down, evidently to gain
  time, and the turn was again in Bob’s favour. In the 70th round, Jem
  produced another change, delivering heavily right and left. Bob,
  almost blind, never attempted to return, and dropped.

  71.—Bob was lifted up, was hit right and left, and fell. Curtis
  again rang a peal in his ear. “It’s all up,” cried the Burnites, and
  a good deal of excitement followed, several persons calling out time
  who had no right to do so, and Bob was actually taken from his
  second’s knee before the proper time had arrived.

  72.—Bob, dreadfully weak, rushed in to close, hung round Jem’s neck,
  and both went down.

  73.—An hour and twenty minutes had now elapsed. Bob made a desperate
  effort, and cheered on by his seconds, bored in to Jem, who caught
  him on the nose, and both fell. The water was now exhausted, and Bob
  had not a drop to wash his mouth with. Still he bore up, and looked
  round as if still fit for battle. Tom Belcher, with great kindness,
  gave him a swig from his bottle.

  74.—Bob came up all abroad. Jem peppered away, and dropped him.

  75 to 77.—All in favour of Jem, who hit away, and dropped his man in
  good style, although he was greatly exhausted.

  78.—It was any odds on Jem, and “Take him away!” was the cry, but
  “No,” said Dick, “we’ll win it yet.” Bob had a drop of brandy, and
  was again driven in with desperation. He grappled Jem by the ropes,
  and, after a short struggle, threw him heavily.

  79.—Jem, after this, came up very weak; his head sank on his
  second’s back, and he seemed much exhausted. The backers of Bob ran
  to the time-keepers, and loudly called on them to watch the time,
  while they cheered Bob with the cry, “It’s all your own.” Bob, like
  an old hound, pricked up his ears, and, on going to the scratch,
  darted at Jem, bored him back over the ropes, and fell on him. Here
  was another extraordinary change.

  80.—Bob got new life, rushed in, and again threw Jem heavily, with
  his loins on the ropes, and fell on him. The ring was in an uproar,
  and Bob’s friends in extasies.

  81.—Bob got up from his second’s knee before time was called, as if
  sure of winning. He rushed in, but fell from his own attempt.

  82.—Jem, at the last gasp, stood up to fight, but Bob bored in hit
  him with the right on the body, closed, and threw him.

  83.—Jem came up hardly able to stand. Dick shouted, Bob rushed in,
  and both went down.

  84.—Bob again bored in, hit with his right, and floored Jem. Bob
  fell with him.

  85, and last.—Jem, all but gone, collected his remaining strength,
  and jobbed slightly with his left. Bob returned, catching him on the
  front of the head, and Jem fell at the stake, completely doubled up
  from exhaustion. Belcher tried to bring his man to the scratch, but
  he could not stand, and “time” being called, Bob was proclaimed the
  conqueror, in exactly one hour and a half, amidst the warm
  congratulations of his friends. Jem remained for some time
  unconscious, while Bob stood up shaking hands with his admirers, and
  was carried off in triumph. Belcher was, of course, dreadfully
  mortified. He accused Jem of laziness, for not going in to finish
  before; and charged the time-keeper with calling time too quickly at
  last, when Jem was distressed, while he gave additional time to Bob
  when he most wanted it. This was denied; and, in fact, the
  irregularities in time-calling, as we have already stated, were not
  attributable to the time-keeper, but to those who assumed his
  prerogative, and thereby created much confusion. Some time elapsed
  before Jem could be removed from the ring, but on comparing
  punishment, the odds were fearfully against Bob, who, we think, was
  more punished than in his last battle. His wiry frame, however,
  added to the uncommon pains taken by Curtis and Ward, brought him
  through, and, in fact, as it were, he performed a miracle.

  REMARKS.—Never was there a fight in which so many extraordinary
  changes took place. Nor ever was there an event won so completely
  out of the fire, except the fight between Cooper and Shelton. In
  speaking critically of the affair, without disparaging the bravery
  of the men we must pronounce our opinion to be unfavourable to the
  character of the contest. Bob fought badly. It is true, profiting by
  experience, he kept his left hand well up, to save his nob from
  Jem’s right-handed jobs, but in his returns he was irregular and
  wild, fought round, and with his hands open. He did not hit at
  points, and, in fact, as far as punishment went, made but little
  impression; bustle was his motto, and bustle alone gave him the day.
  Jem Burn fought infinitely better; he hit straight both left and
  right, but his in-fighting was bad, and he did not make as much of
  his man as he might in the closes. At the time when Bob was brought
  to a stand-still, too, he was unable to make an effectual finish.
  This may be attributed to the disordered state of his hands; but
  from the distress of his opponent, if he could not hit, he ought to
  have rushed in and got him down any way, for Bob, at one time, had
  no notion of protection left. Perhaps his seconds were to blame in
  not giving him this hint, instead of permitting him, after time was
  called, to sit upon the knee until Bob made a move. At one time it
  was a hundred to one in his favour, and yet Bob was suffered to
  recover, and thus gain those laurels which appeared at an
  immeasurable distance from his grasp. Looking at the quickness of
  the fighting, and recollecting that at least 50 minutes were devoted
  to time, some judgment may be formed of the men’s condition, for it
  will be seen that 85 rounds were fought in 40 minutes, during which
  the exertion on both sides was immense. This proves that training
  had not been neglected, for nothing but the finest physical powers
  could have stood such a test. There was no standing still, no idle
  sparring, but all slap-up work. Jem lost the light solely from
  exhaustion. Nature left him. His frame is not anatomically so well
  calculated to endure continual work as Bob’s, and thus Nature, and
  not the want of good milling qualities, lost him the victory. He was
  weak when he most wanted vigour, for if he could have steadied
  himself to put in two or three good hits in the middle of the
  battle, his labours must have been brought to a conclusion. Whatever
  may have been said of Bob’s game, he, on this occasion, proved
  himself entitled to every praise. Large sums were dropped by Jem’s
  friends on the event.


Baldwin, by his defeat of Jem Burn, having turned the tables on one of
his adversaries, appeared to think the time had arrived for effecting a
similar operation upon another. Accordingly he issued a challenge to Ned
Neale for a second trial of skill. The Streatham Youth, ever willing,
accepted the proposal, and articles were signed to meet on the 29th of
April, 1828, for £200 a-side. The details of this undecided battle,
which was interrupted by a magistrate, will be found in Chapter V.,
under “NEALE,” p. 316.

On the Thursday after the fight Baldwin took a benefit at the Tennis
Court. He took the money at the door, was as gay as a lark, and bore but
little marks of face punishment. He jestingly remarked that he had “just
got half through his job of beating Neale when the beak popped in.” As
neither man was satisfied with this unsettled question of superiority, a
third match was made, the stakes being increased by £50. Wednesday, the
28th of May, 1828, was agreed upon; as the fight between Jem Ward and
Carter was fixed for the Tuesday, both men’s friends, thinking them too
good to play second fiddle in a second fight on the same day, shifted
the tourney a day forward.

St. Albans was, accordingly, all alive on the Wednesday morning, and
before one the gathering round the ring at No Man’s Land amounted to
over four figures, including a goodly muster of the Corinthian _élite_
of ring-patrons. Neale first put in an appearance, accompanied by Harry
Holt and Dick Curtis as his seconds, Baldwin soon after following suit,
attended by Young Dutch Sam and Tom Olion. Betting seven to four on
Neale. All being in readiness the men were led to the scratch, shook
hands smilingly, and their seconds having retired to their corners,
threw up their hands for


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—An opportunity of judging the condition of the men, about
  which there had been so many rumours, was now given. Neale was a
  trifle lighter than we have seen him, but looked bright and well,
  his weight, in all his clothes, being under 12st. 4lbs. Bob was as
  fine as a star, every muscle in his splendid frame fully developed,
  his skin fair, his eyes clear, and in every point in first-rate
  trim. His weight was said to be 12st. 4lbs.; we believe it was a few
  pounds more. For the first five minutes the men manœuvred steadily,
  each watching for an opening, and each endeavouring by mutual feints
  to throw his antagonist off his guard. Both, however, were extremely
  cautious; and Neale more than once, in jumping back from a
  threatened attack, displayed great activity. At last Neale, as if
  impatient of fencing, stepped in, and delivering right and left
  rapidly, caught Baldwin on the side of his head and on the mouth,
  drawing first blood from the latter. Bob hit out rather wildly, and
  closed. In the effort for the fall both were down.

  2.—Bob came up smiling, and Ned made himself up for quicker
  operations. After a short pause he again planted his right and left
  on his adversary’s nob. Baldwin returned with the left lightly, and
  closed. Ned grappled for the throw, and chopped him on the back of
  his head with the right; he then put out his leg for the lock, and
  threw Baldwin over on his head, falling with him. Five to two on
  Neale.

  3.—On coming up, Neale said, “Fight fair, Bob; don’t push your
  finger in my eye.” Baldwin nodded, then dropped in his right on
  Ned’s left side. Ned hit out heavily with his right, but it went
  over Bob’s shoulder, and some half-arm hitting followed. In the
  close Baldwin got down easy.

  4.—Both began at a quick pace. Slight hits were exchanged, when Bob
  tried for the fall, but got thrown himself, amid cheers from the
  Streathamites.

  5.—Bob came up laughing, and kept his guard well up. Ned, determined
  on work, went in left and right. Bob slashed away in the weaving
  style, but without much effect; in the close Baldwin was thrown,
  Neale upon him.

  6.—No serious marks of punishment as yet. Ned planted a right-handed
  jobber on Baldwin’s frontispiece, and jumped away. Bob stopped the
  repetition of the compliment with the left, and then hit short with
  his left. Ned drew back, but coming again quickly, popped in left
  and right. He then closed, and some in-fighting followed, in which
  Ned caught it on the ivories, showing blood on the lips. In the
  close, both down, Bob falling awkwardly.

  7.—Ned lost not a moment in going in, delivering right and left. Bob
  countered with his left, and in a rally which followed, Ned hit up
  cleverly, and then threw Bob from him. Bob fought wildly, and not at
  points, and Neale continued the decided favourite.

  8.—Bob hit out resolutely, but Neale jumped away. At length Bob
  planted slightly on Neale’s smeller, and stopped his return neatly.
  The latter, after parrying a vicious right-hander, stepped in to
  mill, and got on heavily with his right. Baldwin fell backward,
  rather from a slip than a blow.

  9.—Ned reached Baldwin’s ear with his right; Bob instantly closed,
  and catching him round the neck, both were down in a scramble, Neale
  laughing.

  10.—Bob tried right and left on the weaving system, but Neale
  retreated nimbly. Exchanges, but little done. Baldwin was down in
  the close.

  11.—Neale rushed in and hit Bob on the _os frontis_ with little
  effect, except on his own knuckles. Bob hit out right and left, and
  closed. Ned pegged him on the back of the head with the left, and
  both went down.

  12.—Bob stopped Neale’s left, and put in his right once more on
  Ned’s ribs; Ned returned on his nob, and a wild rally followed, in
  which heavy blows were exchanged, Bob catching it on the leg. Both
  down.

  13.—Ned put in his left with cutting precision on Bob’s cheek, then
  popped in his right above the eye, cutting his adversary’s eyebrow,
  which bled profusely. In the close, he threw Bob a cross-buttock.
  Offers of ten to one on Neale.

  14.—Bob came up game, though evidently shaken by the last fall. Ned
  was ready, and went in, but Baldwin cleverly stopped his left, and
  was in turn stopped in his return. Ned went in for in-fighting, and
  tried to screw up Bob for another cross-buttock, but he was foiled,
  and both were down together.

  15.—Bob stopped Neale’s left neatly, and went in turn for close
  quarters. Exchanges, in which Bob was cut on the cheek and Neale on
  the brow. Bob got hold of Neale round the neck and threw him.
  (Shouts for Baldwin. “It’s all right as yet.”)

  16.—Bob short with the left. Ned again missed with both hands, and
  his man shifted. Bob, in trying for the return, missed, and fell
  forward.

  17.—Ned jobbed with his left, but Baldwin was on the alert, and
  caught him on the cheek with a counter. Bob then kept out, but Ned
  would be with him, hit right and left, and forced a rally. Bob
  fought bravely, though rather wild, and Ned fell.

  18.—Ned tried three times unsuccessfully to lead off with the left,
  Baldwin sparring neatly. At last Neale closed, and gave Baldwin
  another heavy cross-buttock. (Shouting for Neale.)

  19.—Bob, awake, though blowing slightly, stopped Neale’s left. Many
  blows thrown away on both sides. In the close Baldwin was thrown.

  20.—The fight had now lasted thirty minutes. Bob rattled in left and
  right, but was neatly stopped. Ned pursued the same game, but was
  more successful. Bob fought with him, but rather wildly; in the
  close Baldwin was down.

  21.—Ned received a sharp hit on the right eye, and retreated. Bob
  rushed to a rally, and the men fought in the corner of the ring.
  Neale planted a nobber, and Baldwin went down. A claim was made for
  Baldwin that Neale hit him with his right when on his knees. The
  referee said he did not see the blow given, and the men were ordered
  to “go on.”

  22, 23.—Wild fighting on both sides, and both down.

  24 to 34.—Similar in character. Each man with slight alternative
  advantage, and each in turn distressed, and fighting on the
  defensive to recover.

  35.—Bob rushed in hand over hand, and was met by Neale with a flush
  hit, and fell. Ned’s hand was uplifted, but he withheld the blow,
  and walked to his corner. (Applause.)

  36.—Science seemed to be disregarded on both sides. The men went in
  weaving right and left, each determined to make a turn. At length
  Baldwin was down, Neale on him.

  37.—Forty-five minutes had now elapsed, and Neale was favourite at
  two to one. The latter hit down Bob with his right.

  38, 39, 40.—In all these rounds Neale led off, and Baldwin fell from
  a blow. In the last-named round there were cries of “Take him away!”
  from the opponents of Baldwin. Indeed, the proportion of punishment
  at this time was largely on the side of the White-headed One.

  41 to 48.—Much of the same character, but Neale’s blows seemed to
  lack steam, especially those from his right hand, which was visibly
  swelled. Bob’s friends saw this, and he went in desperately. In the
  47th round Neale fell from his own blow, apparently rather weak. In
  the 48th Baldwin got in heavily with his left on Neale’s head, who
  went down.

  49 to 54.—Anybody’s battle. Baldwin now the stronger man, though
  Neale yet fought best at points. In the 54th round Neale was hit on
  the nose, but returned the blow with interest, Bob slipping on his
  knees. In this position Neale hit him on the side of the head. There
  were cries of “Foul!” and an appeal, but as Baldwin had his hands up
  it was not allowed.

  55.—Great confusion round the ring, and loud shouting for Baldwin.
  Ned planted his puffy right hand without much effect, and continued
  to weave away. Both down.

  56.—Neale rushed in, but was evidently unsteady. He missed both
  hands; both went down.

  57.—Neale groggy, Bob regaining strength. Ned went in as before, and
  a rally ended by both rolling over.

  58–63.—Wild but courageous fighting. In the 61st round Bob rushed in
  like a lion. Neale met him cleverly with an up-hit, but went down
  from his own blow, greatly distressed. In the 63rd Ned fell from a
  heavy body blow, Baldwin on him. (“It’s all over!” from Bob’s
  friends.)

  64.—Neale guarded his ribs and head steadily, making some good
  stops, but Baldwin bored in; Ned could not keep him out, and was hit
  in the body and thrown, Baldwin falling over him. (Shouts for
  Baldwin.)

  65.—Neale planted his left, but Bob hit with him, gave him a
  rib-bender with the right, and finally hit him down. (“It’s all
  over, Neale’s beaten!” was the cry.)

  66, and last.—Neale came to time greatly distressed; Bob was loudly
  called on, and as he came in met him with a right-hander in the
  mark, and poor Ned fell heavily. This was the _coup de grace_. On
  Neale being lifted on his second’s knee his head dropped, and he
  became perfectly insensible. On “time” being called Baldwin was
  saluted as victor of the hard-fought field. Both men were
  reconducted to St. Albans, where they were carefully attended to.
  Neale, whose condition was certainly the worst, complaining chiefly
  of pain from the body blows he received, and the disablement of his
  right hand. The fight lasted one hour and eleven minutes.

  REMARKS.—By this victory Baldwin placed himself on the topmost round
  of the ladder as a game, enduring, and resolute boxer, while Neale’s
  superior art, activity, and precision all but balanced Baldwin’s
  advantages in weight, strength, and stamina. It was an heroic
  battle, and either of the men at different changes of the
  well-fought fight might have resigned the prize without discredit to
  his courage or his honour. Indeed, more than once a scrupulously
  strict time-keeper might have called on one or other of the men with
  fatal result to his chance of success. A fairer or better ring, and
  more fair-play principle in those surrounding it, have seldom been
  seen of late.


Baldwin and Neale both showed on the following Tuesday, when
White-headed Bob took a benefit at the Tennis Court. Considering the
severity of the contest, both men looked well—a satisfactory proof of
their excellent condition, and of the effects of careful training.

This was Baldwin’s last encounter in the P.R. By the assistance of his
aristocratic patrons he became host of the “Coach and Horses,” St.
Martin’s Lane, afterwards kept by Ben Caunt. Baldwin was a free liver,
and his position one of temptation, which he was by constitution and
temperament by no means inclined to resist. He died at his house in
October, 1831, aged twenty-eight years, from an inflammatory attack,
after a short illness.




                             CHAPTER VIII.
              SAMUEL EVANS (“YOUNG DUTCH SAM”)—1825–1834.


Among the town celebrities of the second quarter of the nineteenth
century the subject of this memoir held a prominent place. His immediate
and personal intimacy as boon companion or “pal” of a certain notorious
marquis, and an earl whose career, while “sowing their wild oats,”
savoured rather of the early days of the Regency than those of Queen
Victoria, brought him too often before the public. Indeed, the nature of
the associations into which he was thus unfortunately thrown, acting
upon a volatile and reckless disposition, led him into excesses which
destroyed a fine constitution, prevented his availing himself of more
than one opportunity of achieving competence and a fair social position,
and finally consigned him to a premature grave. In the ensuing pages,
however, we shall chiefly deal with Young Dutch Sam as a public
demonstrator of the art of self-defence, and as one whose biography
furnishes an illustrative chapter in the history of the Ring.

Samuel Evans, deservedly distinguished as “the Phenomenon,” was born in
Wells Street, Ratcliff Highway, on the 30th of January, 1808. He was
descended from a sire whose fame as a professional boxer the son did no
discredit. The battles of Samuel Elias, in his day also dubbed “the
Phenomenon,” will be found in our first volume. Sam’s earlier years,
from all that we have gathered from his own lips and his intimates, were
spent in the same “university” which another famous “Samuel” (not
Johnson, but Weller) declares to be the “best for sharpening the
intellect” of the youth who may chance to be subjected to its rough
discipline. The traditions of Rosemary Lane, now itself swept into what
Thomas Carlyle calls “the dustbin of the past,” were once rife with
reminiscences of the intuitive fistic skill and the marvellous mastery
of milling manœuvres displayed by “Young Sam,” in many an encounter with
the pugnacious progeny of the “peoplesh,” who once populated that
inodorous but sweetly named thoroughfare, renowned for the “ancient and
(fried) fish-like smell” of its edibles, and the yet more fusty
emanations of its clobbered and thrice-renovated garments.

Thus Sam fought his way upwards in the rude “battle of life” until his
sire “shuffled off this mortal coil” in the month of July, 1816, when
Sam appears to have been thrown upon his own resources. Sam was
evidently a precocious youth, for in his fifteenth year, if we take
Pierce Egan’s account, he was following the employment of a baker, when
his associate in dough, one Bill Dean, a chap with some milling
pretensions, threatened to serve out Young Sam for some trifling fault.
This brought forth the father’s blood in his veins, and in emulation of
his warlike sire, he challenged Dean out to fight early the next
morning; but old Burntcrust, his master, locked Sam up in his bedroom to
prevent the mill. Sam, however, in defiance of bolts and bars, got out
of the garret window, scrambled over the tiles of several houses, found
his way into a strange house, ran down the stairs, ultimately into the
street, and met Bill Dean at the appointed place, Kennington Common,
when the battle commenced without delay. In the course of four rounds
Young Sam played his part so well that Dean would not fight any longer,
gammoning it, as was supposed, that his thumb was out of joint.

Dean was not exactly satisfied with this first battle, and, after
several quarrels, a second match was agreed upon, Sam fighting Dean for
three half-crowns to two. This mill was also decided upon Kennington
Common, Tom Cooper and Spencer acting as seconds for Young Sam, a fact
which shows that “the Young Dutchman” was already an associate, if not a
member, of the P.R. Dean “screwed his courage to the sticking-place,”
and fought well for three-quarters of an hour; but finding the chance
was against him, he declared his knee was injured, and he would fight no
more. Sam was loudly applauded by the spectators for the pluck and
science he had displayed throughout the battle.

[Illustration:

  SAMUEL EVANS (“YOUNG DUTCH SAM”).
]

Soon after this affair our hero migrated westward, leaving the “dead
men” of the east, and becoming an apprentice at case in the office of
Mr. Charles Baldwin, in the Crescent, Blackfriars, on the very spot now
occupied by the Ludgate Terminus of the London, Chatham, and Dover
Railway. Sam had scarcely taken his initiatory lessons in the mystery of
a typo when he got into a fracas with the peripatetic potman of the
neighbouring public, which supplied the printing-office with beer and
other alcoholic stimulants. The purveyor of heavy wet had with him a
pair of gloves, and he and the youthful Sam (we had this from his own
lips) at first began to spar “in fun,” for the entertainment of such of
the compositors as were taking their midday meal beneath their “frames”
and on the “stone” from pressure of business. The publican and sinner
was short-tempered as well as conceited, and Sam having “pinked him”
more than once on his prominent proboscis, the gin-spinner’s deputy
threw off the mufflers, let go right and left viciously, and “went in”
in earnest. He was a strong fellow, a stone, or perhaps two, heavier
than the youthful Sam, but the Young ’Un retreated milling, and popping
in “teazers” all along the passage and out into the short street, when,
after half an hour’s fighting, from Apothecaries Hall to Bridewell, Mr.
Gin-and-Bitters cried, “Hold, enough!” In the opinion of Mr. Charles
Baldwin’s overseer, however, Sam’s skill in “setting-to” did not seem to
compensate for his deficiencies in skill in “setting up,” and our hero
was soon after a “gentleman at large.”

Released from the confinement of a printing-office, Sam turned his
attention to selling newspapers instead of setting them up. In this
vocation he became known to Pierce Egan, and with his natural
predilection for sporting, Sam took up the supply of his sporting paper
to sporting houses. It must be remembered that newspapers were then
costly articles—the _Dispatch_, _Bell’s Life_, and _Pierce Egan’s Life
in London_ being 7d. to 8½d. per copy, and the trade profit
proportionate.

About this time, also, Young Sam obtained an introduction to Mr. John
Jackson, Captain Dudley, and other amateurs of distinction, whose
judgment of the pretensions of the young aspirant for fistic fame was
decidedly favourable. London then teemed with “professors” of the noble
art, and among them one known as Jack Poulton, of the Mint, opened a
school in that classic locality “to teach the young idea how to shoot”
straight from the shoulder. Sam was “planted” on the-rough-and-ready
Southwark bruiser as a lad who wanted improving. The result was comical
to all but the “professor.” Sam stopped him, got away, nobbed him as he
came in, and so completely bothered the _soi-disant_ “professor” that he
threw down the gloves, and never again showed as the principal of an
academy. At this period, Pierce Egan says of him: “On comparing
likenesses, it is the general opinion that the Young ’Un’s countenance
does not possess the fine-spirited animation of the late renowned Dutch
Sam’s face, yet the resemblance was admitted to be genuine, allowing for
the difference between youth and age, and the want of large whiskers.
The sparklers of the Young ’Un, if not partaking (? possessing) the
penetrating look of the once Phenomenon of the P.R., nevertheless gave
Young Sam’s nob a lively appearance throughout the battle. Our hero is
in height five feet eight inches and three-quarters, weighing ten stone
and a half, and generally considered a fine-grown young man.”

Soon after Sam’s introduction to the sporting world, his friends were so
satisfied with his abilities as a sparrer that they matched him, as a
trial, against Jack Lenney (the Cowboy), a boxer who had won three ring
fights, but had surrendered to the “Pet of the Fancy,” Dick Curtis.
Monday, the 28th of March, 1825, was named as the day, and the Old Barge
House, opposite Woolwich, as the battle-field. Young Sam showed at the
scratch, his “soul in arms, and eager for the fray,” but no Cowboy came
in sight. It was reported he was locked up in town, so the Young ’Un
claimed and pocketed the stakes (£25), without a struggle for the prize.
About this time Sam, while in training at Tom Shelton’s house at Walton,
in Surrey, made the acquaintance of the scientific Dick Curtis, an
acquaintance that soon ripened into a warm friendship. Dick’s report to
Hughes Ball, Esq. of Sam’s capabilities led to a glove exhibition before
that gentleman and his friends at Combe Park (when Dick gave his opinion
that the “novice” _must_ beat Lenney), and the subsequent patronage of
“The Golden Ball,” one of the notabilities of the Fourth George’s reign.

Sam declared himself much disappointed, and possessing the utmost
confidence in his powers, he soon found an opening for a public _début_.

On Tuesday, July 5th, 1825, after White-headed Bob (see Life of BALDWIN,
_ante_, p. 342) had defeated the game George Cooper at Knowle Hill,
Berks, Young Sam made his first bow in the Prize Ring, as the opponent
of Ned Stockman, for a purse of twenty pounds. Stockman was well known
to the Fancy as “the Lively Kid,” and, in addition to several victories,
had beaten Harry Jones (the Sailor Boy, 10st.) three times, and lately
defeated Raines. The general idea was that Sam was too much of a novice
and too boyish to defeat so experienced and crafty a boxer as Stockman,
who was therefore backed freely at six to four, and at setting-to at two
to one. On this occasion Sam was waited upon by two East-End friends,
Dick Curtis and Josh Hudson, the John Bull Fighter. Stockman had the
attentions of Harry Holt and Dick Acton. The colours, a canary-yellow
for Sam and a blue bird’s-eye for Stockman, being tied to the stakes,
the men shook hands and stood up for


                               THE FIGHT

  Round 1.—Sam was not only in excellent condition, but appeared the
  better man of the two, as he had length and weight over his
  opponent. Stockman soon perceived he had reach against him, and did
  all he could to get between the guard of Sam, but in vain. Stockman,
  determined on mischief, let fly, but Sam stopped him with perfect
  ease, and returned with advantage. In a sharp rally Sam hit his
  opponent so neatly as to call forth the admiration of the ring; be
  also adopted Cribb’s favourite mode of milling on the retreat, and
  jobbed Stockman’s nose repeatedly, till he went down. (Immense
  applause. “This,” said Josh, patting Sam on his back, “is not a chip
  of the old block, it’s Old Sam himself. He’ll win, for £100.”)

  2.—Stockman, full of gaiety, came to the scratch, and in a resolute
  manner tried to find out a soft place on Sam’s head, but it was “no
  go.” Sam sent down his opponent by a rattling hit with the left in
  the neck. (Thunders of approbation; and “Here’s a Shiloh for Duke’s
  Place! Here’s the pink of Petticoat Lane!”)

  3.—This round, at this early stage of the battle, decided victory in
  favour of Young Sam. He jobbed Stockman all over the ring; in fact,
  the nob of Stockman was a mere drum to the hands of Sam. The latter
  finally floored his opponent. The Sheenies, who always claimed the
  Dutchman, were uproarious in the praise of Sam. (“Vat a nishe boy!
  Vat a shweet hitter! Isn’t he like ish fader!”)

  4.—Stockman positively had not a shadow of chance, and if he planted
  one blow he got five in return. The jobbing system was resorted to
  by Sam, and in closing at the ropes he held Stockman in his left
  arm, and with his right hand he nobbed him in the Randall style,
  ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, and ditto, till Stockman went down quite
  bothered, amidst the loudest applause ever heard in the Prize Ring.

  5.—The length of Sam, his steady guard, and his confidence,
  prevented Stockman from placing any hits with effect. Stockman,
  after the receipt of several blows, went down on his knees; but Sam
  held up his hands, smiled, and walked away. “That’s right Sam; he
  only wants a foul blow.”

  6.—We never saw Stockman so much at a loss before; he was nobbed
  with the utmost ease by his opponent, and fibbed tremendously till
  he went down.

  7.—Sam stopped the rush of Stockman, hit him as he liked, till
  Stockman dropped. Two to one, but no takers.

  8.—Stockman might have resigned the contest—every round was against
  him. The left hand of Sam was continually in his face, when with a
  heavy blow Stockman was floored. Three to one.

  9.—Stockman countered well, but Sam got out of the way of punishment
  with the skill of an old general. Stockman received a staggering
  hit, and a repeated blow sent him down.

  10.—This was a good round. Fine science was exhibited on both sides,
  till Sam sent Stockman down on his knees. Sam raised his hand. (“Be
  careful,” said Josh, “we won’t have it that way at all, Sam; mind,
  don’t be caught for a foul blow!”)

  11.—“Move your feet in and out,” said Curtis; “but it is all your
  own.” Stockman made a good stop, and also put in a heavy blow on
  Sam’s throat. In closing both down. Any odds against Stockman, but
  shy of taking.

  12.—Stockman went down on his knees from a hit, but Sam held up his
  hands, and walked away. Applause.

  13.—Stockman put down his hands, and appeared to wish the battle was
  at an end. Sam planted a tremendous blow bang in the middle of his
  opponent’s head; Stockman’s eyes flashed fire, he was quite abroad,
  and went down completely exhausted. Ten to one laid and taken.

  14.—The battle nearly over; by way of a finish, Sam caught hold of
  Stockman and fibbed him down. The Jews in rapture on beholding the
  talents of Dutch Sam the second.

  15.—It was all U P.; Stockman, groggy as a Jack Tar three sheets in
  the wind, was sent down before he was scarcely at the scratch.

  16.—Stockman still showed fight, but he was met by Sam on going in,
  when he fell on his knees, but he instantly got up, and with much
  fury rushed in to mill Sam. The latter, however, floored him like a
  shot.

  17. and last.—Sam had it completely his own way, till Stockman went
  down. While sitting on his second’s knee he hinted that he had
  enough—if not too much. Sam was hailed the winner in thirty-six
  minutes and a half.

  REMARKS.—The “Downy Ones” were completely thrown out, as the
  non-favourite proved victorious. Stockman did all he knew to win;
  but he could not get at his opponent. Sam was completely his master
  in every point of view; in fact, he felt so surprised on being
  declared the conqueror that he exclaimed: “Is it all over? Why, I’m
  not hurt in the least; I could fight an hour longer.” Stockman, on
  being taken out of the ring, was quite exhausted, and insensible for
  a short period. Young Sam was positively without a visible scratch.


Young Sam was now welcomed as the true son of the Phenomenon of the
Prize Ring, entering eagerly on a life of gaiety which must impair the
stamina of an athlete. Dick Curtis, too, selected him as his partner in
public sparring exhibitions. At this period it was the fashion to
illustrate the art of self-defence at the theatres, and more especially
upon the stages of the transpontine houses. Dick Curtis and Young Dutch
Sam figure frequently in the playbills of this period, and he showed off
his graceful and effective style with much _éclat_ behind the footlights
of the Surrey, Coburg (now Victoria), and Royalty Theatres, and at the
Sanspareil, in Catherine Street, Strand.

Sam was not long allowed to be idle. Harry Jones, the Sailor Boy,
offered himself to his notice, and a match was made for £25 a-side.

This battle was decided at Shere Mere, on the borders of Bedfordshire,
on Tuesday, the 18th of October, 1825. Jones was backed for this event
in consequence of his being said to have had the best of Sam in a
sparring match at the Jacob’s Well, Barbican. The odds, nevertheless,
were against Jones, six to four, and in several instances two to one,
and some persons even ventured to lay three to one on the ground. Sam
was attended by Dick and George Curtis, and Jones by Goodman and Reid.
The Young One had the length of his opponent, but Jones showed most
muscle and strength, and also the best condition. Two to one on
setting-to in favour of Sam.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Caution was the order of the day on both sides—Sam on the
  look-out, and the Sailor Boy equally leary to guard against squalls.
  Sam tried all the manœuvres he was master of to do summat, but
  Jones, who had a good knowledge of milling, was not to be had. Some
  minutes elapsed and nothing was done, until the Sailor Boy rushed in
  to work. He made a hit with his left hand on Sam’s cheek, and
  closed. The weaving system was now adopted; Sam was thrown; and the
  Sailor Boy fell on the young Israelite. (“Well done, Jones!”)

  2.—Jones cleverly stopped Sam’s left hand; sparring for advantages;
  and Sam hit short. The Sailor Boy, eager for work, went boldly up to
  his adversary, and planted a right-handed hit on Sam’s nob. A sharp
  rally of give and take occurred. In closing, the Young One received
  a cross-buttock, and Jones fell heavily on his opponent.—(“Bravo,
  Jones! that’s the way to win.”)

  3.—Jones hit short, being too eager to make play; however, he soon
  made up for it, by planting a heavy blow on Sam’s cheek. In closing,
  the pepper-box was handed from one to the other, the Sailor Boy
  fighting at the nob, while his opponent was hammering at the body.
  The round was finished by Jones getting down as well as he could,
  Sam keeping on his pins.

  4.—The Young One did not show anything like the superiority he
  exhibited in the fight with Stockman. The claret was running down
  from Sam’s mouth, while, on the contrary, the Sailor Boy looked none
  the worse for his engagement. Sam’s mouth was open, rather piping.
  Jones, with excellent skill, stopped a heavy left-handed blow of
  Sam’s. In fact, considerable science was displayed by both
  combatants, till Jones rushed in to mill; sharp counter-hitting; in
  closing, the pepper-box was in full use until they separated.
  Another sharp rally took place, when the Sailor Boy went down.

  5.—This was a prime round; and the fighting was excellent on both
  sides. Sam’s peeper napped a rum one from Jones—the Sailor Boy
  repeated the dose. (Great applause; and “He’ll win it!”) Sam was
  also bored down at one corner of the ring.

  6.—The Sailor Boy appeared as fresh as when he commenced the battle.
  Sam’s condition was not satisfactory. He sparred, and looked
  anxious. The Sailor Boy appeared quite up to the movements of Sam,
  and would not be decoyed from his mode of fighting by the stratagems
  of the young Israelite. Severe counter-hits, which told on both
  sides. Jones, however, received a heavy one on his listener as he
  was going down.

  7.—A long fighting round, and Harry as good as Sam. A sharp rally,
  and mischief in it. The Sailor Boy broke ground, but soon returned
  to his adversary, laid hold of him by the body, and sent him down in
  an ugly manner. (“Well done, Jones—you can’t lose it!”)

  8.—Sam’s left hand was stopped by Jones; still the former persevered
  till he made a good hit. Sharp counter-hitting; rather too hot for
  Jones, so he retreated; nevertheless he returned to the charge in a
  passion, and planted a flush hit on the young Israelite’s face.
  Jones ultimately went down.

  9.—The upper works of Sam napped a little one; and Jones got away
  laughing. A severe rally; give and take without flinching. Sam tried
  milling on the retreat, was successful, and the Sailor Boy slipped
  down.

  10.—This round was decidedly in favour of the Sailor Boy. The latter
  began his work without delay; and Sam slipped down by accident,
  receiving a heavy hit on his conk; but, like a trump, he jumped up
  and slashed away without ceremony. The Sailor Boy drove him to the
  ropes. Sam adopted the weaving system, but not with effect; the
  Sailor Boy hung upon his neck, till both went down.

  11.—The Sailor Boy was a dangerous customer. He planted a heavy blow
  with his left hand—then boldly went up to his opponent, and caught
  him round his neck—it was then blow for hit, till Sam was thrown.
  (Lots of applause for the Sailor Boy.)

  12.—The chaffing-box of Sam received rather an ugly thump from
  Jones; but Sam was determined to be with him, cutting the skin of
  his eyebrow like a knife, the claret following. Good milling, till
  Jones seemed a little abroad, and pulled Sam down.

  13.—Jones parried well; and in a sharp rally the Sailor Boy was
  extremely active. Sam was cautious, but kept milling with his
  opponent. Ultimately Jones went down.

  14.—The young Israelite appeared distressed, and also exhibited
  marks of punishment. The blows of Sam, at this period, seemed to
  have but little effect on Jones. The Sailor Boy again parried the
  hitting of his opponent with much skill; but he bored in, and caught
  hold of his adversary round his neck. Sam, in order to extricate
  himself, fibbed his opponent, and at length got away. Jones went
  down.

  15.—Severe counter-hitting, after which, Jones bored Sam to the
  ropes. It was expected the Sailor Boy would have done some mischief,
  but after a little struggling he went down.

  16.—Jones planted a sharp facer with his left, but the young
  Israelite, in return, jobbed him with his right. A rally, of no long
  duration; and in closing Sam was thrown.

  17.—The Sailor Boy planted several hits, after which he bored in
  with his head down, in order to escape milling. A struggle for the
  throw, when Jones got down anyhow. (“I don’t like that,” observed an
  Old Ringgoer; “he’s going to cut it.”)

  18, and last.—Sam came up to the scratch quite gay; and the Sailor
  Boy was lively to all appearance. After some sparring, Sam planted a
  blow on the right side of his opponent’s nob, and he fell on his
  back. It did not appear by any means a finishing blow, and the
  amateurs did not like it. When time was called, the Sailor Boy was
  deaf to it; and Young Sam was declared the conqueror. The battle was
  over in fifty-three minutes.

  REMARKS.—There is nothing new in the Sailor Boy’s cutting it: in
  several of his battles he has done the same thing, when the amateurs
  have been perfectly satisfied that he had the best of it. It was
  exactly the same sort of thing in his last battle with Stockman. He
  showed himself decidedly the best fighter, and was also the
  strongest man. In truth, when he had got his clothes on, he was very
  little the worse for milling! The blows of Sam were more showy than
  effective, and his hits were trifling on the nob of Jones, compared
  to the style with which he finished off Stockman. To sum up the
  matter, it was the opinion of the majority of persons present that
  Jones, although a good fighter, a strong chap, and capable of doing
  severe execution, by the manner of his giving in, showed the “white
  feather” most unmistakably.


Sam’s defeat of Harry Jones did not add much to his reputation; but he
was soon matched with Tom Cooper, the Gipsy, for £30 a-side. This battle
was decided on Tuesday, the 25th of April, 1826, at Grays, in Essex,
nearly opposite Gravesend, twenty miles from London by road.

It would be wrong to state that the road was covered with amateurs on
the appointed Tuesday; nevertheless, the “Old Ring-goers” were in motion
at an early hour, and a good muster of the Fancy, in gigs and other
vehicles, were trotting over the ground, to arrive in time at the scene
of action. Tom Cooper, by his manly behaviour in a turn-up with Bishop
Sharpe, which continued for twenty minutes and upwards, was viewed as an
opponent likely to test the “staying capabilities” of the Young ’Un.
Nevertheless, the betting was decidedly in favour of Sam, six and seven
to four. The ring was formed in a field near the Thames, in a most
delightful spot; the ships in the river added to the picturesque effect.
The ride from London was truly charming. At one o’clock the combatants
entered the ring, Dutch Sam attended by Dick Curtis and Harry Holt, and
Cooper waited upon by Jem Ward and his brother Jack Cooper. After the
hands were crossed together in friendship, the men made their toilets,
and in a few minutes set to.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Sam looked well, and the advantages of careful training
  were perceived in the improvement of his frame. The “Hero of the
  Bush” was also in good trim; in fact, Cooper is naturally a hardy,
  wiry sort of chap. Both on the alert, but cautious; and a short time
  occurred in manœuvring to obtain an opening. At length the Gipsy let
  fly, and touched Sam’s canister slightly, but the son of the
  Phenomenon returned a sounder on the body of his opponent with his
  right. In a rally, counter-hits took place. Sam, however, got away
  in style; but the Gipsy, anxious to do mischief, again made use of
  his right hand, when Young Dutchy, with great celerity, planted a
  second body blow. Sam also, by his skill, bored the Gipsy into a
  corner, and exhibited his superiority, to the delight of his
  backers, by using his left and right hands on the index of Cooper,
  producing the claret, until he went down. (Uproarious shouts of
  applause for Sam, and two to one offered without the slightest
  hesitation. “Sam will win in a canter.”)

  2.—The blows of the Gipsy were seen on the frame of Sam, but did not
  appear mischievous. Caution again on both sides; but the Gipsy,
  always fond of slashing, used his left hand with success on Sam’s
  head. Dutchy, like a good one, and master of his art, took the lead,
  went in, and punished the nob of his opponent like fun. The Gipsy
  did not like it, but kept fighting as he was retreating from danger.
  A sharp rally, and milling on both sides. Sam, perceiving that he
  could go in without much danger, again drove his antagonist to the
  ropes, where the Gipsy, rather tired, went down. (“It’s as right as
  the day!” said the Pet of the Fancy; “we shall win without any
  trouble.” “Sam for a hundred.”)

  3.—The mug of the “Hero of the Bush” was now the worse for fighting,
  but his pluck was as good as ever, and mischief seemed his object,
  by his slashing away at his adversary. Random shots seldom tell, and
  so it turned out for the Gipsy. Sam took advantage of this sort of
  wildness, and put in a conker so sharp that Cooper was quite mad,
  rushed in to work, helter-skelter, and planted a severe blow under
  Sam’s right ogle, which produced the claret. (“Capital!” from the
  friends of Cooper; “another like that, and summat will soon be the
  matter!”) Young Dutchy, as gay as a lark, returned the compliment by
  two severe hits, and as a sort of tie-up to the round, sent his
  opponent headlong on the turf. (“Dat’s de vay!” from the Sheenies;
  “Vat a peautiful hitter! Dat’s vat he ish, my dears! He’s an article
  not to be shold for his vally!”)

  4.—The coolness displayed by Sam, as well as his superiority as a
  boxer, satisfied the judges he must win it, although he had napped a
  severe one under his left eye, which bled rather copiously. His left
  mauly was also a tiny bit damaged, and the friends of the Gipsy
  announced the circumstance with delight and hopes that it was a good
  chance for their man, who, they said, could last a long time. Sam
  got away cleverly from a desperate blow, but went in to his
  opponent, and by a flush hit on his mouth set Cooper’s ivories
  dancing. The Gipsy, not dismayed, returned on the body. A sharp
  rally followed, in which Cooper was floored; and Sam, rather weak,
  reeled against the stake. (Five-and-twenty pounds to ten, but the
  backers of the Gipsy did not fancy it.)

  5.—This was a prime round; and the friends of the Gipsy observed, if
  he had but commenced the battle as he now fought, the chance might
  have been in his favour. The Gipsy wildly fought at the body, while
  Sam (adopting the traits of his master, Curtis, who was at his
  elbow) kept milling at the head, and doing considerable execution at
  every hit. Sam also got away from numerous blows; and such was the
  fine science he exhibited, uniting tremendous punishment, that he
  nobbed the Gipsy five times, one after the other, and then, by way
  of a quietus, floored him. (The Sheenies were now roaring in
  ecstasy, offering any odds on their “peautiful Young Dutch Sam!”)

  6.—The courage and resolution of the Gipsy were admired by every one
  present, but his mode of fighting was wildness instead of science.
  He trusted much to desperation, and slashed out without looking at
  his opponent; in a word, he was no marksman. In the hands of a
  scientific boxer like Young Dutchy he stood no chance. When once
  kept out with a few nobbers such a fighter becomes an easy prey, and
  is licked off-hand at the leisure of the cool miller. Thus was the
  Gipsy disposed of in this round. He napped “divers blows in sundry
  places,” and was ultimately floored. (Five to one, but no takers.)

  7.—The appearance of the Gipsy was considerably altered, but his
  friends insisted he was now fighting better, and thought they
  perceived a small turn in his favour. Anxiety and friendship for a
  man, in addition to backing, too often punishes the pocket of the
  amateur—he does not view the contest in a proper light. The Gipsy
  was still mischievous, and a chance blow might win the battle. (“Be
  on your guard,” said the Pet. “Give nothing away. Be ready for him;
  he’s coming, wild as an ox.”) Sam waited for his adversary, met him
  in the head, and in the struggle for the throw both went down.

  8.—In this early stage of the battle it was a guinea to a dump as to
  the best fighter. Sam did as he pleased, as a superior tactician,
  and finished this round in great style by a flooring hit. Any odds.

  9.—The Gipsy was piping, all abroad, and of little use, with his
  index out of shape. He was also fatigued, yet he went to work
  desperately, in order to obtain something like a chance in his
  favour. It, however, was “no go.” The wildness of the Gipsy was fast
  leaving him; and the jobbers he received at every turn rendered him
  nearly stupid. He was hit down distressed.

  10.—It was “bellows to mend” with Cooper—in addition to which, Sam’s
  fists were never out of his face until he was floored. (Thirty to
  ten. “Take him away; he can’t win it.”)

  11.—The Gipsy in this round endeavoured to hit up, which, if it had
  told upon Sam’s nose, might have been dangerous. But he was punished
  severely, and in endeavouring to make a return Cooper fell
  exhausted.

  12.—The Gipsy was nearly done over, but he was gay, fought like a
  man, and contended till he went down. (“Take him away.”)

  13.—Wildness and mischief was still the tactics of Cooper, but it
  was all up with him as to victory. Sam planted his hits as safely as
  if he had been attacking a dead mark. The Gipsy down.

  14.—Cooper was now so distressed that all the champagne in Charley
  Wright’s extensive cellars—successful as it is in most cases towards
  recruiting drooping spirits—would have proved of no use towards
  renovating the strength of the defeated Gipsy. He was severely
  punished till he went down like a log of wood. (“Pray take the brave
  fellow away!”)

  15, and last.—All things have an end, and the Gipsy was compelled to
  submit to defeat. Like a drowning man that catches at a straw,
  Cooper made a desperate rush as his last effort. But Sam finished
  his opponent by a tremendous blow on the nose as he was falling
  forward, which deprived him of his senses. When time was called the
  Gipsy was deaf to it, and Sam was declared the winner. The Young ’Un
  left the ring little the worse for the combat, excepting his hands,
  which were much swelled. The Gipsy did not open his eyes for several
  minutes, when he was not only carried out of the ring, but also to
  the nearest public-house. In fact, Cooper could not stand. The
  battle was over in thirty-eight minutes.

  REMARKS.—Sam not only proved himself worthy the confidence of his
  backers, but he raised himself a step higher in the sporting world
  by his victory over Tom Cooper. He won the battle like a master of
  his art. His coolness was admirable. He was perfectly prepared at
  all points, and he met his man with all the skill of an experienced
  warrior. Cooper did not disgrace himself by this defeat, but he
  ought to have paid more attention to science. His mode of fighting
  may suddenly dispose of ugly commoners in a street row, but with a
  skilful pugilist, when desperation is stopped, the chance is gone,
  and it is a heart-broken attempt to retrieve the day.


At Ascot Races, on Thursday, June 8th, 1826, after His Majesty (Geo.
IV.) had left the ground, a subscription purse of £50 was subscribed for
a fight. Sam, determined not to let a chance pass him, entered the
lists.

This mill was patronised by some swells of the first order, £50 being
collected in the Royal Stand with little difficulty, and great interest
was manifested by the spectators when Young Sam was announced as
prepared to contend for the prize-money. It will be observed that only
six weeks had elapsed since his last fight, and Sam’s hands were said to
be somewhat damaged. His opponent, Bill Carroll, was a good man. He was
seconded by M’Kenzie and Lenney; and Sam was handled by Dick Curtis and
Barney Aaron. Sam took the lead, at two to one, till the tenth round,
when he received a severe cross-buttock. This circumstance rather
alarmed his friends; but he soon recovered from its effects, and
finished off his man in a canter, in sixteen rounds, occupying thirty
minutes. The Duke of Wellington was present during the fight, and
subscribed £30 towards the stakes, and to a purse for the losing man.

From the great improvement exhibited by Sam, not only in his person, but
his knowledge of milling, he was matched, without hesitation, against
Jack Cooper, known as the Slashing Gipsy, for £50. This contest was
decided upon a stage, on Tuesday, February 27th, 1827, at Andover, after
Dick Curtis had defeated Barney Aaron. The Gipsy, attended by Jem Ward
and Mr. Nathan, ascended the stage, and Dutch Sam was waited upon by his
faithful friends Josh Hudson and Dick Curtis. The appearance of the
latter hero as Sam’s second excited general surprise. Curtis said,
“Gentlemen, a bet was laid me, ten pounds to one, that I did not win the
fight and second Young Dutch Sam. I believe,” said he, laughing, “I
shall win both events.” The combatants appeared in excellent condition;
Sam seemed lively as a dancing-master, and full of confidence. The
Gipsy’s mahogany mug bore a smile of triumph as, after shaking hands,
the men set to.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Sam did not exhibit the determined character of his late
  sire, who was considered the hardest hitter of his time. Young Sam
  stepped in and out exactly after the lively manner of Curtis, and he
  also held up his hands like that great master of the art of
  self-defence. The Pet is a model for all boxers; and Uncle Ben
  (Burn) publicly expressed his regret that his Nevvy Jem was not at
  Andover, to have taken a lesson from the battle between Curtis and
  Aaron. Sam endeavoured to make a hit, after long sparring; but the
  Gipsy got away from mischief. A precious long pause, and both upon
  the watching system; at length the Gipsy went in hand over head, and
  planted a heavy blow on the left arm of Sam, which left its mark.
  (“I say, governor,” observed an old ring-goer, “if that there hit
  had knocked at the door of Sam’s victualling office, summat would
  have been the matter.”) Sam, on the alert, got away from another
  random shot. The Gipsy followed Sam all over the stage, but gained
  nothing by his bustling system. The Young One planted a facer; an
  exchange of blows was made, but Sam had the best of it. In closing,
  the strength of the Gipsy prevailed, and Sam went down upon his
  knees.

  2.—This was a long round, Sam taking his time to punish his
  opponent. After several pauses, feints, and other manœuvres, Sam
  gave a facer which produced “first blood.” The Gipsy, rather wild,
  rushed in and planted a body blow; but it was a chance hit. Sam,
  upon the whole, was too leary for his opponent, and having Curtis at
  his elbow might be considered three points in his favour. He nobbed
  the Gipsy frequently, without any return. The long space of
  twenty-five minutes elapsed before this round was finished. In
  struggling for the throw, both down, the Gipsy undermost. Sam for
  £100.

  3.—The Gipsy, at times, stopped well; but in general he had little
  discretion about his hitting; he, however, planted a body blow. Sam
  kept out of mischief with considerable skill, every now and then
  planting facers, which put the Gipsy out of temper—nay, made him so
  wild that he rushed in like a bull, and by a sort of scrambling
  pull, he got the Young One down; five and six to four on Sam.

  4.—Had Sam been a punishing hitter, the numerous blows which the
  Gipsy had received upon his mug must have reduced the fight at this
  period to a complete certainty, and also short in its duration.
  Cooper is always a dangerous customer, and his scrambling hits may
  win a fight. Sam, aware of this feature belonging to the Gipsy, kept
  out of harm’s way with considerable talent, nobbing the Bush Cove at
  his leisure. The Gipsy’s mug was bleeding profusely, and in rushing
  in to do mischief, he ran himself down weak.

  5.—This was a long round, but the Gipsy, although desperate at
  times, could not turn the fight in his favour. The face of Sam did
  not exhibit punishment. It is but right to observe that Cooper
  stopped several well-meant blows; but he fought open-handed, and
  missed numerous hits. If he had measured his distance properly,
  another account might, perhaps, have been given of the battle. The
  face of the Gipsy was bleeding in every direction, and he did his
  utmost to win. In struggling for the throw Sam undermost.

  6.—“You need not be in a hurry, Sam,” said Dick, “you are sure to
  win it; he’s about cutting it now. It is £100 to a kick of the
  rump.” Sam planted a facer that sent the Gipsy staggering, but he
  returned to the charge, and fought desperately. In closing Sam
  fibbed Cooper down. Six to one upon Sam, and “Take him away! He’s of
  no use!”

  7.—The Gipsy, quite abroad, ran at his opponent like a madman,
  receiving facers at every step; nevertheless, he bustled Sam about,
  who appeared a little distressed. In closing the Gipsy again napped
  it severely, and went down, covered with claret. (“Take him away!”)

  8.—Strange to say, the Gipsy answered the call of time with
  alacrity. He also made two good stops. (“Bravo, Gipsy! you behave
  like a brave fellow!”) Sam now had nothing to do but wait for the
  rush of his opponent and nob him with ease and certainty. The Gipsy
  was again punished severely till he went down. (“It is all up now!
  ten pounds to a crown he does not toe the scratch again! Take him
  away!”)

  9, and last.—The Gipsy, however, showed fight, and proved himself a
  much gamer man than his friends had anticipated. But he only stood
  up to receive. Sam milled him down without ceremony. The Gipsy would
  again have answered the call of time. He was game enough to have had
  another round, but his backer humanely interfered, and said “he
  should fight no more.” The battle continued for one hour three
  minutes and a half. It is impossible to describe the joy felt by
  Sam; he performed some regular dancing steps in the ring on being
  declared the winner.

  REMARKS.—Sam is an improving fighter; and if he can but add force to
  his blows, bids fairly for the highest honours of the P.R. He left
  the ring without a mark upon his face, and no casual observer could
  have told that he had been engaged in a battle. The face of the
  Gipsy exhibited severe punishment. Jack Cooper never took anything
  like such a licking before. He did his best to win, and the bravest
  could not have done more. Sam is anxious to get higher on the
  pugilistic list; and if he can find friends to back him, expresses
  no hesitation to fight Bishop Sharpe. We should say, upon this
  point, to him, “Be bold, but not too bold!” But the Young One,
  perhaps, knows best what he is about. He asserts that he fancies
  “the Bishop” as a customer in preference to any other boxer in the
  Ring.


In the days of old “the road to the fight” was one of the features of
sporting life, nor was the “return from the fight” made without its
vicissitudes. On this occasion the sudden alteration in the weather, and
the overwhelming showers of rain, rendered the roads almost impassable
between Andover and Basingstoke, and the men and horses were beaten to a
stand-still. But “it is an ill wind that blows no one any good,” and the
“Wheatsheaf Inn,” at Virginia Water, was not neglected either in the
journey from or return to London. A good larder, excellent tipple, prime
beds, and moderate charges are sure recommendations to the sporting
world; and here many of the London division rested for the night. Curtis
and Sam arrived in town on Wednesday night, with full pockets, and
amidst hearty greetings. Before he left Andover for London, Sam called
upon the Gipsy, and made him a present of two sovereigns.

On Thursday, March 1st, 1827, Young Dutch Sam took his benefit at the
Tennis Court, and was well supported. The sets-to generally went good,
the wind-up by Young Sam and Ned Stockman. Sam was as gay as a lark,
fresh as a four-year-old, and quite ready for another mill. Stockman
stood up well against his clever adversary; but Sam had decidedly the
best of the bout. Curtis also appeared at the Court, and was
congratulated by his numerous friends upon his recent conquest over
Aaron. His face was considerably swollen, and the handiwork of Barney
evident. The Star of the East also showed himself. Barney’s peepers were
completely in mourning; his mouth also damaged, and he complained of
soreness of his throat. He was quite cheerful, consoling himself that he
had done his duty like a brave and honest man.

The Gipsy did not exhibit much punishment—his head was rather out of
shape—a proof that Sam was not so hard a hitter as the Pet. Sam himself
had no visible signs of recent fighting about his nob; his face was
entirely free from marks. He returned thanks for the support he had
received, and hoped he had given his friends satisfaction.

Dick Davis, the “Pet of Manchester,” stood so high in the provincial
Fancy, from his repeated conquests, that the patrons of boxing in
Manchester were determined Davis should have a shy in the London Ring.
He was accordingly matched with Young Sam for £100 a-side. This battle
was decided on Tuesday, June 19th, 1827, near Stony Stratford. The
journey was rather too long for the cockneys, being nearly sixty miles
from the sound of Bow bells; as it is also one hundred and twenty-nine
miles from Manchester, it was also above a joke for the Manchester lads
to leave their homes. Therefore the muster of the Fancy was but thin at
Stony Stratford, although the battle between Sam and Davis excited
considerable interest among the lovers of boxing, both in town and
country. Davis was a native of Lancashire, and twenty-eight years of
age. He was employed in Mr. Peel’s iron foundry, at Manchester, as a
moulder—in height about five feet six inches and a quarter, weighing ten
stone twelve pounds. Davis, by his numerous victories, stood high as a
milling cove; and his friends at Manchester flattered themselves that he
was invincible, as with his country opponents he was never particular as
to weight and size. Davis defeated twice Jack Wilson, also Witman twice;
with Tom Reynolds he made a capital battle, which was brought to a
wrangle; and he likewise defeated Fidler Hall. Davis entertained an
opinion that he could conquer any pugilist of his own weight with the
greatest certainty. Sam had now proved victorious in five battles; Ned
Stockman, Jack and Tom Cooper (Gipsy), Carroll, and Harry Jones (the
Sailor Boy), all in succession had surrendered to his conquering arm.

Davis, with two of his backers, and Phil. Sampson, arrived at Stony
Stratford on Saturday, making the “Cross Keys” their headquarters. Davis
wore his working dress, consisting of a fustian jacket and wide thick
trousers; he also wore a check shirt, and he looked as rough a customer
as might be met with in a day’s walk, offering in these respects a
striking contrast to the smart and natty London boxer, who was a decided
swell in dress and deportment.

Sam arrived with Curtis during Monday, and made his headquarters at the
“George.” In walking through the streets of Stratford, the men met each
other for the first time, and shook hands like brave fellows. After this
_rencontre_, Davis appeared yet more confident he should prove the
winner, the opinion of the countryman being that “such a fine gentleman
couldn’t stand to be spoilt.”

On Tuesday morning the knowing ones laid their nobs together as to a
spot of ground, and a field at Haversham, about five miles from Stony
Stratford, was named as the scene of action. Thither the travellers
repaired, and a few minutes past twelve o’clock Sam, attended by Curtis
and Oliver, threw in his tile. Sam sported silk stockings. Davis
appeared immediately afterwards, followed by Sampson, and Johnny
Cheetham, of Manchester. The colours, yellow for each of the combatants,
were tied to the stakes. Sam was the favourite for choice; but his
friends were not inclined to give above five to four. Sam won the toss.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Davis reminded us of Bishop Sharpe, but was even more
  formidable in appearance. He had been well trained; in fact, he was
  up to the mark, and his heart also in the right place. To win, and
  nothing else but to win, he said, he left Manchester. Sam was gay as
  a lark, but his friends did not think him so well as he might have
  been, and one of his knuckles on the left hand was tender and
  swelled. Sam had the advantage in height and length, but the
  superiority in weight was with Davis. The latter hero looked every
  inch a milling cove. On appearing at the scratch Davis was still
  cautious, and watching the movements of Sam from his eyes down to
  his toe. Sam also measured his opponent at all points, and felt
  assured that he had a rum customer before him. Offers on both sides,
  but no blows; at length Davis rushed in, and slightly planted a hit
  on Sam’s arm. Sam, with great skill, crept, as it were, by degrees,
  up to his adversary, and let fly on Davis’s sensitive plant. Davis’s
  ogles winked again, (“Sam for £100!”) A trifling exchange occurred,
  when Sam cried, out, “First blood!” the claret slightly appearing on
  the mouth of Davis. Sam was not long before he planted another
  snouter, but Davis received it very coolly. Davis put in a body hit.
  Exchange of blows; when they separated, Sam waiting for another
  turn. A long pause. Davis would not make play. Sam planted another
  successful noser. Several minutes had elapsed; so much caution was
  observed on both sides that it was certain that a long fight would
  be the result. Sam retreated from some heavy work to a corner of the
  ring, where he received a bodier; but he returned a heavy nobber,
  which sent Davis staggering until he went down. This was considered
  a knock-down blow; and the two events had been obtained upon the
  part of Sam, as to first blood and the first knock-down blow. (The
  Samites opened their mouths like good ones, saying, it was as right
  as the day, and offering any money on the son of the Phenomenon.)

  2.—Davis hit Sam on the ribs. Sam returned right and left. Davis
  missed two heavy blows. A long pause. Sam again felt for the nose of
  his opponent. Davis gave two body hits, but they were short, and not
  effective. Counter-hits; but the length of Sam gave him the “best of
  it.” Another tedious pause. Sam walked round his opponent to get an
  opening. (“As you are a fine fighter,” said Sampson, “why don’t you
  go to work?” Curtis observed to Sampson, “Do you recollect Ned
  Neale?”) Davis stopped a left-handed blow cleverly; he also got away
  from another. The men now went to work, and several blows were
  exchanged. In closing Sam endeavoured to fib his adversary; but the
  strength of Davis was too much for him, and in struggling for the
  throw Sam got down well. “Well done, Sam!” from the London boys.

  3.—The claret was now visible upon the mug of Davis, and the
  nose-enders he had received put him on the winking system. This
  round was a truly tedious one—five minutes at a time and no blows
  passed. Sam was determined, like a skilful general, not to lose an
  inch of ground, and only to hit when it was a certainty to get home.
  Sam let fly, and the face of his adversary napped it. Some sharp
  fighting occurred, Davis endeavouring to do mischief, and he
  ultimately succeeded in planting a desperate left-handed hit on the
  side of Sam’s head, which floored the Young One. The Lancashire lads
  began to open their mouths—“That’s right, Dick!”—while the Samites
  not only looked blue, but were silent as fish.

  4.—Sam looked rather stupid; he was labouring under the effects of
  the last blow. Davis did not follow up his success, but waited for
  Sam to make play. The latter with great ease put in a rum one, and
  Davis put up his hand to feel if his nose was in the right place.
  Sam stopped a well-meant body blow. A short rally, but Sam broke
  away. In closing some expressions of disapprobation saluted Davis
  for his mode of throwing. But as it did not appear to be done
  intentionally, the umpires did not notice it, and Sam was under.

  5.—This was a short round, but the milling in it was better than in
  any of the preceding rounds. The exchanges were at par. Davis
  thrown.

  6.—Several of the London Fancy began rather to be alarmed, and got
  their money off by backing Davis. Excepting his nob he was none the
  worse for the battle, although one hour and more had passed away.
  The science displayed by Sam was the delight of the amateurs; he
  jobbed Davis repeatedly; but the game of the latter was not to be
  reduced by the left-handed blows of Sam. The right eye of Davis was
  cut in the corner, and the claret was streaming from his nose. He
  made some counter-hits, but had the worst of the round until he went
  down.

  7–9.—The fighting of Davis in all these rounds was the same; he
  would not go in; and stood out to be nosed at the will of Sam. The
  latter was thrown heavily in the last round.

  10.—This was a long round. Sam was more than cautious; and under the
  circumstance of his bad hand his fighting was entitled to praise.
  The lip of Davis was cut severely. He received lots of smashers in
  the face, and the claret running down his throat annoyed the
  Lancashire man much. In closing Davis was under.

  11–16.—The superiority of the style of Sam’s fighting in all these
  rounds gave him the lead; yet the goodness and game of Davis
  rendered him a troublesome customer. The latter could not get at Sam
  with anything like certainty, and therefore his favourite hits were
  at the body. Sam was thrown, and also received some heavy blows. In
  the last round he received a severe cross-buttock.

  17–21.—(“Pray take him away,” said Tom Oliver to his backer; “he is
  one of the gamest fellows I ever saw, but he cannot win; you will
  get yourself into trouble—nay, all of us. It is a shame to let such
  a brave fellow fight any longer.” “Well done, Tommy,” replied a
  Manchester covey; “he is not half licked yet; Davis will soon begin;
  he can’t lose it. Sam has not strength to lick a baby.”) The head of
  Davis, by the repeated jobbers he had received, was quite out of
  shape; both his peepers were damaged, his cheeks puffed up, and his
  nose cut and bleeding. But his backers relied upon his gameness, and
  several of them calculated upon his winning. The last round was well
  fought, and rather in favour of Davis, who went in to fight. Sam was
  down.

  22, 23, 24.—Nose and mouth. Although it might be termed quite safe
  to Sam, and three to one offered upon him, yet the son of the
  Phenomenon treated Davis as a dangerous rival, and kept out of
  mischief. He jobbed Davis at his leisure, reducing his strength
  every round. (“Take him away!” from all parts of the ring.)

  25–27.—Davis would not listen to anything like “giving in,” and
  although his nose was hit two or three times in every round, he
  fought in the most manly style. He was down in every round. (“Take
  him away!”)

  28.—The gameness of Davis never deserted him and it did appear to
  the spectators that he would sooner part with his life than lose the
  battle. (Ten pounds to a crown—any odds—but no takers.) Davis sent
  down.

  29, 30, and last.—Davis again appeared at the scratch and showed
  fight. Sam now did as he liked with his brave opponent, punishing
  him in all directions, until he hit him down in the corner of the
  ring. His backers said Davis should not fight any more. In fact,
  Davis could not have appeared again at the scratch. The fight
  occupied _three hours and thirty-five minutes_.

  REMARKS.—Against a fine fighter like Dutch Sam something more than
  gameness is required. Davis may defeat a mob of yokels, but it is
  quite a different thing to tackle London prize-fighters. Davis is a
  good man, a scientific hard hitter, and stands up like a
  chopping-block; but the above requisites, although essential to a
  boxer, will not ensure victory unless he can fight more than a
  little. He must learn to give as well as to take; a receiver-general
  is but a foolish character. Davis was severely punished about the
  head. Had he gone in according to the direction of Sampson a
  different account might have been given of the fight; yet it is but
  common justice to say of Davis that he exerted himself all in his
  power to win the battle. Sam, notwithstanding it took him upwards of
  three hours to defeat his opponent, won the fight like a first-rate
  tactician. If the left hand of Sam had not been injured he would
  probably have won the battle in half the time. He left the ring
  quite fresh, and could have fought another hour without difficulty.


The backers of Sam, without hesitation, now pitted him against the
“all-conquering Bishop Sharpe” for £100 a-side. This match excited an
unusual degree of interest. Sharpe had the majority in his favour,
particularly the old ring-goers; nevertheless, Young Sam stood well with
the Corinthians and the lovers of fine fighting. The following remarks
as to the different capabilities of the combatants were published a few
days previous to the day appointed for the battle to take place: “First
on the list stands Bishop Sharpe, the Bold Smuggler, who has proved
himself successful in upwards of twenty battles, both in and out of the
Prize Ring. The Smuggler never picked his customers, but took them as
they came, and always got through the piece with victory. As a fighter,
Bishop Sharpe is not generally admired; but as a hitter he is
tremendous, and one blow well planted has often rendered it ‘no go’ to
his opponents. The Sage of the East pronounces him to be ‘prodigious;’
and the John Bull Fighter asserts, ‘He hits them as I like, and so hard
as his opponents do not like!’ But Sharpe will be opposed by a ‘leary’
fighter in Sam, cautious in a high degree, and who has a very great
aversion to be hit at all. This renders Sam a very difficult cove to be
‘got at.’ He is also a very dangerous adversary for those customers who
like to ‘go in,’ as he nobs and gets away, frequently without any
return; his blows are considered light, and of the sparring school; but
the Manchester Pet tells another tale. We are inclined to think—nay,
almost certain—that Young Sam cannot punish anything like his late papa,
nor hit as hard; but he has a knack of hitting a man twice in a place
which nearly amounts to the same thing. Sam is confidence personified,
and the Bishop thinks victory is as safe to him as if the battle were at
an end. Sharpe is at present the favourite, five to four.”

Tuesday, October 23rd, 1827, was the day set apart for the battle to
take place, and great anxiety was manifested upon the event. Many of the
Londoners started overnight for the scene of action; and in consequence
the Bonifaces on the road to No Man’s Land came in for a turn, more
especially at St. Albans, the “Blue Boar” being the grand rallying
point.

Before peep of day on Tuesday morning, the North London road was covered
with vehicles of every description, filled with the lads of the Fancy,
picturing to themselves a prime day’s play between Sam and the Bishop,
and the complete fill up of the scene by Barney Aaron and Redmond. The
“Crown,” at Holloway, kept by Joe Emms, was attractive; Young on
Highgate Hill was not forgotten; Pepper, at the “King’s Arms” at Barnet,
came in for a good slice, and “Little Tim’s Crib,” near to the twelfth
milestone, was overflowing with company.

Sharpe, on the Monday evening, made his quarters at St. Albans, and Sam
took up his residence for the night at “Little Tim’s.”

As the day wore on, it was ascertained that a screw was loose, and five
to one offered that no fight would take place. Such was the state of
things for two or three hours at St. Albans; at length it was announced
that Sam was upon the road, and he shortly afterwards made his
appearance in a post-chaise.

Time was on the wing; and Sharpe and his seconds, Peter Crawley and
Ward, made the best of their way to No Man’s Land, where the ring had
been previously made by Joe Fishwick. At one o’clock Bishop Sharpe threw
his hat into the ring, according to custom, in order to claim the stakes
should Sam not make his appearance, but Sam, attended by Curtis and
Harry Holt, showed himself within the ropes. All was happiness amongst
the crowd for a few minutes, and nothing but a scientific battle
expected to take place; but the mishap was soon developed; Sam took off
his fogle, but the remainder of his toggery remained untouched. The
traps now appeared, and said they had a warrant against Sam; but on no
occasion whatever did officers ever conduct themselves more gently, or
act “according to their instructions” to behave in a gentlemanly manner
to the offender against the law, than these did. This compliment is most
certainly due to them. The warrant was demanded, and was soon brought to
light. It purported to be from Marylebone Office, signed by Mr.
Rawlinson, directing all constables, &c., “to apprehend Samuel Evans and
bring him before the said magistrate of the county of Middlesex, on
suspicion of his being about to commit a breach of the peace with one
Bishop Sharpe.” During the conference with the traps, the Bishop
addressed himself to several gentlemen in the ring, observing, “It is
too bad—it is rascally conduct to rob me of the battle-money,” and
taking off his clothes, went up to his opponent, and said to him, “Sam,
do you mean to fight? I am ready for you.” Sam replied, “What am I to
do?—I can’t fight in the face of the officers.” His seconds, Holt and
Curtis, declared they would not give a chance away by seconding Sam in
defiance of the law. The traps, to prevent any further misunderstanding
on the subject, and to make “their visit pleasant,” in the most gentle
manner gave Sam a hint that his services in the ring would be dispensed
with, so, like “a good boy,” he retired from within the ropes without
giving them any further trouble. Bishop Sharpe put on his clothes; but
before he left the ring he said he had no doubt the lovers of fair play
would not let him be deprived of the stakes, and thus the affair ended.

On Thursday, October 25th, 1827, the Pet of the Fancy took his benefit
at the Tennis Court; and, considering the unfavourable state of the
weather, it was a good one. Several bouts proved attractive; but the
great feature of the day was the set-to between Harry Holt and Young
Dutch Sam. This gave the amateurs an opportunity of judging of Sam’s
condition; and, in the general opinion of the audience, he appeared
nothing wanting; on the contrary, he was considered up to the mark.
Young Sam was pitted against one of the best sparrers on the list, and
one who has had great experience, not only in fighting with Jack
Randall, but continually setting-to with the Nonpareil in his best days.
Holt has been opposed to all the first-rate men on the list, and always
proved himself a distinguished scientific artist. The attack and defence
were a masterpiece on both sides. Harry was perfectly aware that he had
a troublesome customer before him, and Sam had not to learn that the
eyes of all the Court were on him. We do not know a better opponent than
Holt for Sam to produce a trial scene for the Fancy in order that they
may draw their own conclusions. Harry was capital, and Sam proved
himself excellent. The “best of it” was of a doubtful nature, and a
feather in the scales of candour and justice might have been the award
on either side; but it should be recollected that Sam was in condition,
and Harry quite out of it. This, however, was not the point in view; but
the most remarkable and valuable feature in the above set-to was
this—Sam, it was seen, could change his mode of fighting as
circumstances presented themselves—no hopping about, no standing still,
but stopping and hitting his opponent with the utmost ease, rallying
like the most determined boxer, and getting out of trouble with ease,
style, and decision. Indeed, such was the display of Sam and Harry Holt
that the greatest admirers of Bishop Sharpe on witnessing the set-to,
must have pronounced the “Young One” a formidable and dangerous customer
to the Bold Smuggler. Tumultuous applause crowned their exertions and
exits from the stage. It was pronounced by the whole of the visitors one
of the best sets-to ever witnessed at the Tennis Court.

Several persons of rank who were present wished that Sam would give some
explanation on the subject of his not fighting with Sharpe. He replied
“that he had no explanation to give; he had been used very ill, and it
was not his fault!”

DECISION OF THE STAKEHOLDER.—The “Castle Tavern” was overflowing on
Wednesday, October 24th, 1827; Bishop Sharpe and his backers were
present. The stakes of £200 were demanded by the Bishop, on the score
that he was in the ring, and ready to fight, according to the articles
of agreement. He said that Sam had declined to fight through the
collusion of parties, under the idea they would lose their blunt if he
fought, and not on account of any fair magisterial interruption. One of
the backers of the “Young One” resisted the stakes being given up until
the whole of Sam’s backers were present, as they had nothing to do with
the matter in dispute. The stakeholder, Tom Belcher, considered, in
point of right and fairness, the Bishop was entitled to the
battle-money, and accordingly gave Sharpe one hundred pounds, holding
the other hundred as an indemnity against any legal proceedings which
might be instituted against the stakeholder.

Sam, full of pluck, and anxious to obtain a job, offered to fight Peace
Inglis, but no match was made.

In April, 1827, Dan M’Kenzie was matched against Young Sam for £50
a-side, but the backers of M’Kenzie ultimately preferred a forfeiture to
running the risk of a battle.

In a set-to with “the Young Gas” at the Tennis Court, Sam distinguished
himself, proving a most troublesome customer. Jonathan had “all his work
to do” to prevent his being placed in the background by the superior
tactics of Young Sam.

The set-to between Young Sam and Harry Holt had given so much
satisfaction to the amateurs that a second bout was called for by the
admirers of the art of self-defence. At the benefit of Jem Burn at the
Tennis Court on Tuesday, December 11th, 1827, the above pugilists again
met. Sam, as a rising performer, appeared anxious to obtain the
superiority, and Holt was equally on the alert to prevent losing his
laurels obtained as an accomplished sparrer. The latter defended himself
with considerable skill; but the length and activity of Sam ultimately
gave him the advantage. Upon quitting the stage they received thunders
of applause from a delighted audience.

The following statement, addressed to the sporting world, appeared in
the newspapers in vindication of Young Sam’s character:—


                                                  “November 1st, 1827.

  “GENTLEMEN,—I have been much surprised to perceive that almost all
  the blame of the disappointment experienced by the fancy owing to
  the fight not taking place between Bishop Sharpe and myself has been
  laid upon my shoulders, and yet I have been unquestionably the
  greatest sufferer; for I am confident that had no interruption taken
  place the battle-money would be now in my possession. An inference
  is drawn to my prejudice that as the warrant from the Mary-la-bonne
  Office was granted on the information of my mother, I had employed
  her to give such information, or, at least, that she acted with my
  knowledge and consent; but I declare most solemnly that this was not
  the case. I had no previous knowledge whatever that any one intended
  to adopt such a course, nor did I know that such a warrant was
  issued, till informed of it on the morning of fighting. Whether or
  not this warrant was obtained at the instance of persons who had
  taken a strange alarm and were afraid to risk their money on me, I
  shall not pretend to say; but of this the Fancy may be assured, that
  I meant _to do my best to win_, and felt fully confident of success.
  With respect to the assertion that the officers had no authority to
  take me, as their warrant was issued from Middlesex, and was not
  backed by a Hertfordshire magistrate, I can safely plead that they
  told me they certainly had full powers to act, and I did not feel
  sufficiently acquainted with legal niceties to resist their
  authority. I could not venture to fight in defiance of a couple of
  experienced officers, who I reasonably concluded must be much better
  judges of the extent of their powers than I could be. As to the
  alleged error of a _misnomer_ in the warrant, _my real name is
  Samuel Evans_, so that the document was correctly drawn in that
  respect at least. The whole affair has ended most unfortunately for
  me; I am bound over to ‘keep the peace towards all his Majesty’s
  liege subjects for twelve months,’ and am thus prevented from
  exercising my profession in the Ring during that period—a
  consequence of most serious import to a young man who, vanity apart,
  was rising into notice, and had been hitherto invariably successful.
  Of course, it is useless for me to talk of making any match at
  present; but, when the above period has expired, I shall be prepared
  to fight any man in England, of my weight, for from £100 to £500.
  And now a word or two to Bishop Sharpe: If he has one spark of
  English feeling belonging to him, he will not fail to give me the
  preference as soon as I am free from the fetters of the law and able
  to meet him. I have a prior claim upon his notice, and shall never
  rest satisfied till I have a fair opportunity of proving which is
  the best man. Good luck, and the unfair precipitation of the
  stakeholder, have placed the battle-money for our late match in the
  Bishop’s possession (to which, under all the circumstances, he was
  not entitled); let him add to the windfall as much more as he
  pleases up to £500, and, at the end of one year from the date of
  this letter, I will fight him for the whole.

                      “Yours, &c.,
                                            SAMUEL EVANS
                                  “(Commonly called Young Dutch Sam).”


During the twelve months of enforced exclusion from the ring as a
principal, Sam figured in a turn-up in February, 1828, with a big carman
who insulted his friend, Dick Curtis, near London Bridge, polishing off
the wagon-driving Hercules in five rounds. The affair will be found in
the memoir of Dick Curtis, _post_.

In the autumn of 1828, in consequence of some personal unpleasantness,
the veteran Jack Martin (the once-renowned conqueror of Scroggins, Josh
Hudson, Phil. Sampson, and Ned Turner) challenged Young Sam to the
battle-field, and a match was made for £100 a-side. For some months this
affair was the talk of sporting circles; Sam’s conduct being the subject
of much censure. At length, all preliminaries being arranged, the men
met on the 4th of November, 1828, at Knowle Hill, Berks, thirty-four
miles from London, a spot celebrated from its having been the scene of
similar exhibitions on a former occasion—we allude to the fights between
George Cooper and Baldwin, Young Dutch Sam and Ned Stockman, and Goodman
and Reidie, all of which were decided on the same excellent arena
without interruption. In fact, a more suitable spot could not have been
selected; first, from its being at a distance from any populous
neighbourhood; and next, from one side of the grounds being bounded by a
gradual elevation, from which the spectators could look down upon the
sports as from a sort of amphitheatre. The distance from London, too,
four-and-thirty miles, brought the journey within the scope of a day,
and enabled the amateurs to go and return without any serious sacrifice
of time or labour.

Both men had been attentive to their training; Martin at Milford, in
Surrey, and Sam first at Hartley Row, and then at the “New Inn,”
Staines. In the early part of his training, Martin, from having but just
recovered from a severe fit of illness, as well as from the deep wound
which his feelings had sustained, was in anything but promising
condition. At last he came out with every appearance of renovated
health. At his benefit, on the previous Tuesday, he seemed to have
reached his pristine vigour, and, as he said himself, was quite as well
as an “old ’un” could expect to be. Of the result of the battle he
always spoke with perfect confidence, and led his friends to believe
that victory was certain. So persuaded was he himself of this issue that
he advised all whom he knew to back him without hesitation, and actually
gave them money to lay out on his account. In the end this confidence
proved to be misplaced, and the milling maxim that “old stale ones are
of no use to young fresh ones,” was fully exemplified; Martin, who had
been for some years a licensed victualler, being in his thirty-third
year, while Sam’s summers numbered but twenty-one. It was stipulated in
the articles that Martin should not weigh more than 11st. 7lbs. on the
morning of fighting—a superfluous condition, seeing that his weight, in
his prime, was under 11st., and his recent illness had reduced him some
pounds. Sam stated his weight at 10st. 12lbs.; to us he looked more than
half a stone heavier. The toss for choice of place was won by Sam, and
he very naturally named the scene of his former good fortune. On Monday
afternoon Martin reached the “Castle Inn,” on the further side of
Maidenhead; and Sam, accompanied by Dick Curtis and other friends,
shifted his quarters from Old Shirley’s at Staines, to the same
neighbourhood. It was soon ascertained that the magistracy would not
interfere, and the anticipation of the approaching contest was thus
unalloyed by those fears which were but too common even in those days in
meetings of a like character.

The road from London during Monday afternoon was crowded by drags of
every description. A great number pushed on to Maidenhead, while others
pulled up at Cranford Bridge, Colnbrook, or Slough.

The dawn of day produced a new cavalcade from all quarters. Carriages,
post-chaises, and gigs kept pouring through the town all the morning in
an almost uninterrupted line, reminding men of the days when Crawley
Downs was the favourite resort of the Fancy. Many persons of distinction
were among the motley assemblage, whose patronage, under the
encouragement afforded by the Fair Play Club, was hourly increasing. The
weather was as propitious as the most fastidious could desire; the sun
shone with brilliancy, and every countenance seemed gladdened by the
cheering prospect of a good day’s sport.

The Commissary was early on the ground, and formed the ring with his
usual judgment. The whole was surrounded by wagons and other vehicles,
which were drawn up three and four deep, and the most perfect regularity
was preserved. As the hour of combat approached the throng came rattling
in from every point of the compass, and the “yellowman” of Sam and the
“blue bird’s-eye fogle” of Martin were everywhere sported. Tom Cribb and
most of the old members of the P.R. were present, and we were glad to
recognise in the circle many of those old Fancy mugs whose countenance
in former days lent life to the scene.

At half-past twelve there were not less than ten thousand persons
assembled. At this time the F.P.C. whips were put into the hands of
twelve of the “Order of Regulators,” and the ring was immediately
cleared of interlopers, all of whom, with a few exceptions, retired
behind an outer ring of ropes, in which situation they remained
throughout the contest.

At a quarter before one o’clock it was announced that both men were on
the ground, and in a few minutes afterwards Sam entered the ring,
attended by Dick Curtis and Jem Ward. He looked serious, and was a
little pale, but still appeared well and confident.

In a few minutes afterwards Martin entered from the opposite side of the
circle, attended by Tom Spring and Peter Crawley. He was received with
loud cheers, and appeared in high spirits. He came forward with a smile
on his countenance, as if, to use the words of an old toast, “the
present moment was the most happy of his life.”

Martin paid but little attention to his antagonist, while Sam eyed him
with a searching look, and, turning towards his friends, said, “It will
be seen to-day whether fear forms any part of my composition.” On
peeling, Martin showed a fine muscular pair of understandings, and had
some good points upwards; but it was obvious that his frame was not in
its prime. His breast showed marks of recent blisters as well as the
bites of leeches, and the flesh about his collar-bone and ribs wanted
that fulness and freshness which betoken good health. Sam was “all over
right,” and was evidently in slap-up condition. Though not so well
pinned as Martin, his upper works were symmetry itself, and the fine
muscle of his shoulders and arms was visible at every move. At length,
both men being ready, the toss for choice of position took place, and
was won by Curtis. The men then went to the scratch, and shook hands
slightly, and immediately threw themselves into position. Breathless
silence prevailed, and the seconds retired to their corners. At this
time the betting was twenty-five to twenty on Martin.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The men set to across the sun, with their sides to it, and
  each got close to the side of the ring. Sam had the higher ground,
  and made one or two dips or half plunges with his left, as if going
  to let fly; but Martin was steady, and held his arms well up to
  guard his nob. In this way they stood opposite each other for some
  seconds, when Sam again made a feint with his left. Martin
  immediately broke away, and veering round, got the upper ground, so
  that they, in fact, changed positions. Three minutes had now
  elapsed, when Sam hit out slightly with his right, but was stopped.
  He tried it again, and popped in his left and right with great force
  on Martin’s right eye and left cheek. Martin then rushed in to a
  rally, but was cleverly met by Sam with his left, and both hit away,
  Sam well in, and quick with his right and left. Martin slipped on
  his knees from the moist state of the ground, or from a hit in the
  neck, but was up in a moment. Sam, ready at all points, instantly
  plunged in to a close in the corner of the ring, and a desperate
  struggle ensued, each trying for the advantage, Sam hitting right
  and left at the body and head, while Martin grasped him round the
  neck. Sam cleverly disentangled his left hand, and delivered a
  slashing hit on his right eye; he then hit him with the right, and
  both still continued to struggle with all their force, Martin
  receiving some severe hits, but making no return; at last Sam threw
  out his leg, and catching Martin on his thigh, flung him over, and
  fell heavily on him. The ring was in an uproar, and all Martin’s
  friends in dismay. It was a fearful but decisive struggle in favour
  of Sam, for on Martin rising to his second’s knee his right eye was
  closed and dreadfully swollen, while his face exhibited other marks
  of Sam’s handiwork. Sam himself had not a mark. “It’s all over,” was
  the general cry—“Sam must win;” and, indeed, it was evident that
  Martin was quite abroad, as well as obviously distressed. The round
  lasted five minutes, and six and seven to four were freely offered
  on Sam, but no takers, for all were too much astonished to think of
  hedging.

  2.—Both men came to the scratch with deliberation, and each seemed
  desirous of recruiting his wind, which was in full play from the
  violence of the previous struggle. Sam again poised himself on his
  left leg, keeping his head well up, and his fists ready for
  delivery. At length Martin, as if he considered something desperate
  was necessary, hit out with his right, but the blow fell short; he
  then rushed in, but was met cleverly by Sam with his left. Martin,
  quite wild, bored him to the ropes, but Sam, cool and steady, broke
  away and jobbed him with his right. Martin, rather abroad, now tried
  at the body, and rushed in with his head down—Sam again met him with
  his right, and closed, when he caught poor Jack’s nob under his
  right arm, and hit up with his left ultimately flooring him, and
  falling on his head. Three to one on Sam, and no takers.

  3.—Sam cautious, and in no hurry to begin. Martin stood with his
  back close to the ropes, and many thought Sam ought to have gone in
  to finish. He seemed to think, however, he had the game in his own
  hands, and was evidently collecting his wind. At last he put in a
  fearful job with his right on Martin’s left eye, and again with his
  left on the nose, drawing claret in abundance. Martin broke away and
  took up fresh ground (Approbation). Both got to the corner of the
  ring, and again waited for Captain Wind-’em. Martin hit out with his
  left, but was neatly stopped, and Sam smiled; Martin then tried his
  right, but was short, and this was followed by another desperate
  rally, in which Sam’s deliveries, right and left, were precise and
  severe. His hitting was admirable, and style of attack beautiful.
  Quick as lightning Martin had it in the chops, without being able to
  make a successful return, and again in the throat. At last Martin
  closed for the fall, running in with his head down, and succeeded in
  getting Sam down, and falling upon him. (Ten minutes had now
  expired, and it was pretty evident the first round had taken the
  fight out of Martin).

  4.—Martin all abroad; but still kept his hands well up. At length he
  rushed in with his head down, and attempted to deliver a body hit,
  which fell on Sam’s breast. Sam stepped back and met him as he came
  in, and then closing hit up with great force, and delivered a
  tremendous body blow with his right. In the struggle for the fall
  both went down, Martin under.

  5.—Spring now called for a lancet, if possible, to let the blood
  from Martin’s right eye, but could not obtain one; he endeavoured to
  scarify the skin with a penknife, but without effect, and poor Jack
  was again brought to the scratch, when Sam lost little time in
  jobbing left and right on the sore spots. This dose he repeated and
  broke away. Martin rushed in wild, hitting right and left, but short
  and without effect. Sam again closed, fibbed, and threw him.
  (Fourteen minutes had elapsed.)

  6.—Martin came up quite abroad, when Sam, after a feint, threw in a
  tremendous smack with his right on the left jaw, and dropped him,
  thus winning the first knock-down blow as well as the first blood.

  7th, and last.—It was now Bushey Park to a lark sod. On Martin being
  brought to the scratch Sam jobbed him right and left on the head and
  ear, and repeated this discipline till his man went down completely
  abroad and woefully punished. He tried to make a rally, but it was
  all in vain, and on being lifted up by Spring, he said it was no
  use, he was too stale, and had not a chance. Spring tried to
  persuade him to get up for a few more rounds, but he would not “have
  it,” and on his rising on his legs Spring gave in for him. He then
  walked a few paces, and Spring gave him his knee when he complained
  of his being sick at stomach. Sam was declared the victor in sixteen
  minutes.

  REMARKS.—In the history of Martin’s pugilistic feats—with the
  exception, perhaps, of his quick despatch by Jack Randall in his
  second fight, upon which so much was said at the time—we never
  witnessed greater disappointment or astonishment than was manifested
  on the present occasion. Hundreds of individuals, many of the
  highest respectability, who had long since abandoned the sports of
  the Ring, were induced to come from distant parts of the country in
  full confidence that they would be gratified by seeing something
  worth looking at, but what was their surprise to find that their
  anticipations were groundless, and that the man on whose talent and
  game they had relied proved to be below mediocrity, indeed, we have
  never seen even the most unpretending commoner so easily and so
  quickly disposed of. After the first round, in fact, he had not the
  ghost of a chance. It is said that he was taken by surprise by the
  quick assault of Sam, who from being a cautious out-fighter suddenly
  changed his style and became the assailant. This may have been the
  case; and we know that Sam, under the advice of Dick Curtis, adopted
  this mode as the most likely to puzzle a man of Martin’s bustling
  manner. Sam’s first feints were evidently dictated by a desire to
  try what Martin meant, and whether he would stand to be jobbed if an
  opening offered. The experiment told. Curtis saw the advantage, and
  exclaiming to Sam, “Go it!” the latter at once made play. This
  quickness immediately drew Martin to a rally, in which he clearly
  lost his presence of mind, and left himself open to the severe
  punishment, which he received without making anything like a return.
  Feeling the sting of Sam’s hits he had recourse rather to hugging
  and endeavouring to get his man down than to the more prudent course
  of dropping or breaking away. This effort in his state of
  constitution was decidedly the worst he could have made, as it could
  only lead to exhaustion on his part much more easily than with his
  more vigorous and youthful assailant. It also gave Sam an
  opportunity of hanging upon him, and fibbing him in a way which, of
  all things ought to have been evaded. Sam was alive to all his
  advantages and availed himself of them in the most decisive manner,
  and in so short a time we have seldom witnessed more decided
  execution. If anything were wanting to prove the “patched up” state
  of Martin’s frame, it was the rapidity with which his eye puffed up
  from the effect of Sam’s left-handed hit, and the distress which he
  exhibited when he was placed on his second’s knee. It has been
  observed that after this he lost his temper, but to this we do not
  subscribe, as he came up with great coolness and courage. He had,
  however, sufficient reason to lose his confidence, which combined
  with the punishment he had received, led him to the wild efforts he
  subsequently made, and exposed him to the excellent generalship
  which Sam displayed—not only in averting his antagonist’s
  injudicious rushes, but in making the best of the openings which
  were offered. It is true that after the first round Sam’s work might
  be considered as done, but still he preserved his caution, did not
  throw his chance away, and finished his man in a very masterly
  manner. After the first round Martin was sick at stomach, and when
  all was over this was his principal complaint, for, though severely
  hit, we have seen him take five times the hitting with not one tithe
  of the effect. A good deal of regret was expressed that Martin
  should have had so signal a defeat added to his other mortification.
  We have only to look to the character of the men in the ring; and,
  in this view, to give Sam every credit for his milling talent, which
  we unhesitatingly pronounce of the first order. From the ring Martin
  was led to an adjoining cottage, where he was put to bed, and
  received every necessary attention. Previous to Martin quitting the
  ring Sam went up to him and begged him to shake hands. This Martin
  for a long time refused, but at last put up his hand coldly, and Sam
  promised to give him £10 of the battle-money. Sam dressed on the
  ground, and appeared as if nothing had happened. He returned to
  dinner at Shirley’s, and arrived in town the same night. Martin, on
  recovering went to the “Castle Inn,” and set off the same evening
  for Godalming, where he arrived alone at twelve o’clock at night and
  remained there. He was much depressed, and refused to see any person
  who called.


The battle-money was given up to Young Dutch Sam on the following
Thursday evening at Tom Cribb’s, in Panton Street, in the presence of a
full muster of the Fancy, and all bets were of course paid.

In the September following the defeat of Ned Neale by Baldwin
(White-headed Bob), Neale fought and defeated Nicholls, who had defeated
Acton, an opponent of Jem Ward. This match was for £100 a-side, and was
won by Neale in eighteen rounds and seventy-eight minutes. On the 2nd of
December, 1828, he beat Roche for £100 a-side, in thirty rounds,
occupying exactly half an hour, and was now without a competitor. At
this time Young Dutch Sam, who was in the zenith of his fame, was
naturally anxious still further to increase his reputation, and,
although he knew that Neale was a much heavier man than himself, he,
with a different feeling to that which is now but too prevalent, issued
a challenge to fight Ned, provided he would confine himself to 11st.
10lbs., he (Sam) undertaking not to exceed 11st. His fighting-weight was
declared to be under 10st. 10lbs., so that, in fact, he gave away at
least a stone. Neale, although his milling-weight was 12st. 4lbs.,
agreed to reduce himself to the stipulated 11st. 10lbs., the match was
made, and everything went forward satisfactorily, the battle exciting
intense interest.


    FIRST FIGHT BETWEEN YOUNG DUTCH SAM AND NEALE, FOR £100 A SIDE.

The battle took place on the 7th of April, 1829, at Ludlow, in
Shropshire, but, owing to the distance from the Metropolis, and the
difficulty of getting thence to the scene of action, did not attract
that crowd of London Particulars which the known capabilities of the men
would have undoubtedly attracted had it come off nearer home. The
inducement to the men to go so far afield seems to have been a sum of
£100 subscribed for them by the inhabitants of Ludlow.

Neale, it may be remembered, had but once found his master, and that in
the never-flinching Baldwin (White-headed Bob); and Sam, although not
quite so old a member of the pugilistic corps, had at this time never
been beaten.

Strong apprehensions were entertained that Neale, by reducing himself so
much below his fighting-weight, would weaken his frame, and give his
more youthful antagonist an advantage over him (apprehensions which were
fully justified by the result). Neale, however, did not participate in
this feeling, and, after a sparring tour, he set out for his training
quarters, at Milford, where, by constant labour, he gradually got off
his superfluous flesh, and, a few days before fighting, was five pounds
under the stipulated weight. This was certainly carrying the point too
far, and although Ned himself said he never was in better health, he was
forced to confess he did not feel so strong as when his weight was
greater. In point of spirits and confidence, it was impossible that he
could have been in better form, and he booked winning as a certainty. He
left Milford on Saturday, and proceeded direct by mail to Ludlow, where
he arrived on Sunday afternoon, under the convoy of a gallant Captain,
and the Portsmouth Dragsman, the well-known Will Scarlett. It is
needless to observe that such a journey so near upon the approaching
struggle was not consistent with strict prudence, but such was Neale’s
estimate of his opponent, and such his reliance on his own physical
powers, that he treated the remarks on this subject with levity, and
fancied the laurels of victory already entwining his brow. Young Sam,
who trained first at Staines, was not less attentive to his duties. He
was known to be in tip-top condition, and as sleek and active as a deer;
showing at the same time a confidence in his carriage not less obvious
than that of Neale. He said his game had been doubted, but the
approaching combat would show whether these doubts were well or ill
founded. He, more wisely than Neale, left London with his backers and
friends on Friday, slept at Worcester, and reached Bromfield, near
Ludlow, on Saturday, and there remained till the morning of fighting. He
was attended by Dick Curtis and some of his favourite pals, who lost no
opportunity of reminding him of those qualifications which he had so
often shown to advantage, and which, in fact, had obtained for him the
character of one of the prettiest fighters of the day. In point of age
there was but little difference, Sam being twenty-two, and Neale
twenty-five. In the course of Monday the town of Ludlow was all bustle
and gaiety, and the certainty that no apprehensions were to be
entertained from the officiousness of the beaks gave universal
satisfaction.

The ground chosen for the lists was admirably suited for the purpose,
and was situated upon the top of a hill, in Ludford Park, within a
hundred yards of the adjoining county of Hereford. The ring was formed
under the direction of Tom Oliver and his secretary, Frosty-faced Fogo,
in their very best style, and was encompassed by an extensive circle of
wagons, which were liberally contributed by the farmers in the
neighbourhood, who behaved like trumps on this occasion, and were heart
and hand in favour of the game.

On Tuesday morning the men were “up with the lark,” and having taken
their customary walks, laid in a few strata of mutton chops, and other
belly furniture, after which they submitted to the titivation of their
respective barbers, who turned them out as blooming as a couple of
primroses, and looking as well as the most sanguine hopes of their
friends could have desired. As the day advanced, the crowd thickened,
and all betook themselves to the ring-side. By twelve o’clock upwards of
5,000 persons were assembled. The weather partook of the varied
character of April—alternate showers and sunshine—but, on the whole, was
favourable.

At half-past eleven o’clock the men went to scale, and were both found
within their weight, Sam about 2lbs., and Neale full 4lbs., but neither
was weighed to a nicety. Neale, when stripped, looked extremely thin,
and excited the surprise of many who had seen him in the same town a few
weeks before in the full proportion of thirteen stone, and it was
evident that his admirers became less sweet upon his chances, for the
odds of two to one, which had been freely offered on the night before,
received a sudden check, and few were found to offer them.

Immediately after the weighing had taken place, the £100 promised to the
men was placed in the hands of a gentleman chosen by both, and thus the
good folks of Ludlow honourably performed their part of the contract.

Soon after twelve o’clock Neale and his friends set out for the ground
in a barouche and four, all sporting the blue bird’s-eye; while Sam,
also in a carriage and four, displaying a bright yellowman, with a
scarlet border, and a garter in the centre, surrounding the letters
D.S., and bearing the Latin inscription, “_Nil desperandum_,” was close
at his heels.

At ten minutes before one Sam entered the lists, attended by his backer
and Phil. Simpson and Dick Curtis, who was very lame, as his second and
bottle-holder. He was as gay as a lambkin, and remarked, as he paced
backwards and forwards, “It has been said that I am not game, but the
issue of this battle will prove whether this imputation is well or
ill-founded. I have made up my mind to take a bellyful, and let him who
first says ‘hold!’ be written down a coward.” There was nothing of
foolish bravado in his manner, but his demeanour was such as betokened a
man who felt the importance of the stake he had to play for, and the
consciousness that he should have his work to do. His friends
immediately offered to take £100 to £50, but there was no “done” in the
case. Sam was loudly cheered on his arrival, and a similar compliment
was paid to Neale, who soon approached, attended by Tom Spring and Harry
Holt. He was the picture of health and good humour, and it was pretty
clear that the last thought which found place in his breast was the
apprehension of defeat. He shook hands with Sam, and offered to bet £5
each on first blood, first knock-down, and the battle, but this was no
go. All was now fixed attention. The ring was admirably kept throughout
under the superintendence of the Fair-play Club Whipsters. The toss for
choice of position was won by Curtis for Sam.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On coming to the scratch, the frames of the men were open
  to general criticism. Sam was admirably proportioned and had a
  decided advantage in height and length of arm over his opponent. His
  muscles, too, were well developed, and we must say that a finer
  looking young fellow of his weight, age, and inches, has never
  entered the ring. Neale also looked well, and his broad shoulders
  and muscular arms betokened strength and vigour; but, taking him
  downwards from the waist, he was much thinner than he appeared in
  his former battles. Each threw his arms up, ready for attack or
  defence. Mutual feints were made for an opening, but both were on
  the alert. Sam poised himself on his left foot ready for a shoot,
  and kept working for mischief, but Ned stood well to his guard. At
  last Sam broke ground and planted his left slightly. Ned was with
  him, right and left, and rushed to a close. Sam stepped a little
  back, and jobbed him right and left as he came in. Ned grappled for
  the throw, when Sam caught him round the neck, and fibbed with great
  quickness. Ned stopped this game by seizing his arm, and endeavoured
  to get his favourite lock, and give him a cross-buttock, but Sam was
  too much on the _qui vive_, kept his legs well away, and at last
  both went down at the ropes, Ned under.

  2.—Again did each manœuvre for an opening, and show his readiness
  for defence by throwing up his guard when assault was offered. At
  length Ned rushed in, and planted his right on Sam’s head. Sam
  returned as quick as lightning, when Ned rushed to the close, and
  another trial for the fall took place, during which Sam fibbed
  slightly, and at last got Ned down.

  3.—Sam, elated, dodged on his left leg three or four times, and
  tried to pop in his left, but was prettily stopped. Ned broke away.
  Both sparred cautiously. Good stopping, right and left, by both men.
  Ned now finding that nothing was to be done at long bowls, rushed
  in, planted one of his right-handed slashers on Sam’s left cheek,
  and then, boring Sam to the ropes, shoved him across them, chopping
  with his fists as he lay, and this he continued till Sam fell on the
  ground, amidst cries of “foul,” and “fair,” but no exception was
  taken.

  4.—Sam came up rather flushed in the physog, and looked serious.
  Sam, steady, tried again for his favourite plunge with the left, but
  Ned stopped him in good style, and then rushing in, hit Sam down
  with a left-hander on his bird-call. (First knock-down blow for Ned;
  and a cry of first blood, but none was forthcoming from Sam’s
  dominoes, although pointed at.)

  5.—Ned again bored, and planted a blow on Sam’s mouth, but had it
  beautifully, right and left, in return. Ned now closed, and tried
  once more for the fall. Sam, ready, fibbed prettily, and in the end,
  Ned, finding it would not do, slipped down.

  6.—Both their mugs flushed from hitting, and both looked serious.
  Ned stopped Sam’s left, when Sam tried left and right in succession,
  both hitting away in a beautiful rally, and each receiving pepper,
  but the balance against Ned. Sam delivered a stinging upper-cut as
  Ned got away. After a pause, both again fought to a rally, in which
  the nobbing was heavy. In the close, Sam hit up, and Ned got down.

  7.—Little time was lost in going to work, and a beautiful rally was
  fought, in which hit followed hit in rapid succession. Sam’s blows
  were delivered with most precision, and Ned’s right ogle began to
  swell, while first blood was visible on his nose. Sam looked wild,
  and a swelling on his temple showed that Ned’s operations had not
  been without effect. Sam’s upper-cuts in this round were excellent,
  and Ned went down weak; he had clearly reduced his ordinary
  strength, and was altogether out in his wrestling calculations, as
  Sam was too quick, and, when seized, too firm on his pins for a
  clear throw.

  8.—Ned’s face much altered and swollen, and Sam’s jowl puffy. Sam
  dodged for his left, and planted it neatly on Ned’s smeller. Ned
  rushed in, and forced back Sam to the ropes. Sam caught him round
  the neck, and hit up. Ned slipped down.

  9.—Ned distilling claret from his snuffler, and rather abroad. Sam,
  ready, jumped in and jobbed him right and left, and Ned was down,
  bleeding at all points. Sam decidedly the best out-fighter, and
  betting even.

  10.—Sam steady to his guard. Ned finding no chance at out-fighting,
  rushed in, his right hand passing over Sam’s shoulder. Sam grasped
  him round the neck, and hit up with great severity. Ned went down.

  11.—Ned rushed in, planted left and right-hand round hits, and, in
  getting back, fell.

  12.—Ned rattled in with his left, but received a heavy counter-hit
  on the nose. In the trial for the fall, both went down, Ned on his
  back, Sam on him.

  13.—Ned again rushed in, and planted his left on Sam’s throat, but
  in return, Sam jobbed him right and left, with dreadful effect and
  precision, and in the end Ned fell.

  14.—Sam put in a left-handed snorter. Ned fought wildly, and, in
  coming in, received the upper-cut, and fell.

  15.—The odds were now in favour of Sam and the fight had lasted half
  an hour. Ned hit short with his left, when good counter-hits with
  the right were exchanged; both had it heavily, and Ned got down.

  16.—Sam tried to plant his left, but was stopped; the blow was not
  well home. Ned retreated, Sam following him rapidly, and Ned
  stopping right and left. Ned at last fell, weak.

  17.—Ned came up a little fresher, and well on his legs, but Sam was
  too quick for him, and popped in his left and right. He then
  retreated, Ned following him up, when Sam gave him a severe
  upper-cut. Ned seized his arm to prevent repetition, and after a
  struggle at the ropes, both went down, Sam uppermost.

  18.—Ned stopped Sam’s left very scientifically, and planted his
  right in exchange. Sam, not dismayed, drew back a step, and then
  plunging in, caught Ned left and right as he approached, and hitting
  up very heavily, Ned got down.

  19.—Good stops on both sides. Ned closed for the fall, and after a
  struggle, both went down.

  20.—Good counter-hits, right and left. Ned rushed in, when Sam
  seized him round the neck, and gave him a couple of heavy
  upper-cuts. In the trial for the fall, both down, Ned under.

  21.—Ned stopped Sam’s right and left, and after a short spar, Sam
  rushed in to work. Ned retreated, and actually turned round and
  bolted, to get away from his impetuosity. Sam still persevering, Ned
  went down, amidst some grumbling, and cries of “Sam, it’s all your
  own.”

  22.—Good stopping by both, when Ned planted his right, and, in
  retreating, fell.

  23.—Ned popped in his right at the body, but had a nobber in return.
  Good scientific stopping on both sides, when Ned popped in his right
  on Sam’s muzzle. Sam rushed in to deliver tit for tat, but Ned got
  down.

  24.—Ned made his left on Sam’s mouth, but received a severe return
  on the right eye. Hits were then exchanged, rather in favour of Sam,
  who hit Ned down with a right-hander. Ned lay at full length on his
  back till picked up by his seconds, and his face exhibited severe
  marks of punishment, both eyes black, and his right all but closed.

  25.—Ned stopped Sam’s left, and fought on the retreat. Sam followed
  him up, jobbing him right and left, and Ned soon went down at the
  ropes any how.

  26.—Sam stopped Ned’s right and left, and, retreating, met Ned with
  the upper-cut as he followed with his head inclined. Sam’s style of
  fighting was the admiration of the ring; he was ready at all points.
  Ned went down.

  27.—Sam jobbed with his left. In a second effort his left was
  stopped, but he planted his right on Ned’s jaw. Ned, in getting
  away, fell, amidst cries of “foul,” but again the umpires saw
  nothing to grumble at; indeed, there never was less disposition to
  take frivolous advantage.

  28.—Ned stopped Sam’s first attack, but in a weaving bout which
  followed he had the worst of it, and went down.

  29.—Ned showed his scientific powers of defence, stopping as he
  retreated. Sam, however, pursued his assault, planted his right and
  left, and hit Ned out of the ring. Two to one on Sam.

  30.—Sam rushed in to punish, when Ned slipped on his knees.

  31.—Heavy hits exchanged, right and left. In the close, both down.

  32.—Right-handed hits exchanged. Sam retreated, but met Ned with the
  upper-cut as he came in, and, in the close, Ned pulled him down.

  33.—Ned rushed in rather wild. Sam again gave him the upper-cut, and
  Ned went down.

  34.—Ned rushed in wildly. Sam retreated, and met him with the
  upper-cut right and left. Ned, still game, would not be denied, and
  hit out desperately with his right, but it went over Sam’s shoulder.
  His hits were not straight, and consequently, did not tell with half
  the effect of Sam’s. In the close, he went down.

  35.—Ned, still game as a pebble, though woefully punished, rushed in
  to fight, and caught Sam a nasty one with his left on the mouth.
  Sam, ready, returned left and right, and hit Ned down with his left.

  36.—It was now evident that nothing but an accident could deprive
  Sam of victory; but still Ned was not beaten in spirit. In this
  round counter-hits with the right were exchanged, and Ned went down,
  thereby avoiding a severe slap from Sam’s right.

  37.—Ned, still resolved to do his best, jobbed prettily with his
  left on Sam’s mouth. Counter-hitting. Sam had it again on the
  whistler, which began to pout most uncouthly, while the left side of
  his face was considerably swollen. He was not idle, planted his
  left, and Ned went down.

  38.—Sam came up rather stupefied from the hits on his mouth in the
  last round, and was bleeding freely from his grinder-case. Ned went
  to work right and left, but was well stopped. He would not be
  denied, but rushed in, when Sam gave him his favourite upper-cut,
  and Ned went down bleeding and dark in the right ogle, the left
  greatly swollen.

  39.—Sam kept a respectful distance, and hit short. Ned rattled in,
  but hit open-handed. Sam planted a couple of good nobbers. Ned down.

  40.—A good peppering rally, both had it, but Ned went down.

  41.—Ned, still trying his utmost, made an admirable delivery on
  Sam’s left eye, with a cross-hit from his left. Sam winked and
  blinked unutterable things, and Ned’s friends were again shouting
  for victory. A reprieve to a trembling culprit could not have been
  more welcome. Ned followed up this with a right-handed smack on the
  mouth, receiving the left in return, and going down.

  42.—A good rally, Ned stopped uncommonly well, though dreadfully
  punished, and was still good on his pins. Spirited fighting on both
  sides, which ended in Ned going down. The fight had now lasted one
  hour, and the hopes of Ned’s friends were kept alive that he would
  ultimately wear Sam out, which was clearly the game he was playing,
  although Sam had the best of the fighting.

  43.—Ned’s right hand was much puffed, but his left was still sound,
  as he proved to Sam by planting another cross-hit on his mouth. Sam
  returned the compliment by a terrific job with his right, and
  another with his left. He then gave the upper-cut with his right,
  then with his left, as Ned was going down. Sam’s style of fighting
  was still the admiration of the throng, while Neale’s determined
  game was equally the theme of praise.

  44.—Counter-hitting, and a rally, in which Ned got more pepper, and
  went down weak.

  45.—Ned popped in two excellent jobs with his left on Sam’s mouth,
  and went down.

  46.—Sam was awake to the renewed energies of Ned’s left, and stopped
  it neatly. Ned rattled away. Sam retired, tried the upper-hit, but
  missed, most fortunately for Ned, who fell.

  47.—Sam caught another poser from Ned’s left on the conversational,
  and looked more than surprised. Sam again missed his upper-hit,
  being out of distance, and Ned went down.

  48.—Sam rather abroad, though still steady on his pins. He bled
  considerably at the mouth. Ned cautious, when Sam, after a short
  pause, rushed in and delivered his one two heavily on Ned’s
  canister, who dropped almost stupefied, and many thought it was all
  up; but not so, Sam had yet much to do.

  49.—Ned went in to hit with his left, and that was stopped, and he
  went down.

  50.—Ned planted his left, while Sam missed his upper-cut, and Ned
  dropped.

  51.—Sam jobbed with his left, and, rushing in, hit up. In the close,
  both down, Sam uppermost.

  52.—Ned popped in his left once more. In retreating, Sam rushed to
  punish, and Ned got down.

  53 and 54.—Counter-hitting in both rounds. Ned down.

  55.—From this to the 62nd round, Ned always commenced fighting, but
  Sam was quick in his returns, and Ned invariably went down. Nothing
  but a miracle, it was thought, could save Ned, and, indeed, the
  severity of his punishment, and the fast closing of his left eye,
  seemed to forbid even the shadow of a hope; still his heart was
  good, and he continued to come up.

  63.—Sam jobbed right and left. Ned did not shrink, but, boring in,
  delivered another heavy smack on Sam’s mouth, and drew more crimson.
  Renewed shouts for Ned. Sam rushed in, and Ned went down.

  64.—The long exposure to the cold air, as well as the profuse use of
  cold water, seemed now considerably to affect Sam, and he trembled
  violently. Ned seeing this, rushed in and delivered right and left.
  Sam was quick in his return, but Ned fell, and Sam tumbled over him.

  65.—Ned popped in his right, but got a severe upper-cut in return,
  and went down.

  66.—Sam, ready, though cold, met Ned as he came in, caught his head
  in chancery, and fibbed till he got down. From this to the 71st
  round, although Ned tried every manœuvre in his power, Sam had the
  best of the hitting, and Ned always got down. Still these exertions
  seemed to be exhausting Sam, and although every care was taken of
  him by his seconds, he got rather groggy at this point. It was
  remarked that chance might yet turn the scale in Ned’s favour. Sam,
  however, rallied himself, and, though apparently weak when on his
  second’s knee, on being placed at the scratch, resumed his
  self-command, met his man bravely, and planted several severe hits.
  To the last Ned stopped well, but in the 78th round received a
  finishing jobbing hit with the right on his left eye, and fell in a
  state of stupefaction. Every effort was made to restore him, but in
  vain, and when time was called, Sam was pronounced the victor,
  amidst the most triumphant shouts. Ned was totally blind, while Sam
  was enabled to walk to his carriage, but his punishment was severe
  on the left side of his head. There were scarcely any body blows
  during the fight, which lasted one hour and forty-one minutes.

  REMARKS.—We have been thus minute in detailing the rounds of this
  fight as it excited an extraordinary degree of interest among the
  betting circles. Neale was such a favourite on Monday and Tuesday
  evening that he was actually backed at three and four to one; a
  degree of confidence in his merits to be ascribed, we think, rather
  to a supposed want of pluck in Sam, than to any superior fighting
  points on the part of Ned, who, although a game man, and known to
  possess a good deal of ready resource in the ring, has no
  pretensions to be what is called a fine fighter. Whatever might have
  been the grounds for want of confidence in Sam, however, they seemed
  to have been strangely out of character, for he not only showed
  himself a quicker and more scientific fighter than Ned, but proved
  that he was equally possessed of courageous qualities; in fact, he
  never showed the slightest inclination to say “Nay.” When before his
  man he was ready at all points, and, by the quickness with which he
  took advantage of every opening, showed that he was perfectly cool
  and collected, and even when most punished would not throw a chance
  away. Of his weight there is not a man in the country who can cope
  with him, and, by his victory over Neale he has ranked himself
  deservedly high in the list of pugilists of the age, while he proved
  himself to be a true “chip of the old block.” Of Neale too much
  cannot be said in favour of his bravery and perseverance. It was
  clear, from the very first round, that the reduction of his weight,
  and especially so much below the necessary standard, had also
  brought down his strength, and that those closes, which with Cannon,
  Baldwin, Jem Burn, and Nicholls, were so effective, with Sam were of
  no avail. In fact, in Sam he found a man as strong as, and certainly
  more active, than himself, and the only chance which was left him to
  save his honour, and his friends’ money, was by endeavouring to take
  advantage of that chapter of accidents, which, in the course of a
  protracted fight, are often found to produce a fatal change where
  victory seems most inclined to rest. Neale was blamed for going down
  so often, but it was his only game, and we need not say he fought to
  win. It was admitted on all hands that a better fight has not been
  witnessed for many years.


Neale did not appear at all satisfied with this first defeat by Sam, and
therefore issued a challenge for a fresh trial. A good deal of disputing
took place as to terms, but after many angry meetings a match was at
length made, which it was determined should come off on the 1st of
December, 1829, Sam staking £220 to £200. Previous to the eventful day,
however, Sam was grabbed and bound over to keep the peace. There was an
immense deal of fending and proving, recrimination and abuse, on both
sides. A postponement was, however, inevitable, and it was at length
agreed that the fight should take place on the 18th of January, 1831, on
which day, accordingly, the gallant battle, of which the following is an
account, came off at Bumpstead, in Essex.

Sam’s victory in the first battle was by Neale’s friends attributed to
the fact of Neale being reduced twelve pounds below his natural weight,
while Sam’s friends, on the contrary, claimed all the credit of superior
science and generalship, persuaded as they were that on the day of
battle Sam was by no means up to the mark in point of condition. In
order to set these doubts at rest, there were no restrictions on either
side in making the second match, and thus the respective qualifications
of the men were fairly brought to the test, the extra weight of Neale
being placed in the scale against the superior science of Sam. Thus
balanced, the general opinion of the sporting world was that a more
equal match could not have been made, and of this feeling the betting
throughout was characteristic, for with slight fluctuations, in which
Sam was the favourite at guineas to pounds, the betting was even. It was
thought, from the friends of Sam being members of high Society, and his
following including several noble and aristocratic backers, that the
odds on him would have advanced to five and six to four; but they were
steady to their point, and rather than advance beyond the nice limits of
their calculation they remained stationary. In point of stakes Neale had
a decided advantage, for what between forfeits from Sam’s apprehension
and _laches_, and a hundred guineas given on one occasion by Sam for a
postponement, he had received back £165 of the original stakes of £220
put down, so that in point of fact Sam was fighting £365 to £55.

Sam won the toss which entitled him to choose the place of fighting; he
named Newmarket as “headquarters,” and proceeded thither himself on the
Wednesday before the mill, taking up his residence at the “White Hart.”
Neale, who had been training at the Isle of Wight, on the Monday before
fighting proceeded to the “Swan,” at Balsham, within six miles of
headquarters, where he pitched his tent till the next day.

The road down to Newmarket, both on Sunday and Monday, exhibited
considerable bustle, but the Londoners were by no means so numerous as
might have been expected; still the town was crowded, and all the inns
had a fair proportion of visitors. The “White Hart” especially was
thronged to overflow, the friends of Sam being decidedly more numerous
than those of Neale, and the display of his colours (the bright
yellowman) gave a lively finish to the scene.

On Monday evening it was arranged that the ring should be formed in a
field a short distance beyond Burrough Green, about seven miles from
Newmarket, whither the Commissary and his assistants proceeded to make
the necessary arrangements.

On Tuesday morning the rapid arrivals of swells and commoners from all
parts of the surrounding country gave additional life to Newmarket; many
had travelled 100 miles, and the towns of Birmingham, Nottingham,
Norwich, and even Liverpool and Manchester, had numerous
representatives. All the post-horses were in requisition, and the
turn-out of drags was highly respectable, but the equestrians were by
far the most numerous. At an early hour Sam, accompanied by Holt and
Curtis, set out for a farmhouse close to the ring, where they met with
the most hospitable reception. Thither they were followed by the
toddlers in great force, and as the day advanced a general move took
place in the same direction. Neale and his friends were seen in the
cavalcade, and by 12 o’clock the approaches to Burrough Green were
occupied by a dense mass of spectators, the distant view of the ring,
surrounded as it was by thousands, filling them with happy anticipations
of the sport. A sudden stop, however, of the advanced guard produced a
general feeling of alarm, which was confirmed by the report that a beak
was abroad; and in truth it was soon announced that Mr. Eaton, a
magistrate of the Quorum, had appeared, and declared his fixed
determination to prevent hostilities, either in Cambridgeshire or in the
adjoining county of Suffolk. This was, indeed, a damper, and the cry of
“no fight” became general. Every effort was made to soften the heart of
his worship, but in vain; he had determined to do his duty. At length,
finding resistance to such a mandate would be not only absurd but
dangerous, it was resolved that a move should take place into the county
of Essex, a farmer at Bumpstead having kindly offered a field for the
accommodation of the belligerents. This resolution was soon communicated
to the multitude, and a simultaneous advance of horse and foot was
commenced amidst a general feeling of mortification, which was increased
by a change in the weather for the worse, the bright rays of the sun
having given way to the gloomy influence of murky and dark clouds. The
vicissitudes attending the march were numerous and characteristic, many
of the toddlers were bowled out, and some of the cattle which had come
from long distances were completely knocked up, so that the throng, on
reaching the given goal, although still immense, was stripped of much of
its original proportions.

The Commissary lost no time in fixing the lists afresh, which were soon
surrounded by a larger circle of horsemen than we ever remember on
former occasions, behind which were ranged the carriages and gigs, the
wagon train being, of course, completely thrown out. The men arrived by
the time everything was ready, Sam attended by Dick Curtis and Harry
Holt, and Ned waited on by Tom Spring and Tom Oliver. Sam first entered
the mystic quadrangle miscalled “the ring,” and was quickly followed by
Ned.

At half-past three both were stripped. Neale looked uncommonly well, his
skin clear and healthful, his eye brilliant, and his weight 12st. 4lbs.
Take him for all in all, we think it impossible a man could have been in
better trim. With respect to Sam, he looked as fine as a racehorse;
every muscle showed to advantage, and the symmetry of his frame and fine
proportions of his bust were particularly conspicuous. In height and
length of arm he had an evident advantage over Neale, although his
weight was but 11st. 2lb. The important moment for commencing operations
at length arrived; the ring had been beaten out, and was in excellent
order, and at thirty-two minutes after three business commenced.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On coming to the scratch both looked serious; there was
  nothing of idle bravado on either side. The position of each was the
  defensive—the hands well up, and the manner confident. Each seemed
  desirous for his antagonist to commence, and a long pause followed.
  Sam made one or two of his dodging feints, but Ned simply threw up
  his guard. Absolute silence prevailed round the ring. Sam at last
  hit slightly at Ned’s body, and Neale sprang back. Sam tried his
  left short, but Neale again threw up his right, and was well on his
  guard. At last Sam let fly his left, catching Ned slightly on his
  nob. Ned countered with his right, and this brought them to a rally,
  in which facers were exchanged right and left. Neale bored in; Sam
  retreated, fighting, to the ropes, against which he was forced.
  Neale then closed, and a struggle took place for the fall, which
  Neale obtained, falling heavily on Sam in a cross-buttock. Neale’s
  friends were loud in their cheers, but on rising the marks of Sam’s
  right on Ned’s left eye were obvious from a slight swelling, while
  Sam showed a blushing tinge also on each cheek. In the hitting Sam
  had the best, and while in fibbed prettily.

  2.—Both men again assumed the defensive, Ned waiting for Sam, and
  Sam trying to get an opening, but for some time in vain. At last Sam
  let fly with his left, and Neale countered, but not effectually. A
  smart rally followed, in which Neale was hit heavily left and right.
  Good fighting on both sides. Sam fought to the ropes, but got well
  out, and again went to the attack with quickness and precision. Ned
  hit with him, but not so much at points. All head-work. At last Sam
  planted his left well on Neale’s mug as he was on the move, and
  dropped him prettily on his nether end, amidst loud shouts of
  applause, thus winning the first knock-down. Neale, on coming up
  showed a flushed phiz, and Sam exhibited trifling marks of
  additional hitting on the face.

  3.—Again both cautious. Neale stopped Sam’s left with neatness, but
  had it in a second effort. He returned with his right. Neale popped
  in his left cleverly on Sam’s mouth. Good counter-hitting followed,
  left and right. Sam had it on the left ear, and Neale on the left
  eye, which increased in swelling. A spirited and determined rally,
  in which Sam swung round on his leg, and then renewed the attack.
  Neale rushed to the charge. Sam endeavoured to get from his grasp,
  and fibbed at his nob. Neale, however, seized him round the waist,
  lifted him from the ground, and threw him heavily. The exertion on
  both sides was great. Neale, though most punished, was loudly
  cheered by his friends, and was now the favourite from his superior
  strength; he however, showed first blood, giving Sam the second
  point.

  4.—Sam on coming up began to blow a little and was clearly on the
  pipe, from the exertion in the last round; he was steady, however,
  and both kept on the defensive. Neale tried his left, but was short,
  catching Sam under the right eye. Sam, ready returned with his left,
  but Neale jumped away. Each tried to plant his left, but without
  success. The stopping was excellent. Long sparring. Sam popped in
  his left, and Neale countered. A rally, in which Sam shook the
  pepper-box in good style. Both were rather wild, and in the end fell
  from their own exertions on their hands and knees. Ned in this round
  tried his right-handed chopper, but hitting round it went over Sam’s
  shoulder.

  5.—Sam having caught it on the nose in the last round, came up with
  his eye watering and blinking. Neale tried to pop in his right but
  was beautifully stopped. Ned put in a left-handed nobber, but had it
  in return on the neck. Ned stopped the left of Sam with the effect
  of a brick wall, and caught him on the shoulder with his left. Both
  awake, and the slaps and returns excellent. A pause. Sam put in his
  left on Ned’s body and made him curtsey. The blow was rather short.
  Ned stopped right and left and made a chopping return with his
  right, which caught Sam on the right side of his mouth. Had he been
  an inch nearer, the effect would have been severe, and as it was it
  made Sam look serious. Both again on their guard, and each waiting
  for the attack. Ned again stopped the left and tried his return, but
  his blow shot over Sam’s shoulder, and his arm caught him on the
  neck. Sam put in his right, and a spirited rally followed. Neale
  bored him to the ropes, but Sam hit as he retreated, and broke away.
  Ned, after him, closed, and tried for the fall. He could not succeed
  in getting the lock. Sam kept his pins wide apart, and each grasped
  the other’s neck. Holt cried to Sam to go down, and Sam at last fell
  on his knees, Neale falling over him.

  6.—Neale again on the waiting system stopped Sam’s left-handed lunge
  with great precision. Ned hit out with his left, and in a rally
  heavy blows were exchanged. Neale again missed his right-handed
  lugger, which went over Sam’s shoulder. He then rushed to the close,
  but Sam began to fib. Neale pinioned his arms, and at last, finding
  he was wasting his strength, went down himself, Sam upon him. On
  getting up Neale exclaimed, “You may punch me as much as you like,
  but don’t put your finger in my eye;” alluding to Sam’s touching his
  eye when on the ground.

  7.—Neale again kept his hands well up, and waited for the attack. He
  stopped a slashing hit from Sam’s left. Sam tried his left again,
  but did not get home. Neale dashed in right and left, and a terrific
  rally followed. Severe counter-hitting took place, Sam catching it
  on the nose, from which blood was drawn, and the side of the head
  and neck, and Neale on the nose, mouth, and both eyes. Sam retreated
  to the ropes, but still hit with vigour, and ultimately shifted his
  ground and got away. Neale rushed after him, and the flush-hitting
  was repeated. Both men strained every nerve. At last Neale jumped in
  to catch Sam for the fall; Sam received him in his arms and fibbed.
  Neale pinioned him, and finding he could not gain the throw, fell.
  On getting up both showed additional marks of punishment as well as
  distress. The fighting had been extremely fast, and the wind of both
  was touched. Sam, especially, piped; but was still steady and
  collected. Neale’s left eye was nearly closed, a slight glimmer only
  being open.

  8.—Ned pursued his system of waiting, and again stopped Sam’s
  left-handed lunge beautifully, and almost immediately caught Sam a
  left-handed chop on the mouth, which he repeated. Sam looked
  serious, but shortly after put in his left on Ned’s body. A severe
  rally followed. The hitting on both sides was quick and effective.
  Sam caught a desperate hit on the neck from Ned’s arm, which almost
  put it awry. Nevertheless, he fought fearlessly, gave Ned a smasher
  on the mouth, and closed. After a struggle, both went down, and Sam,
  being raised on his second’s knee, was faint and sick; his colour
  changed, and he was clearly in a ticklish state. Ned’s friends
  called out he was going, and urged Ned, in the next round, to go in
  and finish. Ned was himself, however, piping, and distressed from
  punishment.

  9.—On being brought to the scratch, Sam was weak and groggy on his
  legs. “Go in,” cried Ned’s friends, but he did not obey the call. He
  was himself in such a state as to be incapable of making this effort
  with safety. At last Ned rushed in, hitting with his right, which
  went over Sam’s shoulder, and caught him on the back of the head.
  Sam retreated to the ropes, Ned after him, but here Sam showed his
  quickness, even in distress. He hit away with precision, right and
  left, catching Ned flush in the mug. At last both got from the
  ropes, and after a sharp rally and close, Neale went down.

  10.—Ned made himself up for mischief, and after stopping Sam’s left,
  got into a desperate rally. The hitting was severe on both sides,
  but Sam’s muzzlers told most. The men got on the ropes, where a hard
  struggle took place, Ned leaning heavily on Sam, and Sam hitting
  away, while Neale was not idle. At last both went down, Ned
  uppermost. Sam was now more distressed than ever, and all hands were
  very busy in fanning him with their hats.

  11.—Sam came up evidently weak. Ned pushed in and hit right and
  left. Sam was bored to the ropes, and Ned kept hitting away, but
  wild. Sam, though distressed, jobbed with vigour, left and right.
  Ned got away, and Sam was after him. A spirited rally, and both
  fought boldly, but Sam had the best of the hitting. In the close,
  Sam fibbed, and Ned, finding he could do no good, got down, heavily
  punished, his left eye quite gone, and his right fast closing, while
  the claret trickled from a tap on the top of his head.

  12.—Ned came up steady, but cautious; and Sam, though somewhat
  groggy, was well on his guard. Ned put in his right on Sam’s body,
  and succeeded in jobbing him twice on the mouth with his left. A
  rally, in which both caught nobbers, but Ned the worst of it, from
  Sam’s strength. At last Ned caught a flush hit on the mouth and,
  falling on the ground, rolled over, weak.

  13.—Sam came up more collected, and commenced the attack with his
  left, which Ned stopped. Sam, after trying a feint to bring Ned out,
  gave him a tremendous hit on the swollen eye, drawing more of the
  ruby, and the light was again partially restored. After a slight
  rally, Ned closed for the fall, but could not get his lock. He at
  last pulled Sam down, and fell himself.

  14, and last.—Both weak, but steady. Ned tried his right, but his
  hand opened, and no damage was done. Sam countered beautifully with
  his left, and put in his right at the body. Good fighting on both
  sides. Ned again put in his right at the body. A pause; both on
  their guard. Neale distilling claret from many points. Another short
  rally, and both away; Sam getting more steady and collected, but
  still disinclined to throw a chance away by trying too much. He hit
  short at the body to see whether Ned could return, and Ned returned
  weak with his right, and his hand open. Another pause, in which
  neither seemed capable of doing much. Ned kept his hands well up for
  some time, but appeared too cautious for a rush. At last Sam hit out
  left and right, catching Ned on the phiz. This was the finisher. Ned
  dropped, and, on being again picked up, his head fell, and he
  slipped from his second’s knee. He was stupefied by the repeated
  hits on his head, and could not be again brought to the scratch. Sam
  was now well on his legs, and the welcome sound of victory restored
  all his vigour. The shouts of his friends were deafening. He was
  borne off in triumph, after shaking hands with his vanquished but
  gallant antagonist, whose tie-up was quicker than had been
  anticipated, but it was clear that he had received enough to satisfy
  an ordinary glutton, even before the last round, and he had not
  strength enough to make a turn in his favour. The ring was instantly
  broken and it was some minutes before Ned could be brought to his
  carriage. The fight concluded at 24 minutes after 4 o’clock, thus
  making its duration 52 minutes.

  REMARKS.—This was decidedly one of the best styles of fights for
  science and good generalship. It was admitted that Neale never
  fought so well before, but the superior length and tact of Sam gave
  him every advantage. It was remarked in counter-hitting, that Sam
  always caught Neale first, so that the force of Neale’s blows was
  diminished; added to this, all Neale’s heavy lunging hits at Sam’s
  ear passed over his shoulder, and this saved him from certain
  destruction. Had the return in the fifth round been an inch nearer,
  it was thought Sam’s jaw would have been broken. In the 9th round,
  too, could Neale have summoned strength to make an impression, his
  chances would have been certain, but what Sam had lost by exertions,
  Neale wanted in hitting. The precision and straightness of Sam’s
  blows told with unerring certainty; even when piping, and in
  distress, his presence of mind never left him. He was always ready
  for opportunities, and invariably seized them with success.
  Throughout, the battle was fair and honourable. There was no
  wrangling or dispute, with the exception of Holt once having thrown
  himself in the way of Sam to prevent his falling; and even those who
  lost their blunt could not but confess that Neale did all that his
  natural powers permitted. Neale was himself dreadfully mortified by
  the result of this battle. Sam fully confirmed his claim to the
  title of the Young Phenomenon, and, of his weight, was considered
  without a rival.


Two years now elapsed, during which Sam was chiefly heard of as a “man
about town,” and the boon companion of a clique of young swells noted
for their exploits in the night-houses of the Haymarket and the saloons
of Piccadilly, then in all their rank, riot, and disorder. He was then
pitted against Harry Preston, but owing to magisterial interference, was
apprehended and bound over to keep the peace for six months, and
Preston’s friends being unwilling to wait so long, a draw took place.

In the interim, Ned Neale, his last opponent, had been defeated by Tom
Gaynor (_See_ life of NEALE, _ante_, p. 325), and that boxer,
immediately on the expiry of Sam’s recognisances, challenged him for
£100 a-side. This Sam’s friends declared insufficient, but proposed that
Sam should fight the Bond Street carpenter for £300 to £200. The offer
was closed with, and the mill came off, after several attempts made by
the authorities to put a stop to it, on the 24th of June, 1834, near
Andover, Wilts. It appeared that a warrant was obtained from Sir John
Gibbon, to apprehend both men. This came to their ears, and they each
had to make several moves, the persevering constable who held the
warrant contriving on several occasions to find them out, and get his
warrant backed by the magistrates in the neighbourhood of their places
of retirement. The men, however, on the day before fighting, cautiously
approached the trysting-place (Hurstbourne Green, near Andover). Here
they were pursued by the constable with his warrant, which he again got
backed; but by some “unfortunate accident” (?) he fell into bad company,
got drunk, and lost his warrant, a fact he did not discover until he
became sober the following morning, when he went off to obtain a fresh
warrant. This he succeeded in doing, but owing to the secrecy which had
been observed as to the place of fighting, he did not discover it until
the men had been fighting some time; and then, after making a vain
effort to interfere, he judged discretion the better part of valour, and
having done his duty so far as he was able, he retired from the
ring-side, and did not again endeavour to spoil sport.

The men and their friends set off from Andover at an early hour for the
scene of action, but owing to the caution it was found necessary to
exert to keep things dark, the heroes of the day did not reach their
tilting ground till 12 o’clock, when Sam entered the ring attended by
Dick Curtis and Frank Redmond, Gaynor being seconded by Jem Ward and
Deaf Burke. The ring was preserved admirably throughout the day, and
nothing was left to be desired by the men or their friends.

On stripping, Sam looked uncommonly well, although his friends said he
might have been better had not his presence in town for a few days when
at his best, become necessary, in consequence of an action-at-law in
which he was engaged. To the casual observer this was not visible, and
his fine muscular and symmetrical form never appeared to better
advantage, while his countenance displayed the utmost self-possession
and personal confidence. His weight was about 11st. Gaynor also appeared
in admirable trim, and was not less confident than Sam, although there
was more solidity in his manner. His round shoulders offered a striking
contrast to the elegant proportions of Sam, and gave him the appearance
of a natural stoop, but in all other respects his shape was faultless,
and his condition of the first character. He did not seem to have a
superfluous ounce of flesh on his body, and weighed as nearly as
possible 12st. In length of arm, Sam had the advantage, and the
discrepancy in years (Gaynor having the disadvantage of ten years) was
sufficiently obvious. So “nutty” were Sam’s friends on their man at this
moment, that the odds rose from two to one to five to two, and at this
price much business was done.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Precisely at 7 minutes to 1 the men commenced business.
  Both put up their hands in a defensive position, and eyed each other
  with scrutinising looks. Each was ready, and appeared to wait for
  his antagonist to commence. Sam made two or three slight dodges, and
  Gaynor drew back. Each moved to the right and to the left, but still
  no opening was offered. The movements on a chess-board could not
  have been more scientific. At last Gaynor hit out at the body with
  his left, and got away. Sam stopped the compliment, and smiled.
  After a long pause, they both made themselves up for mischief, and
  at last ended suspense by slashing out their counter-hits with the
  left, Gaynor planting on Sam’s jaw, and Sam on Gaynor’s mouth, which
  showed a prominent mark. The blows were heavy, and while first blood
  was drawn from Gaynor, Sam licked his lips, but certainly not with
  the _goût_ of a cat over a pat of butter. Another pause, when
  counter-hits with the right were exchanged. Sam stopped Gaynor’s
  left with great neatness, but in a second effort with the same
  hands, in the counter-hitting, Sam caught it over the mouth, while
  Gaynor had it on the left cheek. “How do you like that?” cried
  Gaynor, laughing. Sam looked serious. Gaynor dodged, but found Sam
  ready for a fly, and drew back. Gaynor stopped Sam’s left, and tried
  his right at the body, but was short. Sam hit out with his left, but
  was short. A long spar, in which each seemed determined not to throw
  a chance away. Gaynor hit short with his right, open-handed. Sam
  smiled. Tom again stopped a nasty one from the left, and popped in
  his right slightly at the body. Sam played a steady game, and drew
  on his man. Gaynor on the look-out, retired to the side of the ring.
  Both extremely cautious. At last Sam saw his opportunity, and with
  great quickness sent in his left, with plenty of elbow grease, on
  Gaynor’s nob, and dropped him as if shot, thus giving first
  knock-down, amidst the shouts of his friends. This round, which was
  admirable, from the exquisite science of the men, lasted ten
  minutes.

  2.—On being called to the scratch, Gaynor came up bleeding at the
  mouth, and Sam showing symptoms of receiving on his lips and cheek.
  After long and cautious sparring, neither giving a chance, Gaynor
  suddenly planted his right on the side of Sam’s head. Cheers for
  Gaynor, who thus stole a successful march. Sam was not behind in
  returning the compliment, and after a short time for reflection,
  popped in a tremendous slap on Gaynor’s mouth with his left.
  Gaynor’s blow, in countering, passed over Sam’s shoulder. Another
  cautious spar, when Gaynor hit short with his left. Heavy
  counter-hits, Sam on the mouth, Gaynor on the left eye. Sam dropped
  his left on Gaynor’s ribs, and got away. Sam in left and right, but
  rather out of distance. Gaynor stopped his left in another shy, as
  well as a hit at his body. Another pause, each on the look-out, when
  terrific counter-hits with the left were exchanged. Gaynor pointed
  at Sam’s mouth, which had tasted his knuckles, but he had it heavily
  himself on the cheek. Excellent stops on both sides, Gaynor planted
  a round blow on the side of Sam’s head, but it was with the front of
  his knuckles, and seemed to make no impression. Counter-hitting with
  the left, Sam’s blow falling heaviest. A pretty rally, in which some
  wicked blows were exchanged. Both broke away, and sparred for a
  fresh opening, Gaynor showing most punishment. Sam planted his left
  three times in succession, hitting first, and Gaynor’s counters
  non-effective. Gaynor hit short with his left, and fought on the
  retreat. Counter-hits with the left. Gaynor had now got in the
  corner, and was so covered by Sam that he could not escape. He
  waited for the assault, when Sam jumped in with his left, and caught
  him on the eye. Gaynor returned, and in the close, after some
  in-fighting, Sam got the fall, and fell heavily on Gaynor, who fell
  out of the ropes. This round lasted twelve minutes and a half, and
  it was admitted that Sam had not the easy customer that his admirers
  anticipated.

  3.—Gaynor looking the worse for wear, but strong as a horse, and gay
  as a lark. Sparring for an opening, when Gaynor caught Sam slightly
  with his left on the mouth. Sam tried a lunge with his left, but was
  beautifully stopped. In a second attempt he was more successful, for
  he planted left and right, cutting Gaynor’s left cheek with the
  latter. Gaynor countered, and the men closed for the fall, which
  Gaynor obtained, giving Sam a cross-buttock, and falling heavily
  upon him. Sam’s right shoulder came heavily against the ground.
  Cheers for Gaynor. The round lasted four minutes.

  4.—Both cautious, and sparring for an opening. Gaynor hit short with
  his left. Another pause. Counter-hits with the left. Sam caught his
  man first and hit him heavily. Gaynor’s blow was not so effective.
  Sam popped in a tremendous muzzler with his left, and Gaynor bled
  profusely; his old wounds were opened, and his mouth became much
  swollen. Gaynor again planted his right on Sam’s head heavily.
  Shouts for Gaynor, and Sam seemed puzzled, but preserved his
  steadiness. A pause, during which Sam recovered himself.
  Counter-hits with the left, and a brisk rally, in which heavy hits
  were exchanged. The men broke away. Long sparring; both ready, and
  no opening offered. Good stopping on both sides, and the game played
  with matchless skill. Mutual dodging, but no chance. Sam tried his
  feint, but it would not do. At last Sam crept well in, and delivered
  a heavy left-handed jobber. Gaynor countered, and in the close,
  after a severe struggle, Sam threw Gaynor a beautiful cross-buttock.
  Cheers for Sam; his friends up in the stirrups. The fight had now
  lasted forty-five minutes.

  5.—Gaynor, on coming up, showed a little distress, and heavy marks
  of punishment on the mouth and left eye. Sam dodged, but Gaynor was
  well on his guard. Both stopped by consent, put their hands down,
  and looked at each other. At it again. Gaynor hit short with his
  left, and got away. Sam again dropped his left on Gaynor’s eye, and
  followed this up by a hit with the same hand on the body. Gaynor
  went in with his one two, catching Sam with his left on the cheek,
  and his right on the side of the head. Sam returned with his left,
  and after a short rally, the men closed, and went down. Sam had the
  best of the round.

  6.—Gaynor’s left eye shutting up shop, and he was otherwise much
  damaged in the frontispiece. “Sam will win it without a black eye,”
  cried Curtis. Sam made himself up for mischief, and kept stealing on
  his man, but Gaynor got away. A rally, and exchange of hits.
  Gaynor’s leg tripped Sam, and he fell upon him. Fifty minutes had
  now elapsed.

  7.—Curtis chaffed on time, and said, as the hour was nearly up, on
  which he had been betting, Sam might go in to finish. Gaynor,
  distressed, tried his left, but was out of distance. Sam rushed in
  to hit with his left, but was cleverly stopped. Gaynor rushed to
  in-fighting; Sam hit up cleverly with his left, but in the close was
  thrown a cross-buttock, which gave him a serious shake.

  8.—The men had now fought fifty-four minutes, and both were
  distressed, while it did not seem so safe to Sam as had been booked.
  Both steady on their guard, and waiting for an opening. Sam’s left
  well stopped. Gaynor away. Heavy counter-hits with the left; both
  received stingers, but Sam hit hardest. In the close, both down.

  9.—Gaynor’s left eye quite closed, but he was still strong on his
  legs, and resolute. He again stole a march on Sam, popped in his
  left, and got away. Both fatigued, but a fine breeze blew over the
  common, and gave them fresh vigour. Gaynor’s left stopped, and he
  napped it severely on the nose in return. Gaynor made some admirable
  stops, and popped his right heavily on Sam’s ear. Gaynor on the
  defensive, and retreating to the ropes. Sam thought he had him, but
  Gaynor broke away. Sam followed him, dodged, and popped in with his
  left. Gaynor closed, caught him round the neck with his left, and
  hit up with his right. In the scuffle, both fell.

  10.—“Not so safe as if it was over,” cried Gaynor’s friends; and it
  was clear Sam had yet his work to do, as Gaynor got up strong and
  confident. On going to the scratch, after a short spar, both again
  put their hands down for a short time. Beautiful fighting followed,
  and the stopping on both sides was first-rate. The fight had now
  lasted one hour and five minutes. “Tom can fight another hour,”
  cried Ward. Mutual dodging. Gaynor planted his left slightly, but
  there was not sufficient pepper in his blows. A rally, close to the
  ropes, with hard hitting, when Sam in getting away fell. Shouts for
  Gaynor.

  11.—Both came up steady and serious. Gaynor gave Sam a heavy slap on
  the mug with his left. Sam was full of self-possession, and looked
  out for an opening. Gaynor was steady on his guard. Sam popped in a
  left-handed teaser, and hit at the body with his right. Gaynor made
  his one two on Sam’s face. Counter-hitting with the left. A body hit
  with the right from Gaynor. Hard counter-hits with the left;
  heaviest from Sam. Sam now delivered his right on Gaynor’s ribs; the
  latter hit short with the left. Some excellent generalship on both
  sides. Sam dropped his arms as if fatigued. Sam now popped in a
  slight left-hander, but had it heavily in return on the phiz.
  Gaynor, whose conk was bleeding, now put both hands down, and
  beckoned Sam to come to him. Sam approached him, and, after a sharp
  spar, received a touch on the bread-basket. Gaynor stopped a
  tremendous left-hander, intended for his good eye. Sam also stopped,
  and got away. Gaynor tried at the body with his right, but was
  stopped. Sam got away from a heavy lunge from Gaynor’s left. Sam in
  with the left; Gaynor returned. Sam dodging, and Gaynor, in getting
  away, fell.

  12.—Gaynor came up steady. Sam waited for him. Gaynor tried his
  left, but was stopped, and got away. Sam then, throwing his head
  back, saved himself from a heavy delivery from Tom’s right. Gaynor
  stopped a left-hander, and popped in his right at the back of Sam’s
  head, but was heavily hit with the left in return. Both covering
  themselves well. Sam in with his left on the body. Tom got back, and
  put his hands down. Counter-hits with the left, and Gaynor short at
  the body with his right. Both men with their hands down. On again
  getting into position, Gaynor seized one of Sam’s hands with his
  left, intending to give him a swinger with his right, but Sam pulled
  his mauly away, and smiled. Gaynor stopped a left-handed job with
  the utmost precision. Heavy counter-hits with the left; Sam first
  in. Gaynor hit out with his left, but his hand was open; he,
  however, planted a right-hander on Sam’s nob. Sam gave him a
  tremendous smasher on the gob. Gaynor looked a painful spectacle,
  though still full of pluck. Some heavy exchanges with the left. In
  the close, Sam, at in-fighting, gave his antagonist some severe
  punishment on the ropes, and Gaynor, in pulling himself away, fell
  over Sam.

  13.—Gaynor showed weakness, and Sam seemed now to think he had got
  him safe. Gaynor hit short with his left. Sam tried his left, but
  was stopped. A close, and severe struggle for the fall, at the
  ropes. Sam gave an upper-cut with great force, while Gaynor was not
  idle. Both down.

  14.—Gaynor made play, but was short with his left. Sam steady, and
  jumping in, delivered his left heavily on Tom’s altered mazzard. A
  close, and some good in-fighting. A tough struggle for the fall;
  both down. This effort was exhausting to both. In the close, Sam hit
  up well.

  15.—Gaynor piping, and Sam not fresh. Gaynor in with his left; tried
  his right, but was stopped. Heavy counter-hits. Both again paused by
  mutual consent, and put their hands down. Again to work. Good
  exchanges; Sam at the head, Gaynor at the body. Both cautious.
  Gaynor on the retreat. Sam got close to him, and hit out viciously,
  but Gaynor ducked his head, got away, and fell.

  16.—Gaynor’s friends were still very confident, as he seemed strong,
  and Sam appeared fatigued. Counter-hitting with the left, but Sam
  hitting out first, got home the heaviest. He put in a tremendous
  left-hander on Tom’s left ogle. Again did both take breath, and drop
  their arms. Sam steady, and both well on their guard. Mutual
  stopping. Gaynor short at the body with his right. Counter-hits with
  the left, terrific from Sam. Two hours were now completed, and the
  men walked about for wind. Gaynor hit out of distance with his left,
  but Sam measured him with more precision, and dropped in one of his
  left-handed chops with full force. Gaynor, after a short pause,
  seized Sam’s right, while Sam seized his left, each holding the
  other down. Sam looked at his man for a moment, and then dashed his
  head into his face with great force. (This, as our readers are
  aware, is now foul.) Gaynor staggered back, while Sam rushed after
  him, and jobbed him severely on the nose with the left, and,
  repeating the dose in the same spot, hit him down as clean as a
  whistle, being the second knock-down blow in the fight.

  17, and last.—Gaynor came up groggy, when Sam popped in his terrific
  left, and downed him. This was the finisher. The butt, followed by
  such polishing hits, reduced poor Gaynor to a state of
  insensibility, and on being raised on his second’s knee it was at
  once seen that it was all U. P. “Time” was called, and Sam was
  proclaimed the conqueror with triumphant shouts. The fight lasted
  two hours and five minutes. Sam was immediately taken to his
  carriage, much exhausted, but soon became himself again. Gaynor was
  in a complete state of stupor, and was carried away in a helpless
  condition.

  REMARKS.—This was decidedly one of the finest displays of courage
  and science combined which had been witnessed for many years, and
  was acknowledged to be so by the oldest patrons of the Ring who were
  present. The courage exhibited by both men was unquestionable, and
  considering the disadvantages under which Gaynor fought, he earned
  for himself a reputation that placed him in the first class of game
  men. There is no doubt that the butt in the last round but one
  proved his _coup de grace_, or he would have prolonged the contest
  for many more rounds—with what chance of success we cannot say. The
  reader should be informed that this manœuvre, though seldom
  practised, was not at this time against the rules of the Ring, and
  the position, Gaynor holding both Sam’s hands with an iron grip, was
  peculiar. The “chapter of accidents” might have produced
  alterations, and as it was Sam, during the fight, showed great
  weakness, which was not surprising, as it was afterwards ascertained
  that in the cross-buttock in the third round his right shoulder was
  so much injured as to deprive him of the use of his right hand, so
  far as hitting was concerned, for the remainder of the battle.
  During the fight, many expressed surprise that he should have kept
  that hand so idle, and that Gaynor was so repeatedly enabled to job
  him with his left. Sam could not, in truth, lift it above his head,
  and but for throwing his head back when the blows were coming in,
  his punishment would have been much more severe. Although Gaynor had
  clearly the gift of hitting with equal force, it is considered that
  but for this accident Sam’s labours would have been considerably
  curtailed. At one time it was thought to be anybody’s fight, and
  Sam’s friends were by no means jolly as to the result. His fine
  generalship, however, enabled him to overcome every difficulty, and
  the quickness with which he took advantage of Gaynor’s ill-judged
  seizure of his hand, in the last round but one, while it showed his
  self-possession, proved him to be a thorough master of the art as
  then practised. The account of the rounds will show that in point of
  science Gaynor was little behind Sam, but it must be confessed his
  powers of punishment were very inferior, while the force of his
  blows was greatly diminished by Sam’s generally hitting first in the
  counters. From first to last the combat was conducted with the
  utmost fairness and good humour; and while all sympathised in the
  fall of a brave man, they could not but admit that he had honourably
  sunk before the superior power of his younger and more expert
  opponent. Such was the impression made in Gaynor’s favour that £17
  7s. was collected round the ring, and other sums afterwards
  contributed. This was the last appearance of either Sam or Gaynor in
  the P.R.


Sam’s last match in the Ring was with Reuben Martin, for £100,
subsequently made into £180 a-side; it was fixed to come off in June,
1838, but an unfortunate occurrence occasioned a forfeit of £80 on the
part of Sam. He had volunteered to second his friend Owen Swift in his
battle with Phelps (Brighton Bill), and officiated in that capacity on
the fatal 13th of March, 1838, at Royston. The details of this unlucky
encounter will be found in our memoir of OWEN SWIFT, in Vol. III.

The coroner’s jury having found a verdict of manslaughter against Owen
Swift, as principal, and Samuel Evans, Richard Curtis, Frank Redmond,
and Edward Brown, as seconds aiding and abetting the same, Sam, Curtis,
and Swift at once gave “leg-bail” to the law and departed for the
Continent, where they remained until the time for surrendering to take
their trial at the Hertford Assizes. Frank Redmond,[52] whose business
as a licensed victualler at the “George and Dragon,” in Greek Street,
Soho, was suffering ruinously from his enforced absence, alone
surrendered. He was defended by Mr. Dowling (who was also a barrister),
and acquitted on the 10th July, at the summer assizes. Thereupon Curtis
and Brown, who were awaiting the result, surrendered themselves and took
their trial. They were not so fortunate as their predecessor in trouble,
for the jury convicted them of manslaughter in the second degree, as
“present, aiding, and abetting,” when the judge passed the lenient
sentence of three months’ imprisonment.

Young Sam and Swift, alarmed at this result, did not return at once.
Besides, they found their stay in the French capital, where some of
Sam’s aristocratic patrons were also residing, both pleasant and
profitable, of which further details will be found in our Life of OWEN
SWIFT. Some violent newspaper attacks upon the Ring, and denunciations
of prize-fighters and their backers, in the now defunct _Morning Herald_
(a renegade sporting paper) and other publications, made it advisable to
await the blowing over of the storm.

Sam’s residence in France, however, found in its result the adage of
“out of the frying-pan into the fire.”

Jack Adams was in Paris teaching the art of boxing. Adams, a ten stone
man, was twice matched with Swift, and on the second occasion the French
law, which deals so leniently with murderous duels and homicide in
general, was scandalised and outraged by a duel with fists; so Young Sam
and Swift were tried (in their absence), convicted, _par contumace_, and
sentenced to _thirteen months of imprisonment and a fine_!

Soon after his return to England Sam was arrested and conveyed to
Hertford Gaol, and on February 28th, 1839, at the spring assizes, Swift
took his place beside his friend Sam, and the trial proceeded. From a
failure of evidence a verdict of “Not Guilty” was recorded, and the
friends quitted the dock amid the congratulations of the crowd.

Owen Swift arrived in London the same night, but not so his companion in
misfortune; Sam’s exit was stopped by a detainer from London, for a
forfeiture of bail, incurred in this wise.

A short time previous to the battle of Swift and Phelps, Sam, in company
with a “noble earl” and some aristocratic friends, had been engaged in a
fracas at a public-house in Piccadilly. This was the disgraceful period
when, fired by a vulgar emulation of the worst characteristics of Pierce
Egan’s vulgar, vicious, and silly caricatures of two town and country
sporting gentlemen, whom he named “Tom and Jerry;” and whom he made the
heroes of his wretched, grammarless galimatia called “Life in London,”
clerks, apprentices, prigs, pugilists, and peers played the blackguard
and ruffian on the stage of real life. The great and beneficial changes
which have taken place in our police and street Acts, as well as in the
hours and regulations of refreshment rooms and all licensed houses in
the Metropolis, make it almost impossible for the present generation to
realise the scenes of disorder, profligacy, and ruffianism with which
“the West or worst End of the city” nightly abounded. From Temple Bar
westward, through Drury Lane, Covent Garden, St. Martin’s Lane,
Leicester Square, and its surroundings, to the Haymarket and Piccadilly,
“night-houses” admitted the drunkard (when not too drunk), the night
prowler, the debauchee, the gambler, the thief, and the prostitute of
every grade—the only distinction being the higher or lower tariff. From
the swell supper-room, saloon, elysium, or “finish,” of “Goody Levy,”
“Goodered,” “Rowbotham,” “Mother H.,” or the “Brunswick,” through the
musical and more respectable chop-and-kidney-grilling “Evans’s,” the
“Garrick,” the “Cider Cellars,” “Coal Hole,” or “Shades,” down to the
common dramshop kept open on the plea of the neighbouring cabstand or
theatre until the small hours of the morning grew large, all appealed to
those who sought “recreation and refreshment _after the theatres_.”

In one of these houses, the “Royal Standard,” in Piccadilly, on the
morning of the 17th of February, 1838, there appear to have been
assembled after a night’s debauch a number of loose characters. Among
them were the Earl of Waldegrave and several “Corinthians.” According to
the evidence of Mr. Mackenzie, the prosecutor, he, after leaving duty,
entered the house in question, where “he saw the prisoner (Young Dutch
Sam) and several gentlemen, some of whom he certainly had interfered
with in their nocturnal sprees; indeed, he had been instrumental in
introducing them to the magistrate at Marlborough Street.” We think
nowadays this policeman’s conduct would be strictly canvassed. “Whilst
he was standing before the bar,” we copy the report, “the prisoner
whispered to Lord Waldegrave, and immediately afterwards, addressing the
company, he said, ‘Gentlemen, do you care to see a policeman laid on his
back?’ He then seized him (the prosecutor) and threw him on his back,
falling upon him with all his weight. He was so much injured as to be
under the doctor’s hands for some time, and unfit for duty. The prisoner
was held to bail by the magistrates at Marlborough Street, and had
forfeited his recognisances.”

Mr. Ballantine addressed the Court on the part of the prisoner in
mitigation of punishment. The prisoner had been made the tool of certain
parties with whom he had been drinking on the night before the assault
was committed, and although they had urged him to the commission of the
offence which led to his present position, not one of them had been to
visit him, or render him the least assistance during his
incarceration.—Mr. Doane, having addressed the Court for the
prosecution, described the defendant as a pugilist, but added “that he
did not say this to create a prejudice against him on that account, for
he felt convinced that the unmanly and terrible crime of stabbing was
increasing in this country, in consequence of the absurd and mischievous
interference of the county magistracy with the sports of the Ring. Those
sports (the learned gentleman observed) had some disadvantages, but they
were amply counterbalanced by the habit they engendered of fighting in a
fair and manly manner, and by the universal indignation with which
anything unfair was regarded in a pugilistic contest.” The Court
sentenced the prisoner to three months’ imprisonment.

A motion was subsequently made that the estreat on the recognisances
might be taken off, but was refused, on the ground that the Court had no
power to interfere.

We have been the more particular in the narration of this case as the
facts were known to the writer, and as a most false and exaggerated
report of the affair was subsequently published in the _Morning Herald_,
in an attack upon the Prize Ring, penned by an Irish sporting reporter
who had been discharged by the editor of _Bell’s Life_. The conduct of
the policeman, to our thinking, more resembled that of a French _agent
provocateur_ than a guardian of the peace; and, without defending the
assailant, we may remark that the fact that Young Sam so carefully
avoided using his unquestionable pugilistic skill, although under the
excitement of champagne and provocation, is a sufficient answer to the
charge of “ruffianism” and “ferocity” cast upon him for this foolish
escapade.

Shortly after this fracas a new police Act, and increased vigilance in
the stipendiary magistrates, checked effectually these disgraceful
excesses, by substituting imprisonment for fine, at the discretion of
the justices, whereupon we find, in a contemporary “daily,” the ironical
“Lament” of which the subjoined are a few of the leading stanzas:—

            LAMENT OF THE “DISORDERLY GENTLEMEN.”

        A plague on the new law! bad luck to the beaks,
        Opposed as they are to “disorderly” freaks;
        Ye pinks of high rank, let your sorrows have vent,
        And join with your pals in a doleful lament.

        No longer at midnight, when coming it strong,
        Ripe for riot and row, shall we stagger along;
        No more of brave acts shall we “gentlemen” chaff,
        Nor floor a raw lobster and fracture his staff.

        Till lately, when liquor got up in the nob,
        A fine of five shillings would settle the job;
        And none will deny who has starr’d on the town,
        A frolic or spree wasn’t cheap at a crown.

        But now we’re informed by the beak, _Mr. Grove_
        (Whoever could seat on the Bench such a cove?),
        That if with strong liquors our tempers get hot,
        He’ll send us at once on the treadmill to trot—

        That the pastime of wrenching off knockers and bells
        Must no longer be practis’d by high-minded swells;
        Or he’ll send us, to settle each paltry dispute,
        For a month to the treadmill our health to recruit.

        O haste, brother pinks, such disgrace to prevent,
        Before this vile Bill has the Royal Assent;
        For herself it is certain Her Majesty thinks,
        And I’m sure she’ll attend to a prayer from the “pinks.”

        What, never again be permitted at dark
        To insult modest females by way of a lark!
        Gone for ever our joys, and our gay occupation?
        Must we now like vile felons be marched to the station?

        Forbid, ye proud nobs, any steps so degrading—
        The swells’ charter’d rights they are basely invading;
        Let us stand up for sprees and our leisure amuse,
        And still act as blackguards whenever we choose.

Young Sam, though occasionally exhibiting his skill with the gloves at
the sets-to of the “Pugilistic Association” established about this
period at the Westminster (now the Lambeth) Swimming Baths, by Tom
Spring, Cribb, Crawley, the editor of _Bell’s Life_, and other leading
friends of the P.R., was not popular with his brethren of the Ring, and
did not care to associate with them. He became a publican first in
Castle Street, Leicester Square, and then at the “Coach and Horses,” St.
Martin’s Lane; but in both he was unsuccessful—it was said from
inattention to business, which we can well believe. At length, in 1840,
Sam wedded the daughter of a respected publican, and with her as a
helpmeet he became landlord of the “Black Lion,” in Vinegar Yard, Drury
Lane. From this house he migrated to the Old Drury Tavern, in Brydges
Street, Covent Garden, and here his wife’s experience and management,
together with her influence over his erratic disposition, seemed to be
fast maturing the “Young ’Un” into a respectable and steady Boniface.
For some time, however, the effects of early dissipation were visible in
recurrences of inflammation of the lungs at the approach of winter or
exposure to cold. In 1842 a severe relapse, accompanied by spitting of
blood, reduced him almost to a shadow, and on the 4th of November, 1843,
he died of decline, at the early age of thirty-six. The following
appeared in an obituary notice in the leading sporting journal of the
day:—


  “In the sparring schools Sam was a master of his art to an extent
  but seldom seen and rarely equalled by professors. He often showed,
  and remarkably so when in conversation with his ‘betters (?),’ that
  his acquaintance with ‘letters’ was not merely of a mechanical
  description. He spoke well, and when he chose could ‘do the
  agreeable’ with a suavity highly creditable to his class, securing
  to himself throughout his career the patronage of many noblemen and
  gentlemen of the highest distinction. His temper was cheerful, and
  he possessed a flow of natural humour which rendered him an
  agreeable companion in social circles. A reckless disregard to his
  own interests, and an unhappy disposition to mix in those scenes
  which constitute what is called ‘Life in London,’ and in which he
  was often the companion of sprigs of nobility, to whose wild
  vagaries he was but too much inclined to pander, led him into
  scrapes from which he had some difficulty in escaping. It is not our
  wish, however, to speak ill of the dead; and knowing as we do that
  there are those of a higher grade whose example he was but too prone
  to follow, equally deserving of censure, we shall throw a veil over
  the past, and let the recollection of his faults lie hidden in the
  grave. As a pugilist he was always successful, for he never lost a
  fight, and as a skilful sparrer he has left no equal of his years.
  It was not till he married a woman who was his faithful and attached
  companion till the moment of his death that the foundation of
  prosperity was laid. She, luckily, was a woman of good sense, and
  considerable experience in the public line, which enabled her to
  ‘carry on the war’ with success. Throughout his last illness he was
  attended with exemplary kindness by his wife, who spared neither
  pains nor expense to alleviate his disease. He died calm and
  collected, surrounded by several of his friends, who while they
  pitied could not but condemn the headlong folly which had
  distinguished his passage through his short but eventful existence.
  Many of his faults and follies may be fairly ascribed to the nature
  of the associations into which the deceased, from his earliest
  outset in life, was accidently thrown. He was ‘a spoilt child’ of
  the Fancy, and like all spoilt children was wayward.”


Sam lies buried in the vault of his wife’s family in Kensal Green
Cemetery.

            MONODY ON THE DEATH OF YOUNG DUTCH SAM.

        Scarce the illustrious Pet[53] his eyes had clos’d,
        When in Death’s cold embrace Dutch Sam repos’d;
        As brave a fellow from life’s scenes dismiss’d
        As ever faced a foe or clench’d a fist;
        Brave without bounce, and resolute as bold,
        And ever first fair fighting to uphold;
        Dauntless as honest, with unequalled game
        He dar’d defeat, and fought his way to fame;
        And burning still with pugilistic fire,
        Prov’d Young Dutch Sam was worthy of his sire,

        Made of the same unyielding sort of stuff,
        Ready at all times for the scratch and rough,
        Delighting in the Ring at contest tough,
        And proudly scorning to sing out, “Enough!”

        Ah! what avails it that in many a mill,
        With pluck unflinching he was conqueror still;
        With first-rate science dealt the unerring blow
        Which from the sneezer made the claret flow;
        Perplex’d the box of knowledge with a crack,
        And cloth’d the ogles with a suit of black;
        Forward his foeman fiercely to assail,
        And shower his body blows as thick as hail?
        Ah! what avails it? Dire disease at length
        Blighted his laurels and subdued his strength,
        Marking his features pale with Death’s cold stamp,
        While faint and feeble burnt life’s flickering lamp,
        ’Till wasted, wan, and worn the pulses stopp’d.
        The last sad scene was o’er, the curtain dropp’d.
        But thou hast mark’d a course correct as clear,
        By which the aspiring pugilist may steer.

        Though fate decreed thou first shouldst breathe the air
        Within the classic precincts of Rag Fair—
        That region fam’d, as chronicles unfold,
        Sacred to Sheenies and to garments old,
        Owld coats, owld vests, to tempt the gazer’s view,
        And tiles dresht up to look as goot as new;
        But though in scenes like these Young Sam was nurs’d,
        The bonds that cramp’d his youth he proudly burst,
        And with ambition fired, and milling glow,
        From rolls retreated, and discarded dough;
        Cut Rosemary Lane, its sorrows and its joys,
        And left dead men to other bakers’ boys!

        What though awhile he ran a printing-race
        At Charley Baldwin’s crib in Chatham Place?
        For though to duty never disinclined,
        ’Twas _Caleb_ Baldwin’s deeds engrossed his mind;
        The star of Westminster as tough, as bold,
        Who cried _peccavi_ to Dutch Sam the old.

        What though awhile, the public to amuse,
        Through London streets he circulated news,
        Doom’d for a time from East to West to trip,
        And barter broadsheets for the ready tip?
        “By heaven!” he cried, “to fighting fame I’ll soar,
        And sporting journals I will vend no more,
        Of adverse fate I’ll overleap the bar,
        And follow to the Ring some milling star;
        Consign all braggart pugilists to shame,
        And show the Fancy Sam is thorough game!”

        Thy spirit warmed by the exciting theme,
        Nobly Dutch Sam thy pledge thou didst redeem,
        And soon beneath Dick Curtis’ fostering wing,
        Blaz’d like a meteor in the battle-ring.
        Fortune upon thy hardy efforts smil’d,
        And Victory hail’d thee as her favourite child.

        Beneath thy prowess prime, which nought could quell,
        The liveliest of the kids, Ned Stockman, fell;
        Then ’twas thy luck, scarce injur’d, to destroy
        The shine of Harry Jones, the Sailor Boy;
        ’Twas thine from Carroll Pat to strip the bays,
        And serve out Cooper Tom in style at Grays,
        Floor the swart Gipsy in time double-quick,
        And settle the proud hash of Davis Dick;
        The veteran Martin soon his colours struck,
        And twice Ned Neale was down upon his luck;
        And all his senses sent upon a cruise,
        It was the luck of _Gaynor_ Tom to _lose_!

        But vain are science, gluttony, and strength,
        And Young Dutch Sam has met his match at length—
        One whose sharp hits can ne’er be put aside,
        And at the scratch will never be denied.
        Brave man! we only mourn that thou art gone,
        Well worthy to be dubb’d “Phenomenon.”
        Sound be thy slumber in thy narrow cell,
        While with a heavy heart we sigh farewell!

                                                    =M.=




                              CHAPTER IX.
              TOM GAYNOR (“THE BATH CARPENTER”)—1824–1834.


It was said of Marshal Clairfait that, like a drum, he was only heard of
when he was beaten. Tom Gaynor, in somewhat like fashion, takes his
place among the celebrities of the Ring from the high fame of the men
against whom he had the ill luck to be opposed. Beginning rather late in
the London Ring, Gaynor’s first antagonist was Ned Neale (who had just
polished off in succession Deaf Davis, Bill Cribb, Miller, Hall, and
David Hudson), while his last (and too late) appearance in the Ring was
in combat with the Phenomenon, Young Dutch Sam, before whom he stood for
two hours and five minutes, at Andover, in the year 1834. This was proof
sufficient that Gaynor’s heart was in the right place, and that his
fistic skill was far above the mere “give and take” of second-rate
boxers.

The sobriquet of Gaynor assigns Bath for his birthplace, and there, on
the 22nd of April, 1799, the young Tom opened his eyes, as the son of a
respectable carpenter in that fashionable city. Tom used to tell his
friends, over a pipe at the “Red Horse,” Bond Street, of a wonderful
uncle of his, hight Tom Marshall, who was champion boxer of
“Zummerzetzhire,” and was never defeated. This uncle, who stood six feet
one and a half in his stockings, seems to have been the idol of his
nephew’s hero-worship, as another Tom [Carlyle] would phrase it. With
this uncle young Gaynor was placed at Taunton, and there, at thirteen
years old, was apprenticed. Here Tom’s skill with his “fives” was
acknowledged, and at about seventeen years of age he was what modern
times would call a “certificated pupil-teacher” in an “academy” of which
a local boxer was the chief professor of “the noble art.” One Turle, a
fiddler, had the reputation of being a dangerous opponent, but in a
turn-up with the young Carpenter he received such a taste of his quality
that he declined any further favours, and tacitly resigned his assumed
title of “champion of Taunton” to the “’prentice han’” of Gaynor.

[Illustration:

  TOM GAYNOR (“THE BATH CARPENTER”).
]

These were the times of election saturnalia, and though (_testè_ Sir
Henry James) Taunton, in these days of ballot and household suffrage, is
no purer than it ought to be, in the times of borough-mongering it was
much worse. A little episode in young Tom’s history may illustrate this.
During a contested election for that riotous, thirsty, and by no means
immaculate borough, the true blue champion, whose colours young Tom
wore, had set abroach a hogshead of “raal Zummerzet soyder,” and to
ensure the just distribution of the same had entrusted it to the care of
a big rural rough, who churlishly denied young Gaynor a drop of the
cheering home-made. This unfair treatment considerably riled our hero;
but when the big bully threatened to add “a good hoidin’” to his
refusal, “unless young Chips made hisself skeerce,” the joke was carried
too far. The stripling stripped, and the countryman, consigning his
charge to a friend, desired him to “zee to the zwill, whoiles oi polish
off this yoong jackandapes.” But the battle was not to the strong, and
in three sharp rounds, occupying about fifteen minutes, the “rush” of
the yokel was so completely taken out of him by the cutting “props” and
the straight “nobbers” of the young ’un that the countryman cried,
“Enoo!” and went back to his tap, from which Tom and his friends drank
success to themselves and their candidate without further hindrance or
molestation.

Soon after Tom returned to his native city of Bath. Here he fought a
pitched battle with a recruiting sergeant of some boxing fame in
military circles. The soldier’s tactics, however, were of no avail
against the superior strategics of young Gaynor.

Gaynor’s eyes, although he followed his calling industriously, were
always cast towards the Metropolis with a longing gaze, and at the age
of twenty-four he made his way to town, and having already met that
professor in the provinces, he took up his quarters at the house of his
“brother chip,” the scientific Harry Holt, the “Cicero of the Ring,” who
then kept the “Golden Cross,” in Cross Lane, Long Acre. Here an accident
brought him into notice.

Josh Hudson being at Holt’s at a jollification, the conversation, of
course, was of “battles lost and won,” and in the course of “chaff” Tom
Gaynor was introduced with an eulogistic flourish from his Ciceronian
friend and brother-craftsman. This led to Josh, who was certainly not in
his “coolest state of collectedness,” expressing his willingness to put
on the mittens with the “young man from the country.” The result was
unfortunate. Josh lost his temper, and for some twenty-five minutes it
was very like a little glove-fight, in which “Tom was as good as his
master.” Of course, Holt’s friends put a stop to this; but it raised
Gaynor’s reputation.

Soon after, in a set-to with Ben Burn, Gaynor displayed such science and
resolution that he was highly applauded by the amateurs at the Fives
Court, and was hailed a clever “newcomer.”

Friends now came forward, and Tom was matched with Ned Neale, at whose
hands he experienced an honourable defeat, on the 25th May, 1824, in one
hour and six minutes. (See NEALE, Chapter V., _ante_.)

Gaynor, about this time, frequently appeared at public sparring
benefits, and was much esteemed, notwithstanding his defeat by so
practised and resolute a boxer as the Streatham Youth. At Epsom Races,
on the 20th of May, 1825, Gaynor was in attendance, with many of the
Fancy, when a subscription purse of fifty guineas was offered by the
amateurs. For this Gaynor presented himself as a candidate, and was met
by Jonathan Bissell (Young Gas). Gaynor was admitted to be sadly out of
condition, while Young Gas was in first-rate fettle. Gaynor was
compelled to give in, after a game battle of one hour and twenty-five
minutes.

In the early months of 1825 Gaynor advertised for a customer, offering
to fight any man of his weight—eleven stone and a half—in three months,
for £100 a-side. Nearly one year passed away in sparring, when Gaynor,
anxious for a job, challenged Reuben Martin for £50 a-side, in January,
1826. This, however, ended without an engagement.

Tom was at length matched for £50 a-side with Alec Reid (the Chelsea
Snob), and the men met on Tuesday, May 16th, 1826, at No Man’s Land,
three miles and a half to the right of St. Albans.

The Eton Montem, Greenwich, and Wandsworth Fairs, and other places of
attraction near the Metropolis, rendered the road to the scene of action
remarkably thin; indeed, so scarce were drags of every description that
the turnpike men declared it a holiday for their apron pockets, while
the roadside houses looked out in vain for a four-horse drag, or even a
Hampton van. Yet such a scientific display, with manliness united, as
the battle between Gaynor and Alec Reid, on the beautiful bit of turf
belonging to the ladies, on that Tuesday in May, has seldom rewarded a
journey of a hundred miles.

White-headed Bob was Gaynor’s principal patron, and like a good judge
sent out his boy to a prime training walk. Baldwin also backed Gaynor to
the amount of a £50 note—so high an opinion did the White-nobbed One
entertain of his quality. The Chelsea Champion was under the protection
of a Corinthian, and Richmond also looked after him. Both men did their
duty while training, and their appearance, on stripping, satisfied the
amateurs that they entered the ring in good condition. At one o’clock
Gaynor threw his hat into the ropes, attended by Jem Ward and
White-headed Bob, and a few minutes afterwards Reid repeated the token
of defiance, followed by Cannon and Richmond. Gaynor was the favourite,
at six and five to four; but the odds had previously been laid both
ways. In fact, Reid was viewed as decidedly the best fighter, and in
most instances was taken for choice. The colours, yellow for Gaynor,
were tied to the stakes by Bob, and crimson for Reid were fastened by
Richmond.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Gaynor was the bigger man on appearing at the scratch, and
  having length and weight on his side were no trifling advantages in
  his favour. Reid looked well; he was up to the mark, and confident
  in the extreme. Some little caution was observed on both sides, both
  of them ready to let fly upon the first opening. Gaynor endeavoured
  to feel for the nob of his opponent, but the arms of Reid rendered
  repeated attempts of no avail. Reid at length got a turn, and quick
  as lightning he tapped the sensitive plant of Gaynor so roughly that
  both his ogles were winking. (The Reidites gave a rare chevy,
  thinking it a good omen.) The science of Reid was much admired; he
  stopped two left-handed hits with the utmost ease; but in
  counter-hitting he received a tremendous blow on his mouth, which
  not only produced the claret, but almost displaced his ivories.
  (“First blood!” cried Curtis and Josh Hudson.) Reid, with much good
  nature, said to Gaynor, “That was a good hit.” The left hand of
  Gaynor again told; nevertheless, Reid was busy, and in turn felt for
  the upper works of Gaynor. The left peeper of the latter was
  damaged. Some excellent stops on both sides, until a rally ensued,
  when Gaynor fought resolutely until they were entangled—both down,
  Gaynor undermost. (It was clearly seen that the length of Gaynor
  made him a dangerous opponent, and he was decidedly the favourite at
  six to four.)

  2.—Reid, like an experienced boxer, now stopped Gaynor well, but the
  latter would not be denied. He planted a heavy blow in Reid’s face,
  and in closing sent him out of the ropes. (“You are sure to win it,
  Gaynor,” observed his friends; and two to one was offered and
  taken.)

  3.—Reid found out that he had a much more troublesome customer than
  he had anticipated. Gaynor got away from a heavy blow; a pause, and
  both on the look-out for squalls. Some sharp blows exchanged. The
  left hand of Gaynor told twice severely on Reid’s mug. A rally
  ensued, and Tom went down rather weak.

  4.—This was a capital round; and the mode of fighting adopted by
  Reid delighted his backers. He went to work with much determination,
  and Gaynor napped considerable punishment. In closing, Reid fibbed
  his opponent severely, until a severe struggle put an end to the
  round, and both down. (“What a capital fight—both good ones; it is
  worth coming 100 miles to see! We have not had such a fight for
  these two years past!” were the general observations all round the
  ring.)

  5.—The face of Gaynor was materially altered, and his right ogle in
  “Queer Street.” The mug of Reid was likewise damaged—his nose had
  increased in size; he had also received some heavy body blows. Good
  stopping on both sides; and Reid, in the estimation of his backers,
  put in some beautiful facers. In closing, Reid went down.

  6.—A small change had taken place in favour of the “man of wax;” and
  he had now made his opponent a piper. The seconds of Reid and all
  his friends called to him to go to work; but Gaynor was not to be
  beaten off his guard—he sparred for wind till he recovered from his
  distress. Reid, however, got the lead, and milled away, till in
  closing at the ropes he was thrown, and had a bad fall. Reid was now
  backed as favourite.

  7.—Gaynor was much distressed; and Reid, like a skilful general,
  never lost sight of the advantage. In closing at the ropes, Gaynor
  went down exhausted. (“Reid for £100!” and uproarious shouts of
  applause.)

  8.—Reid, most certainly, at this period of the fight, was the hero
  of the tale; he tipped it to Gaynor at every turn, till the latter
  boxer went down. (Rounds of applause for Reid.)

  9.—A more manly round was never witnessed in any battle whatever—it
  was hit for hit, the claret following almost every blow. Both men
  stood up to each other like bricks, and appeared regardless of the
  punishment they received. Both down. (“Here’s a fight—this battle
  will bring the Ring round! Reid’s a fine fellow, but he is
  overmatched.”)

  10.—This was also a capital round; but whenever Reid made a hit
  Gaynor returned upon him. The length of the latter boxer enabled him
  to do this; and also in several instances his left hand did much
  execution, without being stopped by the Snob. Both down, and summat
  the matter on each side.

  11.—Reid had the worst of it in this round; he received three
  jobbers, which made his nob dance again; but his courage never
  forsook him. In closing, the head of the Snob, in going down, went
  against the stakes, enough to have taken the fight out of most men,
  but he was too game to notice it.

  12.—The changes were frequent, and at times it was anybody’s battle.
  Reid was never at a loss, and he fought at every point to obtain
  victory. In struggling Reid was thrown, and Gaynor fell on him.

  13.—The left hand of Gaynor committed desperate havoc on Reid’s
  face; nevertheless, the former napped sharp ones in turn. In
  struggling, Reid went down.

  14.—The appearance of Gaynor was now against him; and strangers to
  the Ring might fairly have entertained an opinion that he could not
  have stood up for a couple more rounds. Reid took the lead for a
  short time, but the round was finished by Reid being thrown.

  15.—Nothing of consequence. Short, and both on the turf.

  16.—This round was a fine display of science in favour of Reid. He
  punished Gaynor all over the ground, and floored him by a heavy
  facer. The Reidites were now uproarious, and applauded their man to
  the echo.

  17.—Both men exhibited symptoms of distress. After an exchange of
  hits they staggered against each other, and went down. (“What a
  brave fight! Jack is as good as his master!”)

  18.—Gaynor, although in distress, made some good hits; he also
  nobbed Reid, and fell heavily upon his opponent.

  19.—This was a short round. Reid was exceedingly weak, and went
  down—Gaynor quite as bad, staggering over his man.

  20.—Reid came to the scratch full of pluck, but he received two
  jobbers. Both down, Reid undermost.

  21.—The falls were decidedly against Reid; and in this round he
  received shaking enough to have put an end to the battle, Reid went
  down, and Gaynor fell on his head.

  22.—The oldest and best judges of the Ring still stuck to Reid, and
  made him the favourite. He commenced the rounds well, but in
  general, as in this instance, he was thrown.

  23.—Gaynor now appeared getting rather better; but his mouth was
  open, and so were his hands. (The friends of Reid advised Gaynor to
  leave off, as he was a married man, and had a family; “It don’t suit
  me,” said Gaynor. “Hold your tongue,” said Ward; “it is six to
  one—sixty to one, I meant, in your favour—ain’t it, Bob?” “Yes,”
  replied the White-headed One; “it is a horse to a hen.”) Reid fell
  weak.

  24.—Reid, like a good one, showed fight, and put in a nobber, but
  his strength could not second his science, and he was heavily
  thrown. Still Reid was offered as the favourite for five pounds, but
  no taker.

  25.—It really was astonishing to view the high courage displayed on
  both sides, and the firmness and spirit with which they opposed each
  other’s efforts. In finishing this round, Reid went down, and Gaynor
  fell on him.

  26.—This was a very good round, and the determined spirit displayed
  by Reid astonished every spectator. Counter-hits. Gaynor tried to
  escape punishment, and in retreating fell down. (“He’s going; you
  have won it, Reid.”)

  27.—Gaynor’s face was badly battered, and the index of Reid was
  little better; but no complaints were made, and when time was called
  both appeared at the scratch with alacrity. Reid was busy and
  troublesome, till he was thrown. Another bad fall against him—worse
  than ten hits.

  28.—Reid down; but he contended every inch of ground like a
  Wellington—a better little man is not to be met with, and the
  courage and good fighting he displayed this day delighted his
  backers.

  29.—Gaynor was evidently the stronger man, although “bad was the
  best.” Reid was getting very weak, missed his blows, and went down
  on his knees.

  30.—The change was now decidedly in favour of Gaynor; and in closing
  he gave Reid a severe cross-buttock. (“It’s all up,” was the cry.
  “I’ll give you,” said Josh, “a chest of tools if you win it.” “I
  have promised him,” said Tom Oliver, “Somerset House—but he can’t
  lose it.”)

  31.—Reid got away from a heavy nobber, with much more activity than
  could have been expected by a man in his truly distressed state.
  Reid down.

  32.—Gaynor pursued Reid to the ropes, where the latter fought with
  fine spirit and resolution, till he was sent out of them by Gaynor.

  33.—Several persons were yet of opinion that Reid would win; in
  truth, the battle was never safe to either until it was over. Reid
  went down distressed.

  34, and last.—Reid still showed fight, and an exchange of blows took
  place; but in closing, Gaynor in obtaining the throw fell heavily
  upon him. Reid’s head came violently against the ground, and when
  picked up by his second he was insensible. Gaynor was declared the
  conqueror. The battle occupied one hour and ten minutes.

  REMARKS.—It was a near thing after all; and Reid, although in
  defeat, raised himself in the estimation of the Fancy. He fought
  up-hill against weight and length, and was likewise opposed to a man
  of science and a game boxer. Reid, it is said, weighed ten stone
  four pounds, and Gaynor eleven stone six pounds—but Gaynor declared,
  at the Tennis Court, on the Wednesday following, that he was under
  eleven stone. A better fight, in every point of view, has not been
  seen for many years. Gaynor received most punishment; but his
  conduct throughout the whole of the battle was cool and
  praiseworthy.


Gaynor was matched for a second battle with Young Gas, for £100 a side,
to take place on the 5th of September. The stakes were made good, but
owing to a misunderstanding the match went off.

In consequence of Gaynor having proved the conqueror with Reid, he was
considered an excellent opponent for Bishop Sharpe, and his friends
backed him against Sharpe for £50 a-side. This battle was decided also
at No Man’s Land, on Tuesday, December 5th, 1826. Sharpe won the fight,
after a very hard battle of one hour and ten minutes, Gaynor showing
fight to the last. (See BISHOP SHARPE, Chapter XI., _post_.)

Gaynor’s defeat by the Bold Smuggler did not diminish the number of
friends made by his general good conduct and excellent demeanour to his
patrons and backers. But despite his readiness for a match, it was more
than a year before one could be satisfactorily arranged. His challenge
was then accepted by Charles Gybletts, whose reputation as a slashing
hitter and well-scienced boxer was established by his defeats of Rasher,
Phil Sampson (see _post_, Chapter XIII.), Robin Rough, and Harry Jones,
and who had lately fought a draw with Reuben Martin.

Gybletts was the favourite, at six to four, and the stakes (£100) being
made good, the men met on the 18th of May, 1828, at Shere Mere,
Bedfordshire, on the borders of Herts. At this fight, Tom Oliver, who
had received the true blue ropes and stakes of the Pugilistic Club, by
order of Mr. John Jackson, its president, first appeared as
Commissary-General of the P.R., and displayed that tact in the formation
of an inner square and an outer circle which we so well remember, and so
oft commended in long after years. Gaynor, who trained at Shirley’s, at
Staines, came over on Monday to the “Blue Boar,” at St. Albans, Gybletts
at the same time reaching the “Cross Keys,” Oldaker’s, at Harpenden.
Both men were in the highest spirits, and in first-rate condition.
Gaynor, joined by some Corinthian patrons, came on the ground in a
well-appointed four-in-hand, decorated with his colours, a bright
orange, and accompanied by a Kent bugle player, to the enlivenment of
the road and scene. Gybletts was driven to the ring in a less
ostentatious conveyance, a high, red-wheeled, yellow, one-horse “shay,”
of the then “commercial” pattern, but was none the less heartily greeted
by his admirers.

The day was brilliantly fine, and the attendance of the right sort, who
are always orderly. Gybletts, waited on by Dick Curtis and Josh Hudson,
first threw his castor into the ring. Gaynor, esquired by Harry Holt and
Tom Oliver, quickly answered the challenge, and Oliver won for him the
choice of corners. Gaynor’s weight was stated at twelve stone,
Gybletts’s at eleven stone seven pounds. The odds were, however, still
on Gybletts, and no takers.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On throwing themselves into attitude, each man showed his
  judgment in keeping the vulnerable points well covered. Gaynor
  manœuvred with his hands well up, and Gybletts played in and out,
  seeking an opening for a left-hand delivery. After some cautious
  movements, Gaynor broke ground, trying his right at Gybletts’s body,
  but he was cleverly stopped, and Gybletts jumped away nimbly. His
  left at the nob was also stopped, but in a second trial with the
  right Gaynor got home on his adversary’s cheek. Gybletts now went in
  to fight, and caught Gaynor a smack on the mouth with the right,
  Gaynor striking the centre stake with his heel in retreating. He
  recovered himself, however, and rushed to a rally, delivering right
  and left on his opponent’s frontispiece. Gybletts fought with him
  until they closed, when, after a sharp struggle, Gaynor threw him a
  heavy back fall, and tumbled on him. On getting up a tinge of blood
  was visible on the face of each, and the first event was undecided.

  2.—Gaynor, first to fight, delivered his right on Gybletts’s body,
  who got away actively, and propped Gaynor as he came in. Gaynor
  again tried his right at Gybletts’s ribs, but was stopped. He got
  on, however, one, two, on Gybletts’s head, cutting his left cheek.
  In the close Gybletts struggled hard for the fall, but Gaynor,
  dexterously shifting his leg, got the inner lock, and threw Gybletts
  head over heels, amidst the cheers of his friends. Odds still six to
  four on Gybletts.

  3.—A good scientific round; hitting, stopping getting away, in
  pretty stand-up style. Each got it on the body and pimple in turn,
  but the out-fighting was certainly in favour of Gaynor, who had the
  reach of his opponent. In the close, Gybletts got the fall, and the
  cheering of the last round was returned.

  4.—Good stopping by both. Charley missed his right at the body, and
  received a heavy smack on the left cheek from Gaynor’s right, which
  sounded all over the ring, and imprinted a blood-mark on the spot.
  Charley was puzzled, but good counter-hits were exchanged. Gybletts
  stepped back, wiped his hands, and did not seem to know how to get
  at his long-armed, round-shouldered opponent. Caution the order of
  the day, and some excellent stops on both sides. Gybletts swung in
  his right on the body, but got it on the jaw. The men closed,
  Gybletts pegging away at Gaynor’s ribs, Gaynor at Gybletts’s
  head-piece; Gaynor threw his man heavily. (Even on Gaynor.)

  5.—Charley got in his left on Gaynor’s neck, and followed it by a
  body blow. Exchanges, in which Gaynor’s length of arm told, Gaynor
  getting home on Gybletts’s forehead and mouth, Gybletts on his
  opponent’s ribs and ear. A close for the fall. After a short
  struggle Gaynor threw his man cleverly.

  6.—Gaynor again caught a blow on the neck from Charley’s left, but
  the latter missed his body blow. Stopping in good style; at length
  Gybletts went in, delivering his right heavily. Gaynor turned round,
  and in getting away fell on his hands and knees by a slip. Loud
  cheers for Gybletts, and two to one offered by his friends, though
  both out and in fighting were in Gaynor’s favour.

  7.—Gybletts got another sharp one on his wounded cheek. He
  retreated, but Gaynor followed, forced the fighting, and threw him.

  8.—On coming to the scratch Gybletts’s shoe was down at heel. Dick
  Curtis came forward and busied himself in getting it up, Gaynor
  quietly looking at him. Tom Oliver made an appeal of “Foul,” but the
  umpires said they had nothing to remark, except that Gaynor was at
  liberty to get to work, as “time” had been called. During the
  discussion the heel was put to rights, and the men stood up. Gaynor
  got his right on to Gybletts’s body, Gybletts returned short, when
  Gaynor jobbed him twice on the head, and in the close both were
  down.

  9.—Gaynor, first to fight, put in one, two, and closed; both down at
  the ropes.

  10.—Good counter-hitting; both men stood bravely to the scratch. In
  the close, after a struggle, both fell, Gybletts on his head.

  11.—Both men rushed to a close, and after a violent effort for the
  fall Gaynor grassed his man, falling on him.

  12.—Good science on both sides. Alternate hits and stops. Gybletts
  had discovered that closing was not to his advantage, and kept out.
  In the exchanges he caught a heavy foreheader from Gaynor’s left,
  and was finally thrown.

  13.—Gybletts cautious, but Gaynor would not wait his convenience; he
  went in right and left, and Gybletts dropped.

  14.—Mutual exchanges and good stops. Gybletts again visited on his
  olfactory organ. Both down harmlessly in a scramble.

  15.—Gaynor delivered a right-handed chop, and Charley, in return,
  caught him in the ribs with the right. A close at the ropes, and
  both down.

  16.—A slashing round; hit away on both sides until Gybletts was
  floored.

  17.—Gybletts came up remarkably cheerful, considering the last bout.
  He got a good hit in on Gaynor’s mouth, which bled freely. Gaynor
  returned, and went down in the exchanges.

  18.—Both cautious. Gybletts sent in a teaser with his left on
  Gaynor’s mouth. Gaynor, a little surprised, rushed to a close.
  Charley got Gaynor cleverly in his arms, lifted him from the ground,
  and backheeled him, falling on him heavily. (Shouts of “That’s the
  way, Charley!”)

  19.—Wild fighting on both sides. Gaynor rattled away, hit or miss.
  Gybletts returned at random; in the exchanges Gybletts slipped, and
  was on his knees, when Gaynor knocked him over.

  20.—Forty-five minutes had now elapsed. The knuckles of Gybletts’s
  right hand were much puffed by repeated contact with the point of
  Gaynor’s elbow, which he dropped to protect his ribs from the
  unpleasant visitations of his adversary. Yet Charley was still the
  favourite, from his known gameness, and his friends maintained he
  must wear Gaynor out. Gybletts delivered his right at the body, and
  Gaynor closed for in-fighting. In the close, Gybletts got Gaynor
  down.

  21.—Gybletts crept in, got in a blow on Gaynor’s proboscis, and was
  uppermost in the close.

  22.—A good weaving round. Gybletts had it left and right, and was
  thrown unmistakably.

  23.—Gaynor made a right-handed job, closed, and threw his man.

  24.—Gybletts applied to the brandy bottle. He went up, sparred a
  little, tried at the body, missed, and was thrown.

  25, 26, 27.—Gybletts fighting an up-hill game, but contending
  manfully, hit for hit. In the 26th round Gaynor caught his man on
  the nose, cutting the cartilage, the wound bleeding profusely. In
  the last round both were down.

  28, 29.—Gaynor first to fight. Gybletts down.

  30.—Gybletts got home sharply with his left in Gaynor’s left eye.
  Gaynor cautious. At length he let fly, but Gybletts ducked his head,
  thus saving it from a smasher. He then caught Gaynor heavily on the
  mouth, and drew the claret from that organ as well as the nose.
  Gaynor returned, but slipped down on his knees.

  31.—One hour and five minutes had passed. Charley succeeded in
  planting a “snorter,” but Gaynor gave him a _quid pro quo_. Gybletts
  once again visited his adversary’s masticators, when Gaynor went in
  hand over hand, drove him to the ropes, hit up, and threw him.

  32.—Gaynor took the lead in fighting. Charley drew back, putting in
  slightly on the nose. He got it in return on the mouth, and went
  down, Gaynor also falling back on the ropes, but quickly recovering
  his perpendicular.

  33.—Gybletts came up cheerful, and after a few feints and parries
  went in for close quarters. After a stiff struggle Gybletts was
  thrown completely over the ropes out of the ring; Gaynor went over
  the ropes with him, with his heels in the air and his head on his
  man’s body.

  34.—Gybletts, though piping, seemed strong on his legs. He stood
  well to his man, and it was hit for hit with no decided advantage,
  till, in the close, both were on the grass.

  35.—Gaynor went in, and Charley jobbed him on the nose. Tom shook
  his head, and went at Gybletts with the right. Exchanges, a rally,
  and a heavy cross-counter; both men were on the ropes. Gaynor in an
  awkward position, when he got down. (Cheering for Gybletts.)

  36.—One hour and a quarter had elapsed, and the odds were still on
  Gybletts, notwithstanding Gaynor’s out-fighting and wrestling were
  superior. Tom, first to fight, got in a mugger, and received a
  rib-roaster in return. Merry milling for a turn. In the close Gaynor
  got the fall.

  37.—Gybletts stopped Gaynor’s left neatly, and got away; Gaynor
  followed. Both missed in the exchanges, closed, and Gybletts gained
  the throw.

  38.—Gybletts, amazingly active on his pins, missed a right-hander;
  exchanges with the left, and a cross-counter. Gybletts went in
  wildly, but was heavily thrown.

  39.—From this to the 45th round the men fought spiritedly; Gaynor,
  getting better, generally had Gybletts down at the ropes. In the
  46th round Gybletts’s right hand was seen to have given way, and he
  had his left only to depend on as a weapon of offence. In the 48th
  and 49th Gaynor fought Gybletts down, and in the 50th threw him
  heavily.

  51, and last.—When Gybletts showed at the scratch, Harry Holt called
  upon Gaynor to “finish the fight,” but Tom was so “bothered” he
  could do nothing with precision. He missed with the right, got hold
  of his man and turned him round, when both fell together, Gybletts
  pegging away at Gaynor’s back. Time, one hour and fifty-three
  minutes. An attempt was made to bring Gybletts to “time,” but in
  vain. The game fellow had swooned, and Gaynor was hailed the victor.
  Gybletts was bled by a medical man on the ground, and quickly came
  to. Gaynor, after a few minutes, walked to his carriage, saluted by
  “See, the Conquering Hero Comes,” from the keyed bugle.

  REMARKS.—Gybletts’s friends had no reason to complain of their
  reliance on the gameness of their man, although their underestimate
  of his adversary’s powers led to his defeat. Gaynor’s superior
  length, and his wrestling capabilities, in which he has few
  superiors in the Ring, turned the scale in his favour—added to
  which, his endurance in receiving punishment, and skill in hitting
  and stopping, proved also to be superior to those of his brave
  adversary. The battle, as a whole, did honour to both victor and
  vanquished.


Gaynor took a benefit at the Tennis Court on the ensuing Thursday, when
Tom Oliver and Ben Burn, Young Dutch Sam and Ned Brown (Sprig of
Myrtle), were the leading couples. Gaynor returned thanks to his
friends, and in reply to an expressed wish of Gybletts for another
trial, said he hoped to be shortly in a position to retire from the Ring
altogether; if not his friend Charley should be accommodated. The stakes
were given up to Gaynor on the same evening, after a dinner at Harry
Holt’s, when his backers presented him not only with the stakes he had
won, but the sums they had put down for him.

So high did this victory place Gaynor in his own and his admirers’
estimation that it was considered a new trial with his old opponent of
six years previously might lead to a reversal of the verdict then given.
Accordingly Ned Neale was sounded; but that now eminent boxer having his
hands full, the matter was perforce postponed, and it was only in the
latter part of 1830 that a match could be made with Neale and Gaynor, to
come off after the former boxer’s contest with Young Dutch Sam, as
already narrated in this volume.

The terms were that Neale should fight Gaynor, £300 to £200, on the 15th
of March, 1831, eight weeks subsequent to Neale’s fight with Sam.

Notwithstanding Neale’s defeat by “the Young Phenomenon,” he was the
favourite at five to four, and these odds increased when information
from Neale’s training quarters in the Isle of Wight asserted that the
Streatham man was “never better in his life.” Gaynor was declared
“stale.” He had for more than two years led the life of a publican, and
was said to be “gone by.” His more intimate acquaintance did not share
this opinion, as Tom was always steady, regular, and never a hard
drinker.

Gaynor took his exercise at his old friend Shirley’s, at Staines, as on
former occasions, and having won the toss for choice of place, Warfield,
in Berkshire, was named by his party as the field of arms.

Soon after twelve on the appointed day Neale, who had arrived at Ripley
the day before, came on the ground in a barouche and four, with numerous
equestrian and pedestrian followers. Gaynor, in a similar turn-out, soon
after put in an appearance. He had for his seconds Harry Holt and Ned
Stockman—Neale, Tom Spring and his late opponent, Young Dutch Sam. The
men shook hands good-humouredly, and commenced “peeling,” six to four
being eagerly offered on Neale. Both men looked serious, and Gaynor’s
skin was sallow. As for Neale, he looked bright and clear, and was
generally fancied by the spectators. Gaynor’s weight was declared to be
11st. 2lb., while Neale’s was 12st. 3lb., Gaynor’s age being thirty-two
and Neale’s twenty-seven. The advantage, therefore, seemed greatly on
the side of Tom’s former conqueror, and so thought most persons, except
Gaynor himself. All preliminaries having been adjusted the men were
delivered at the scratch, the seconds retired to their corners, and at
twelve minutes after one began


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Each man held up his hands as if waiting the other’s
  attack, and this determination being mutual they stood eyeing each
  other steadily for two or three minutes, doing nothing. Gaynor at
  length made a little dodge with his left, but Neale was wary,
  shifted a little, and would not be drawn out. More waiting, more
  dodging, when, at the expiry of nine minutes, Gaynor sent out his
  right at Ned’s body, who contented himself by stopping it with his
  elbow. Gaynor stepped back and wiped his hands on his drawers.
  Mutual feints, both cautious—the spectators becoming impatient.
  (“Wake him up,” said Stockman, “he’s taking a nap.”) After twenty
  minutes of manœuvring Gaynor planted his right on Neale’s mazzard.
  (Cheers, and cries of, “Now go to work.”) Neale would not break
  ground, and Gaynor could not get at him. More tedious manœuvring.
  Forty minutes had now elapsed (the same time as in Neale’s first
  round with Nicholls), when Neale went in, Gaynor retreating to the
  corner of the ring. (“Now’s your time,” cried Young Sam.) Ned went
  in with the right, Gaynor countered, and a scrambling rally
  followed. A few ill-directed blows were exchanged, a close, and some
  fibbing; then a struggle at the ropes, when Gaynor was uppermost.
  The round lasted forty-five minutes.

  2.—On coming to the scratch Neale showed a small swelling over the
  left eye, and his face was somewhat flushed. (“Now,” cried Stockman,
  “you have broken the ice; cut away.”) Neale crept in on his man, who
  retreated, and shifted with a good defence. Neale let go his right
  at Gaynor’s listener, but missed, and at it the men went in a
  rattling rally. Gaynor hit up with his right, catching Neale on the
  jaw; while Ned gave Gaynor a heavy one on the cheek-bone, raising a
  very visible “mouse.” In the close fibbing was again the order of
  the day; at length Gaynor got his man down.

  3.—Great shouting. The “Queen’s Head” for choice. Neale’s face was
  flushed, and he panted a little. Gaynor was as pale as a parsnip,
  barring the black mouse on his cheek. Gaynor made pretty play with
  the right, but was neatly stopped, and Neale did the same for his
  opponent. Gaynor tried his left, but Neale merely threw up his
  guard, and Gaynor desisted. Neale let fly and got home on Gaynor’s
  ivories, but had a sharp return on his left eye. Gaynor planted his
  right on Ned’s ribs, and got away. Caution on both sides. Neale
  crept nearer to his work, and Gaynor retreated to his corner; at
  last Neale went in, and a slight bungling rally followed. A sharp
  struggle for the throw, which Gaynor got, and rolled over his man.
  (Loud cheers for Gaynor. On the men getting to their seconds’ knees,
  Spring claimed “first blood” for Neale, from Gaynor’s mouth, which
  was allowed.)

  4.—A new dodge was here discernible. Stockman, to prevent Neale
  holding his man, had greased Gaynor’s neck, the grease being very
  visible at the roots of his hair. Neale broke ground and began the
  fighting; Gaynor was ready, and fought with him. Neale was hit in
  the body and on the nose and brow, Gaynor on the jaw and cheek. In a
  loose rally Ned went down in the hitting. (Cannon claimed this as
  “first knock-down” for Gaynor. It was allowed; but there was not a
  clear knock-down in the fight.)

  5.—On rising Neale showed marks of hitting on the left eye and nose.
  After a little cautious sparring Ned rushed in wild, and the men
  wrestled together. Both down, Gaynor uppermost.

  6.—Neale steady. No great harm done on either side. Gaynor hit short
  with his left, then threw in his right with the rapidity of
  lightning. Both attempts were beautifully stopped. Gaynor laughed,
  but Neale put a stop to his hilarity by a sharp lunging right-hander
  on the mouth, which Gaynor returned with a smart smack on Ned’s
  proboscis. Another wrestling match, and Neale thrown. (On rising
  Neale showed blood over the right eye, and Holt renewed the disputed
  point by claiming it for Gaynor.)

  7.—Neale stole a march, and popped in his left cleverly on Gaynor’s
  nose. Gaynor returned with the right; Ned rattled in, caught Gaynor
  so tightly round the waist that he could not extricate himself,
  then, with the back-heel, threw him on his back on the ground,
  adding his weight to the force of the fall. This was a smasher, and
  Gaynor’s nose sent forth a crimson stream.

  8.—Gaynor on the piping order, and cautious. Ned again visited his
  snuff-box with his left. Neale fought into a close, and again threw
  Gaynor a burster. (Ned was now a strong favourite, at six and seven
  to four.)

  9.—Gaynor was cheerful, and there was some good counter-hitting with
  the right. Neale napped it on his already swollen eye, which began
  to bleed, as did an old wound on Gaynor’s cheek-bone. In the close,
  Gaynor was thrown for the third time. He got up slowly, and seemed
  the worse for wear.

  10.—Neale, still cautious, stopped a right-hander, but missed his
  return. Gaynor went in for the throw, and after a sharp struggle got
  his man down.

  11.—Gaynor much distressed and groggy. Nevertheless, he planted his
  right on Neale’s damaged eye, which was fast putting up the shutter.
  Ned missed a vicious lunge at Gaynor’s ear, and Gaynor returned
  nastily on Ned’s nose, who rushed in, and seizing Tom, lifted him
  from _terra firma_, flung him heavily on his shoulder, and fell on
  him.

  12.—Gaynor came up astonishingly steady, though bleeding from mouth,
  nose, and cheek. He hit short at the body with his right, then tried
  his left at the nob, but Ned frustrated his intentions. Gaynor swung
  out his right viciously, but Neale jumped back and escaped. Neale
  then went in for the throw, and a severe struggle followed, Ned
  chopping and fibbing; but at last Gaynor got the lock, and over went
  poor Ned, with Gaynor on top of him, a most audible thud.

  13.—Gaynor piping. Ned planted his right hand on the body; he then
  closed. A long struggle for the throw, and both down.

  14.—Gaynor, game as a pebble, went in to fight, but Ned got away,
  and Gaynor went down in the attempt to close.

  15.—Ned made play, but was open-handed. Gaynor retreated to the
  ropes, where a struggle took place. Gaynor got Ned under, and hung
  on him on the ropes, until Ned fell outside them, Gaynor inside.

  16.—The fight had now lasted one hour and thirteen minutes. A wild
  and scrambling round. Both down.

  17–20.—Gaynor, game and ready, always came to the scratch; though
  much distressed, he never shirked his work. In the 20th round he
  seemed “abroad,” and fell, Neale falling over him on his head.

  21.—Gaynor on the totter. Ned ran in at him, bored him to the ropes,
  caught him in his arms, and sent him a “Catherine wheel” in the air.
  (Ned’s friends all alive. Three to one on Ned, and no takers.)

  22 and 23.—In both these rounds Gaynor was down, and Neale supposed
  to be winning in a canter—any odds.

  24.—Ned the fresher and stronger man, apparently. Exchanges, when
  Gaynor rushed in and threw him. (“Not safe yet,” cried the knowing
  ones.)

  25.—Gaynor went to in-fighting, closed, and threw Neale.

  26.—Neale went in first, but Gaynor fought for a few seconds on the
  defensive, then closed, put on the crook, and threw Neale.
  (“Pro-di-gi-ous!” exclaimed Frosty-faced Fogo, after the manner of
  Liston’s Dominie Sampson.)

  27.—Gaynor, though sorely punished, smiled confidently. Neale tried
  his left; Gaynor missed his right over Ned’s shoulder. Ned closed
  for the fall, but Gaynor again got it. (The odds at a stand-still.
  “Neale has to win it yet.”)

  28.—Ned made another effort and won the fall, throwing Gaynor
  heavily.

  29–31.—Neale cautious. Half-arm hitting and scrambling rallies. Both
  men tired, and little execution done.

  32.—A wild round in the corner; Neale fell outside the ropes, and
  Gaynor inside.

  33.—Neale walked firmly to the scratch; Gaynor was led up by his
  seconds. Neale fought in to a close, and heavy hits were exchanged.
  Gaynor fell on his knees, but was up in a second. Ned caught hold of
  the ropes, Gaynor closed, and Neale canted him completely over his
  head.

  34.—Neale forced a rally. Gaynor waited for him and hit up. Neale
  closed, but seeing he was likely to get the worst of it, slipped
  down, amid cries of disapprobation, and “Take him away!”

  35.—Curtis called out to Young Sam, “Six to four on Gaynor. Ned has
  cut it!” Neale in reply walked to the scratch. Gaynor ran in, seized
  Neale, and threw him with a swing. Shouts for Gaynor.

  36.—Gaynor seemed getting second wind, and became steadier on his
  pins. Hits exchanged. Neale got the throw.

  37.—Gaynor short at the body with his right. Neale nailed him with
  the left on the ribs. A rally in the corner, when Neale slipped to
  avoid. (Disapprobation.)

  38–43.—Nothing remarkable except the men’s perseverance. Each round
  began with some mutual stops and misses, resolved itself into a
  rally, and ended by one or both down alternately.

  44.—Gaynor seemed to rally all his energies, and forced the
  fighting; hits were exchanged, and Gaynor tried for the close, but
  Neale went down. Gaynor pointed at him as he lay on the ground.
  (Cheers from Gaynor’s friends. “We’ll illuminate the ‘Queen’s Head’
  to-night!”)

  45, and last.—Gaynor seemed to begin with new vigour. His spirits
  were roused by the cheers of his friends, and he went manfully to
  the scratch. Neale faced him with apparent alacrity, but was clearly
  down on his luck, and showed heavy marks of punishment. Gaynor went
  at him with the right, and planted a blow. Neale fought with him to
  a close, when Gaynor threw him and fell across him. There was
  nothing to indicate that all was over, but when “time” was called,
  Neale’s head fell back, and though Young Sam shook it and shouted,
  Ned was “deaf” to the call. Gaynor was accordingly proclaimed the
  victor amidst vociferous acclamations. The supporters of Neale were
  amazed and dumbfounded. Gaynor threw up his arms and cut a very
  feeble caper before walking off to his carriage, which displayed the
  orange flag of victory, and where he quickly dressed himself. Neale
  was some time before he recovered, and was then conveyed to Staines,
  and put to bed.

  REMARKS.—It is difficult to account for Neale’s falling-off, as ten
  rounds before the close he was evidently the stronger and fresher
  man. We can only attribute it to the repetition of prolonged
  exertion and of punishment at an interval too short for the entire
  recuperation of his bodily and mental powers after such a defeat as
  that he experienced at the hands of Young Sam only eight weeks
  before. Indeed, we cannot but think the match was ill advised and
  imprudent, and the odds of £300 to £200 in the battle-money
  presumptuous. It was, however, brave and honourable in Neale to try
  the “wager of battle,” in which his too partial backers had engaged
  him. As to Gaynor, but one opinion can be formed of his courage,
  game, endurance, and fortitude, all of which were conspicuous in
  this contest with his superior in weight, youth, and the character
  of the boxers he had met and conquered.


On the following Thursday Gaynor took a benefit at the Hanover Assembly
Rooms, Long Acre.[54] Here he was greeted with all the honours that wait
upon success, and the best men of the Ring—Tom Spring, Oliver, Young
Sam, Reuben Martin, Stockman, Reidie, &c.—put on the mittens. On Friday
the stakes were given up at Tom’s own crib, the “Queen’s Head,” Duke’s
Court, Bow Street, after a sporting “spread.”

Tom’s defeat of the redoubtable Streatham Youth led to a challenge from
Young Dutch Sam. The circumstances of this defeat may be read in Chapter
VIII., in the Life of that skilful boxer.

This was the last appearance in the twenty-four foot of either Sam or
Gaynor. The latter, who was a civil, unassuming, and obliging man,
attended to his calling, and died in the month of November, 1834, in
Grosvenor Street, Bond Street, at the early age of thirty-five, of a
chronic complaint of several years’ standing.




                               CHAPTER X.
               ALEC REID (“THE CHELSEA SNOB”)—1821–1830.


The pedigree of Alec Reid showed that he came of a “fighting family.”
His father was a Chelsea veteran, for many years in a snug berth on Nell
Gwynne’s glorious foundation, and in receipt, as we have seen in the
books of that institution, of a “good service allowance of two shillings
and fivepence-halfpenny a day.” Let not the reader smile superciliously.
Alec, the son of a humble but heroic Alexander, once demonstrated the
facts to the writer with honest filial pride, and moreover laid stress
upon the fact that while his papa was in garrison at Guernsey, awaiting
orders to sail with his regiment for the West Indies, his mamma, on the
30th of October, 1802, presented him with a thumping boy, the seventh
pledge of her affection, who was in due time baptized Alexander, and was
the subject of this memoir. At the age of fourteen, Alec’s father being
then invalided, and “the big wars over,” the young ’un was apprenticed
to his father’s trade, that of a shoemaker, and hence his pugilistic
patronymic of “the Chelsea Snob.”

His first recorded display was with one Finch, a local celebrity who, to
the advantages of height and a stone in weight, added three or four
years in age. Mr. Finch, in two rounds, occupying ten minutes, was so
satisfied of the young Snob’s superiority that he “caved in,” and
quitted the “Five Fields” (now covered by the mansions of Belgravia),
never again to show in combat with the “Young Soldier,” as Alec was then
nicknamed by his companions.

[Illustration:

  ALEC REID.
]

Reid now purchased two pairs of gloves, expensive articles in those
days, and started a series of sparring _soirées_ at the “Turk’s Head,”
in Jews’ Row, near the Military Hospital. His fame spread, and finding
himself on Wimbledon Common, attracted thereto by a mill between Fleming
and Curwen, two London boxers, and a purse being subscribed for a second
battle, young Alec boldly threw his nob-cover within the ropes. His
challenge was answered by Sam Abbott, a cousin of the once-renowned
Bill, who beat Phil Sampson, and made a draw with Jem Ward. Young Abbott
proved himself game and resolute, but notwithstanding the advice and
nursing of his clever namesake, Alec punished his nob so severely that
in twenty-five minutes his cousin threw up the hat, Abbott being quite
blind. Alec raised himself immensely by this victory; and when, after
the battle between Ward and Abbott, on Moulsey Hurst, October 22nd,
1822, a big fellow named Hearn claimed a purse of twenty-five guineas
subscribed for a second fight, Alec disputed his claim. Hearn was
disposed of in fifteen minutes, the big ’un being so out-fought that he
put on his coat, declaring “it wasn’t worth a fellow’s while to go on
without getting a crack in now and then.”

Alec now frequently showed at the Tennis Court, in the Haymarket, and
Bob Yandell, a clever sparrer, who had defeated Crayfer and Dudley
Downs, having expressed a disparaging opinion of Alec’s talents, a
challenge resulted, and the men met on the 14th of January, 1823, in
Battersea Fields. After a battle of one hour and a half Yandell was
carried from the ground thoroughly beaten, while Alec showed in Chelsea
the same evening but slightly the worse for wear.

On the 20th of March, 1823, after the fight between Gipsy Cooper and
Cabbage, the Gardener, Alec joined fists with Paddy O’Rafferty, an Irish
candidate for fistic honours, but in thirty-one rounds, occupying
sixty-three minutes, the Chelsea hero polished off Misther O’Rafferty so
completely that he made no further appearance in the Ring.

Dick Defoe having declared himself anxious to meet any eleven stone man,
a gentleman who had a high opinion of Alec’s abilities offered to match
Reid against him. Alec consented, and the men met on Tuesday, June 17th,
1823, in Epping Forest. After thirteen rounds, Reid’s backer,
considering him to be overmatched, humanely interposed, and ordered Reid
to be taken away. Many were of opinion that Reid would have pulled
through had he been allowed to continue. Reid lost no reputation by this
defeat.

Reid’s next opponent was Harris, the Waterman, who had beaten Bill
Gould, Youna de Costa, and with the exception of this defeat at the
hands of Alec, never lost a fight. They met at Moulsey Hurst, on the
12th of August, 1823, entering the ring after Peace Inglis had defeated
George Curtis. On the ropes being cleared Alec, in high spirits and fine
condition, threw in his castor, a white one, and waited on by his late
opponent Dick Defoe and Tom Callas, proceeded to make his toilet;
Harris, from the opposite side, answered his token of defiance, and
esquired by Josh Hudson and Harry Holt, advanced to make friendly
greeting. The ceremony over, the men stood up, Harris the favourite, at
five and six to four.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Reid, with the advantage of youth, looked fresh and full of
  activity, Harris, though a few pounds the heavier man, looking
  leaner and more angular. Reid, after a few feints, bustled in to
  work, and planted a sharp right-hander on Harris’s ribs. The
  Waterman found he must lose no time, so he rattled in for exchanges,
  and Reid went on his knees from a slip. (“Bravo! here will be
  another good battle!”) Even betting.

  2.—Reid came up gay as a lark, and made play like a good one. The
  claret was now visible on both sides, and hit for hit till Reid was
  again down.

  3.—Harris met Reid well on his going in; but the Translator would
  not be kept out, and poor Harris went against the stake from a
  severe blow. Nothing else but fighting, till both were down. Reid
  for choice.

  4.—Sparring was out of the question, yet good science was witnessed
  on both sides. Harris napped pepper, but not without returning the
  compliment. Both down.

  5.—Reid took the lead so decisively in this round that he became the
  favourite, two to one. Harris went down piping.

  6.—Reid got punished severely. Harris held him with his right hand,
  and whopped him with the other all over the ring. The Chelsea man at
  length rescued himself from his perilous situation, and by way of
  changing the scene fibbed the Waterman down. Anybody’s battle.

  7.—Harris commenced this round with some fine fighting, and had the
  best of it for a short period, till Reid put in a straight nobber,
  when Harris found himself on his latter end, looking about with
  surprise, as much as to say, “How came I here?”

  8.—Nothing else but milling. Harris repeatedly nobbed his opponent,
  but he would not be denied. A heavy rally occurred, and Harris,
  being near the stakes, struck his hand against the post. Harris down
  like a shot.

  9.—Youth must be served. Harris fought like a brave man, but the
  punishment he received was too heavy for him. Down in this round.

  10.—Harris could not reduce the strength of Reid. The Waterman
  possessed the best science, but the blows of Reid were most
  effective. It was a manly fight. Both down.

  11–12.—Equally good as the former rounds. Two to one on Reid.

  13.—Harris jobbed his opponent frequently, but Reid always finished
  the round to his own advantage. In the last round he fell on Harris
  in the close. (“Take him away; he’s a good old ’un, but too stale
  for the Snob!”) Any odds.

  14, and last.—Reid went up to his man and hit him one, two; Harris
  did not return. He seemed all abroad. Reid bustled him down, and
  Josh threw up the sponge in token of defeat. The fight lasted only
  fifteen minutes.

  REMARKS.—A better fight, while it lasted, has not been lately seen.
  Harris was not only stale, but was stated to be a little “off” in
  condition and health. Harris was not disgraced, though defeated by
  youth, backed by resolution and strength.


Only two months after this victory Alec was at Chatham, teaching “the
art of self-defence,” when a rough and ready fisherman named Joe
Underhill found local friends to subscribe a purse of £25, and £5 for
the loser. For this, then, “the Chatham champion” proposed to meet the
“London professor.” Underhill’s friends had miscalculated both their
man’s skill and Alec’s science, for in the short space of nineteen
minutes the fisherman’s chance was more than “fishy,” and at the end of
the eighth and last round the Snob had so completely sewn him up and
welted him that he cried, “Enough!” and refused to face his man. This
battle took place on Chatham Lines, October 21st, 1823.

At the farewell benefit of the game Bob Purcell, at the Fives Court,
February 15th, 1824, Reid set to with Gipsy Cooper, and gave the rushing
Bohemian such a glove-punishing as led to a match. Cooper, however,
forfeited a small deposit. A second match was made on Tuesday, April
13th, 1824; this, however, was prevented by magisterial interference,
and the stakes were drawn.

An opportunity, however, soon offered itself, proving the truth of the
adage that “where there’s a will there’s a way.” On the very next
Tuesday, April 20th, 1824, both men found themselves (of course by
accident) at Colnbrook, when and where Peace Inglis defeated Ned Turner.
Twenty pounds were quickly subscribed for a second battle, and Alec
having tossed his beaver into the ropes was answered by the Gipsy. Both
men were in first-rate condition, and both equally confident. Josh
Hudson and Dick Curtis, two of the ablest of seconds, looked after
Cooper; the accomplished Harry Holt and the veteran Tom Jones, of
Paddington, seconded Reid.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Cooper commenced the mill furiously, and his blows told
  heavily. Flattered with success, he went to work hand over head,
  throwing aside a number of blows. Reid could scarcely be quick
  enough for his opponent; but he stopped and shifted cleverly. A
  short pause, when the Gipsy again plunged in and drew first blood.
  In closing, both down. No harm done.

  2.—The lip of the Gipsy was bleeding when he appeared at the
  scratch. He lashed out, neck or nothing. Reid put in two nobbing
  hits and threw Cooper.

  3.—The Gipsy was furious indeed; he did not look at his man, to take
  any sort of aim, yet Reid was bustled about, and received a random
  shot or two on the body. In a rally he clinched the Gipsy and gave
  him a cross-buttock.

  4.—This was a fine fighting round; the Gipsy appeared as if he meant
  to win and nothing else. The hitting was sharp on both sides. Reid
  was floored. (“The Gipsy will win!” and several now took him for
  choice.)

  5.—The Gipsy was so desperate that he bored Reid down. Nothing.

  6.—Cooper was amazingly active; he hit in all directions;
  nevertheless he retreated from Reid when the latter stepped in to
  exchange. In closing the Gipsy put in a heavy blow as they were both
  going down.

  7.—The Gipsy had it his own way this round. Reid napped terribly,
  and was also milled down. (“Cooper will win in a canter. If he had
  fought like this with Bishop Sharpe we must have won our money,”
  from several losers on that mill.)

  8.—The hitting of the Gipsy was tremendous; and if he had not thrown
  so many blows away, he might have been able to have given a better
  account of the battle. Reid went down heavily hit. (The cry was,
  “The Gipsy is sure to win it!”)

  9.—Reid nobbed his adversary twice neatly, and kept him out, but the
  Gipsy bored in and both were down.

  10.—The Gipsy had been so very busy that Reid had had scarcely time
  for a moment’s tactics. He, however, now showed the Gipsy that a
  dangerous customer stood before him—a boxer that would make him
  fight, and not let him get out of his reach at pleasure. The Gipsy
  napped two nobbers that made him reel; he returned and tripped up
  Reid.

  11.—Severe counter-hitting, and Reid received such a swingeing hit
  that he reeled about and went down. (“Come, no tumbledown tricks,”
  cried Josh.)

  12.—This was the best round in the fight. The men fought into a
  rally, and broke away. A pause necessary on both sides. The Gipsy
  slashing out hand over head, both were down, Cooper undermost. The
  Gipsy, quite frantic, struck Holt, who, he said, had acted “foul”
  towards him; but Harry very prudently did not return it, or the
  fight must have been spoilt.

  13.—Reid was positively run down, without harm done.

  14.—The Gipsy was so fast that the spectators had scarcely an
  opportunity of appreciating the clever defence displayed by Reid.
  Cooper violent as before, and Reid down smiling.

  15.—Reid got hold of Cooper; fibbing at the ropes till both down.

  16.—Reid would make the Gipsy fight, although the latter retreated
  from him. Reid was thrown in the close.

  17.—In this round Cooper was not quite so fast, and Reid put in a
  stopper or two on his nob, that produced the claret. Reid also put
  in a clean back-handed hit on the Gipsy’s proboscis. Both down; Reid
  fell out of the ropes.

  18.—Reid reminded the amateurs of Randall’s neatness of style. The
  Gipsy could not get away from his returns. The latter, however,
  fought desperately, and Reid went down.

  19, and last.—The spectators did not apprehend the fight was so
  nearly over. Reid took the lead in great style, and by a heavy blow
  hit the Gipsy clean through the ropes. Cooper’s head rebounded as he
  rolled over, and when time was called the Gipsy had not awoke from
  his trance. Reid of course was declared the winner. Twenty-nine
  minutes.

  REMARKS.—Reid to all appearance was little the worse for his battle,
  except a swelled cheek. The Gipsy is always dangerous from his
  lunging hits; but he trusts so much to chance that he is almost a
  “gift” to a steady and bold boxer. He does not look his man full in
  the face. Reid fought like a winning man, and showed excellent
  points.


What is the use of going out for a spree without making “a day of it?”
say the jolly ones. Here is a case in point. It occurred, somehow or
other, no matter, that a turn-up took place between Maurice Delay and
Alec Reid, on the road home from the fight, after Stockman had defeated
the Sailor Boy, on Tuesday, September 21st, 1824, near the “Coach and
Horses,” at Ilford. Notwithstanding the disparity between the men as to
size and weight, it was stated in the papers of the day that Reid had
none the worst of it with his ponderous antagonist during two rounds,
after which they were parted. Half-an-hour after Bill Savage offered
himself to Reid’s notice for a £5 note which an amateur had offered for
“a wind-up” to the day. A ring was formed near the Temple Mills, Essex,
Harry Holt and Jem Burn waiting on Reid, and Savage seconded by his
brother and George Weston. Darkness coming on a “draw” was declared
after thirty-seven minutes, and the money divided. Reid, although out of
condition, was said to have had the best of it.

Alec was now matched for £50 a-side against the renowned Bishop Sharpe,
and a gallant fight was anticipated. Bishop Sharpe was well known as
nothing else but a good man; he had beaten all his opponents, the
tremendous Gipsy Cooper three times. Nevertheless, in the opinion of the
judges of boxing, the Bishop did not rank as a scientific fighter; he,
however, was the favourite, five and six to four. Reid stood well in the
sporting world; nay, so much so that it was expected that Alec would
prove a second Jack Randall.

On Thursday, December 11th, 1824, a long procession of London travellers
crossed the ferry at Hampton, and the ring was formed on the classic
Hurst of Moulsey. The Commissary-General, with the ropes and stakes,
made a pretty twenty-four feet inner square, and a spacious circular
enclosure marked the outer ring. The combatants peeled, the colours were
tied to the stakes, a bird’s eye on a red ground for Reid, a yellowman
for Sharpe. Oliver and Ben Burn attended upon Reid, Josh Hudson and Dick
Curtis on Sharpe. The men shook hands, and then came


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Reid was in fine condition, and Sharpe looked hardy and
  well. Scarcely, however, had the men held up their hands, than
  surprise was expressed at the careless style of Reid. He stood so
  slovenly and with so open a guard that Sharpe at once went in and
  hit him slightly, when Reid stepped back and went down suspiciously.
  Opinions that “Mr. Barney” was not far off were freely expressed,
  Reid’s style was so unlike his former displays.

  2.—Oliver said to his man as he went up, “If you don’t mean to
  fight, say so, and I’ll leave the ring.” Reid laughed and manœuvred
  about. Sharpe again forced the fighting. A few exchanges took place,
  to the advantage of Sharpe, and Reid was again on the grass. While
  sitting on his second’s knee Reid complained of sickness. “He’s
  coming it,” said Curtis. “No,” said Reid, “no such thing.” Ben Burn
  angrily said “he would not be second in a cross,” and left the ring.

  3.—“Why don’t you fight?” asked Oliver. Reid could not or would not.
  He received a flush hit in the mouth, and first blood was claimed.
  Reid down, and the ring broken in. Oliver left the roped enclosure.

  4, and last.—Reid came up at the call of “time,” amidst great
  confusion. There were a few exchanges, and again Reid went down in
  his own corner. “You have won,” cried Sharpe’s backers. “Don’t leave
  the ring yet,” said Josh Hudson to Sharpe.

  REMARKS.—A curious conclusion was come to. Reid declared he was
  ready to go on, but his seconds had deserted him. At Hampton he
  maintained that he had no idea of fighting “a cross,” and that no
  one had even dared to propose such a thing to him. Our opinion is,
  in the absence of all direct evidence, that Reid was “hocussed,” by
  whom was never ascertained (he himself always asserted this to be
  the case), and that his temporary stupefaction went off before his
  arrival at Hampton. The referee not having been appealed to on the
  ground there was no decision. Accordingly, Tom Cribb, who was
  stakeholder, returned the money to the backers of each man, and all
  bets were drawn. Pierce Egan has half-a-dozen pages of incoherent
  persiflage upon this mysterious affair, cut from his own paper, from
  which little definite can be gathered.


Reid was now certainly under a cloud of dark suspicion. Yet a few
friends were found who matched him for £100 against Jubb (the Cheltenham
Champion), a boxer who had recently beaten Price (the Oxford Champion)
in off-hand style, and whose friends were anxious to measure him with a
London pugilist. The men met accordingly in Worcestershire, near
Stow-on-the-Wold, on the 4th of June, 1825.

Benford, in Oxfordshire, seventy-one miles from London, was the place
named, but on the morning bills were posted in the town signed by the
magistrates of three counties, Oxford, Berks, and Gloucester, warning
all persons against attending any fight within those counties, and
ordering all constables, &c., to take the principals and seconds into
custody as contemplating a breach of the peace. Worcestershire now
seemed the only open point, and off went all hands to Icombe, a village
on the borders, two miles from Stow-on-the-Wold, and ten or so from
Benford. At half-past two in the afternoon Reid skied his beaver, Jack
Randall and the Laureate Fogo acting as his esquires. Jubb soon
followed, attended by Bill Eales, the scientific, and a provincial
friend named Collier. On stripping both men looked well. Jubb had the
advantage in weight, length of reach, and height, yet the London
division laid odds on Reid at five to four when the countrymen would not
take evens.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Jubb stood somewhat over Reid, with his hands well out, but
  somewhat awkward in position. He made play at Reid’s head, but was
  stopped neatly. Reid smiled and nodded, and broke ground actively.
  Jubb tried it again, but was again parried, and the Chelsea cobbler
  popped in such a cutting right-hander in return just over the left
  eye that Jubb’s optic flashed fire and he seemed all abroad, winking
  like an owl in the sunshine. The London division delighted. Reid
  bustled Jubb down.

  2.—Reid treated Jubb’s attempts lightly. He followed him all over
  the ring, and after a heavy hit on his left eye, closed and threw
  him, amidst general cheering.

  3.—Jubb, who somewhat fancied himself as a wrestler, seemed all
  abroad; he tried to catch Reid in his arms, but Alec hit up, caught
  him under the chin a rattler, and fell on his knees from the force
  of his own blow. Reid complained that he had no nails in his shoes.

  4.—All the hitting came from Reid’s side. Jubb could only stop with
  his ribs or head. Reid down, the Cheltenham lads grumbling, “He
  dropped without a blow.” It was not so; many blows were exchanged.

  5–7.—Similar in character. Jubb wild, Reid steady, and always ready
  as his man came in.

  8.—In a rally Jubb caught Reid a swinging hit in the throat, which
  almost turned him round. The Jubbites cheered, but Reid returned to
  the rally, and the Cheltenham champion was floored.

  Ten more rounds, in which Jubb was, with unimportant exceptions,
  receiver-general.

  18, and last.—Jubb came up in the doldrums. He was hit in all
  directions, but was too game to go down. His backers humanely
  interfered, and desired his seconds to take him away. It was all
  over in twenty-three minutes and a half, and when Reid put on his
  clothes there was scarcely a mark perceptible on his face.

  REMARKS.—Jubb did not avail himself of his height. On the contrary,
  he stooped to a level with the eye of Reid. Jubb is a game man, and
  would beat any countryman who merely relied on strength and going
  in. Reid fought with him whenever he attempted to force the
  fighting, and got on to him almost how and where he pleased,
  stopping his attack and turning it to his own advantage. Reid won
  first blood, first knock-down blow, and the battle, his backers
  drawing upon all three events.


Reid, on his return to town, addressed letters to the sporting papers
challenging Bishop Sharpe, West Country Dick, or Aaron, for £100, and
undertaking to weigh no more than 10st. 4lbs. on the day of fighting.

As there were difficulties in the way with Bishop Sharpe Reid’s friends
matched him against Tom Gaynor, a man certainly his overmatch by a stone
in weight and three inches in height. The fight, which took place May
16th, 1826, and in which Alec suffered defeat after a game contest of
one hour and ten minutes, will be found in Chapter IX., _ante_, page 403
of this volume.

At length preliminaries were settled between Alec and his former
opponent Bishop Sharpe, for £50 a-side. The battle took place on the 6th
of September, 1826, at No Man’s Land, in Hertfordshire. It was anybody’s
fight for the first twenty-five minutes, when Alec received what might
be termed a chance blow in the pit of the stomach, from which he never
recovered, and victory was declared for the Bold Smuggler.

Shortly after this (October 27th, 1826) Reid got into trouble for having
acted in the capacity of second to a man of the name of Crow, in a
pugilistic contest at Old Oak Common, with one Samuel Beard. The jury
found Beard, Reid, and Michael Curtis guilty, and sentenced them, Beard
to seven days’ imprisonment in Newgate, and the seconds to fourteen
days, and to be held in recognisances “to keep the peace for twelve
months towards all His Majesty’s subjects.”

Poor Alec, having done his term in “the donjon’s dreary keep,” and lived
out his recognisances to keep the peace, was once again matched with his
old opponent Bishop Sharpe for £100. Little preface is necessary to the
detail of the battle between these men, which was one of the best that
had been witnessed for many years, even when downright milling and
upstanding rallies were far more common than they became in the
succeeding years, which marked the decline and fall of the P.R. They had
fought twice before, in both of which instances Reid was unsuccessful.

As soon as the match was made they went into training, and thus all
gradually ripened for sport. On Sunday Sharpe took his departure for St.
Albans, and took up his quarters at the “Blue Boar,” and on the next
evening, after a benefit at the Tennis Court, Reid followed his example,
pitching his tent at the “Red Lion.” Tuesday morning (July 15th, 1828)
was unfavourable, nevertheless the roads were thronged at an early hour.
Both men were visited in the town; both spoke well of their condition,
and with modest confidence of success; Reid saying “he had everything at
stake, for if he lost he was bowled out for ever, whereas if he won he
was made a man of.” Sharpe soberly said he was “to win to-day,” and his
shoemaker had already booked the event as certain by inscribing on the
soles of his high-lows, “These are the shoes that are to win;” a
prophecy which was unfortunately trodden under foot in more ways than
one, for he was for the first time in his life forced to confess he was
fairly conquered, after a long career previously unchequered by defeat.
The odds during the morning were five and six to four on Sharpe.

As the hour for business approached the crowd increased, till the word
was given to march, and all toddled to the scene of action, where Tom
Oliver had previously pitched the ropes and stakes, and collected an
outer ring of wagons.

Shortly before one o’clock the Smuggler bore down for the ring attended
by Josh Hudson and Dick Curtis, and having thrown in his castor, entered
himself. The Snob was soon with him, under the auspices of Tom Spring
and the Lively Kid (Ned Stockman). After shaking hands, the Snob said he
had four sovereigns, to which he was desirous of taking odds of six to
four. This was at once laid him by Dick Curtis, and staked, and the
operation of peeling commenced. On stripping, weight and muscle were
evidently in favour of the Bishop. He looked fresher in the mug, too,
although it was said he had been imprudently attending as the host of a
canvas tavern at Woolwich Races and Fairlop Fair, where he dispensed the
“real thing” in large quantities. Reid looked light and thin, but was in
good spirits, and seemed confident.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Sharpe, as usual, came forward right foot foremost,
  measuring his man with a keen and searching eye. Alec was on the
  alert, both hands well up, and his right ready for a drop to save
  his bread-basket from the Smuggler’s favourite lunge. At last Sharpe
  broke ground, and planted his left slightly on Reid’s ribs. Reid
  instantly hit with him, right and left, at the nob, and Sharpe
  returned with his left in similar style. Both were rather wild, but,
  in the close, the Bishop was thrown. On rising to his second’s knee,
  there was a cry of “first blood” from Sharpe’s mouth, but at the
  same moment a similar tinge was seen from the Snob’s muzzle, so that
  on this point there was no advantage, and a tie was acknowledged.

  2.—Alec ready, and the Smuggler looking for a run upon his starboard
  quarter. At last Alec planted his right in Sharpe’s mouth a second
  time. The Bishop instantly fought to a rally, and jobbing hits were
  exchanged with great rapidity, Sharpe again napping it in the mouth,
  and the Snob on the dexter ogle. Both showed more claret. In the
  close, the Snob was thrown, the Smuggler upon him.

  3.—Sharpe now popped in his favourite left, but not in the right
  place, being on the ribs instead of the mark. Alec hit with him,
  right and left, in pretty style, and floored him with a right-hand
  muzzler. First knock-down blow for Reid.

  4.—The Bishop’s mouth showed two incisions, which bled profusely.
  He, however, came up smiling, and delivered with his left on Alec’s
  jaw. Alec returned in good style. The Bishop then bored in wildly,
  and, in the close, both went down, Alec fibbing as he resisted
  Sharpe’s effort for the fall.

  5.—Sharpe’s nose now began to show the weight of Alec’s fibbing, and
  claret streamed profusely. He, however, rushed in wildly, trying for
  the Snob’s body. The Snob got away, and, in a second trial of the
  same sort, he met the Bishop with a flush hit on the forehead, and,
  on repeating the dose, the Bishop bored in. The Snob again met him
  right and left, and floored him, hitting him severely as he was
  falling.

  6.—Sharpe again hit short at the body with his left, and Alec,
  always ready, met him right and left, and, repeating the experiment,
  hit him down with a flush smack on the ivories.

  7.—Alec waited with great judgment, and, as the Bishop came in,
  stopped his left, and returned heavily with his right. The Bishop
  would not be denied, but caught Alec a nasty one on the temple. Both
  broke away, but on Sharpe again rushing in, Alec met him right and
  left on the head, and then hit him heavily with the right on the
  ribs, and dropped him. (Shouts of “It’s all your own, Reid!”)

  8.—The Bishop’s head the worse for bad usage, his left eye puffed,
  and a cut on each cheek. He, however, went in as game as a pebble to
  hit with his left. Alec was again away. Sharpe followed him up, but
  Alec, stepping back, met him twice on the frontispiece. He had then
  reached the ropes, and the Bishop became desperate. Alec went down
  to avoid, showing the tact of a good general.

  9.—The Bishop rattled in and planted his left on Alec’s eye, but
  received severely right and left in return, and in the end went
  down.

  10.—The Bishop bored in open-handed. Alec retreated a little before
  him, but then jumped in and met him with two flush hits, right and
  left, on the head. The Bishop closed for a rally, and desperate hits
  were exchanged. In the close, both down.

  11.—The Bishop capsized with a straight visitation on the smeller
  from Alec’s left.

  12.—2 to 1 on Reid. Sharpe bored in wildly, and Alec went down.

  13.—The Bishop again bored in. Alec retreated, and tried his right
  and left, but missed. The Bishop, in returning, fell on his knees.

  14.—Sharpe came in manfully, but Alec was ready, stopped his left,
  returned right and left on his canister, and then hit him down
  beautifully with a right-handed smack on his ribs.

  15.—Counter-hits. The Bishop planted his left well on the Snob’s
  conk, and again had him on the body. Alec stepped back, and on the
  Bishop again coming in to make play, met him with a snorter with his
  right, and dropped him.

  16.—Counter-hits with the left, and Sharpe hit away left and right
  with great spirit. Alec was not idle, but returned the compliments
  with quickness. Bishop closed for the fall, when Alec fibbed
  actively, though not effectively. Both down, Bishop under.

  17.—The Bishop came up as bold as brass. Alec ready, waited for him
  and, on rushing in, he met him right and left on the face. Bishop
  retreated, but, on again rushing in, Alec dropped him with another
  touch on the nob.

  18.—Bishop, first to fight, planted his left. Alec was with him, but
  Sharpe would not be denied, and closing, he threw the Snob a heavy
  fall, and dropped on him.

  19.—Bishop rushed in open-handed, in wild style. Alec drew back,
  poising himself on his hind leg. Sharpe followed, and as usual,
  napped it left and right, and was floored.

  20.—Bishop again pressed in (he saw he had no chance at
  out-fighting), when he was met as before, with great precision,
  right and left. A spirited rally followed. Good hits were exchanged,
  and in the close, Bishop was thrown heavily.

  21.—The Bishop, in rushing in, was hit down by a right-handed job.

  22.—A good manly rally, with equal advantage, hit for hit. Alec
  down.

  23.—Counter-hitting with the left. Sharpe dropped his right on
  Alec’s smeller, and drew his cork. Alec at him again, and, after a
  severe rally, hit him down.

  24.—Bishop bored in. Alec withdrew for the jobbing hit, but the
  Bishop fell on his face.

  25.—On Sharpe coming in, Alec again met him with a facer, and
  followed this up with a tremendous body hit with his right, and
  dropped him.

  26.—Bishop bored in wildly. Alec, as before, on the retreating
  system, met him with a facer, as he came in. Sharpe closed, and had
  the fall. Not much harm done on either side.

  27.—A severe punishing round for Bishop. Alec jobbed right and left
  several times, and, in the close, floored him with great force,
  rolling him over from the impetus of the fall.

  28.—Alec on the waiting system. Bishop rushed in with unshaken game,
  but, on delivering his left on Alec’s nob, he received a terrific
  hit on the ribs from the Snob’s right, close under his left arm,
  which again dropped him.

  29.—Bishop again bored in, and was met, with great judgment, by
  another delivery from Alec’s right. Both away, and some good
  out-fighting. Alec jobbed well. A close, and both down, the Bishop
  under.

  30.—Alec waiting steadily. Bishop the first to go to work. Alec
  stepped back, and Bishop fell forward on his hands and knees.

  31.—Alec popped in his favourite hit on the side, but received in
  return on the head. Alec then retired, Sharpe after him, hitting
  wildly and short. Alec watched his points, and, after stopping with
  his right, hit Bishop down with a blow on the throat with his left.

  32.—Good out-fighting. Bishop still strong; at last he rushed in,
  according to his old system, when Reid had him in the side with his
  right. Bishop rushed to a close, and pulled Alec down.

  33.—Alec delivered his right and left as Sharpe came in, and got
  away. The Bishop, after him, would not flinch, and was again floored
  with a stupefying hit on the temple.

  34.—Bishop again at work, delivered with his left, but in return was
  hit down by a straight facer.

  35.—Bishop rushed in wildly, but Alec was on his guard. Good
  counter-hitting, and a manly rally. In the close, Alec was thrown.
  Shouts for Bishop, and his friends still in spirits.

  36.—Sharpe came in wildly, but Alec was steady and cautious. His
  right was again familiar with Bishop’s ribs, and his right and left
  were once more in contact with his phiz. In the end, Sharpe was
  floored heavily.

  37.—Alec had it in the right eye, but returned with interest,
  catching the Bishop twice on the mug, and Sharpe went down weak.

  38.—Bishop on the boring system; Alec away. Sharpe caught him on the
  body slightly, and received on the head in return. A merry rally,
  hit for hit. Both down.

  39.—The Bishop made his run, Alec met him with a job. Both away, and
  at it again. Alec pursued the same system of jobbing, but had a
  nasty one on the right eye, and went down.

  40.—Again did Alec meet Bishop right and left. Sharpe caught him on
  the nozzle, and drew claret in a stream. Alec, merry, at him again,
  and down went the Smuggler.

  41.—Alec met Sharpe right and left on the head, but received a heavy
  blow on the nob in return. In the close, both down, Bishop under.

  42.—Alec met Bishop with a flush hit on the throat, and floored him.

  43.—Sharpe caught Alec a terrific blow on the side of the
  knowledge-box, but had three for one in return, and Alec fell.

  44.—Alec ready, but his physog. strangely out of shape, and as
  tender as a chicken; he could scarcely bear to wash his mouth.
  Bishop rushed in, but was hit down by a right-hander.

  45.—Sharpe’s left ogle closed for the day; still he came up game,
  but Alec, ready, met him in the face. Bishop missed his left-handed
  lunge at the body and fell.

  46.—Sharpe wild, was jobbed on the head, and fell.

  47.—Bishop, still staunch, the first to mill. Alec waited, jobbed,
  and got away. Bishop followed him up, hit with his left at the body,
  closed, and threw Alec a burster, falling heavily on him.

  48.—Alec, still awake, met Bishop right and left, and dropped him.

  49.—Bishop again hit down with a heavy blow on the left ribs.

  50.—Sharpe hit down from a left-hander on the nob.

  51.—Again was Bishop hit down.

  52.—Bishop charged. Alec retreated, but meeting Sharpe, dropped a
  heavy one on the body with his right. In closing, Alec hit the
  Bishop up terrifically with his right, on the smeller, and grassed
  him.

  53.—Bishop hit down right and left.

  54 to 60.—All in favour of Alec, who hit his man down every round,
  either from blows on the head or body.

  61.—The Bishop went down without a blow. Cries of “foul,” but no
  decision.

  62.—Bishop gathered all his strength, and came up in good force. He
  hit Alec with the left, but was jobbed down right and left.

  63.—Bishop again hit down.

  64.—Counter-hits. Sharpe went boldly to his man, but was dropped.

  65.—Curtis now began to use all his tact to encourage his man,
  chaffed the Snob, and doffed his own shirt to be more at ease. Alec
  hit Bishop right and left, and he went down.

  66.—Alec drank out of the bottle himself, and winked to his friends,
  as much as to say, “It’s all right.” Alec stopped his man with his
  left, and hit him down as he came in.

  67 to 71.—All in favour of Alec, and Bishop went down every round.

  72.—Bishop gathered himself for mischief, and tried his favourite
  left-handed body hit, but it fell short, and he caught it right and
  left and went down.

  73.—Bishop attempted to hit, but went down without a blow.

  74.—Alec jobbed with his left, and caught Bishop on the dexter ogle,
  which began to swell, and he went down.

  75.—Sharpe hit down.

  76.—The Bishop hit with his left at Alec’s mark, but it was without
  effect. Alec rushed at him to hit, but Bishop dropped, on the saving
  system.

  77.—Again did Bishop try his left, and his friends still hoped he
  would pop it in the right place, but no go, he was jobbed down.

  78.—The Bishop, in going in, went down without a blow. (Hisses, and
  cries of “foul.”)

  79.—The Bishop went in wild, and fell. Cries of “Take him away.”

  80.—Bishop again bored in, neck or nothing. Alec got away, and
  Sharpe fell.

  81.—Similar to the last. Alec missed a tremendous up-hit, or all
  would have been over.

  82.—Bishop jobbed down with the left, but both distressed, and
  severely punished in the head.

  83.—Bishop hit down.

  84 to 87.—The Bishop, dreadfully jobbed and hit in the body with the
  right, down every round. The crisis was now approaching. Alec had it
  all his own way, and nothing but a lucky lunge could change the
  aspect of affairs, and for this Bishop’s friends still anxiously
  sought.

  88.—Sharpe came up wild, and was hit down.

  89.—Bishop hit down again with a body blow.

  90.—Alec saw the sore point. The Bishop winced, and he gave him
  another appalling body blow, which resounded through the ring, and
  felled him.

  91, and last.—Poor Bishop got up to receive the finisher, and was
  floored by a tremendous hit with the left. All was now over; Sharpe
  was insensible, and, on time being called, his seconds gave in. The
  hat of victory was instantly thrown up, and the shouts of the
  crimson heroes proclaimed the success of their favourite, in one
  hour and twenty-seven minutes. Alec made a slight bound, and, after
  a short pause, was conducted to his carriage. He was so exhausted
  that some time elapsed before he could be dressed, after which he
  was borne off to St. Albans, with flying colours. Poor Sharpe
  remained for some time insensible to his fate.

  REMARKS.—This was decidedly as game and determined a battle as was
  ever witnessed. Each man seemed deeply to feel the stake at issue.
  Fame and fortune were alike involved, and the contest was
  proportionally severe. The scientific style in which Reid fought was
  the admiration of the ring. His attack and defence were alike
  judicious. Aware of the dangerous left-handed lunge of the Bishop,
  by which he had before been robbed of victory when within his grasp,
  he took especial care not only to cover his vulnerable point, but to
  counteract Sharpe’s plan by a move of the same sort himself. Thus we
  find him constantly pinking Bishop’s body with his right, and so
  simultaneous were these efforts on both sides, that Alec’s right
  hand often met Bishop’s half-way. Alec’s caution, his waiting for
  Bishop’s rush, his judicious retreat, and rapid execution, right and
  left, when Bishop left his body unguarded, were beautiful; and our
  only surprise was, that, after such apparent mischief, Bishop was
  enabled to come up so steady and strong. Sharpe fought as brave as a
  lion, but his judgment was inferior when compared with Reid’s. He
  fought wildly, and without discretion, although in the end, when he
  found the chances were against him, he had recourse to every
  manœuvre to regain strength, and plant his favourite hit. His
  deliveries on Alec’s nose with his left were very heavy, as was
  sufficiently visible, and Alec no doubt felt their weight, for his
  head presented a dreadful spectacle on that side where the blows
  told, and his mouth and eye were much swollen; indeed, so distressed
  did he appear towards the end of the fight, that Sharpe’s friends to
  the last considered he had a chance, and the odds of three to one
  were offered with singular caution. It was not till Nature had
  deserted Bishop altogether that he struck, and his backers, though
  mortified, candidly confessed he could not have done more.


The conquest of the gallant but stale Dick Curtis by Perkins, the Oxford
Pet, had rankled long in the minds of the London Fancy, although poor
King Dick had fallen, not ingloriously, before superior weight, length,
strength, and youth. It was thought that Alec would be a better match
for him, and accordingly articles were signed for £100 a-side, and the
day fixed for the 25th May, 1830.

As a short notice of Perkins, and a detailed report of his victory over
Curtis, will appear in the appendix of this Period, we shall not further
dwell on his Ring career. Perkins had trained at Chipping Norton, and
Reid paid every attention to getting himself fit at Burford, in Surrey;
and so favourable were the accounts of his condition that he was freely
backed at six to four by his old friends.

On the Monday before the battle the ’Varsity city was full of bustle and
activity. The “Red Lion” and the “Anchor” were crowded by visitors
anxious to get the “tip” as to the whereabouts. This was found to be the
“Four-shire Stone,” seven miles from Chipping Norton, at a point where
the counties of Oxford, Warwick, Worcester, and Berks are conterminous.
We may here note that on this occasion Reid fought under the _alias_ of
“Jack O’Brien,” owing to his being held to bail for a period then
unexpired, for being present at a mill in the neighbourhood of London.
The battle is reported in _Bell’s Life_ as between “Perkins and Jack
O’Brien.”

By eleven o’clock Commissary Oliver and his lieutenant, “Fogo of the
Frosty Face,” had pitched the ring at the appointed rendezvous—it being
surrounded by numerous undergrads, who had given the slip to “bulldogs”
and “proctors” to attend the demonstration of craniology and the
practical essay on “bumps” which Messrs. Reid and Perkins had prepared
for their edification. At a little before twelve the Chelsea hero
showed, waited on by Young Dutch Sam and Dick Curtis, the Oxonian
quickly following, esquired by Harry Jones and Ned Stockman. Each man
was heartily cheered. The colours, green with a crimson spot for Reid,
and a fancy pink silk fogle for the Oxford Pet, were tied to the stakes.
The whip-bearers of the “Fair Play Club” preserved an unbroken ring, and
everything was arranged with regularity and order. The toss for choice
of position was won for Perkins. The men shook hands, the seconds and
bottle-holders retired to their respective corners, and the men, toeing
the scratch, threw up their daddies and began


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Both appeared in excellent condition, but Reid had the
  advantage in weight, being 10st. 7lb., while Perkins was 10st. 3lb.
  This difference was not so obvious as they stood opposed to each
  other, although it might tell in the end; indeed, a more equal match
  as to size could scarce be imagined. A manly firmness sat on the
  brow of each, and everything like personal animosity seemed banished
  from their minds. No sooner had the seconds and bottle-holders
  retired than the Snob showed his determination to lose not a moment
  in bringing the enemy to action. Covering his points well, he
  advanced, and made slight play left and right; the Pet, awake,
  stopped these efforts with great neatness. The Snob tried the same
  manœuvre a second time; but the Pet again stopped and got away. He
  had not much time to deliberate, however, before Reid popped in his
  left on the “mark;” he tried his right at the nob at the same time,
  but it was “no go.” A bustling, active rally followed, good stopping
  was observable on both sides, and slight exchanges took place. In
  the end the Snob caught the Pet on the jowl with his left, and
  dropped him, although the blow was not delivered with decisive
  force; still, this was booked as the first knock-down, and Reid was
  loudly cheered.

  2.—The Chelsea hero again all activity, the Pet cautious. The Snob’s
  first one two stopped, but his left was once more at the victualling
  office. In return, the Pet caught his opponent a nasty one on the
  muzzle, swelling his lips, and leading to a cry of “first blood;”
  but it was so slight, if at all to be seen, that he contrived to
  hide it from observation. A slashing rally followed, and the
  left-handed counters were beautiful—both “napping it” with
  considerable force. Reid had rather the advantage in the onslaught,
  but in following up his man the Pet went down, amidst cheers from
  his friends.

  3.—The Snob first to fight, and all bustle in his operations; the
  Pet, cautious, stopped his one two. Perkins received a clinker on
  the left ear, and first blood was visible beneath, while the ear was
  puffed; this was declared as unequivocal of the second event for the
  Snob. The Oxonian, all alive, met the Snob’s attack, stopping his
  right, but catching his left slap in the muzzle, the Snob had it in
  return with equal force. The Snob put in a left-hand body hit, and
  got away. Returning again to the charge, he found the Pet armed at
  all points. The Pet retreated, stopping Reid’s right and left with
  admirable precision, and ultimately going down without a blow, upon
  the cautious system.

  4.—Reid, first to fight, popped in a left-handed job on the potato
  trap, ditto on the ogle. The Pet saw the defensive would not do, and
  fought a spirited rally; the exchanges were quick and effectual—hit
  followed hit with electric rapidity, and each dropped claret—the Pet
  from the mouth, Reid from the conk. The scientific stopping on both
  sides during this rally was first-rate. The Snob tried his body hit
  with the left, but was short; the Pet smiled and got away. Reid
  would not be denied, but went merrily to his man; there was no
  getting away, and to it they went “ding-dong.” The counter-hits were
  numerous, and the stops equally so. The Pet put in a body hit with
  his right—but with both men most punishment was given with the left,
  and neither spared his opponent. In the end Perkins went down
  hitting, Reid smiling defiance.

  5.—Good stopping right and left by both; the Snob stuck to his work,
  and countering was the order of the day. Perkins retreated, followed
  closely by Reid, who kept hitting away, when Perkins dropped on one
  knee, and put up his hand; Reid withheld a falling blow, though
  entitled to hit, and retired amidst the cheers of his friends.

  6.—The Chelsea champion put in his left on the Oxford man’s nozzle,
  which was uncorked. He then went in boldly to punish, but the Pet
  dropped and smiled. (Cries of “Stand up!” and “Foul!”)

  7.—The Snob; all alive, went to work, and put in a left-handed
  muzzler. The Pet returned the compliment. Heavy hits exchanged, but
  the Pet had the worst of it, and again went down amidst the
  grumbling of the Snob’s friends. (Ten pounds to five on Reid.)

  8.—The Snob made play right and left—the first stopped, the second
  successful. Perkins returned heavily with his left; good
  counter-hitting, the science of both exciting general admiration.
  Perkins rather cautious, but Reid would be at work, and rattled in;
  more fine counter-hitting, and a spirited rally—the hitting was
  slashing. The Pet was hit down with a slinging hit over the right
  eye, which exhibited a gaping wound, but the Snob had it almost as
  heavily on the smeller, and fell on his hands and knees; both
  bleeding.

  9.—Good fighting on both sides, but Reid had the advantage of
  strength. The Pet retreated before him, stopping, but caught it
  again on the right eye and on the cheek beneath, where an old wound
  was opened. Reid put in his favourite left-handed bodier, but caught
  a nose-ender in return. Perkins retreated, but was all alive, and
  popped in a jobbing hit with his left, and threw in his right on the
  Snob’s neck. The Chelsea man returned fiercely, hitting right and
  left, when the Pet fell on his hands and knees.

  10.—Reid, all alive, planted his left on the body; counter-hits on
  the mazzard, and neat stopping. Perkins went down on his knees.
  (More grumbling from Reid’s friends.)

  11.—Both showed strong marks of punishment. The Snob went to work,
  and cut away in good style; Perkins popped in his right at the body,
  but had it in return on the nob. Spirited rally. Reid again tapped
  at the victualling office of the Pet, and after good counter-hitting
  Perkins, on the retreat, went down.

  12.—Perkins put in a right-hander on the throat of Reid, and stopped
  a counter-hit with his left; left-hand exchanges; the Pet went down.
  (Cries of “Shame!” from the friends of Reid.)

  13.—The Pet cautious, and on the defensive; Reid went to him; good
  scientific stops right and left; excellent counter-hitting; the
  Londoner had it heavy on the grinders. (Shouts for Oxford.) A pretty
  active rally, hits _pro_ and _con._, and Perkins slipped down.

  14.—Perkins made play; Reid, ready at all points, tried to bring his
  man to a rally, but the Pet, after stopping some severe hits, went
  down on one hand and knee.

  15.—Sharp jobbing right and left on both sides; heavy deliveries
  right and left from the Snob; claret in abundance; hit and hit;
  Perkins down; but the Snob, though vexed at his man dropping,
  stepped away, and smiled.

  16.—A fine, manly rally; blows followed blows in quick succession,
  and both received pepper. In the end Perkins down, Reid, for the
  first time, upon him.

  17.—The Pet still strong and confident. Reid delivered his left at
  the carcass, and got away. A rally; Perkins went down stopping.

  18.—Fine fighting; Perkins on the retreat, Alec with him in good
  style. Severe exchanges, Perkins down—both distilling the purple
  fluid.

  19.—Severe deliveries from Reid, and some neat returns. The Snob had
  the best of the fighting; the Pet down.

  20.—Stopping at starting, but Reid would not be denied—fought with
  quickness. The Pet, retreating, was down, after some pretty returns,
  but he had the worst of the game, and was somewhat on the piping
  order.

  21.—The Chelsea hero hit his man down with the left in good style,
  and became more jolly.

  22.—Reid, all activity, planted his left on the body and broke away.
  Perkins went to work, and the fighting was beautiful while it
  lasted; but Perkins went down on both knees. His opponent withheld
  his falling blow, and looked mortified at this cautious system.

  23.—Heavy jobbing; both received and returned, and were the worse
  for their work; Perkins floored.

  24.—Merry milling, good countering; Perkins retreated. Reid bored
  him to the ropes, hit away, and fell upon him.

  25.—The Pet’s left cheek cut with a slashing hit—claret in a stream.
  Perkins did not flinch, fought to a rally, but was dropped.

  26.—Reid showed symptoms of fatigue, but still merry. Hit left and
  right, the Pet down.

  27, 28, 29.—Good fighting rounds, heavy exchanges, but Perkins down
  in every round.

  30.—Reid planted his left and right with great force; Perkins made a
  neat return with his left on Alec’s muzzle, but was hit down with a
  left-handed teazer. Reid smiled, and clapped him on the back as he
  was on his knees.

  31.—Perkins was again hit down. (A heavy shower of rain now came on,
  during which there was a little confusion from a supposition that
  certain constables were breaking into the ring to save the Pet from
  defeat, but this proved to be a false alarm. The men in the interim
  fought with great spirit, and the hitting and stopping was kept up
  with great vigour, with pretty equal advantage. The Pet, however,
  was always down.)

  37.—Tremendous rally. The deliveries on both sides perfect shakers,
  and the Pet rather the best of the hitting. (Shouts from the
  Gownsmen, and betting rather in favour among Perkins’s friends, but
  little done.)

  38.—Reid again took the lead, but was courageously met. After a
  sharp rally, the Pet was hit down with a left-handed smack in the
  throttle. (Loud applause from the Londoners, and the odds again firm
  in Reid’s favour.)

  39.—Both distressed, but game as lions. Hit away right and left, no
  mistake as to intention. Perkins floored with a left-handed job.

  40.—Reid all life and confidence, the Pet “nothing loth.” Hit for
  hit left and right at the nobs. Perkins rushed to in-fighting,
  napped it as he came in, but gave the upper-cut. Reid down. (Renewed
  cheers from the “Gownsmen,” and Perkins’s friends still confident.)

  41.—Science well exhibited by both. The stopping excellent.
  Counter-hitting. The Pet down. (The referee cautioned Perkins to
  make “a stand-up fight,” when he exclaimed “the grass was so
  slippery he could not help going down.” At this time, from the heavy
  rain, which had now subsided, there was some cause for the excuse.)

  42.—Reid was again busy with the Pet’s bread-basket with his left. A
  slashing rally; good exchanges. In a close Perkins down, Reid on top
  of him.

  43.—Reid, all gaiety, though woefully disfigured in the mug, went to
  his man, popped in left and right, and in the end Perkins, after a
  few exchanges, went down.

  44.—No time wasted—good stand-up fighting, but the Pet getting weak.
  (“Take him away!” said the “Gownsmen.” “No,” said Sam, “he does not
  often dine at an ordinary; let him have a skinful.”) The Pet down.

  45 and 46.—The mischief pretty equal, and the fighting excellent.
  Perkins down in both rounds.

  47.—A desperate rally; both did their best; the Pet hit down, but
  Reid also fell on his hands and knees, rather weak.

  48.—Perkins’s right eye was now completely closed, and his left
  looked queer. Reid went in to finish, but was manfully met; still
  Perkins had the worst of the fighting, and was hit down.

  49.—Reid all gaiety, and again fresh; the Pet steady, but dreadfully
  punished in the phiz. The Londoner made play, and hit away right and
  left, the latter on the body. Perkins met him on the nose with his
  left, but in the return was hit down with a left-handed job.

  50.—Reid was now the favourite at long odds, but the Pet’s game did
  not desert him; his heart was still in the right place, and he made
  a desperate effort to redeem his falling fortune. Reid, however, was
  too strong, and dropped him with a left-handed touch in the physog.
  The Pet fell forward on his face weak.

  51, 52, and 53.—All in favour of Reid, though Perkins did wonders,
  and fought with unshrinking courage. In the last round he fell on
  his knees, resting on his adversary’s shoulder. Reid smiled, patted
  him on the shoulder, and walked away. (Cries of “Take him away!”)

  54, and last.—The Oxford man came up to make a last effort, but it
  was evidently all over. Still he did his best—made some weak returns
  to slashing hits, and at last received the _coup de grace_; he fell,
  but gloriously, and his seconds, thinking he had had enough, gave in
  for him, the fight having lasted exactly an hour. Both men were
  heavily punished. Reid walked to his carriage amidst the cheers of
  his “pals,” and Perkins, having recovered from his temporary doze,
  rose soon after and followed his example, terribly mortified in
  spirit as well as altered in frontispiece.

  REMARKS.—This was one of the best and fairest mills on record, and
  was throughout full of bustle and spirit. Reid, though not quite up
  to the mark of former times, was all his friends had a right to
  anticipate. He was active, vigorous, and quick, and never threw a
  chance away, save on one or two occasions, when Perkins slipped down
  intentionally, and when he might have been hit, but his opponent
  generously withheld his blows. This added to his credit; but it is
  due to say he suffered severely for his victory, and was heavily
  punished in the counter-hitting. The Oxford man fully maintained his
  fame, and although beaten fell gloriously before his superior in
  strength and weight, if not much so in science. Such was the
  equality of mischief in some of the latest struggles in the fight
  that there was no certainty till the fiftieth round; and on two or
  three occasions Perkins was the favourite with his friends, and
  backed at odds. With the exception of going down too often on the
  cautious system there was no fault to be found with the Oxford hero;
  and even this, though not consistent with the idea of “stand-up
  fighting,” was justifiable in point of good generalship. In fact, it
  was impossible for a beaten man to have done more to deserve the
  respect and approval of his backers.


About a week before the fight, Reid, in a foolhardy experiment to show
how he would muzzle his antagonist, struck his knuckles against a door,
and swelled up his hand; but from this piece of folly he sufficiently
recovered not to show its effects. On the night after the fight both men
showed at their respective headquarters at Oxford, and exhibited heavy
marks of the conflict of the morning. The University city was all bustle
and commotion, and both pleased and displeased had enough to say on the
subject

Tom Spring, Gully, Phil Sampson, Tom Gaynor, and several of the old
school of boxers were on the ground, and resolutely assisted in
preserving order.

This was Alec Reid’s last occasion of exhibiting as a principal in the
Ring. For some years he was a well-known exhibitor and teacher of the
art in the London schools. In his latter days, being afflicted with
paralysis in the left arm and side, he sunk into a sort of master of the
ceremonies at boxing benefits, his civility of manner and respectful
courtesy enabling him to earn a humble crust. For some years he was a
room manager at Nat Langham’s, old friends, who remembered his game
conduct and honest manliness, often lending him support in occasional
benefits. Reid died in comparative poverty and obscurity in 1875, in his
seventy-third year.




                              CHAPTER XI.
             BISHOP SHARPE (“THE BOLD SMUGGLER”)—1818–1826.


Bishop Sharpe, once a seaman in His Majesty’s navy, and subsequently
known as a “long-shore man” in the neighbourhood of Woolwich, was as
tough a specimen of the material of which our “old salts” were made as
even Jack Scroggins himself.

Of the early career of Bishop Sharpe we have but little reliable
account. He beat two unknowns, named Lester and the “Deptford Carrier,”
and in his first recorded battle, on the 24th September, 1818, conquered
Bob Hall in forty-five rounds, occupying fifty-five minutes, at
Woolwich, after a determined contest. Battles with minor pugilists, in
all of which he was successful, spread his fame. These we shall pass
with a mere enumeration. On March 24th, 1819, he met, and defeated, on
Woolwich Marshes, Dick Prior in twenty-five rounds, thirty-five minutes,
for £25. In December, 1819, he beat John Street (an opponent of Josh
Hudson), in one hundred rounds, 105 minutes, near Charlton, Kent. In
February, 1820, John King surrendered to the Bishop in twenty-five
minutes, during which twenty-five sharp rounds were fought, for £25
a-side, at Plumstead.

The contest between the “Bold Smuggler” and the “Slashing Gipsy,” as
Jack Cooper was called, took place for £50 a-side, at the Old Maypole,
in Epping Forest, on Tuesday, June 17th, 1823. The patricians of the
West in the days of the Fourth George, as a general rule, were greatly
averse to a ride over the London stones to witness any fight in North
Kent or Essex. But the fame of the Gipsy, who had conquered every boxer
opposed to him—West Country Dick, O’Leary, Dent, Scroggins, and Cabbage
had succumbed—and the character for determination and lasting which had
run before the Bishop, had travelled westward, and proved such an
attraction that quite an aristocratic surrounding witnessed the merry
mill.

The Old Maypole, as we have already said, was the rallying point, and
the situation chosen to make the ring was delightfully picturesque. At a
few minutes past one Sharpe, in a white wrapper and a yellowman,
arm-in-arm with the John Bull Fighter, threw his beaver into the ring,
followed by Phil Sampson. The Gipsy shortly afterwards appeared, in a
blue coat, with a blue handkerchief round his neck, and repeated the
token of defiance. Spring and Richmond were seconds for Cooper, and
Hudson and Sampson officiated for Sharpe. Spring and Hudson tied the
colours to the stakes, and betting was five to four on the Gipsy. The
latter boxer, according to report, had the advantage in weight of eight
pounds.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Sharpe, immediately on shaking hands, appeared in a hurry
  to go to work, and made play with his opponent. The left hand of
  Sharpe told slightly. The Gipsy retreated. Some blows were
  exchanged, when, in closing, a severe struggle took place; Sharpe
  had the best of the throw, and the Gipsy was undermost. (Great
  shouting for Sharpe.)

  2.—The right eye of Cooper was winking from a slight hit. Sharpe was
  confident, and the Gipsy retreated from him; the latter, at length,
  made himself up, and with a right-handed lunging hit he made Sharpe
  stagger, and he also went down on one knee, but jumped up again
  immediately. (“Well done, Cooper!”)

  3.—Both ready—both offering—the Gipsy retreating, and Sharpe
  following. In closing, the Gipsy got the throw.

  4 to 7.—A very small tinge of the claret appeared on the Gipsy’s
  lips. Sharpe rushed in, bored the Gipsy to the ropes, and threw him.

  8 to 13.—Their blows did no execution—at least, they did not appear
  effective. It was bloodless up to the close of this round.

  14.—Cooper showed off a little in his usual style in this round; he
  nobbed Sharpe, and also gave him a severe cross-buttock. (“It is of
  no use,” cried Josh. “I have seconded Bishop seven times, and none
  of the coves could ever make a mark upon him.”)

  15 and 16.—Sharpe received a heavy blow under his listener, and went
  down.

  17 to 26.—In the 25th round, Sharpe napped pepper, and the claret
  trickled down his face. (“I have fetched it at last,” said Cooper to
  Sharpe, laughing; “and plenty more will soon follow.” “Don’t be too
  fast,” replied Sharpe, putting in at the same time a severe blow on
  the Gipsy’s throat. The latter, however, bored Sharpe down.)

  27 to 37.—The friends of the Gipsy felt quite at ease that he would
  win the battle; and the partisans of Sharpe were equally confident,
  asserting that “he could not lose it.” Yet the Gipsy did not make
  use of his severe right-handed hit, and kept always retreating from
  his opponent. The superiority of Sharpe in this round was so
  decisive, and his conduct so generous and manly, as to receive
  thunders of applause from every spectator round the ring. Sharpe hit
  the Gipsy so severely that the latter in retreating got between the
  ropes. Sharpe disdained to take advantage of this opportunity (what
  Randall would have termed giving a chance away), and walked back
  into the middle of the ring, beckoning with his hand for Cooper to
  follow him. Some exchanges took place, and the Gipsy received a
  heavy fall.

  38 to 44.—Sometimes Sharpe had the best of it; at other times Cooper
  kept his friends in good humour; but nothing decisive appeared on
  either side as to victory; and several of the old ring-goers
  murmured that so little execution had been done, either by the
  tremendous hitting Gipsy or the heavy punishing Sharpe.

  45, 46, 47.—In these rounds certain symptoms appeared that the Gipsy
  was going off, or, in plain terms, that he had had the worst of it;
  five to two, by way of chaffing, was offered against Cooper. Martin
  came up to the Gipsy while sitting on his second’s knee, and told
  him, if he won it, he should have £50, at the same time offering to
  back Cooper for £50.

  48, 49, 50.—In the last round the Gipsy was bored to the ropes by
  the hitting of Sharpe, and also thrown heavily. (“It is all your own
  way, Sharpe; go in and finish him.”)

  51.—A severe struggle at the ropes, and Sharpe went down.

  52.—The Gipsy was hit down. The Sharpites outrageous in their
  applause and gestures. (“It is as safe as the day.”)

  53.—The hitting of the Gipsy was gone, and his right hand appeared
  of no use to him. Here Spring whispered to Cooper “to use his right
  hand, and he must win it.” “I cannot use it,” replied the Gipsy; “I
  have hurt my shoulder.” The Gipsy fibbed down at the ropes. Another
  tremendous shout for Sharpe.

  54.—The nob of the Gipsy appeared punished severely, and his right
  eye was cut. Both down.

  55.—Sharpe now took great liberties with the head of his opponent,
  and fell upon him so heavily as nearly to shake the wind out of him.

  56, and last.—This was short and sweet to Sharpe; he hit Cooper
  down, and when time was called victory was declared in favour of
  Bishop Sharpe. The battle occupied one hour twenty-five minutes.

  REMARKS.—The judges called the above mill a bad fight—a long
  innings, and but little to show for it. The face of Sharpe had
  scarcely a mark upon it; and the Gipsy said “he was not hurt.” A
  medical man on the ground examined the shoulder of the Gipsy, and he
  pronounced “the clavicle to be fractured.” (Of course, this sounded
  more learned than to say “the collar-bone was broken.”) This
  fracture prevented the Gipsy from lifting his arm without
  experiencing a grinding of the bones, producing great pain. If the
  Gipsy had taken the lead instead of retreating from his adversary,
  it was thought he must have won it. Cooper missed several blows, and
  at various times did not follow up his success. This was observable
  in the tenth round, the ninth being a guinea to a shilling in his
  favour.


A second match with Jack Cooper was fought by Sharpe at Harpenden
Common, on the 5th of August, 1823, with the like result, Sharpe proving
conqueror in thirty-nine minutes, during which Cooper fought thirty
rushing rounds. The two battles were so similar that a reprint would be
mere repetition. At Blackheath Sharpe and Cooper met a third time, on
November 14th, in the same year, for £100, and fought a draw, daylight
closing in on the undecided contest.

On the 10th of May, 1825, Sharpe, after an absence of some twelve months
in his seafaring occupation, got on a match for £25 a-side with an
aspirant, one Ben Warwick, whom the Bold Smuggler polished off after a
one-sided battle of considerable obstinacy in twenty-five minutes,
being, as many said, at the rate of a sov. per minute. As Mr. Warwick,
to whose credit some previous conquests of outsiders are placed, never
again sported canvas in the P.R., we shall not report the battle.

Sharpe, by his victories over Cooper and his drawn battle with Alec
Reid, already noticed, encouraged his friends to seek what was expected
to be a decisive match with his scientific adversary the Chelsea Snob,
more especially as the latter had in the interval beaten Jack Cooper,
Jubb, and Savage. The stakes of £100 were made good, and on the 6th of
September, 1826, the men met at the renowned battle-field of No Man’s
Land, in Hertfordshire.

The “Bishop” set up his training quarters at the “Castle,” Highgate,
while Reid took his breathings on Putney Heath, patronising the “Green
Man.” In point of age Reid had the advantage, being twenty-four, while
Sharpe numbered thirty summers. In the former fight the odds were quoted
at six to four on Reid, but on this occasion five to four were laid on
the Smuggler. On the Tuesday morning the lads of “the long village” were
astir as early as five o’clock, and a lively succession of vehicles
bowled along the great North Road.

When Reid met Sharpe in their first battle he complained, and not
without reason, of the neglect of his backers. In the present case he
had cause to be grateful for their attention. Every possible care was
taken of him during his training, and preparations were made for taking
him into the ring in “bang-up style.” His crimson favours were
distributed liberally among his friends, and a dashing barouche and
four, the post-boys wearing crimson satin jackets, and the horses’ heads
decorated with crimson cockades, was prepared to carry him to the
ground. Nothing was omitted which could add to his confidence, or give
importance to the contest. A favourite candidate for a popular election
could not have entered the field under more dashing auspices.

Shortly before one the men arrived on the ground, and soon after
appeared within the stakes. Reid took the lead, accompanied by his
backers, and Tom Cribb and Ben Burn as his second and bottle-holder. He
was soon afterwards followed by Sharpe, who was waited upon by Josh
Hudson and Peter Crawley. A trifling shower threw a slight gloom over
the assembled multitude, but this soon ceased, and the remainder of the
afternoon was favourable.

The men immediately peeled for action. They both seemed well; but it was
thought the Bishop might have been better. The confidence of his
backers, nevertheless, was unshaken, and in a very short time the odds
were decidedly five to four in his favour. These odds were freely taken
by some, but not so freely by many of the professed friends of Reid as
might have been anticipated.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On taking their positions, the Bishop, as usual, stood with
  his right leg foremost, presenting rather an awkward appearance. He
  did not deal long in postures, however, for he lost not a moment in
  going to work. He let fly right and left at Reid’s head, but was
  prettily stopped. Both now set to with activity, and a spirited
  rally followed, in which the Bishop planted his left on Reid’s
  frontispiece with great success. The Snob was awake, and countered
  slightly, but Sharpe was too sharp for him, and following up his
  bustling system, after a few interchanges, put in a tremendous
  left-handed clink on Reid’s proboscis, drawing first blood. In the
  close Bishop was hit down, and on being placed on his second’s knee,
  showed a trifling mark on his left eye. (Shouts from the East
  Enders.)

  2.—Reid came up merry, but he was not allowed much time for
  reflection; the Bishop again went to work as if he meant mischief.
  Alec was ready, and successfully stopped his desperate left-handed
  hits. Another rally followed, in which facers were interchanged, but
  Reid had the worst of the hitting, and was again thrown, receiving
  before he went down two severe hits on the nose, from which a fresh
  flow of claret was extracted, and a trifling wound inflicted on its
  bridge. The confidence of the Bishop’s friends was increased, and
  their joy loudly expressed, while the Chelsea lads looked blue.

  3.—Reid came up like the gory ghost of Banquo, but he was still
  jolly. The Bishop renewed his active system, and tried a left-handed
  lunge at Reid’s body. He was well stopped, and Reid delivered on his
  mouth and nose. The Bishop rushed to in-fighting, but Reid was
  awake, and hit him heavily on the body. The Bishop staggered, but
  instantly returned to his man, and a desperate rally followed, to
  the advantage of the Bishop, who hit his antagonist right and left,
  and dropped him heavily. (Six to four on the Bishop.)

  4.—Reid came up nothing abashed, but the Bishop was soon with him,
  and attempted his favourite left-handed job. Reid stopped him, but
  he would not be kept off, and hit right and left, while the Snob
  countered with great severity, and gave him a gash under his right
  eye. At last the Bishop rushed to a close, and Reid was thrown. (Two
  to one offered from all parts of the ring on the Bishop.)

  5.—On coming to the scratch the Bishop showed the effects of Reid’s
  last visitation to his phiz. Reid seemed to derive fresh spirit from
  this proof of his talent, and a desperate and courageous rally
  followed. The Bishop’s fearful attempts with his left were well
  stopped, and Reid put in two severe jobbing hits, right and left,
  which made a cutting impression. The Bishop was astounded, and Reid,
  seeing his advantage, lost no time in following up his handiwork; he
  pursued the Bishop, who retreated on the defensive, and repeated his
  blows; a fierce rally followed, in which there was some sharp
  counter-hitting, but at last the Bishop was hit down in admirable
  style. (An instant change took place in the betting, and from the
  distress exhibited by the Bishop, Reid was loudly cheered, and two
  to one offered in his favour. Many of the backers of the Bishop, in
  fact, forthwith commenced hedging.)

  6.—Both came up steady, but Reid was the more confident. The Bishop
  was rather abroad, and his right eye began to close. Reid now took
  the lead in fighting, but he found the Bishop ready, and after a
  short rally Reid retreated. This ruse had the desired effect. The
  Bishop followed him, and as he came in Reid met him severely with
  the right and left. The Bishop bored him towards the ropes with
  wildness, while Reid, with great quickness, repeated his _primâ
  facie_ compliments. In the close both went down, Reid under.

  7.—Reid still a decided favourite, and two to one freely offered. He
  came up with apparent confidence, and planted a left-handed jobber
  on Sharpe’s nob. Sharpe attempted in return to hit with his left,
  but was well stopped. A short rally followed, in which the Bishop
  napped it right and left; but in the close he threw Reid, and fell
  upon him.

  8.—Sharpe came up looking serious, and the worse for wear; Reid was
  ready and active, and on Sharpe’s rushing to in-fighting, got away,
  stopping as he retreated; but at last put in a severe left-handed
  slap on Sharpe’s face. A close followed, and after a short struggle
  for the fall, both went down, Reid under.

  9.—Sharpe came up a little on the piping order, but forthwith went
  to work. Reid stopped him as he advanced, and in getting away
  slipped down.

  10.—Reid put in a teazer on Sharpe’s body, and jumped away; Sharpe
  followed him up, but Reid pursued his retreating system, and in the
  close both went down.

  11.—Both came up distressed, but Reid was the fresher, and taking
  prompt advantage of Sharpe’s situation, he put in five or six
  tremendous blows on his nob, till at length the Bishop went down
  weak from want of breath. This was an excellent round as far as Reid
  was concerned, and showed his marked superiority in science. (Two to
  one on Reid. Josh thought his man was in Queer Street, and gave the
  office to an old pal, who offered his two to one in all directions
  in favour of Reid.)

  12.—Sharpe came up groggy, and rushed at Reid for the close. Both
  went down by the ropes, and as Reid got up he patted Sharpe
  good-humouredly on the shoulder. (Four to one on Reid, and but few
  takers.)

  13.—Sharpe was brought to the scratch somewhat more steady. He made
  several attempts to deliver his left on Reid’s body, but Reid got
  away. Sharpe at last delivered right and left handed facers, and
  received a poser in return from Reid’s left. He then rushed to a
  close, and a scrambling scuffle took place at the ropes, when both
  went down; and Reid again patted Sharpe on the shoulder, as if in
  compassionate consideration of his approaching defeat.

  14.—Reid came up fresh, and on the alert. Sharpe seemed to have
  become more cautious. Reid fought first, and caught him a jobbing
  hit with his left on the dexter ogle. Sharpe hit short at Reid’s
  body with his left. Reid jumped away. Blows interchanged with mutual
  advantage. Sharpe succeeded in putting in a slight body blow; and on
  closing both went down, Reid under.

  15.—Reid still the fresher man. Sharpe came up with boldness, and
  commenced by hitting short at Reid’s body; Reid got away; but
  returning to the assault, caught Sharpe heavily with his left on the
  nob. Sharpe again tried his body blow, but failed; and on Reid
  rushing to close fighting, he went down on the safe system. This was
  looked upon as an indication of cutting it, and the odds were again
  freely offered on Reid.

  16.—Both men came up determined on mischief. Sharpe tried his left
  and right at Reid’s head, but found him at home; but at last,
  watching his opportunity, he succeeded in effecting that which he
  had so often attempted—namely, in catching Reid a tremendous blow in
  the wind. The effect was alarming; Reid was doubled up in an
  instant, and fell. Cribb, with great quickness, placed him on Ben
  Burn’s knee, and pushing his head in his stomach to stop his
  bellows, succeeded in bringing him to the scratch when time was
  called. He was, however, very groggy, and his friends began to
  anticipate that their hopes were at an end, and the betting became
  even.

  17.—Sharpe, seeing the powerful effects of his last blow, instantly
  prepared to take advantage of his good fortune, while Tom Owen
  loudly called upon him to repeat the dose in the same place. Reid,
  however, to the astonishment of the ring, stopped the intended
  finisher, and countered well with his left. After a short rally
  Sharpe went down, while Reid had nearly recovered the effects of the
  previous round.

  18.—Sharpe again attempted to throw in his right and left at Reid’s
  body, but Reid got away cleverly. Reid, who was now “himself again,”
  pursued Sharpe with an apparent determination to make a decisive
  impression, when Sharpe went down without a blow, thereby exciting a
  strong expression of displeasure on the part of Reid’s friends.

  19.—Both men came up steady. Reid lost no time in going to work, and
  after some good counter-hitting Sharpe closed, and threw Reid
  cleverly. Even betting was the order of the day—Reid for choice.

  20.—Sharpe hit short at Reid’s body. Reid attempted to place a
  left-handed job on Sharpe’s head, when the latter, having crept
  close, let fly with his left at a well-judged distance, caught him
  under the ribs, and he dropped as if he had been shot, drawing up
  his legs apparently in agony. The veteran Tom was again at his
  elbow, lifted him, as before, on Ben Burn’s knee, but he was not
  equally successful. Reid continued to writhe, as in great pain, and
  on “time” being called, being unable to go to the scratch, Sharpe,
  to the surprise of some, the joy of others, and the mortification of
  many, was declared the victor. Sharpe was immediately conducted out
  of the ring, and Reid was conveyed to his carriage, where he soon
  after recovered, and was subsequently enabled to walk about the
  heath but little the worse for his defeat; his punishment, in fact,
  was not so great as that of Sharpe. The fight lasted twenty-four
  minutes.

  REMARKS.—By this fight it may be supposed that the comparative
  merits of Reid and Sharpe have been fairly decided, but this is by
  no means a general opinion, for it was openly stated, and boldly
  asserted by Reid himself, that but for the accidental blow which
  prevented his coming to time, he would certainly have won the
  battle; and when the game which he displayed in his late fight with
  Gaynor is considered it is only a matter of surprise that he should
  have been so soon and suddenly brought to a stand-still. He declared
  that for some time the effects of the blow rendered him utterly
  incapable of exertion. Having thus experienced the nature of the
  Bishop’s tactics, however, he says he feels satisfied that he could
  in future guard against them, and render victory certain. In the
  present instance, it is the opinion of the best judges that Reid has
  shown himself the better fighter; but he is blamed for not taking
  more advantage of the opportunities which Sharpe afforded him, by
  leaving his head unguarded while aiming at his body. Indeed, it is
  thought that if he had been awake to this, and met him as he came
  in, there could have been no doubt of the issue of the contest. It
  is pretty clear that Sharpe, in all his battles, never met with such
  an adversary before, and that he had the worst of it is obvious from
  his own friends’ betting two to one against him. It is said,
  however, that it is difficult to tell when he is beaten, and that at
  all times he is a dangerous customer. This character he has
  maintained on the present occasion, and he has also shown that his
  reputation for courage is well founded. The backers of Reid
  immediately declared their readiness to match him again against
  Sharpe, if the Smuggler should be disposed for another shy, a proof
  of their implicit belief in his honesty.


This victory placed Sharpe in the foremost rank among the middle-weight
boxers of the day, and as Tom Gaynor had recently engaged with and
beaten the same man, the Chelsea Snob, with great difficulty, while the
Bishop had polished him off (so said his friends) with much more ease, a
line was taken by which the Bishop’s superiority over Gaynor was
assumed. Not so thought the admirers of the Bath Carpenter. They
considered the match “a good thing” for Tom, so they closed at once with
the proposal, and posted their half-hundred readily, fixing the day for
the 5th of December, 1826, and the trysting-place at No Man’s Land,
Herts. There, however, a move was necessary, owing to a magisterial
interference, and a move was accordingly made into Bedfordshire. At
Shere Mere, on the ground where Sampson and Jem Burn settled their
difference, at two o’clock, the men met in battle array. Sharpe was
attended by Josh Hudson and the veteran Tom Owen, while Gaynor had the
services of Harry Holt and Tom Oliver. The colours being tied to the
stakes, the men shook hands smilingly, the seconds retired to their
corners, and the combatants held up their daddles for


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On standing up the contrast in condition was evident, and
  alarmed the layers of the odds of five to four on Gaynor, so that
  they went round to six to four on the Bishop, who looked hard,
  ruddy, and confident, while Gaynor was sallow, and bore the traces
  of a recent indisposition. After a few seconds spent in sparring,
  Sharpe let fly his left at Gaynor’s ribs, but missed, and swung
  round. Gaynor immediately closed, and threw him on his back, missing
  a good chance of punishing his man.

  2.—Sharpe short with the right, Gaynor shifting quickly. Gaynor
  missed his counter-hit, and got it on the cheek. Sharpe closed, and
  there was a struggle for the fall; Gaynor was thrown. (Shouting for
  the Bishop.)

  3.—Gaynor put in a slight nobber with his left; Sharpe, all alive,
  let go his favourite body hit, catching Gaynor a sounder on the
  mark; Gaynor returned on the chin, but could not keep his man out,
  who gave him another heavy bodier and closed, but failed in getting
  the fall; Sharpe undermost.

  4.—A scrambling round; wild hitting on both sides; Sharpe under.

  5.—Sharpe, quick and ready, got in right and left on Gaynor’s head,
  but with little visible effect; both down in the close.

  6.—Sharpe bustled in: Gaynor shifted; Sharpe put in a left-hander,
  which Gaynor countered with the right on the Bishop’s mouth. Sharpe
  bored in, and sent a pile-driver on Gaynor’s ribs with such effect
  as to floor him instantly. (First knock-down for Sharpe.)

  7.—The Bishop, brisk as a bee, forced the fighting, then closed, and
  had Tom down in a scramble.

  8.—The Bishop fought rather wildly; Gaynor twice stopped his left,
  when Sharpe closed, and threw him, falling himself through the
  ropes.

  9.—The marks of the body blows received by Gaynor were very visible,
  and his countenance showed they troubled him much in the freedom of
  his action. Still he was cheerful and ready. Sharpe missed a
  left-hander at the body, and Gaynor retorted with a sharp cutting
  hit over the Bishop’s right eye, which brought forth the claret
  instantly. (Cheers, and “first blood” for Gaynor.)

  10.—Gaynor in the exchanges got in two more hits on the cheek,
  drawing more of the crimson; a short rally; both down.

  11.—Both men slipped from the moist state of the ground. The Bishop
  rushed to a close, and threw Gaynor cleverly.

  12.—Sharpe a little piping, but gay, lost no time in getting to
  work; after an exchange he got his man firmly, and threw him a heavy
  back fall.

  13.—Gaynor came up laughing, delivered a slight facer, closed, and
  threw the Bishop cleverly. (“Bravo!” from Tom’s friends.)

  14.—The Bishop tried twice for Gaynor’s body, and after some
  sparring, sent in a straight one at the mark. The blow told with
  terrific effect, doubling up Gaynor, who fell.

  15.—Gaynor came up pale and serious, but game and steady. The
  Bishop, stopped twice, rushed in, closed, and threw his man.

  16.—Sharpe put in a light body blow, but napped it sharply on the
  canister; Gaynor caught the Bishop twice in the head, but his blows
  did not seem to tell; he also got Sharpe down in the close.

  17.—A wrestling round; both down from the slippery state of the
  ground.

  18.—Gaynor, busy, put in two or three toppers on the Bishop’s nob,
  who at last got in a straight one on Gaynor’s throat, flooring him
  instantly. (Shouts for the Bishop.)

  19.—A good rally and exchanges. Sharpe twice on Gaynor’s jaw and
  neck; Tom on the Bishop’s eyes and mouth, which were considerably
  painted. Both down.

  20.—Sharpe still trying for the body, Tom feeling for the head; in
  the rally Sharpe gave Gaynor a severe hit in the mouth, and Tom went
  backward through the ropes.

  21–38.—In all these rounds a similar style of fighting was pursued,
  each man gallantly coming to the scratch, the hitting being nearly
  equal, and most of the rounds ending by Sharpe gaining the throw.

  39.—A busy round of rather longer duration. Gaynor tried his best
  for a turn. He fought with both hands at the head, disregarding the
  Bishop’s lunges, and finally threw him heavily. (Tom’s friends
  cheered, but it was clear that the Bishop was the fresher man.)

  40.—Gaynor came up shaky. A wrestling round. Both down, Gaynor
  undermost.

  41–53.—Gaynor, though contesting every round, did not seem to hit
  effectively, while Sharpe’s frequent misses and short blows at the
  body were equally indecisive. Each round ended in a scramble but the
  slippery mud, for such it was, foiled their efforts. In the 53rd
  round Sharpe, by the advice of old Tom Owen, changed his tactics,
  and commenced fighting at Gaynor’s upper works with his left. He
  soon after succeeded in putting in a chattering hit on Tom’s
  ivories, closed, and threw him out of the ropes.

  54.—Gaynor came slowly from his second’s knee at the call of “time.”
  In a rally the Bishop hit him down. (A pigeon was here let off for
  town, announcing the winning of the fight by Sharpe, in 54 rounds.
  To the general surprise, Gaynor jumped up briskly at the call of
  “time.”)

  55.—Gaynor rallied all his energies. He let go his left, catching
  Sharpe lightly on the nose; a good rally followed; Sharpe slipped in
  delivering a blow, and fell. (Cries of “Gaynor’s not beaten yet!”)

  56.—Another good fighting round on the part of Gaynor; some good
  exchanges; Gaynor got Sharpe down and fell on him.

  57.—Gaynor made several lunges at Sharpe’s nob, but missed; in the
  close Sharpe’s superior strength was shown in the style in which he
  lifted and threw Gaynor.

  58–72.—Gaynor, willing but weak, came up in all these rounds with
  less and less chance of pulling through. In the 68th round Sharpe
  again hit Gaynor down by a blow on the throat. (In the 72nd round a
  quarrel took place between Harry Holt and Tom Owen, in consequence
  of some over-zeal of Harry towards his principal. Owen pushed Harry,
  who in return sportively knocked off Owen’s stupendous Jolliffe hat.
  This indignity to the “Sage of the East” was “most intolerable, and
  not to be endured,” so he administered a backhander to the
  irreverent Orator, whereupon a merry skirmish followed. Josh Hudson,
  however, interposed, stopped the bye-battle, and the belligerents
  went back to their men, who had fought out the round during this
  supplementary set-to.)

  73–78.—In all these rounds poor Gaynor received the larger share of
  the punishment, but would not say “no,” though advised to give in by
  his seconds. In the 78th round Sharpe caught Gaynor a flush hit in
  the mouth, and he dropped. This was the finisher, and poor Tom was
  alike deaf to the call of “time” and the cheering of the victorious
  Bishop’s partisans. Sharpe walked firmly across the ring and
  possessed himself of the colours, placing them round his neck with
  evident satisfaction. Gaynor remained for a short time in a sort of
  stupor, but soon recovered himself, and returned to town the same
  night.

  REMARKS.—That the fighting was fast, may be told from the fact that
  seventy-eight rounds were got through in one hour and ten minutes.
  They were, however, in almost every instance terminated by a close.
  Indeed, there was as much wrestling as fighting. The men were both
  undoubtedly game and unflinching; but Gaynor did not seem to take
  advantage of his opportunities, and threw away his superior length
  by allowing his shorter-reached and sturdier adversary to get in on
  his body, and then accepting the struggle, in which, as the battle
  went on, he got the worst. It is true Sharpe’s peculiar method of
  setting-to with his right foot foremost puzzled Gaynor a little, but
  this does not account for Tom’s bad tactics throughout. As to Bishop
  Sharpe, he deserved every praise. His daring mode of going in, and
  chancing consequences, combined with his powers of hitting, made him
  exceedingly dangerous to any but a first-rate boxer of the Spring,
  Ward, or Young Dutch Sam school. Gaynor could not defend his body
  against his rushes, nor keep him at a distance for out-fighting, and
  hence the Bold Smuggler’s yard-arm to yard-arm tactics were
  triumphant.


Both men showed at Gaynor’s benefit at the Tennis Court on the Thursday.
Sharpe displayed few marks of heavy punishment, and Gaynor’s chief
injuries were from body blows and the failure of his left hand. The
battle-money was paid over to Sharpe at Josh Hudson’s on the Friday.

Early in 1827, after a failure in making a renewed match with his old
opponent Alec Reid, at a sporting dinner which took place at jolly
Josh’s, “Half Moon,” Leadenhall Market, on the 1st of August, 1827, a
proposal was made for a meeting for a cool hundred between Young Dutch
Sam, then rising into fame, and Bishop Sharpe. Ten pounds were
deposited, and the day named the 2nd of October, to meet in the same
ring as Ned Neale and Jem Burn. The matter, however, ended in a
withdrawal of stakes and a forfeit by Sam. A month afterwards a new
match was made for £100 a-side, and the 25th of October appointed. As
the successive deposits were made good, the odds in betting on the
Bishop rose from five to six to four; but at the final deposit at the
“Sol’s Arms,” Wych Street, Sam, who showed up in excellent condition,
despite sinister rumours as to his health, brought the betting down to
even. Of the farce which followed on the Tuesday, and Sam’s mysterious
arrest, we have already written. Tom Belcher, who held the stakes, after
some indignant comments, resolved to give them up to Sharpe, leaving
“Sam’s backers, who had served him with legal notice, to take such steps
as they might think proper for their recovery.” Sharpe was complimented
for his prompt and ready appearance in the ring, and pocketed the
hundred pounds amidst the congratulations of his friends. Sam’s match
with our hero having thus fallen through, Tom Gaynor again offered
himself to the Bishop’s notice, for £100 a-side, money ready at Harry
Holt’s. This, however, came to nothing, owing to Gaynor’s match with
Gybletts. (See Life of GAYNOR, _ante_.)

Sharpe’s old antagonist Alec Reid, having set up a sparring-booth at
Epsom Downs, as was the custom of those days, and a difference of
opinion having occurred on a bout with the mufflers, the Bishop proposed
a match, in which he said he could get backers for £50, and would “bet a
hundred.” To this the bold Alec replied by doubting the latter, but
offering to meet the Smuggler in the roped lists for “a hundred, if he
could get the money.” The parties met on the following Monday at Josh
Hudson’s, and there and then signed articles for a mill on the 15th of
July next ensuing. How the Bishop fell before the arm of the conquering
Alec, after ninety-one rounds of “the most game and determined fighting
we ever witnessed” (we quote _Bell’s Life_, of July 20th, 1827), may be
read in the memoir of the victor.

From this time the Bishop, after an unsuccessful attempt to get backed
once more for £100 against Reid, who declined to fight for a less sum,
fell into obscurity, his name only appearing in sparring benefits, or as
a second in minor battles. Bishop Sharpe died in 1861, aged sixty-two
years.




                              CHAPTER XII.
            TOM BROWN (“BIG BROWN”) OF BRIDGNORTH—1825–1831.


Big Brown of Bridgnorth, as he was appropriately styled, for a short
period attracted the attention of the pugilistic world by his bold claim
to the title of “Champion of England,” pretentiously put forward by his
friends upon the resignation of that honourable distinction by Tom
Spring. Indeed, it would appear that Big Brown, who had for some time
held a local supremacy in wrestling and boxing on the banks of the
Severn, was first fired with the ambition of earning a name and fame in
the P.R. by a visit, in the year 1824, of the ex-Champion, “with all his
blushing honours thick upon him,” to that part of Salop in which
Bridgnorth Castle “frowns proudly down o’er sedgy Severn’s flood.” Brown
was at this time thirty-one years of age, being born in 1793—certainly
too late in the day to reverse and make an exception to the axiom of
antiquity, “Ars longa, vita brevis,” so far as the art pugilistic is
concerned. Nevertheless, his introduction to Spring so favourably
impressed the Herefordshire hero that he declared Brown “fit to fight
anything that ever trod upon shoe-leather.” On this dictum Brown left
his friends in Shropshire and repaired to the “mart for all talent,” the
great Metropolis.

Brown’s trial match, for £100 a-side, with old Tom Shelton (see _ante_,
CHAPTER VIII., PERIOD V.), was made in a very quiet manner, without any
parade of newspaper letter-writing, or the sporting-crib “chaff” too
prevalent in those days. Articles were entered into at the “Ship,” in
Great Turnstile, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and the day fixed for July 12th,
1825. Now, as the “Ship” was not a “sporting-crib,” and Mr. Pierce Egan
was not duly advertised of the proceedings—indeed, was told nothing
about what was going on—Tom Brown’s battle ran a very good chance of not
being reported at all—so far as Pierce Egan was concerned. Had this
occurred, poor Brown, like “the brave men who lived before Agamemnon,”
might have gone down to oblivion; “Carent quia vates sacro.” But there
was another reason. Pierce Egan and all the amateurs were “full” of the
fight for the following Tuesday (the 19th July, 1825), between Jem Ward
and Tom Cannon; which accounts for “the historian” nodding, like another
Homer, and leaving to a rival paper the only report that week of the
battle, which took place at Plumbe Park, six miles from Stony Stratford,
and about sixty miles from London, on the 12th of July, 1825.

The attendance was not numerous, nor was it desired by Brown’s backers;
but the Londoners who were there backed Shelton, as against “a
countryman,” five to four, on the ground of the old ’un’s tried game and
capabilities. Brown, beyond his Shropshire and Worcestershire conquests
over stalwart yokels, was unknown to public fame. True, he had been
heard of in a forfeit of £20 to Phil Sampson, of Birmingham. Brown,
however, had a high character from those who knew him for activity as a
jumper and runner, unusual with men of his weight and inches; and above
all Tom Spring, the native of an adjoining county, had reported his
quality to the swells in the terse and graphic style already cited.

Shelton, who trained anywhere and anyhow, had arrived at Stony Stratford
on the previous day, putting up at the “Cock.” Late on Monday night
Spring and Brown arrived, and took quarters at the same well-known
hostelrie. The men here met each other, and in true English style
exchanged greetings and shook hands. Peter Crawley and Josh Hudson also
arrived from London as the appointed seconds of Shelton.

Brown, a good-looking, gentleman-farmer sort of man, was a general
object of interest as he walked about the town in the early morning; his
stature, six feet one inch, and his weight, a solid fifteen stone of
bone and muscle, seemed big enough and heavy enough for anything. The
friends of the countryman became yet more confident when they saw
Shelton, who certainly was not above twelve stone, and whose height
wanted quite four inches of that of his opponent. Among the rurals Brown
was now at the odds of five and six to four. At twelve o’clock the men
and their seconds and friends started in four post-chaises for Plumbe
Park, the general public making their way in the best style they could.
Brown, attended by Tom Cribb and Tom Spring, was first to throw his hat
within the ropes; Josh and Peter followed quickly. “Come, Spring, get
ready,” cried Josh; “my man is dressed and waiting in the chaise.”
Shelton now made his appearance, but threw his hat so far that it went
over on the farther side of the ring, where it was picked up by Young
Gas (Jonathan Bissell), who dropped it within the ropes. “That’s a bad
omen,” said a bystander. The colours were now tied to the stakes—blue
for Shelton, by Hudson, and crimson and white for the Bridgnorth giant,
by Tom Spring. “Never mind how you tie them, Josh,” said Shelton, “I
shall want you to take them down for me.” “Of course,” replied the John
Bull Fighter, “so I have fastened them with a reef-knot.” The men now
stood up for


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On getting rid of their togs Brown looked like Hercules
  without his club. Shelton had trained off; his face was thin—his
  neck did not appear to possess that strength which characterises a
  fighting man; his frame was not so robust as heretofore; and his
  calves, in the phrase of the Ring, had “gone to grass.”
  Nevertheless, Tom’s heart was in the right place; and like a good
  “ould one,” he thought of nothing but winning, in spite of the
  ravages which Master Time had made. “A countryman lick me, indeed!”
  exclaimed Tom, early in the morning; “I’ll be carried out of the
  ring first—I will never live to see that day!” On preparing for the
  attack, Brown stood over Shelton, and the latter, aware that he had
  a good deal of work to perform, set about it with pluck. Tom’s right
  hand was stopped by the novice; and in return Brown put a “little
  one in” on Shelton’s mug, which dropped him. (The milling coves
  looked blue, while the Chawbacons were outrageous in their
  manifestations of joy at the success of the countryman. Spring said,
  “First blood!” but Josh said, “No!” Six to four on Brown; but no
  fanciers of the odds.)

  2.—In this early stage of the fight, the sporting men were satisfied
  that Shelton had his master before him. Tom measured his opponent,
  and tried all he knew to plant a heavy topper; but the countryman
  was too cautious, and parried steadily. Shelton, not dismayed, again
  went to work; but Brown was up to his manœuvres, and put in a severe
  blow on his head. A rally occurred, which was brisk for a short
  time, but Tom had the worst of it, and got away. Brown took the lead
  in a determined manner, planting two blows on Shelton’s head.
  Shelton, with the courage of a lion, boldly stood up to his man,
  till a body blow sent him down. (The friends of Brown shouted for
  joy, offered two to one, and declared it was “as safe as the Bank.”)

  3.—The position of Shelton was awkward—his legs were too wide apart;
  but his anxiety to punish his adversary was visible, and he left no
  manœuvre untried to obtain an opening. “Be ready,” said Josh, “he’s
  coming!” Brown smiled, and with the utmost ease not only stopped
  Shelton, but in return, gave him a hit on his canister weighty
  enough to put his upper works in confusion. Tom countered his
  adversary on his sensitive plant so sharply that the claret was
  plentiful. (“Well done, Tom,” said Josh; “you have made the young
  one a member of the Vintners’ Company; go and draw his cork again.”)
  The countryman felt a little warm—rushed in to his work—caught
  Shelton in his arms like a baby, and spite of the struggling of poor
  Tom, he went down. (“The countryman for £100!” all round the ring.)

  4.—Tom was piping a little, and it was evident he was overmatched.
  Shelton hit his adversary on the cheek; but he could not stop the
  overwhelming power of Brown, who went in and caught Shelton at the
  ropes. After a little toppering on both sides, the strength of the
  countryman enabled him to hold up his adversary, as he was dangling
  on the ropes, but, in the most generous and humane manner, he let
  Tom down, and walked away. (“Bravo! handsome! Englishman-like!” were
  the expressions all over the ring.)

  5.—Short. It was now clear that the countryman was nothing like a
  novice, and also that he had been under good tuition. He stopped
  Shelton with ease, and aimed a terrific right-handed blow at Tom’s
  head, which, had it told, might have proved Shelton’s quietus. Tom,
  in bobbing his nob aside, slipped down.

  6.—This was a fighting round; but Shelton could not reduce Brown’s
  pluck or strength, although he made several good hits. “His right
  hand is gone,” said Josh. “It is, by gosh!” echoed Oliver, whose
  face was full of anxiety for the fate of poor Shelton, and who had
  also backed the Ould One at five to four previous to the battle.
  Shelton planted a body blow; but Brown returned the favour on the
  head of his adversary. Tom retreated, and endeavoured to mill; but
  Brown followed him, and sent him completely out of the ropes. (“A
  countryman, do you call him? He stands a good chance to be
  Champion!” said Spring.)

  7.—Brown’s ivory box received a rattler, but the countryman shook it
  off with a smile. A little pricked, he followed Shelton, with a
  quick step, who turned round to avoid a flush hit. Tom slipped down
  in getting away. Shelton made play, and Brown missed in return.

  8.—After some heavy exchanges at the ropes, Shelton put in a
  back-handed hit so sharply that Brown napped it on his mouth, and
  went down. (This event put the fighting men and backers of Shelton
  into spirits—it was a ray of hope. “The Ould One will win it! He has
  changed it a little!” and “Master Brown does not like it!” with lots
  of chaffing, till “time” was called.)

  9.—This was a round within a round, or two fights for the same
  stake. The age of Shelton told against him; and it was clear that he
  could not win. Tom came to the scratch much distressed, but
  nevertheless commenced milling. Brown followed him resolutely over
  the ring, when Shelton retreated to the ropes; but the nob of Tom
  got entangled, and the fibbing system was adopted by both
  combatants. It was rather against Shelton, when the John Bull
  Fighter tried to remove the rope from his man’s nob, which Spring
  said was not fair, and shoved Josh off. Hudson persisted, and shoved
  Spring roughly; Spring then struck him. “I will not take a blow from
  any one,” said Josh, and let fly at the late Champion’s head,
  catching him under the left eye. A scramble ensued; Spring and Josh
  were both down, and only Cribb waiting upon his man. Brown in the
  interim had floored Shelton by a heavy body blow. The time-keepers
  had also a trifling dispute; and Tom Oliver and Young Gas placed
  themselves in fighting attitudes. At length the row subsided, order
  was restored, and when time was called for round.

  10.—both men appeared at the scratch. Shelton exerted himself to do
  mischief, but he was stopped, received several hits, and was sent
  down by a ribber that was heard all over the ring. Shouting by the
  friends of Brown.

  11.—Shelton with considerable dexterity put in a sharp facer; the
  men afterwards had a severe rally. Brown endeavoured (but we think
  unintentionally) to lay hold of Shelton’s thigh, in order to obtain
  the throw; but on “foul” being vociferated, he let go his hold.
  Shelton went down by a heavy body blow.

  12.—Tom did everything in his power to win; but his blows were
  nothing like finishing ones, and Brown had the best of it. Shelton
  received an ugly visitation to his victualling office, and went down
  exhausted. Any odds, but no takers.

  13.—The fight was drawing to a close, Brown taking the lead in every
  round. Shelton put in a nobber, but Brown seemed to say, “If you
  cannot hit me harder, it is no go.” Tom received such a tremendous
  one in his mouth that he went down as if shot. Five to one; in fact,
  it was a hundred to one that Brown must now win off-hand.

  14.—The old story, so often told, but so little heeded by fighting
  men, was evident. Shelton was full of pluck, as to mind and heart,
  but his legs trembled, and he staggered like a drunken man; he made
  play with his right, planted a facer, and got away. The danger was
  out of Shelton, and Brown, in order to put an end to the battle,
  went to work. Tom opposed him like a trump, till he napped a
  shutter-up-shop on his throat, which floored him. The head of
  Shelton reached the ground so violently that it bounded like a ball.
  (“It’s all over,” was the cry; the brandy was administered, but it
  was of no use.)

  15, and last.—Shelton answered the call of “time.” On toeing the
  mark, Brown let fly on the side of Tom’s head, and he measured his
  length on the ground. Shelton was “hit out of time,” and Josh gave
  in for him. Tom, on recovering himself a little, said, “No, I will
  fight!” He, however, was so weak and exhausted that nature would not
  second his efforts. Time, fifteen minutes.

  REMARKS.—Shelton, on coming to himself, said “he was ashamed of
  having been licked in so short a time”—fifteen minutes. Shelton was
  not disgraced by the defeat. He showed himself a brave man, and
  never flinched from his opponent; but overmatched by strength and
  youth, he found it out too late. Brown fought better than was
  expected. His confidence increased. Spring offered to back him
  against any one for £500 a-side. Brown, for a big one, was extremely
  active on his legs, stopped well, hit hard, and did not want for
  courage or science.


Brown lost no time in claiming the belt, as may be seen by the
subjoined:—


           “BROWN’S CHALLENGE AND CLAIM TO THE CHAMPIONSHIP.

  “_To the Editor of the_ ‘WEEKLY DISPATCH.’

  “SIR,—Permit me to announce, through the medium of your paper, that
  my benefit will take place on Tuesday, the 28th of March, when I
  shall be prepared to make a match with any man in England for from
  three to five hundred pounds a-side, or as much more as may be
  desired. Jem Ward, or his friends, will probably avail themselves of
  this opportunity to prove their sincerity when they did me the
  favour of soliciting my attendance in London; but should their
  courage have been cooled I shall be glad to make a match with Peter
  Crawley or Tom Cannon. Should the London Ring decline the challenge,
  I beg leave to say that I shall lay claim to the title of Champion,
  which has so long remained in doubt.

                                   “I am, Sir, yours respectfully,
                                                         “THOS. BROWN.

  “Bridgnorth, March 1st, 1826.”


On Tuesday, March 28th, 1826, the Tennis Court overflowed, as at the
period when Jem Belcher was the pride of the Ring, and Tom Cribb the
hero of the tale. The produce of the Court, after deducting expenses,
amounted to £127 10s. One thousand persons were present.

After the first set-to between Raines and Wallace, Sampson appeared on
the stage, and said that he had been matched against Brown five years
since, and had received a forfeit of £20. A second match had been
proposed, but Brown had not come forward. He would now fight him for
£100, and put down a deposit. If that did not suit Mr. Brown he would
set to with him there and then for a “bellyful.” (Laughter and
applause.)

Jem Ward showed, and came to the point at once. “I am ready,” said Jem,
“to fight Brown for £300, and no chaffing. I will put down a deposit
immediately.” “Well done, Jem!”

Tom Spring mounted the stage, and was flatteringly received. He said
Brown was under his protection, and it was not worth his while to fight
for £100. He was in business, and would require at least a month’s
training under his (Spring’s) care, and then if he won the battle the
expenses would be greater than the gain. As to putting on the gloves
with Sampson it was quite out of the question; Brown was under his
management, and he would not let him do wrong to his friends and
backers. Sampson had come forward in an angry manner to challenge. Here
the oratory of the ex-Champion was lost in a roar of applause and
disapprobation, and calls for “Sampson and Brown.”

Sampson said, “The thing spoke for itself—it was too plain; Spring did
not like to let the cat out of the bag.” He would not let Brown set to
with him because it would tell tales. It would show Brown’s talents, and
Spring was determined to keep Brown all to himself. He (Sampson) thought
that the company present ought to witness the set-to between him and
Brown, as in that case the Fancy would form a judgment as to the laying
out their money. (Great applause; and “He ought to set to,” from some;
while others, “Spring is not such a flat as to show off Brown; it would
betray a want of judgment, and not the caution of a sporting man.”)

Jem Ward rushed on the stage, and flashing a £50 note stated “he would
post it immediately towards making a match for £300 with any man in
England.” (“Go it, Jem! You can beat any chawbacon, let him be as big as
Goliah!”)

Spring, in reply, said he would make a match that night, at Cribb’s, for
Brown to fight Ward the first week in August. (Applause.)

Sampson also observed for £100 a-side he would fight any man in England,
and would make the match immediately.

As a wind-up to the sports Brown and Spring appeared on the stage,
followed by Sampson, who stripped himself, seized hold of a pair of
gloves, and appeared determined to set to with Brown. To describe the
row which ensued would be impossible. Spring would not let Brown spar
with Sampson. The latter asked Brown personally, but he declined, as he
said he must be guided by his friends. Sampson then left the stage,
observing “it was of no use.” Here another uproar occurred, and Spring
and Brown left the stage. After some time had passed in glorious
confusion Spring again made his appearance on the stage, and solicited a
hearing. Silence being procured Spring observed, that Brown had been
placed under his protection, and he was determined that he should
receive no foul play. In the bills of the day it had been expressed that
he and Brown would put on the gloves together, but he would not let
Brown set to with Sampson. “Yet do not mistake me, gentlemen,” said he,
“not from any fear respecting Sampson, but it would be wrong, as Brown
was about being matched, and more especially on account of the anger
displayed by Sampson.” A mixture of applause and hisses, and cries for
Sampson. “Brown, gentlemen, is here, ready to set to if you wish it.”
“Bravo!” Brown ascended the stage, but the mixed reception must have
proved unpleasant to his feelings. “Hats off!” was the cry, and Brown
and Spring were opposed to each other.

It was curious to hear the different opinions respecting the abilities
of Brown. “He is of no use,” said a retired boxer, one of the first
heroes in the P.R. of his day. “He can beat any one in the list,”
observed another milling cove. “What an impostor!” “The £500 would be a
gift to Ward!” “He would be nothing in the hands of Peter Crawley!” “He
is a rare punisher with his right hand, one of his blows would floor an
ox”—&c., &c. The set-to did not give satisfaction, and the public
verdict was that Brown, after all, was nothing else but a strong
countryman, yet a hard hitter with his right hand. Brown returned
thanks, and challenged any man in England for £500 a-side, but would
accommodate Mr. Sampson for £300 a-side.

Sampson informed the audience that he was to have a benefit on Monday
next; and if he, who had been long known to the Ring, met with such
patronage as Brown had done, he would not only fight Brown for £100
a-side, but the whole of the money taken at the doors in addition.

At nine o’clock in the evening, after a sporting dinner at which Brown
and his friends were the guests, Jem Ward and Sampson arrived at Tom
Cribb’s, in Panton Street, and the latter proposed to accede to Brown’s
challenge on the part of Ward, and to make a match for £500 a-side.
Sampson then said that Ward had not been able to see his friends, and
had only £10 to put down; but he should be prepared to make that sum £50
at his (Sampson’s) benefit on Monday next. Some surprise was expressed
at the smallness of the deposit for so important a match. Brown at once
said that he would throw no impediment in Ward’s way, but would meet him
in any reasonable manner he might suggest.

A gentleman present then proceeded to draw up the articles, in which it
was proposed and agreed to by Sampson, on the part of Ward, that the
fight should take place on a stage similar to that on which Ward and
Cannon fought at Warwick; that the place of fighting should be named by
Spring, upon the condition that he gave Ward one hundred guineas for
that privilege; and that it should not exceed one hundred and fifty
miles from London. On coming to the discussion of the distance, however,
a difficulty arose. Ward said his friends would not consent to his
fighting beyond a hundred miles from London, and therefore if he fought
at all it must be within that distance. To this Brown objected. During
considerable argument, in which Sampson, still labouring under feelings
of irritation against Brown, gave way to a spirit of hostility
altogether misplaced, he repeatedly offered to fight Brown for a hundred
himself within a month, which Brown declined. At last Sampson said he
would fight him for £10 in a room that night. To such a ridiculous offer
Spring would not suffer Brown to accede; but at last Brown, in order to
prove that he had no personal fears for Sampson, said he would fight him
next morning for love. This proffer was hailed with cheers by his
friends, but was not agreeable to Sampson, who reverted to his old
proposition to fight for a hundred in a month, and this not being
accepted he retired.

As an impartial historian we must state that about this period the
nuisance of newspaper challenges, correspondence, defiance, chaff,
scurrility, and braggadocio had reached an unendurable height. Three
rival sporting papers opened their columns, or rather their reporters
and editors lent their pens, to indite all sorts of epistles from
pugilists, each striving to make itself the special channel by which the
hero of the hour proclaimed in “Ezcles’ vein” and braggart buncombe his
fearful intentions and outraged feelings, and scattered furious cartels
among his foes or rivals. Columns of letters purporting to be from Ward,
Phil Sampson, Brown, and a host of minor celebrities—most of them in
unmistakable Eganian slang—adorned the columns of the journals
throughout 1826 and 1827. Ward’s affair went off in smoke; but early in
1828 the newspaper controversy with Phil Sampson culminated in a match
with Brown, for £500. This was decided on the 8th of April, 1828, near
Wolverhampton, and resulted in the defeat of our hero in forty-two
minutes and forty-nine rounds. The preliminaries to this defeat and the
battle itself will be found in our Life of PHIL SAMPSON, in the next
Chapter.

Brown’s defeat, though manifestly owing to the serious accident to his
shoulder in the fourth round, had the effect of “an occultation of a
star of the first magnitude” in the fistic firmament. But there was
another big Boanerges, of fifteen stone, who kept the “Black Bull,” in
Smithfield; who, having doffed his white apron on the provocation of
Stephen Bailey, and twice beaten the blue-aproned butcher, fancied that
he could win further laurels by a tourney with the defeated, but not
daunted, Champion of Bridgnorth. The public were accordingly edified by
a challenge from Isaac Dobell, which was promptly answered by Brown’s
retort of the “Black Bull’s” defiance.

The stakes agreed on were £300 on the part of Shropshire to £250 on
behalf of Smithfield, in consideration of the battle coming off within
five miles of “the cloud-capped towers” of Bridgnorth. Tuesday, the 24th
of March, 1829, was the day appointed, and on the Saturday morning
previous Dobell, who had trained at Hendon, Middlesex, under the care of
Harry Lancaster, set out by the “Wonder” coach for Towcester, where he
sojourned on the Saturday night. Here he excited the wonder of the
yokels by his wonderful bulk, and the wonderful amount of the stakes
which he declared his confidence of winning. On Sunday he reached
Birmingham, and took up his quarters at the “Crown,” awakening the
curiosity of the natives of the “hardware village” by promenading
through the streets. On Monday he arrived in Bridgnorth, and there
patronised the “Royal Oak.”

Brown had trained at Shipley, and had named Bridgnorth for two
reasons—first, to oblige his fellow-townsmen and backers, and secondly,
to exhibit to them how he would wipe out the defeat he had sustained at
the hands of the “Birmingham Youth,” which he maintained was solely
owing to the accident hereafter mentioned. On Monday evening he returned
to Bridgnorth, and put up at his brother’s house, the “King’s Head,”
where he was joined by Tom Spring, Tom Cribb, Ned Neale, and Harry Holt,
with several other celebrated men of the London P.R. A rumour of a
warrant, however, induced him to make a retreat from the town in a
post-chaise, together with his seconds, and sojourn in a neighbouring
village for the night. Deux Hill Farm being named as the rendezvous,
thither the Commissary repaired with the ropes and stakes of the F.P.C.
(Fair Play Club), and there in due time an excellent ring, with an outer
circle of wagons and carriages, was formed. Some bets of seven to four
and six to four were taken by the friends of Dobell, who, however, was
reported to be feverish and unwell from a cold caught on his long
journey. An attempt to arrest Brown was cleverly frustrated by Spring,
who drove over the Severn Bridge in a post-chaise, accompanied by a
portly friend well wrapped up. An order to halt was given at the
tollgate; the door of the chaise was opened, but Brown was not there,
having meantime crossed the river in a boat some distance higher up. At
half-past twelve, after Dobell and friends had waited more than half an
hour, Brown and his party appeared, and were heartily cheered. The £50
to be paid to Dobell for choice of place were duly handed over, and the
colours—crimson and white for Brown and a blue bird’s-eye for
Dobell—tied to the stakes. The men shook hands heartily at meeting, and
the ceremony of peeling forthwith began; Lancaster and Jem Burn
attending on Dobell, Spring and Neale waiting on Brown.

On stripping, Brown looked thinner than when he fought Sampson, and had
altogether an aged and worn appearance, but his eye was bright and his
look confident. His arms were longer and his height superior to that of
Dobell. Mine host of the “Black Bull” displayed a pair of brawny arms
and most substantial understandings, which, with his round and portly
body, gave him anything but the look of an active boxer. At three
minutes to one all was in readiness. The men toed the mark and began


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Brown covered his front well, and throwing his arms across
  his face, looked smiling through them at his antagonist. Dobell
  seemed serious. He made first play with his left, but was out of
  distance, and was stopped. He tried the same hand again, but was
  again too far off to make an impression. Brown, seeing that nothing
  was to be done by acting on the defensive, made up his mind to
  begin. After a feint with his left, he popped in his right slightly
  on Dobell’s mouth; he then drew back, but again advancing, quickly
  delivered his left on Dobell’s eye, and his right on his cheek. The
  former blow filled Dobell’s eye with water. Both now made quick
  play, and slight hits were followed by a tremendous smack on
  Dobell’s nose, which drew claret, and dropped him like a sack of
  malt. (First blood and fast knock-down blow announced for Brown,
  amidst the shouts of his friends, who offered ten to one in his
  favour. Neale, too, was in high glee, as it made him the winner of
  two fives, which he had bet on these events.)

  2.—Dobell came up serious, but ready for the affray; and Brown
  smiled good-humouredly, as if it were all his own. After a short
  spar Dobell tried his right, but Brown jumped actively away. Brown
  returned again to his man, and with great quickness planted his left
  and right on his phiz, and broke away. Dobell, somewhat annoyed,
  rushed in and delivered his right on Brown’s cheek, and his left on
  the body, but did not seem to make much impression. Both now got to
  a rally, in which some heavy blows were exchanged. Brown then drew
  back, and Dobell, rushing after him, received two flush hits in the
  face, right and left. Dobell would not be denied, but rattled in,
  while Brown retreated, stopping and hitting with severity. Dobell
  was not idle, but his blows fell short, and at last Brown caught him
  a terrific hit over the right eye with his left, making a deep
  incision. Dobell stood it like bricks, and rushed to a close, when
  Brown slipped down rather questionably.

  3.—Brown came up playfully, while Dobell’s dexter ogle had an ugly
  appearance. Both stood quiet for a time; but at length Brown, seeing
  his man inclined for reflection, rushed in with great rapidity, and
  catching poor Dobell a heavy slap on the left jaw with his right,
  dropped him again, amidst shouts and encouraging exclamations from
  Sampson. Few, in fact, seemed to think that the poor Londoner
  deserved any quarter. (Any odds on Brown.)

  4.—Dobell found there was no use in out-fighting, and therefore
  determined to rush to business. Brown, however, who was active on
  his legs, jumped back, and again caught the “Bull’s Head” on the
  grinders, and downed him again. (“Bravo, Brown—it’s all your own!
  take him away!”)

  5.—Dobell, no way daunted or discouraged by the shouts of victory,
  rushed to work. Brown missed his right and left as he came in, and
  Dobell planted his right on his throat. (“Well done, Dobell!”) This
  he followed with a slap from his right on Brown’s scent-box, and
  drew blood for the first time from the Pride of Bridgnorth. This
  seemed to give Dobell new life, and in rushing in Brown went down.

  6.—Brown ready—showed the superiority of length, and again jobbed
  heavily right and left, and broke away. This he repeated, when
  Dobell charged him courageously; on grappling him, with intent to
  fib, Brown wouldn’t have it, and went down—Dobell on him.

  7.—Brown planted his left on the canister and his right on the body
  of the publican. Dobell took it bravely, without flinching; he then
  rushed to in-fighting, but missed several of his blows, and after
  mutual but ineffectual attempts to fib, Brown got down. (This show
  of caution did not suit Dobell’s friends, and they cried out, “Fight
  fair!” Brown’s friends, however, replied, “All right,” “Nothing
  wrong.” Indeed, Brown did not seem to keep his legs with certainty.)

  8.—Dobell on the defensive, but not sufficiently quick to stop his
  antagonist, who jobbed him twice on the head. This long shooting did
  not suit Dobell, and he had recourse to his rush, and planted his
  right on Brown’s jaw, and in the scramble which followed Brown went
  down.

  9.—Dobell popped in his left unexpectedly, but made but little
  impression. Brown was not long in returning the compliment right and
  left. This he repeated, when Dobell bored in desperately, as the
  only chance. Brown retreated, fighting and meeting him as he
  followed. At last Dobell caught him round the neck, and fibbed
  slightly; in the tussle which followed Brown fell; and Dobell, in
  hitting, as Brown was on his knees, caught him with his right on the
  back. (Brown called “foul,” and it was foul, but was not noticed by
  the umpires; indeed, the blow was accidental.)

  10.—Dobell again rushed in, hitting right and left, but Brown
  retreated, stopping and jobbing in turn. In the end he was bored
  down on his knees. (More chaffing from Sampson, and from Brown’s
  friends.)

  11.—Good stopping on both sides, but Brown succeeded in making two
  jobbing hits. Dobell again had recourse to his desperate rush, and a
  close followed, when both tried vigorously for the fall, but neither
  could get the lock, and in the end Dobell dragged Brown down,
  showing that his strength was still unimpaired.

  12.—On getting to their seconds’ knees, both piped a little, but
  Dobell most. Dobell came up as game as a pebble, and tried his left
  at Brown’s body, but was out of distance. He then hit with his
  right, but was stopped. He found that nothing but close contact
  would do, and pursued the rushing system. Brown retreated round the
  ring before him, and actually turned round to avoid, but in again
  meeting his man he caught him with a flush hit with his left, and
  Dobell fell on his face. (Chaffing now commenced on the part of
  Stockman for Dobell. He swore that Brown’s shoulder was out, and
  that all Dobell had to do was to go in and win it.) Brown had
  certainly hurt the thumb of his right hand, but no material mischief
  was done.

  13.—Both now showed distress, but Dobell was most winded. Brown
  smiled, and, after a short pause, let fly right and left, planting
  both blows heavily, and repeating the dose till he hit his man down.
  Brown fell himself on his knees, showing weakness in the pins.

  14.—Dobell now showed additional symptoms of weakness, and was
  slower than ever. After a short pause Brown rushed in, planted his
  left and right, and dropped him heavily.

  15.—Dobell vindicated his courage by again rushing in; but Brown met
  him with two terrific jobbing hits right and left, and again floored
  him all abroad, amidst the triumphant shouts of the Shropshire lads.

  16.—Dobell evidently felt that his chance of winning was vanishing;
  still, summoning all his remaining energies, he rushed to
  in-fighting. He missed his right-handed hit, and was met with a
  terrific left-handed job in the muzzle. He would not be denied,
  however, and fought away gallantly, making some wild hits. Brown was
  active, and had him at all points, till he fell almost exhausted.
  (Dobell’s brother now endeavoured to persuade him to give in, but he
  resolved to have another shy.)

  17, and last.—Dobell once more rushed in, but Brown, retreating, met
  him as he came forward with a flush hit in the mouth, and dropped
  him for the last time. On again getting up he consented, though
  reluctantly, to say “enough,” and the hat was thrown up amidst
  shouts of victory for Brown, who had thus regained the confidence of
  his Shropshire friends.

  The fight lasted twenty-two minutes, and Dobell was taken from the
  ground much punished about the head. Brown showed but a slight scar
  under one of his eyes, and was so fresh that he seized a whip with
  intent to administer it to Stockman for his chaffing, but was
  prevented by Tom Spring. The chaffing on both sides was bad, and
  particularly towards Dobell, who, as a stranger in that part of the
  country, ought to have been protected. It is but just to state,
  however, that the old ring-goers were most to blame. Dobell was able
  to help himself to brandy after the battle was over.

  REMARKS.—During this fight Brown had it all his own way, and showed
  the superiority of length and science over mere weight and muscular
  strength. Dobell, although the first to attack, almost invariably
  hit short, and was unable to plant his blows well home. At
  in-fighting neither was clever, and there was not a good throw
  throughout the contest. Brown, in getting away from Dobell’s rushes,
  was deemed by some to be over-cautious; but the fact is, he was weak
  in the legs, and, under Spring’s direction, would not wrestle, lest
  he might endanger his shoulder, which it may be recollected was put
  out in his fight with Sampson. With respect to Dobell, if not a good
  fighter, he has proved himself a game man; and with this praise he
  must be content, for he can scarcely hope for improvement in the
  fistic art. It was clear throughout that Brown was not in the best
  condition; but had he been less fresh, we think he understood his
  business too well, and was too good an out-fighter to give Dobell
  much chance. Brown remained at Bridgnorth, showing but slight marks
  of punishment; and Dobell arrived at his house in St. John Street on
  Thursday morning. He had a levee of condolence in the evening, at
  which it was proposed to match him once more against Brown, for £200
  a-side; but nothing definite was done. It seems that the
  knuckle-bone of Brown’s right-hand thumb was broken; and, on
  reaching home, the hand was dreadfully puffed; the injury was done
  in the second or third round.


The friends of Dobell attributed his defeat to a severe cold and want of
condition, and as mine host himself shared this opinion a second trial
was agreed on, this time for £200 a-side. Dobell went at once into
training, but for some reason twice forfeited £5 deposit. At length the
stakes were made good, and the day named was November 24th, 1829, the
place of meeting being near Uckfield, Sussex, on the Crowborough Road.
Dobell trained finally at East Grinstead, where he got off much
superfluous flesh, but still drew little short of fifteen stone. Brown
trained actively among the hills of his native county, and appeared in
the ring in far better form than on the previous occasion.

On Monday Brown, accompanied by his brother and some Bridgnorth friends,
Tom Spring, and Ned Neale, set out from Streatham for the “Shelley
Arms,” at Nutley, close to the residence of Sir John Shelley. On their
way they passed through East Grinstead, where Spring had an interview
with Dobell, who was surrounded by his friends, and attended by his
chosen seconds, Tom Shelton and Peter Crawley. All was good humour, and
each man seemed confident of the result of the approaching combat, no
doubt booking himself as the victor.

The Commissary, Tom Oliver, and his coadjutor Frosty-faced Fogo, were
among the throng at Nutley; and at an early hour in the morning they
commenced forming a ring on a piece of the forest close at hand, but
before they had commenced their labours orders arrived from Dobell to
move to Crowborough, to which place they proceeded, across the country,
by a most villanous road, and at the risk of being scattered like chaff
before the wind, which blew a perfect hurricane.

In the interim Dobell, with his _cortège_—embracing two carriages and
four and sundry chaises and pairs, gigs, horsemen, &c.—started from East
Grinstead, and passed the “Shelley Arms” at a rapid pace, being obliged
to take a circuitous route through Maresfield and Uckfield to get into
the Crowborough Road. Brown’s party were soon in their rear, their
carriages being all prepared for the start, and in point of
respectability of “turn-out” being upon an equality. The Dobellites,
however, having the start by some minutes, reached the scene of action
first, and it being then close upon one o’clock proceeded to the ring,
which was not yet complete. Brown not having arrived, and one o’clock
having passed, Dobell’s party were at once for claiming forfeit, and “to
this intent” spoke; but at five minutes after that time Brown and Spring
were within the still incomplete arena. The storm at this time raged
with unabated fury, and the stakes having been pitched on a hill, for
the advantage of a good gate, the crowd and the combatants were exposed
to its utmost severity. The consequence was that hats and umbrellas were
seen driving across the heath in all directions—their owners in full
chase—while those who were preserved from these casualties were only
secured by the aid of cords, straps, and handkerchiefs, which were so
applied as to resist the furious blasts.

The usual preliminaries of choosing umpires and referees were now
arranged, and the men peeled for action, Brown attended by Spring and
Tom Oliver, and Dobell by Peter Crawley and Tom Shelton. In point of
condition they were, as we have said, much better than at their last
meeting, Dobell looking much lighter in weight and firmer in flesh, but
still too much of the Bacchus to suit our notions of the necessary
activity for a milling hero. His arms were too short, and from the
fleshiness at his shoulders he seemed to want that spring which is
essential to effective hitting. Brown was thin as a greyhound, and had
an obvious advantage in length, while his general appearance showed
freshness and vigour. At this interesting moment a few of the friends of
Dobell readily accepted some bets at seven to four and two to one.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The men came up cautiously, both covering their points with
  judgment, and Brown evidently waiting for the attack. Dobell did not
  keep him long in suspense, but let fly with his right at the head,
  which was prettily stopped. He then tried with his left at the body,
  but was again stopped, and Brown jumped away active on his pins. A
  long pause ensued, neither making play, but both receiving strong
  pepper from Æolus, which imparted a bluish tint to their mazzards.
  Dobell once more tried his left at Brown’s body, but was out of
  distance. Sparring and position changed, when Dobell made a rush and
  attempted to catch Brown’s right hand with his left, while he drew
  back his right to hit, but Brown jumped back, and the effort was
  fruitless as well as injudicious. Another long sparring bout, of
  which Dobell evidently got tired, for he dropped his hands and
  looked mortified; but Brown seemed determined to give him the lead,
  and wait for his assault. Dobell now put in a slight body hit with
  his left, while Brown made an over-handed chop with his right, but
  missed. Dobell became impatient, and making up his mind to mischief,
  tried his one two; but both were stopped, and Brown jumped back.
  Brown now, in turn, made a dart, and put in his left slightly on
  Dobell’s collar-bone. Dobell tried to plant his left and right
  several times, but was stopped; at length he caught Brown slightly
  with his right on the mark; but the distance was ill-judged, and
  Brown smiled. Long sparring. Dobell stopped a well-intentioned visit
  from Brown’s left to his nob. Again did Dobell drop his arms as if
  fatigued at holding them up so long, for fifteen minutes had now
  expired. “Go in, and get to work,” cried Dobell’s friends, and after
  a pause he followed their advice; he rushed to a rally, and
  delivered a slight tap on Brown’s cheek with his right. This
  produced a quick return from Brown, who slashed away right and left
  with great force and quickness on Dobell’s frontispiece, setting his
  eyes on the twinkle, and ultimately flooring him on his capacious
  base. (Loud shouts from Brown’s friends, and five to two offered in
  all directions.) The round lasted seventeen minutes.

  2.—Dobell came up considerably flushed in his upper works, but
  steady. “In to him!” cried Shelton; and obedient to the word of
  command, he instantly commenced operations; but he found the game
  not so safe. Brown was ready, and hit away right and left, meeting
  his man as he came in with stinging severity. Dobell felt the force
  of these visitations, and turned his back for a moment. Brown saw
  the advantage, and quick as lightning jumped in, and as Dobell came
  to the rightabout met him with a flush hit with the right on his
  mouth, and his left on his nose; this he repeated, and after a very
  slight return from Dobell, he was floored, the purple stream
  distilling from his mouth and proboscis. (Four to one on Brown, and
  no takers.)

  3.—Brown now changed his tactics; and seeing that he had it all his
  own way, he made the beginning with right and left handed chops, but
  both were stopped; Dobell, however, was too much confused to play
  the saving game long, and in another second he found Brown’s right
  and left slap in his physog. The hits were terrific. Dobell made
  some returns, and caught Brown under the right eye, but the rapidity
  and force of Brown’s attack were irresistible; he again jobbed well
  right and left, and at last down went Dobell of his own accord; he
  found he was at the ropes, and sought refuge by dropping beneath
  them. (Shouts from Brown’s friends in all directions, while Peter
  Crawley ran to the umpires and exclaimed “that it was made all right
  for Brown, and that Dobell wouldn’t fight.”) While he was thus
  raving, however, his man again got up.

  The 4th and last round was fought. Dobell made a short but desperate
  effort; he tried one or two wild hits with his left, but in return
  napped it heavily on his canister, and was once more grassed. It was
  now clear that all was over, and, in fact, Dobell plainly indicated
  that he would not prolong what he felt was a useless struggle. On
  “time” being called Brown was proclaimed the conqueror in exactly
  twenty-one minutes. He was as fresh as when he commenced, and
  immediately shook hands with his antagonist, and dressed in the
  ring.

  Attention was now paid to Dobell, who complained of considerable
  pain in his right forearm, which was much swollen and contused. He
  had evidently lost the use of it, and on being examined by two
  surgeons on the spot the small bone was pronounced to be fractured,
  and he was carried out of the ring to receive proper professional
  attention. Independently of the accident, however, which, it is
  believed, occurred in the third round, from his arm coming in
  contact with the point of Brown’s elbow, he had not a chance of
  winning, nor had he himself a doubt on the subject from the first
  round, when, from the difficulty he felt at getting at Brown, he
  said to Crawley he was sure it was of no use—a declaration which
  naturally excited Crawley’s suspicions, and led to the observations
  which he had made, and which, from Dobell’s state, he subsequently
  regretted. He said he thought it was odd that Dobell should want to
  cut it so soon, and this it was which provoked him to say what he
  did.

  REMARKS.—Considering the distance and the vicissitudes of weather
  encountered this was one of the most unsatisfactory mills that had
  been witnessed for some time. There were not above four minutes’
  actual fighting, and this all one way—for Dobell never had a
  chance—a result which all good judges anticipated; and the only
  surprise was that he could have been so imprudent as to make a match
  so obviously to his disadvantage. He seems to have been flattered,
  however, with the idea that had he been in better condition when he
  fought at Bridgnorth he could have given a better account of
  himself; and forgetting that Brown at that time was equally out of
  sorts, and capable of improvement, he resolved upon another trial,
  the issue of which must have satisfied him that his forte is not
  prize-fighting, and especially with men superior in length,
  activity, strength, and science. With a commoner like Bailey, who is
  an old man, and who possesses little science, his slaughtering
  powers might tell, but when opposed by science these qualities lose
  their value, and, as in the present instance, if met by
  corresponding powers of punishment, are altogether set aside. The
  very first round, as he confessed to Crawley, evidently satisfied
  the host of the “Black Bull;” and finding he could do nothing when
  at his best, he naturally concluded the chances which followed were
  scarcely worth seeking. Upon the whole, we believe there was very
  little money won or lost on the match. Brown had greatly improved,
  both on his legs and in his style of setting-to, and by
  out-generalling poor Isaac, and fatiguing him in the first round,
  rendered victory more secure.


Brown and his party returned to the “Castle Tavern,” Holborn, the same
night, while Dobell returned to East Grinstead, and was put to bed. His
arm was set by Mr. Jones, of East Grinstead, assisted by the two
surgeons who attended him on the ground. He arrived at the “Black Bull”
on Wednesday night, which, instead of sparkling with illumination,
looked as black as an undertaker’s shop.

Brown, although he now announced his retirement from all claim to
championship honours, was still from time to time made the subject of
attacks and taunts in the newspaper outpourings of the boastful Phil
Sampson. At length preliminaries, after nine months of chaffering, were
settled, and at Doncaster, on the 19th of September, 1831, they met for
the second time in battle array.

A number of disgraceful quibbles were made by the Birmingham party, and
there seemed no probability of a fight, unless £50 was conceded to
Sampson, and a promise that he should name the place within a certain
distance of Birmingham. Finally, on the authority delegated to Mr.
Beardsworth, the stakeholder, Doncaster was named as the rendezvous. The
Town Moor was talked of, but the authorities intimated their intention
of interfering, and Pegbourn Leys, four miles distant, was named as the
spot; the fight to commence at the early hour of nine, so as not to
interfere with the day’s racing.

On the Monday morning the roads to the appointed spot bore much
resemblance to the road to Epsom in the olden time. Thimble-riggers and
“prick-in-the-garter” men, gipsies, and all the motley toddlers of a
race-meeting were gathered. There was, however, a very poor sprinkling
of the upper-crust patrons of the Ring and of racing men.

At half-past eight Tom Oliver and Fogo had pitched their stakes and rove
their ropes, and Brown threw in his castor, followed by Tom Oliver and
Yorkshire Robinson as his seconds. Sampson, attended by Jem Ward and
Harry Holt, followed. Brown was received quietly, with a slight murmur
of applause, but the shouts when Sampson showed himself indicated to the
observant the mob of partisans he had on the ground. Indeed, continual
ruffianly threats towards Brown were uttered by many of these roughs.
Brown, on Sampson’s appearance, advanced in a frank manner towards him,
holding out his hand, but Sampson, eyeing him with a savage and defiant
look, withheld his, shook his head, and walked towards his seconds. The
colours, crimson with a white border for Brown, and a deep crimson for
Sampson, were tied to the stakes, and the men stood up. Brown’s weight
was stated at 14st. 1lb., Sampson’s at 12st. 4lbs. Brown’s age (forty)
was a counterpoise, Sampson numbering but thirty summers. At twenty
minutes past nine the men were left face to face at the mark, and began


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The attitude of Sampson was graceful—indeed, elegant—that
  of Brown constrained and stiff. Brown moved his arms about as if
  intending to strike, Sampson watching him keenly, and never shifting
  his guard. Brown hit short, and was stopped, Sampson returning with
  the left, and being stopped in turn. More sparring, when Brown got
  in his left, but not heavily, on Sampson’s collar-bone. He again hit
  over with his right, but Sampson shifting, he caught him on the back
  of the head. Sampson again tried his left, but was stopped neatly.
  Again he feinted, and then let go, successfully planting a sharp hit
  on Brown’s head. Brown rushed to a close, and mutual fibbing ensued.
  Brown succeeded in throwing Sampson, falling on him, and leaving a
  large red mark on his breast-bone. This round lasted ten minutes.

  2.—Brown all anxious to begin; Sampson waiting on the defensive.
  Sampson’s left stopped, when Brown again hit over with the right,
  catching Sampson high on the side of the head, no mischief done.
  Sampson, who had been watching for an opening, got it, and sent in
  his left a smasher on Brown’s left eye, which instantly swelled in
  sign of the force of the blow. First blood was claimed for Sampson,
  who again went in and visited Brown’s left ear heavily. Brown caught
  Sampson on the side of the head with his right, and in the close
  threw him. (The Sampsonites were now uproarious, and backing two to
  one—any odds—on Sampson.)

  3.—Brown went in resolutely; Sampson hit up and tried to fib him,
  but got down quickly in the close.

  4.—Sampson on the defensive, and retreating; Brown forcing the
  fighting. After one or two short exchanges Brown sent a fair hit
  with the right straight on Sampson’s left ear, and floored him.
  (Shouts for Brown, but the Sampson party drowned them by cries of
  “Two to one,” &c.) First knock-down to Brown.

  5.—Sampson got in lightly on Brown’s jaw. Brown caught him on the
  head with the right, and with the left on the breast. A sharp rally
  followed, in which hits were exchanged. Sampson fell on one knee,
  but although open to receive a blow, Brown withheld his arm and
  walked away, in his anxiety to avoid any appearance of unfair
  advantage.

  6.—Sampson, after some sparring, caught Brown a tremendous smack in
  the right eye, balancing the favour to the left. Brown bored in, a
  desperate rally followed, and a close. Sampson hit up well, and put
  in a sharp hit as they were going down together.

  7.—Brown’s eyes were both in mourning, but he was strong and active.
  Seeing he had the worst of out-fighting he worked his way in,
  nobbing Sampson with some severity. In the close Brown tried to
  screw up Sampson for the throw, but he slipped through his arms,
  hitting up, and got down cleverly.

  8.—Sampson exhibited signs of distress. He breathed heavily, while
  Brown, though most punished, was strong and firm on his legs.
  Sampson popped in his left, but Brown sent in a heavy one on his nob
  in return. Counter-hits—Brown on Sampson’s throat, Sampson on
  Brown’s damaged right eye. Brown closed, and threw Sampson a heavy
  cross-buttock, falling over him.

  9.—Brown still forcing the fighting; Sampson on the defensive. Brown
  reached Sampson’s head with each hand, but got it in return. In the
  close at the ropes Sampson got down. (Sampson’s friends were
  ominously silent as he was taken to his corner.)

  10.—Sampson’s forehead exhibited a large bump, the effects of the
  nobber in the last round. In the exchanges which followed, Sampson
  was active, and several times planted on Brown. In a ding-dong rally
  Brown caught Sampson such a back-handed slap as he was going down
  that a spectator said, “A Shelton hit, by Jupiter!” alluding to the
  finishing touch in the fight of Brown and Shelton.

  11.—Brown pursued Sampson vigorously, who hit up, catching him in
  the eye; Brown persevered, and finally Sampson went down in the
  hitting.

  12.—Sampson popped in a facer, but it did not show. Brown took to
  weaving; a close. As Sampson was going down, Holt rolled himself
  down on the grass, so that his man partially fell on him, and was
  saved direct contact with the ground. (This was a common trick of
  seconds in old times, but is unfair. The seconds have no right to
  quit their corners until the end of the round.)

  13.—Brown rushed in, and hit Sampson on the crown of his head.
  Sampson fell, weak.

  14.—Brown’s left eye was almost dark, and his right was damaged. A
  rally, in which Sampson hit straightest, and Brown was down from a
  slip.

  15.—Brown, full of fight, worked away at his man—hit him with his
  left in the neck, and threw him.

  16.—Brown pursued the boring game, giving Sampson no time for
  sparring. After a short bustle at the ropes, he got Sampson round
  the neck with the left and threw him a cross-buttock. Sampson, on
  being lifted, looked queer and stiff. (The outer ring was now broken
  in, and the inner-ring spectators forced into and on to the ropes;
  it was, however, beaten out, and the fight proceeded.)

  17.—Brown rushed in, hit over with his right, and fell from the
  overreach. Sampson stood up. (Cheers from the Brums.)

  18.—Brown, still taking the initiative, hit Sampson on the head, who
  gave him, in return, a severe upper-cut with the left, drawing the
  claret from his mouth and nose. Brown closed, but Sampson got down
  easy.

  19.—Brown hit away right and left; Sampson retreating, exchange of
  hits; Sampson weak. Brown tried for the fall, but Sampson got down.

  20.—Sampson came to the scratch bleeding freely from the olfactory
  organ. Brown again at work, Sampson popping in an occasional prop,
  but getting down to avoid a struggle. (Here the ring was again
  broken in, and great uproar ensued. Several robberies were effected,
  and the cries and denunciations of Brown were furious.)

  21.—The interior of the ring was cleared. On coming to the scratch
  Sampson showed weakness. Brown lost not a moment in going to work;
  he hit away without hesitation. Sampson retreated to the ropes.
  Brown nailed him with the right on the ear; he fell across the
  ropes, where Brown hit him four or five blows, and he fell
  stupefied. (The uproar now became tremendous.) A leader of Sampson’s
  party pressed into the ring with a bottle in his hand; Brown was
  struck, and three minutes given to Sampson to recover. The referee
  was appealed to, but he escaped from the crowd and hurried to
  Doncaster, where he pronounced Brown to be the winner. Sampson’s
  party bringing up their man, Brown’s seconds allowed him to renew
  the fight, and the men met for round.

  22.—Brown fought Sampson down.

  23.—General confusion. Sampson down in a scrambling rally.

  24.—No time kept. Sampson brought up to face his man, who
  immediately fought him down. (The ring was here entirely broken in,
  and Brown struck more than once. He was kicked in the eye, and
  received a blow on the head from a stake.)

  REMARKS.—Mr. Marshall, Clerk of the Course of Wolverhampton, seeing
  Brown’s life in danger, withdrew him forcibly from the ring, whereon
  (after an interval) Sampson was brought to the mark, and proclaimed
  winner, amidst the shouts of his partisans. The stakeholder, Mr.
  Beardsworth, was loud in his condemnation of the violence used
  towards Brown. Yet when he returned to Doncaster he declared that
  Brown having left the ring, he “had given the money to Sampson. His
  friends had hunted him up, and there was an end on’t.”


Mr. Beardsworth, however, found that Brown was not so easily disposed
of. At the Stafford Assizes in March of the following year was tried the
action of Brown _versus_ Beardsworth, in which the plaintiff sought to
recover £200 (his own stake) paid into the hands of Mr. Beardsworth, of
the Repository, Birmingham, on certain conditions set forth in the
declaration. Mr. Campbell (afterwards Chief Justice and Chancellor) was
for the plaintiff, Mr. Jarvis (afterwards Judge) for the defendant. Mr.
Jarvis’s defence (after an assertion that his client had paid over the
money to Sampson) was a tirade against the Ring, gamblers, &c., and an
appeal to “scout the case out of Court.” Nevertheless the jury, by
direction of Mr. Justice Littledale, were left to consider the “weight
of testimony,” and gave a verdict for £200 in favour of the plaintiff.

Brown now betook himself to his vocation as a Boniface in his native
town, where he earned the respect of his neighbours and customers,
justifying by his good conduct the axiom that “a man’s profession never
disgraces him unless his conduct disgraces the profession.”




                             CHAPTER XIII.
            PHIL SAMPSON (“THE BIRMINGHAM YOUTH”)—1819–1831.


Phil Sampson, who was to the full as ready at chaffing and writing as at
fighting, occupied at one period an undue share of newspaper space and
of the public time. His milling career, though chequered, was not
without brilliant gleams of success.

Sampson was born on the 27th of September, 1800, at Snaith, in
Yorkshire; but when he was no more than a few months old his parents
migrated to Birmingham and settled in the “hardware village,” then
rapidly rising in manufacturing prosperity as the metropolis of
gun-making, cheap jewellery, and hardware. Pierce Egan tells us that
Phil was “intended for a parson,” but that “he preferred thumping nobs
to a cushion.” If so, and we remember him well, his acquirements in the
_literæ humaniores_ did not say much for his “college.” Indeed, we have
seen specimens of Philip’s caligraphy which forbid belief in such a
tradition. What we know, however, is that young Phil was a button-maker
in a Brummagem factory at fifteen. We shall pass also young Phil’s
apocryphal contests, in which he (and almost every other boxer in
“Boxiana”) fought and “polished off” men of all sorts, weights, and
sizes, and come to his introduction to the Ring.

Gregson being at Birmingham on one of his sparring tours, the
proficiency of Sampson, who put on the gloves with several countrymen,
attracted the attention of that clumsy practitioner, who observed to
him, “I think thee hadst better coom and try thy fortin in Lunnon, lad,
’moongst some o’ t’ loight woights.” Sampson at that time had
considerable scruples in his mind about fighting for a prize, although
he was very fond of boxing, and declined the offer of Gregson. But, on
his trade (button-making) failing badly from change of fashion, he
determined to come to London to see his friend Bob. He found a hearty
welcome from the latter at the “Mare and Magpie,” St. Catherine’s, but,
before Gregson could bring his _protégé_ into the Ring, he left London
for Dublin. Sampson was now quite adrift, but owing to the good services
of Mr. Baxter (brother to Ned Turner) he found a friend who enabled him
to take a turn among the fistic heroes of the Metropolis.

Sampson’s first appearance in the London Prize Ring might be termed
little more than a turn-up. He had been witnessing the battle, at
Moulsey Hurst, on Tuesday, August 24th, 1819, between Cy. Davis and
Boshell, and also Scroggins and Josh Hudson, and had crossed the water,
on the point of returning to town, when he was unexpectedly brought into
action owing to the following circumstance. In the conversation which
took place during dinner at Lawrence’s, the “Red Lion,” Hampton, it was
mentioned by Ned Painter that a youth from Birmingham, about eleven
stone and a half, had been on the Hurst to offer himself as a candidate,
but none of the middle weights, much less the light ones, had fancied
him, at which he was much disappointed. An eminent brewer and a gallant
captain immediately offered ten pounds if Dolly Smith, who was at hand,
and who had fought Tom Cannon and Bill Abbot, would try what the new
“piece of hardware” was worth. Phil was sent for, and cheerfully
accepted the task.

The combatants were informed that if anything like collusion or division
of the stakes occurred not one penny would be paid over, and that the
best man must win. A select party thereon returned to the Hurst, and at
six o’clock in the evening Smith stripped, seconded by Rolph and Ned
Weston, Sampson being waited upon by Josh Hudson and Baxter. The
reporters having gone off to town, we are merely told that in fifteen
minutes poor Dolly (who was decidedly out of condition) was defeated,
being nobbed all over the ring and thrown like a sack by the newcomer.
The activity and slashing blows of Sampson astonished the amateurs, some
of his right-hand deliveries appearing to completely stupefy Dolly, who
behaved gamely and well, but had not even a chance turn throughout.

Phil, being an active, chatty, and certainly fast and bounceable young
fellow, was at once in high favour with the “upper crust.”

Accordingly, on Tuesday, October 26th, 1819, he was at Wallingham
Common, when, Turner having defeated Martin, ten guineas was announced
as a purse, in addition to ten guineas from the Pugilistic Club, for the
best of two men of eleven stone and upwards. Josh Hudson, ever ready,
offered himself; and Phil Sampson, as the event proved rashly,
challenged the prize from the John Bull Fighter. It was a tremendous
fight for a short time, but at the end of forty minutes Sampson was
defeated. (See Life of HUDSON, _ante_, Chapter IV.)

Sampson, after a short interval, was matched against Abraham Belasco,
the scientific Jew, for fifty guineas a-side. This battle took place at
Potter’s Street, in Essex, twenty-one miles from London, on Tuesday,
February 22nd, 1819. The badness of the day did not deter the Fancy from
quitting the Metropolis at an early hour, and the combatants entered the
ring, which was well covered with sawdust owing to the wetness of the
ground, at one o’clock. Belasco appeared a few minutes before his
opponent, attended by Oliver and Josh Hudson; the Birmingham Youth was
waited upon by Painter and Shelton. Belasco was the favourite at six to
four.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Sparring; Belasco let fly, but was stopped. Sampson put in
  a sharp hit under the Jew’s arm. Both went in. Exchanges. In
  struggling Belasco down. (“Go along, my little youth.”)

  2.—Counter-hits; a pause; the Birmingham Youth rushed in, and got to
  the ropes. In the struggle to fib the Jew, he slipped down. (Two to
  one on Belasco.)

  3.—The Birmingham Youth drew first blood, and, in a struggle, the
  Jew went down from a slip. (Great shouting in favour of the
  Birmingham Youth.)

  4.—Belasco stopped and hit well; a good rally; Sampson received a
  heavy body blow and went down.

  5.—The Jew went to work, bled his opponent, and sent him down on his
  rump, rather weak. The Jew also went down.

  6.—Sparring, and the Birmingham Youth piping. The Jew put in two
  good hits. Sampson returned, till he was got to the ropes, where he
  got it sharply, and in the struggle went down, Belasco uppermost.

  7.—Belasco slipped down, cunning, and the Youth stood looking at
  him. (Hissing.)

  8.—This was a well-fought round, and Belasco hit Sampson away; but
  the latter, in game style, returned to the charge, and fought like a
  hero till both were down, the Jew uppermost.

  9.—Sampson commenced this round in gallant style; but Belasco
  changed it by good fighting, and had Sampson down at the ropes.

  10.—After a few exchanges at the ropes, Sampson went down, but a
  good round altogether. (“Well done, Belasco!”)

  11.—After a hit or two, the Jew got Sampson at the ropes, and was
  fibbing him in good style, till he dropped on one knee. The strength
  and skill of Belasco enabled him to hold up his opponent, and weave
  on, till he got Sampson down on both his knees.

  In the last two rounds Sampson was getting weak, and, to escape from
  severe fibbing in the eleventh, he fell to one knee, but Belasco
  kept holding him up and punishing till he was down on both of his
  knees. “Foul” and “fair” were instantly cried out, when Painter and
  Shelton took Sampson out of the ring, put him into a post-chaise,
  and drove off without appealing to the umpires on the subject. This
  was certainly wrong; and, owing to this circumstance, a fierce
  dispute arose. No man should be taken out of the ring till the
  umpires have decided upon the propriety of such a step. Both sides
  may dispute, but it is only the umpires that can set it right. The
  superior science of the Jew prevented the hitherto slashing hitting
  of Sampson, which was so heavily experienced by Josh Hudson. Belasco
  stopped many blows in good style, and gave the movements of Sampson
  the appearance of being slow. It was by no means a decisive fight,
  such as the “Ould Fanciers” are fond of witnessing; although two to
  one was betted on Belasco, and even a point further, on the round
  previous to Sampson’s being taken out of the ring. It was generally
  asserted that the Birmingham Youth was the best man, owing to his
  youth, but as to knowledge of milling, Belasco had the advantage.


The decision of the umpires being appealed to, the dispute was finally
argued and determined before Mr. Jackson, in presence of several persons
of experience. The judgment given was simply as follows—“That as no
objection had been made to the umpires on their being appointed to their
situations; and also both of them uniting in one opinion that Belasco’s
conduct was fair; and, further, no interference of the referee having
been called for, their decision must be considered final.” This decided
the paying of bets; and as the battle-money was given up to the Jew, it
was insisted upon, in sporting phrase, that bets follow the
battle-money.

Sampson was not pleased with the termination of the fight, and
accidentally meeting the Jew at a house in Bond Street, where some
friends were arguing the subject, the men got suddenly in collision; but
after fighting a few minutes, during which nothing was the matter, the
friends of the Jew took him away, saying “it was no fun to fight for
nothing.”

At Richmond’s benefit at the Royal Tennis Court, Windmill Street,
Haymarket, on Tuesday, February 29th, 1820, on the announcement of
“Belasco and the Birmingham Youth,” curiosity was on the stretch. It was
a regular glove-fight for nine rounds, and Sampson appeared so
determined to get the better of the Jew that he disdained allowing any
time between the rounds, till he not only exhausted himself, but
distressed his opponent to a stand-still. The Jew seemed now satisfied,
and, while in the act of bowing to the audience and pulling off the
gloves, Sampson said he should not leave off, and hit Belasco on the
side of his head. The latter immediately returned the compliment, but
had the worst of the round, and was thrown. It was considered necessary
to part them, and Cribb took Sampson away. It was in fact a
discreditable display of bad temper on the part of the Birmingham Youth.

In consequence of a purse of £50 given by the Pugilistic Club, and a
private stake of £25 a-side, Sampson entered the lists with Jack Martin,
at North Walsham, on the 17th of July, 1820. After a sharp battle
Sampson was defeated. (See Life of MARTIN, _ante_.)

Sampson was now certainly “under a cloud.” Chance, however, brought him
again into notice. A man of the name of Tom Dye, known as “Di the
Table-lifter,” a public exhibitor of feats of strength, who could carry
a mahogany dining-table seven or eight feet long with his teeth, tie a
pair of tongs round a man’s neck by way of cravat, and break a poker
across his arm like a rotten stick, was chaffed about the strength of
Sampson. He expressed his opinion that he could dispose of the modern
wearer of the name in very summary fashion, to which “the Youth”
demurred, and a purse of five sovs. was offered if “Di” would make the
experiment. It turned out an easy job for Sampson. In eight minutes,
during which six rounds were fought, “Di” was completely _hors de
combat_ when time was called. On coming to, the “strong man” declared he
was not fairly beaten, on which “the Youth” told him to “take his own
time,” and “Di” again put up his hands. He soon repented, for Sampson
milled him down so suddenly that poor “Di” forgot for a while all about
tables and pokers. Sampson had not a mark, and presented the crestfallen
table-lifter with half-a-sovereign “to wash his teeth with.”

The ill feeling of Sampson towards Belasco again broke out, and the
latter, it would seem, declared his intention of thrashing his late
opponent wherever he met him. In consequence Belasco, at Tom Oliver’s
benefit at the Tennis Court, on Monday, December 21st, 1820, mounted the
stage, and said that being thus continually threatened he would
accommodate Sampson for £100 or £50 a-side. Hereupon Sampson rushed on
the stage intemperately and declared his intention to fight “if any
gentleman, who is a gentleman, will hold the money. That is necessary,”
he added, “as I have been robbed of the last fight. I am also ready to
set to with Belasco immediately.” Belasco coolly replied by putting on
the mufflers, and at it they went for


                             A GLOVE-FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Both cautious, and eyeing each other. Sampson plunged in,
  and some exchanges took place, when Belasco slipped down, and
  Sampson was also on the floor.

  2.—Very short work; Sampson’s temper got the mastery of his skill.
  Belasco caught him as he came in, got his head in the corner of the
  stage, and fibbed him down. (Hissing from some parts of the court.
  “Nothing unfair,” was the cry from the other. “Never mind,” said
  Sampson, “it’s all right, Belasco, come along.”)

  3.—Milling without ceremony, till Sampson put in a most tremendous
  nobber on the Jew’s temple that completely stunned him for the
  instant, accompanying it with “Where are you now?” If it had been in
  the ring, it must have proved a winning hit. Belasco caught hold of
  the rails to prevent going down, and said, “Never mind, I’ll soon be
  ready for you.” The Birmingham Youth waited till the Jew was ready
  to commence another round.

  4.—Very severe; both down.

  5.—The Jew displayed science, but the rush of the Youth was sharp in
  the extreme, and pepper was the result, till they separated.

  6.—Each man appeared anxious to have the “best of it.” This was
  altogether a fine round, but, in closing, both down, the Youth
  undermost. In separating, the Jew, on getting up, from the motions
  he made, seemed as if his shoulder were hurt. Belasco stretched his
  arm on the rail, and the Youth rubbed his shoulder, amidst much
  laughter.

  7.—Both down again, when the Jew made a similar complaint, and
  rubbed his arm. Here a surgeon stepped up, examined the shoulder,
  and said it was not out.

  8.—Sampson had the best of it; but in struggling and going down,
  they both nearly fell through the rails of the stage into the court.

  9.—The Jew said his shoulder was now so bad that he could not use
  it; but, in order to prevent disappointment, he would continue the
  combat with one hand only, if Sampson would agree to it. The latter
  said he had no objection, and each of them pulled off one glove, and
  commenced this _nouvelle_ exhibition. (Loud cries of “Leave off,”
  “Go on,” &c.) Belasco received some pepper, and went down.

  10.—This round was well contested: the Jew, however, used his arm in
  the rally; indeed, neither of their hands were idle.

  11.—Again a rally, and Sampson fought with both hands, Belasco
  following suit.

  12.—This was the finale. Belasco was hit down, or seemed to be so.
  He sat upon his nether end quietly, and thunders of applause greeted
  the success of Sampson, who threw his remaining glove on the floor.
  Belasco rose and immediately addressed the spectators. He said he
  would fight Sampson that day six weeks for £50. (“Bravo.”)


Mr. Sampson’s skill in letter-writing, and in avoiding making a match,
was now in full play for some months, and nothing done _in re_ Belasco.
Charley Grantham (alias Gybletts), however, was backed against Sampson
for £50 a-side, and on Tuesday, July 17th, 1821, the men met on Moulsey
Hurst. At one o’clock Sampson, attended by Tom Spring and Hickman (the
Gas-light Man), threw his hat within the ropes. In a few minutes
afterwards Gybletts, with Harry Harmer and Bob Purcell, entered the
ring. Sampson was the favourite at seven to four.

“The Youth,” who looked in good condition, in his usual thrasonical
style informed his friends he should “win in twenty minutes.” It was
not, however, the “straight tip,” for Sampson was defeated in one hour
and twenty minutes, the “flash side” losing their money, and another
“moral certainty” going wrong.

Bill Abbott, whose recent victory over Tom Oliver had given him a high
position, offered himself to Sampson, and the men met at Moulsey on
December 13th, 1821. Here again Sampson was beaten in forty-seven
minutes, forty-three rounds having been fought in that time.

The current of adversity now ran hard against Phil. His nominal townsman
(Phil himself was a Yorkshireman), Bill Hall, assuming to himself the
title of “the New Birmingham Lad,” challenged “the slashing and
scientific Sampson,” as Pierce Egan was wont to call him.

On Tuesday, July 30th, 1822, on Warwick Racecourse, in a roped ring, in
front of the grand stand, the “countryman” beat Sampson, after a shifty
tumbledown fight of ninety-one rounds; Josh Hudson giving in for him
with odds of two to one in his favour. The contemporary reports intimate
that Sampson had only “a small amethyst under his eye,” and had hard
work to “look like losing it.”

Sampson was pathetically verbose in print and talk about “the cruelty”
of charging him with a complicity in his own defeat. He also expressed
his desire for another trial with Hall, attributing his failure solely
to want of condition. Meanwhile, Bill Hall had been consummately
thrashed by Ned Neale (see Life of NEALE), a fact which did not tend to
the satisfaction of the backers of the boastful Birmingham Youth, who
left London “disgusted at their desertion.”

At length Phil, who had certainly improved in strength and condition,
persuaded his Birmingham friends that if they would give him another
chance with Hall he would dispose of him with ease and win their money
to a certainty. So a second match was made for £50, and on Wednesday,
March 19th, 1823, the old Hurst at Moulsey was the arena of encounter,
after the ring had been quitted by Arthur Matthewson, who that day
polished off Mishter Israel Belasco, brother of Aby of that ilk.

Sampson had good attendants; no other than Tom Spring, champion _in
esse_, and Jem Ward, ditto _in posse_. Hall had behind him Josh Hudson
and “a friend from Birmingham.” Such, however, was the want of
confidence in “the Youth,” that six to four on Hall went begging. “We’ll
wait and see,” said those who were asked to speculate. The spectators
had not long to wait, as will be seen by our report of


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—No sooner had the men shaken hands than Hall ran at his
  opponent like a mad bull. Sampson got out of the way of his fury
  like an agile toreador, and then, by a half-turn, put in so severe a
  blow on Hall’s nob that he lost his legs in a twinkling. (“Halloo!
  What’s the matter? Sampson will win this time!”)

  2.—Hall seemed furious at his unexpected floorer. He ran after
  Sampson, pelting away, without any regard to science, and making
  Sampson fight under the idea of reducing his strength. In a short
  rally at the ropes Sampson put in a right-handed hit on his
  opponent’s left eye, after the manner of his agonistic namesake, and
  Hall fell like a log. On his seconds picking him up he was
  completely insensible. The battle of course was at an end. A medical
  man stepped into the ring, bled Hall, and paid him every humane
  attention requisite, but several minutes elapsed before a return of
  consciousness could be discerned. Hall was then driven off, nearly
  in a state of stupor, in a coach, accompanied by the doctor.

  REMARKS.—Hall, not the “John,” but the “mad,” bull fighter, to the
  great surprise and satisfaction of his friends, appeared at the
  Castle Tavern as early as eight o’clock on the same evening, thus
  contradicting the alarming rumours of his death. It appears that his
  recollection did not return to him till after he had been twice
  bled, and twenty-five minutes had elapsed, and even then his ideas
  were in a very confused state, so tremendous were the effects of the
  blow. Hall informed the company he did not feel himself any the
  worse, except from the sore state of his arm, rendered so by the
  instruments of the surgeon. The latter thought Hall in fine
  condition. It was now evident to the amateurs that Sampson was an
  improved man; and this little slice of fortune increased his
  confidence so much that he returned to Birmingham with all the
  honours of war.


In January, 1823, we find Sampson inditing insulting letters on
Israelites in general, and Belasco in particular, in the _Weekly
Dispatch_, which were responded to in more parliamentary language in the
columns of _Bell’s Life_, and “these paper pellets of the brain,” after
five months of popping, assumed the form of “Articles of Agreement,”
dated June 19th, 1823, whereby Philip Sampson and Abraham Belasco
mutually bound themselves to fight in a twenty-four foot ring,
half-minute time, for £100 a-side, on Tuesday, the 25th of August, 1823,
Mr. Jackson to name the place. “On signing the articles,” says the
reporter, “Sampson poured out a couple of glasses of port, and, handing
one of them to his opponent, gave the toast, ‘May the best man win.’ ‘I
hope he will,’ said Belasco, tossing off his glass.”

Crawley Downs, in Sussex, was the fixture, and such of the Fancy as
respected their nags too much to give the animals some sixty-six miles
in a day were to be seen on the Monday trotting through Riddlesdown,
Reigate, and East Grinstead, stopping to bait, “blow a cloud,” and enjoy
a chaff with Boniface, whose jocund countenance bespoke his pleasure at
sight of such good customers.

In the morning Crawley Downs were alive with arrivals from all quarters
of the compass. Sampson came on the ground in a barouche and four,
enveloped in a large blue military cloak; while Belasco trotted over the
turf behind eighty guineas’ worth of horseflesh, driven by a well-known
East-end sportsman. At a few minutes past one Sampson threw his white
nob-cover into the ring, and taking his bright crimson kerchief from his
throat handed it to Josh Hudson, who, with Ben Burn, were his chosen
seconds. Belasco quickly followed suit, dropping his beaver quietly
within the ropes, and his colours, “a yellowman,” were also fixed to the
centre stake. Peter Crawley, in a bright green Newmarket and Belcher
tie, with Bill Richmond, in West End Corinthian costume, acted as
“esquires of the body” to Aby, who said to Josh across the ring, “Now,
let’s have a quiet fight, let it go which way it will.” The seconds
concurred, and we must say we never saw a mill better conducted, as a
whole, by all parties concerned. The betting opened at five to four on
Belasco.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Sampson never looked better. The appellation hitherto borne
  by him of the Birmingham Youth seemed a thing of the past; the
  gristle had become bone, and the smoothness of limb laced and
  knotted with hard and well-marked muscle. In fact, he looked a model
  athlete. Belasco was also a picture of a man in fine health; his
  bust, a perfect anatomical study, together with his black nob,
  penetrating eye, and Mosaic countenance, rendered the Jew an
  interesting object in this ballet of action. Confidence sat on his
  brow; he was cool, collected, and evidently anticipated victory.
  Upon shaking hands it was the general opinion that Sampson would
  have attempted to slaughter Belasco, in order to win off-hand, as a
  long fight might prove dangerous to him. Not so; Sampson was
  cautious in the extreme. Belasco placed his hands very high,
  convinced the spectators he was an adept in science, and appeared
  armed at all points against the slashing onset of his adversary.
  Considerable dodging occurred, and several slight offers were made
  on both sides, but neither of them was to be deceived by the feints
  of the other. Belasco’s left hand told slightly on Sampson’s body
  without a return; it was soon after repeated. Both eyeing each other
  for a short period, when Sampson put down his hands and rubbed them
  on his drawers. Sampson still cautious. The left hand of Belasco
  again told slightly on his antagonist’s body. A pause. Each
  combatant attempted to hit, but their blows fell short. (Four
  minutes had elapsed.) Sampson at length made himself up for
  mischief, and let fly at the Jew’s nob with tremendous force, but
  Belasco stopped it in the most skilful style. (“Beautiful! bravo!”)
  Sampson again tried it on, when an exchange of blows occurred, and
  Belasco’s right eye received a little damage. The Jew got away
  cleverly from another well-aimed nobber; and, in closing at the
  ropes, Belasco had the best of the fibbing, till Sampson went down
  on his back, and his opponent upon him. (Applause on both sides. The
  Sheenies said “it was all right,” and the Brums observed “nothing
  was the matter.”)

  2.—Sampson hit the Jew in the body, but Belasco soon afterwards put
  in a sharp facer, and followed his opponent to do mischief.
  Counter-hitters and nobbers were the result. A short rally followed,
  the left eye of Sampson received a touch. In closing, both down,
  Sampson undermost. (“First blood,” exclaimed Josh; “look at the side
  of Belasco’s nose.” The claret was just peeping, as it were, between
  his ogles.)

  3.—The fine science displayed by Belasco, in stopping the heavy hits
  of his opponent, was the admiration of the spectators. The Jew went
  sharply towards his antagonist, when, after an exchange of blows,
  Sampson got down.

  4.—This was a pretty round, and fine fighting on both sides was
  conspicuous. In struggling at the ropes, Sampson went down rather
  awkwardly, and Belasco, being in the act of hitting, struck his
  opponent on the nob. “Foul, foul!” by the Sampsonites; “Fair, fair!”
  by the Sheenies. The referee said “nothing wrong had occurred; but
  he felt afraid that he had consented to take upon himself a very
  difficult situation, as the opposite parties did not appear to agree
  on the true principles of prize-fighting. However, he had not one
  farthing upon the fight, and he should do his duty if called on to
  decide.”

  5.—This round was decidedly in favour of Belasco. He not only got
  away from a nobber that might have proved a settler, but in turn
  gave Sampson so heavy a hit on his head that the latter turned round
  from the force of it, and went a yard or two away; but he soon
  returned to fight. In closing at the ropes, pepper was used between
  them till both were down, Belasco undermost. (The latter was much
  applauded, and, up to this period of the fight, continued the
  favourite.)

  6.—The Jew was also the hero in this round. Sampson appeared rather
  distressed. Belasco proved himself a more troublesome customer than
  his opponent had anticipated; he was indeed very difficult to be got
  at. Some blows were exchanged, when they closed at the ropes, and
  ultimately the Jew had the best of it, planting a blow on Sampson’s
  nob as he was going down.

  7.—Sampson was on the look-out to put in a slogger on the nob of the
  Jew, but the science of the latter prevented him. In fact, Sampson,
  although rather evil-disposed towards his opponent, which he let
  escape now and then in words, was nevertheless cool in his conduct.
  The cunning of the Jew, and the firmness of his guard, pointed out
  clearly to Sampson that he must be careful to avoid committing
  mistakes when opposed to so accomplished a boxer as Belasco, which
  accounts, in a great measure, for the Birmingham hero altering his
  hitherto smashing mode of fighting. The Jew stopped well; and, after
  an exchange of blows, Belasco dexterously planted a heavy body hit
  about an inch and a half below the mark, which sent Sampson down on
  his latter end. (A great burst of applause from the partisans of
  Belasco, who now, without hesitation, offered £10 to £5—100 to
  50—two to one, all over the ring. “It’s ash right ash the tay, Aby;
  feel for his vind next time.”)

  8.—Sampson, however, did not appear a great deal the worse for his
  floorer, for he came to the scratch instantly at the call of time.
  This was a well-fought round on both sides; but the science
  displayed by Belasco extorted applause from all parts of the ring.
  He planted a body blow with his left hand, and protected his head so
  finely with his right as to stop a well-meant heavy hit.
  Counter-hitting, but Sampson’s blows were most severe, from his
  length; still in closing at the ropes the Jew fibbed Sampson down
  and fell upon him.

  9.—Sampson went in quickly to do mischief, but Belasco made as usual
  some excellent stops. The Jew, in making a body blow, hit rather
  low. “What do you call that?” said Sampson. In closing, Sampson went
  down.

  10.—This round was against Belasco. The Jew stopped delightfully at
  the commencement, but in counter-hitting Belasco received a terrific
  blow in the middle of his head, which almost knocked him backwards;
  but he returned to the attack as game as a pebble, and in closing at
  the ropes had the best of it while hanging upon them, until Sampson,
  by a desperate effort, extricated himself, and, strange to say,
  placed the Jew in his own former situation, fibbing Belasco till he
  went down, bleeding profusely. (The faces of the Brums, which had
  hitherto been very grave, now assumed a smile, and “Sampson for
  ever!” was the cry.)

  11.—The face of Belasco exhibited punishment. Sampson had also the
  lead in this round, but he determined not to give a chance away, and
  in closing he went down. (Murmuring from the Sheenies.)

  12.—Belasco endeavoured to plant a hit, but Sampson got away. In
  closing, Sampson again went down.

  13.—The Jew put in a heavy body blow, but one of Sampson’s hard hits
  met Belasco in the middle of his head. The battle was now alive, all
  parties highly interested, and doubts and fears expressed on both
  sides. The Jew, full of game, tried to get the lead, obtained it,
  and Sampson went down.

  14.—The length and height of Sampson enabled him to stand over his
  opponent, and this, added to his excellent knowledge of boxing and
  increased strength, rendered him no easy opponent for Belasco. (The
  Jew was irritated in this round from the expressions of Sampson,
  while they were sparring together, who observed, “I have got you
  now, Belasco, and I’ll not only lick you, but drive your Jew brother
  out of Birmingham.” “Be quiet,” said Josh; “fight, and don’t talk
  so.” “You can do neither,” replied Belasco, “but you are an
  illiberal fellow.” “Keep your temper,” urged Crawley.) Belasco ran
  in and planted two hits; and, in closing, Sampson went down in the
  best way he could, and received a hit in consequence, which
  occasioned cries of “Foul!” and “Fair!”

  15.—Belasco displayed superior skill in stopping two blows, but in
  counter-hitting he received such a tremendous blow near his temple
  that he fell out of the ropes on his head quite stunned. (“It is all
  up,” was the cry; and “Ten to one he does not fight again!”) The
  Sheenies were alarmed, and none but the gamest of the game would
  ever have come again. Belasco might have left off with honour.

  16.—No sailor “three sheets in the wind” appeared more groggy at the
  scratch when time was called. In fact, Belasco did not know where he
  was—his eyes had lost their wonted fire, and it really was a pity to
  see him standing up to a fine, strong young man like Sampson. The
  latter, very cautious, did not make play, and the Jew had none the
  worst of the round. Both down, but Sampson undermost. Six to four on
  Sampson.

  17.—Belasco, recovered a little, fought like a brave man till he was
  hit down.

  18.—The Jew seemed better—he exchanged hits, and was again sent
  down. Two to one on Sampson.

  19.—Against Belasco; but he held up his arms well, and, after
  stopping a hit or two, got down.

  20.—The Jew had recovered considerably; and, although he had the
  worst of it, Sampson thought it prudent to fight cautiously. Belasco
  made play with great spirit; but, in counter-hitting, received
  another severe blow on his head, which sent him out of the ropes. If
  he had not been a truly game man when time was called he would not
  have paid attention to it. Three to one.

  21.—The Jew resolved that “his people” should have no reason to
  complain. He commenced fighting, although sorely distressed. The
  result of the round was that Sampson received a hit, and went down
  on his knees. (“Bravo, Belasco, you are a game fellow,” from Tom
  Owen, “but you are overmatched.”)

  22.—The finish of this round was in favour of Belasco, and he fibbed
  Sampson down. (“It is anybody’s battle, now,” cried an old
  sportsman; “a good hit would decide it either way.” “I’ll lay forty
  to ten,” said Tom Oliver, “Sampson wins!” “Stake,” said a gentleman
  from Houndsditch, “and I will take it.” Oliver didn’t.)

  23.—The face of Belasco was piteous, and his right eye swelled
  prodigiously; but he came to the scratch determined to dispute every
  inch of ground while a chance remained. “A little one for Mother
  Melsom,” said Josh, “and the battle is at an end.” Sampson saw that
  conquest was within his grasp, and he was determined to win it
  without risk. He accordingly let Belasco commence fighting before he
  offered to return. The Jew went down from a straight blow, quite
  exhausted. (“Take the brave fellow away; he ought not to be suffered
  to come again.” “I am not licked yet,” said Belasco.)

  24, and last.—It was evident the battle must be soon over, but
  Belasco answered the call of time like a man. The Jew was too
  distressed to protect himself with his usual skill, and he received
  a hit in the middle of his face that floored him slap on his back.
  He was picked up by his seconds, but in a state of stupor. When the
  half-minute had elapsed Belasco remained insensible, and Sampson was
  declared the winner. It was over in forty-two minutes.

  REMARKS.—Sampson retired from the contest with very trifling marks
  upon his face. He is altogether an improved man; his frame is set,
  and his fighting eminently superior to the style he exhibited in his
  battles with Martin, Gybletts, and Abbott. We think that he ought to
  have won the last-named fight. Nevertheless, it confers honour upon
  his milling talents to conquer so accomplished a boxer as Belasco
  proved himself to be. To speak of the Jew as he deserves, or of one
  brave man that has surrendered to another, it is thus: It is true
  Belasco has been defeated, but he stands higher in the estimation of
  his friends than ever; let no more slurs be thrown upon him as to “a
  white feather”! He had to contend against height, length, weight,
  and youth, added to which Sampson was also a good fighter and a
  high-couraged man. He has not disgraced “his people.” The Jew was
  brought into the ring in spirited style, but we applaud most the
  feeling manner in which he was supported out of it. Every attention
  that humanity could suggest was paid to Belasco. A medical
  gentleman, of his own persuasion, brought down from London solely
  for that purpose, had the care of him. We could, if necessary,
  mention a list of Israelites who were most assiduous on this
  occasion, but we feel assured the sporting world will appreciate
  such feeling, generosity, and gentlemanly conduct. The weight of
  Sampson was said to be twelve stone three pounds; his height, five
  feet ten-and-a-half inches—Belasco, in his clothes, eleven stone six
  pounds; his height, five feet seven inches. To the credit of both
  men it may be stated that they now shook hands and became friends;
  Belasco, as we shall see, becoming a zealous second to Sampson on
  several important occasions.


Phil now flew at high game. He challenged Jem Ward, then the most
promising of the candidates for the Championship. Jem, nothing loth,
accommodated him for £100 a-side, and on Monday, June 21st, 1824, gave
Mr. Sampson an indisputable thrashing in fifty minutes, as chronicled in
the memoir of WARD (_ante_, p. 206).

One of the peculiarities of Sampson, which he shared with the renowned
Blucher, was that of “not knowing when he was beaten.” He had further
the remarkable faculty of talking and writing other people over to his
own opinion. Thus, in December of the same year, 1824, he got himself
backed a second time against Jem Ward, and on this occasion it took “the
Black Diamond” only thirty-seven minutes and a half to finally floor
“the strong man,” all the circumstances of which will be found fully
written in the book of “Pugilistica,” in the Life of WARD (_ante_, p.
207), to which we beg to refer the reader.

Phil’s “vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps the lists and falls on the
other side,” had now a temporary check, and “My Uncle Ben,” who was
looking out for a job for his “Nevvy,” Jem Burn, proposed a battle with
Sampson for £50 a-side. After much ink-spilling the articles were
formulated, and Tuesday, June 22nd, 1825, fixed. Mr. Jackson named
Harpenden Common, near St. Albans, and thither, on the day appointed,
the Fancy repaired. Unfortunately on the previous evening a whisper had
gone forth that it was to be a squared fight, in consequence of which
unfounded rumour lots of gents made up their minds to turn their backs
upon the thing altogether. Burn, of course, as he was to win, and
nothing else, according to “the man in the street,” was backed at six to
four, seven to four, and sooner than go without a bet those wiseacres (a
wonderfully numerous class at all times) who thought they were in
possession of the secret laid two to one. A meddlesome man in office,
“dressed in a little brief authority,” also turned up, and forbade the
mill taking place on the old spot at No Man’s Land. The Fancy, always
ready to obey the mandates of the authorities, accordingly toddled on a
few miles farther, and the ring was formed at Shere Mere, in
Bedfordshire. Sampson declared he had been ill-treated by these sinister
reports, and hoped his conduct would soon give the lie to his enemies.
Jem Burn, at one o’clock, attended by Randall and Uncle Ben, threw his
hat into the Ring, and was received with loud cheers. Sampson soon
followed, and planted his topper within the ropes, waited upon by Josh
Hudson and Rough Robin.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Young Jem looked well; he was highly fancied, and the
  general opinion seemed to be that the Young One would win it. The
  canvas of Sampson appeared to be the tougher, and with the utmost
  coolness he himself went and tied his colours to the stakes, over
  his opponent’s, confidently observing, “These belong to me.” The
  caution displayed by Sampson showed he was anxious to win; and the
  steadiness of Jem told the fanciers victory was the object he had in
  view. Two minutes elapsed in eyeing each other, when the Young One
  let fly, and touched Sampson’s body. Sampson gave a grin. A long
  pause. (The John Bull Fighter was so tired that he laid himself down
  in the ring, observing, “We are all right; Phil will win at his
  leisure.”) Sampson put in a small taste on Jem’s cheek. (“Bravo,
  Samsy!”) The caution observed on both sides was so tiresome to the
  spectators that “night caps” were called for. At length Burn went
  spiritedly to work, but Sampson skilfully stopped him right and
  left. Sampson planted one on the head of his adversary, which
  provoked Jem to rush in, when Sampson caught him with an
  uphanded-hit, and My Nevvy fell on his face. The blow was a stunner,
  and visible on his forehead; the umpires, however, did not decide
  this to be a knock-down blow. Thirteen minutes and a half.

  2.—Jem appeared to be fighting according to “orders”—he was over
  cautious. (“Never mind,” said Josh, “let them do as they like; it is
  the ‘Rising Sun’ against the ‘Half Moon’—the Moon for my money!”)
  Sampson had decidedly the best of this round, hitting his man right
  and left. In closing, Burn was hit down. This round decided first
  blood and the first knock-down blow. Five to four on Sampson.

  3.—Jem was not deficient in pluck, and came to the scratch like a
  good one. Jem planted a nobber, but Sampson countered well. A rally,
  in which Jem was sent down. Seven to four on Brummagem.

  4.—This was a fine round, and good fighting on both sides. Burn was
  troublesome; but the skill and coolness displayed by Sampson were
  the admiration of the spectators. Some exchanges that told on both
  sides, but Jem had the worst of it. The claret made its appearance
  under Burn’s left ogle, and Sampson, by way of a finish, hit his
  antagonist down. Two to one on the Brum.

  5.—Burn, full of spirit, tried to punish the Brum, but he was
  stopped, nobbed right and left, and thrown into the bargain.

  6.—This was short but sweet to Phil. Sampson stopped capitally, and,
  in turn, planted two facers—botherers—so much so that Burn
  staggered, turned round, and fell on his face.

  7.—The nob of Jem was changed, but his courage never forsook him.
  The coolness of Sampson enabled him to plant his blows with effect.
  Jem lost many hits by being on the blinking system; he rushed in to
  mill, but Sampson caught him as he came. In a sharp rally, Jem went
  down.

  8.—A tiny bit of a change for Jem—he sent Sampson down at the close
  of the round. (Loud shouting for Burn. “Do that once more; Phil
  don’t like it—you’ll soon make his knees tremble.” “Tremble,
  indeed!” replied the Brum. “Fetch a fiddle, and I’ll bet a pound I
  dance a hornpipe.”)

  9.—Jem was piping, and Sampson a little winded. The latter planted a
  jobber over the left eye of his opponent, and got away. (Great
  applause. “Fighting such as this looks like a +, don’t it?” said
  jolly Josh, rubbing his hands.) Some excellent stops on both sides,
  and sharp exchanges of blows, till Burn napped an out-and-out one on
  his nob, which dropped My Nevvy. Three to one on Brummagem.

  10.—Forty-eight minutes had elapsed, and Sampson was as fresh as a
  four-year-old. Burn, notwithstanding the state of his face, was game
  as a pebble, and stood to his work like a man. Sampson received a
  note of hand on his conk, without giving the return. Sharp fighting,
  till Burn went down.

  11.—This round was a fine specimen of the art of self-defence; and
  both combatants displayed great skill. The right eye of Jem was
  nearly in the dark, and he raised his hand to wipe it. Sampson,
  quick as lightning, endeavoured to take advantage of the opening,
  let fly with his left, but to the surprise of the spectators Burn
  stopped him. This circumstance produced thunders of applause for
  Jem. Burn again stopped several blows; but at the conclusion of the
  round he was floored like a shot by a tremendous hit on the mouth.
  Jem put his hand to his head as he lay on the ground.

  12.—This round, by the decided manner in which he took the lead, and
  also in finishing it by a heavy throw, rendered Sampson the
  favourite at four to one.

  13.—The friends of Jem still stuck to him, and were filled with
  hopes that, as he had displayed so much real game, he might be able
  to wear out Sampson; but the latter was cool and collected. Jem was
  countered, and, in a hard struggle at the ropes, severely fibbed
  down. (“The ‘Half Moon’ now,” said Josh, “has nearly put the ‘Rising
  Sun’ into darkness. Very nasty, Mr. Broad Day, eh?”)

  14.—Jem went down from a left-handed blow.

  15.—Burn was really mischievous, and in close quarters nobbed
  Sampson heavily. (“Keep off,” said Josh, “don’t give a chance
  away.”) Sampson measured his distance well, and poor Jem again went
  down.

  16.—It was booked that Jem could not win; but the brave fellow had
  not the slightest notion of saying “No!” Sampson waited for an
  opportunity, and by a flush hit nearly took the fight out of Jem by
  a floorer. (“Take him away!”)

  17.—It was now lick or be licked with Jem, and he acted boldly on
  this determination. Notwithstanding his blinking state, he
  administered several heavy thumps on Sampson’s nob when in close
  quarters. In closing, Sampson caught Burn’s nob under his arm,
  fibbed, and dropped poor Jem with ease.

  18.—A little turn in favour of Burn; the latter, by his boldness,
  planted some heavy hits, one of which made Sampson stagger, and he
  fell on the ropes. (A tremendous shout from the friends of Burn, who
  did not give up hopes of victory.)

  19.—Jem came to the scratch, but he was nearly blind. He was soon
  thrown.

  20.—It was piteous to see Jem throw his blows away; he could not see
  his opponent. Burn received a heavy blow on the nose, and fell on
  his back. Ten to one, but no takers.

  21.—It was nearly “all up” with Jem; he appeared like a man groping
  in the dark. The humanity of Sampson is worthy of record; he
  scarcely touched him, and only planted a tap to put an end to the
  battle. Burn was sent down quite exhausted. (“Take him away.”)

  22.—Jem, like a drowning man catching at a straw, made a desperate
  effort, and in a rush at Sampson received another floorer. (“Don’t
  let the brave fellow fight any more—take him away.”)

  23, and last.—It is worse than death to a man of true courage to
  experience defeat, and Jem had made up his mind not to pronounce the
  afflicting “No.” Burn had scarcely arrived at the scratch when he
  was sent down by a trifling touch. (“He shall fight no more,” said
  Uncle Ben, positively, stepping up to the umpires.) It occupied an
  hour and ten minutes. Sampson immediately shook hands with his
  fallen opponent. Burn was severely punished about the head, but
  scarcely any body blows were given throughout the battle.

  REMARKS.—Burn fought according to orders. Had he adopted the milling
  style which characterised the last seven or eight rounds, even if he
  had not proved victorious, it might have rendered the fight a more
  even thing. Sampson in all his battles has proved himself a good
  fighter. Like Jem Burn, he began his career too young. This battle
  was a most honourable contest, and reflected credit on both the
  combatants. Jem Burn is a truly game man. Every person returned home
  well satisfied with the fairness and honesty of the battle.


Hall, of Birmingham, now declared himself anxious to try his luck in a
third battle with Sampson; and Phil, with the utmost politeness, agreed
to accommodate him without delay for £50 a-side. This mill was decided
on Tuesday, November 22nd, 1825. The fight was booked as a certainty;
“if,” as the chaff went, “it was not already made right.” Sampson was
the favourite at six to four.

Early on Tuesday morning the Fancy were on the alert at Birmingham,
Worcester, Coventry, Lichfield, &c., to arrive at Basset’s Pole, between
Birmingham and Tamworth. Few of the London Fancy were present, as their
“minds were completely made up,” from the capital fight Sampson made
with Ward at Stony Stratford, that Phil must win the battle in a canter;
therefore “it would not pay” to undertake so long a trot.

The description of the fight between Sampson and Hall lies in a
nutshell, one round having put an end to the contest. Sampson was in
prime condition, and certain of winning. Hall was upon equally good
terms with himself. Sampson was seconded by Ward and Holland, and Hall
by two brothers. On setting-to Sampson did not treat his opponent with
indifference, but waited for him cool and collected. Three minutes had
nearly elapsed in dodging about, when Hall planted a bodier. (“Bravo!”
from his friends.) Sampson returned the compliment with great activity;
hit for hit soon took place, and a sharp rally was the result. The men
separated, and a trifling pause occurred. Sampson made himself up for
mischief, and with his left delivered a heavy blow under his opponent’s
ear which gave him the doldrums; by way of quietus he then planted with
his right so severe a facer that Hall was floored like a shot. When time
was called Hall was insensible, and remained in a state of stupor for
several minutes. Thus Sampson was pronounced the conqueror in the short
space of four minutes and three-quarters. The backers of Hall looked not
a little blue on viewing their man so easily disposed of by Sampson, and
the spectators in general were much disappointed at so short a contest.
The winners, however, held a contrary opinion, and were in high spirits,
observing “the fight was long enough for them;” and Sampson, with a
smile upon his face, stated that “he should like to be paid for such
another job, as £100 for under five minutes was not to be done every
day, even in the highest professions.” The “Sage of the East,” in a
discourse upon the event, declared Sampson’s right-hander to be “a
golden hit”!

Owing to a quarrel with Josh Hudson at the East End, January 31st, 1826,
Josh being by no means _compos_, Sampson beat the “John Bull Fighter” in
six rounds, not much to the credit of the former. As a _per contra_, on
June 30th, 1826, his bounce and quarrelsomeness got him a _third_
thrashing from Jem Ward, which was administered by the Champion in ten
rounds, at Norwich, while on a sporting tour. Sampson also put out at
this time a challenge to Brown, of Bridgnorth, to fight for £50 a-side;
but the “big one” replied that the price did not suit him, so Sampson
wrote again and again to show that Brown _ought_ to fight for that sum!

Paul Spencer, a native of Ireland, elegantly designated the “Mud Island
Devil,” having defeated Manning, of Manchester, felt anxious to obtain a
higher situation on the pugilistic roll, and challenged Sampson for £50
a-side. Phil approved of this match, observing at the same time, “No
Irishman can lick me.” The articles stated that the fight should take
place on Tuesday, November 27th, 1827, between Birmingham and Liverpool;
and Newcastle-under-Lyme was named as the rallying point. During the
Sunday and Monday previous to the battle the above town was filled with
visitors from Liverpool, Birmingham, and Manchester. About two miles
from Newcastle-under-Lyme the ring was made in front of the grand stand
on the race-course. A few minutes before one o’clock the men arrived on
the ground. Sampson threw his hat into the ring, attended by Tom Oliver
and Young Gas; and Spencer was waited upon by Donovan and Bob Avery.
Both combatants were in excellent condition. Spencer was an object of
great interest to his Irish friends. He was a fine strong young fellow,
in height five feet eleven inches and a half, weighing thirteen stone
one pound. The colours were a crimson fogle for Sampson, and a green
with a yellow spot for Spencer. Six to four on Sampson.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The men prepared for action in good style, Spencer adopting
  Ned Neale’s mode of keeping up his left hand. Sampson was also on
  the alert. After a short time occupied in manœuvring, Spencer
  endeavoured to make his right and left tell, but Phil got out of
  danger. A short pause; both on the look-out for an opening, when the
  Mud Island Devil planted his right hand on Sampson’s nob; the latter
  boxer returned left and right, and a brisk rally was the result. In
  closing Phil fell on his knee, and Spencer, in fibbing, hit Sampson
  as he was down. (“Foul!” “Fair!”) The friends of Sampson claimed the
  fight, but the umpires ordered the battle to proceed.

  2.—Caution on both sides. Spencer held his left still up, and let
  fly with his right. Sampson stopped him skilfully, and hit out right
  and left, delivering well on the nob. A desperate rally followed, in
  which sharp hits were exchanged. Sampson planted his right on
  Spencer’s mouth as he was rushing in, when Spencer caught him on top
  of his canister with his right, and made a slight incision. Sampson
  then closed, and fibbed at the body with his right, while Spencer
  peppered away at his upper works, but without much effect. At length
  Spencer got the lock with his right leg, and threw Sampson a
  cross-buttock, falling heavily upon him. (The Liverpool blades in an
  uproar; and, “You are sure to win it, Pat.”)

  3.—Sampson showed blood from his nob, and Spencer from his mouth.
  Spencer looked a little flushed and dropped his left. Sampson saw
  the opening, rushed in, and hit him down with a straight one, two,
  right and left. (“Sampson for ever!” and “Phil, it’s all your own!”)

  4.—Sampson again planted his right and left from the shoulder,
  cutting Spencer on the left eye. Spencer was not to be shook off,
  but instantly went to work, hitting out right and left, but wildly.
  Sampson met Spencer as he rushed in with a few flush hits—a close
  followed, and some good in-fighting ensued, Sampson feeling for the
  bread-basket, and Spencer at the nob. Spencer then tried for another
  cross-buttock, but Sampson was not to be had, and slipped down in
  time. (Two to one on Sampson.)


The fight was now stopped by the interference of a magistrate. “You
cannot fight any longer,” said he; “I will not permit it.” “It won’t be
long,” cried Sampson; “I’ll soon finish him, so let us have it out.”
“No,” said his worship, “I must not. I should have no objection myself,
but I have been applied to in my magisterial capacity, and I am forced
to act. I am sorry for it, but ‘needs must.’” Submission was the order
of the day; his worship retired, and the men adjourned back to
Newcastle, there to deliberate on further proceedings, Sampson
proclaiming to his friends that he was sure to win, and offering three
to one on the issue. The men had fought just eight minutes.

On reaching Newcastle Spencer was put to bed, while Sampson remained up
with his friends. At length it was agreed, according to the “articles,”
that the fight should be fought out, and the word was given for taking
up new ground at a village called Woore, in Shropshire, on the borders
of Cheshire. The moment the signal was given, “The devil take the
hindmost!” was the order of the day, and the rush of the motley group to
arrive at the scene of action in time beggared description. It was
half-past four, and quite dusk, before the cavalcade reached the “Horse
and Jockey,” at Woore, in a meadow behind which the ring was again
pitched by Tom Oliver.

The best pedestrians were completely knocked up in the run, and several
first-rate roadsters beaten to a stand-still. The entire group, owing to
the wretched state of the road, were nothing but mudlarks.

No time was lost, both men appearing “eager for the fray,” and each
feeling equal confidence. Sampson showed first in the ring.

SECOND FIGHT.


  Round 1.—The eagerness of Spencer to go to work delighted his
  friends. He cut away right and left, but the superior science of
  Sampson enabled him to stop the Mud Island Devil’s efforts. Still
  Spencer would not be denied; he bored in so hard and fast that
  Sampson was a little bothered, turned round, and retreated to
  prepare himself for the rude attacks of his opponent. The strength
  of Spencer was so great that he caught hold of Phil by the neck,
  and, in going down, pulled Sampson on him.

  2.—Phil let fly right and left, and produced the claret from
  Spencer’s domino-box; nevertheless Spencer peppered away with
  rapidity; but Sampson’s counters were heaviest, and in the close
  both were down.

  3.—Sampson waited for his opponent and popped in his left with
  terrific force. Spencer was not to be deterred, but rushed to
  in-fighting, when Sampson hit him up severely. Spencer then closed
  and delivered some home thrusts, grappled for the fall, and Sampson
  slipped down.

  4.—Sampson planted his left hand on Spencer’s muzzle. Spencer fought
  wildly, and in closing Sampson went down to avoid being thrown.
  (Cries of “Foul!” answered by shouts of “Fair!”)

  5.—Spencer took the lead, and hit out right and left, making his
  blows tell. Sampson went to work, but missed a terrific right-handed
  blow, which went over Spencer’s shoulder. A good rally followed, and
  Sampson fell on his knees, receiving a hit as he went down.

  6.—Neale called to Spencer to keep his left hand up. Sampson waited,
  and at length popped in his left on the ear. Counter-hits followed,
  and Spencer, in closing, pulled Sampson down.

  7.—Counter-hitting in a spirited rally. Sampson down.

  8.—Sampson was mischievous with his left, Spencer rushed in, when
  Sampson went down cleverly.

  9.—Sampson stopped well, and both fought to a rally; heavy hits were
  exchanged, when Spencer seized Sampson round the waist and threw
  him.

  10.—This was a capital milling round. Counter-hitting, and no
  flinching. Spencer planted right and left, but Sampson caught him
  dreadfully on the jaw with his right. In the close, Sampson would
  not be thrown, and got down.

  11.—Sampson delivered heavily on Spencer’s mug with his left, and
  broke away. Spencer rushed in, and some good in-fighting followed.
  In closing Sampson was thrown.

  12.—Sampson again put in a dangerous nobber with his left. Spencer
  countered, but again received right and left, and in the close
  Sampson went down.

  13, and last.—Sampson waited for his man and delivered heavily with
  his left. Spencer would go in vigorously, but Sampson met him right
  and left with punishing hits, and jobbed him down. Spencer was hit
  stupid; he rolled about, and could not stand when “time” was called.
  Sampson was proclaimed the victor. The second mill lasted fifteen
  minutes, making the fight, in the whole, twenty-three minutes.
  Spencer was heavily punished about the head, but Sampson was not
  much hurt. Both men were reconducted to Newcastle the same night.

  REMARKS.—Spencer was the right sort of boxer for Sampson. Men that
  will go and fight with Phil stand a good chance to be polished
  off-hand. A rushing boxer like Spencer is a sort of gift to him. It
  is, however, but common justice to observe that Spencer proved
  himself a game man and a troublesome customer to the Birmingham
  hero. The amateurs pronounced it a good battle. The right hand of
  Phil is at all times dangerous, and his experience in the P.R. and
  his science united render him a fit opponent for any countryman, let
  him be as strong as Hercules.


After this slice of luck the friends of Sampson rallied round him, and
he immediately sent forth all sorts of challenges to all sorts of boxers
by means of his editorial amanuensis and his weekly paper. As, however,
these epistles, from their bad grammar and attempts at rude wit, do not
commend themselves as “elegant extracts,” we pass them by. One, to
White-headed Bob (who was under articles to fight Ned Neale), was pure
“buncombe;” others, such as those to Jem Ward, proposed ridiculously low
stakes, and others were mere “gag.” One to Big Brown, of Bridgnorth,
however, had better fortune.

One of Phil’s challenges having taken the form of “Brown giving me
(Phil) £20 to make a match for £300 a-side,” the Big ’un thus replied in
another weekly journal:—


  “_To the Editor of_ ‘BELL’S LIFE IN LONDON.’

  “SIR,—I apprehend that addressing Philip Sampson through the medium
  of your valuable paper will be to little purpose. There seems to
  have been a little bounce, but I wish I could flatter myself there
  was any reliance to be placed on what he has sent forth to the
  public.

  “With regard to his proposal of my giving him £20 to fight me for
  £300, my intention was to propose fighting him £320 to £300; for be
  it remembered that he once got £20 of my money in a way not very
  satisfactory to myself; but it is not my intention that he shall
  have any more of it unless I am fairly beat out of time by him,
  which, if he should happen to do, he shall be most welcome to.

  “I will fight him £320 to £300, half-way between Birmingham and
  Bridgnorth, and I will attend at the place he appoints—the
  ‘Woodman,’ Birmingham—on Monday the 24th inst., between the hours of
  eight and ten p.m., for the purpose of making a deposit and entering
  into the necessary articles.

                                  “I remain, &c., yours respectfully,
                                                        “THOMAS BROWN.

  “Bottle-in-Hand Inn, Bridgnorth, December 19th, 1827.”


The hero of Bridgnorth in this instance was mistaken about the bounce of
the thing; for Sampson’s friends were at the place at the appointed
time, at the “Woodman,” and articles were signed without delay, Mr.
Beardsworth, of the Birmingham Repository, being stakeholder.

This big affair was decided at Bishop’s Wood, in Shropshire, one hundred
and thirty-four miles from London, on Tuesday, April 8th, 1828; and,
since the battle between Spring and Langan, no pugilistic event had
excited more interest. It appears that Sampson had some difficulty in
making up the battle-money, and had it not been for little Arthur
Matthewson—who not only stuck to Phil during his training, but procured
him the last £70—a forfeit might have been the result of a rash
engagement.

The principal patrons of the Ring left London in considerable numbers,
on the Sunday and Monday previous, for Birmingham and Wolverhampton. The
latter place was overflowing with company of every description, all the
inns crowded to excess, and beds not to be had at any price. The towns
and villages contiguous to Wolverhampton came in also for their share of
visitors.

Wolverhampton Racecourse was named as the scene of action, in front of
the grand stand, an erection capable of accommodating upwards of a
thousand spectators, which had been pointed out as a most convenient
arena; but a magistrate interposed his authority, and Bishop’s Wood was
chosen, a lofty eminence, commanding an extensive and delightful
prospect. It is situated in Shropshire, on the borders of Staffordshire,
twelve miles from Wolverhampton, and about the same distance from
Bridgnorth.

On Tuesday morning vast multitudes were _en route_ for the scene of
action. Vehicles of all sorts were in motion; equestrians and
pedestrians thronged the way from Birmingham, Walsall, Dudley,
Wednesbury, Bridgnorth, and Stafford, Lichfield, Shrewsbury, and other
towns. Brown cut a dash on his turn-out to the ground; he was seated,
with his friend Spring and several others, in a landau, his own
property, decorated on the panels with the sign of his house at
Bridgnorth (a hand holding a bottle), and drawn by four fine horses,
while a great number of well-mounted gentlemen formed, as it were, a
body-guard. Both Sampson and Brown waited at the “Bradford Arms” till
the time arrived for entering the ring. Arrangements on the ground had
been made with much judgment. A circle of wagons, with a stage on a
convenient spot, formed the external barrier; in front of these the
spectators on foot were kept at a distance of several yards from the
twenty-four feet ring by a strong circle of ropes and stakes. The ring
itself was formed with posts of great thickness, deeply fixed in the
earth, and three ropes (one more than the usual number) were affixed to
them. The number of spectators could not have been less than 25,000—some
persons guessed their numbers at 30,000; of these, at least 15,000 were
unable to see the twenty-four feet ring, and were consequently
continually pressing forward.

A few minutes before one o’clock, Brown, leaning on the arm of Tom
Spring, threw his hat into the ring. He was received with a loud
welcome. The appearance of the Bridgnorth hero was prepossessing; he was
dressed in the then country gentleman’s costume, a blue coat, white cord
breeches, and top boots. Sampson appeared soon afterwards, and his
friends, in their turn, rent the air with applause. Phil was also well
got up. On the entrance of the latter boxer, Brown, who was sitting on
the hamper containing the bottles, &c., rose up, and, holding out his
hand with a good-natured smile, said, “Well, my boy, how are you?”
Sampson gave him his hand, but turned another way with an angry scowl,
and merely repeated, “How are you?” Harry Holt and Dick Curtis seconded
Sampson, and never was man better attended to. Harry had sported his
money on Brown, but he communicated that fact to Sampson’s backers, and
they at once decided on trusting to his honour to do the best he could
for Phil, promising, at the same time, to make up his losses if Sampson
won. Brown was seconded by his friend Tom Spring and by Bill Richmond.
The toss for sides was won by Sampson, and at about twenty minutes after
one the fight commenced. Colours—crimson for Sampson; and crimson with
white stripes for Brown. Betting, two to one, and in some parts of the
ring five to two, on the latter.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Brown, when divested of his outer garments, looked
  extremely well, not to say gigantic, weighing, at the least
  estimate, fifteen stone. A smile of confidence embellished his mug,
  and he seemed to say to himself, “I shall lick this Sampson like
  fun.” Phil was equally slap-up in condition—in truth, we never saw
  him to more advantage in any of his previous encounters; he weighed
  nearly thirteen stone. His countenance indicated composure,
  calculation, and perfect preparation for the job he had undertaken.
  On setting-to, Brown did not appear exactly “at home;” he put up his
  arms more like a pupil who had been taught the rudiments of the art
  of self-defence than as a pugilist acting from his own suggestions.
  He scarcely seemed to know whether he should commence offensive
  operations or wait for his active adversary to make the onset. The
  science displayed by Sampson was judicious, correct, and decisive;
  he crept in, as it were, to measure his distance, and having
  ascertained he was right, he let fly with both hands. The mug of
  Brown felt them; when Sampson, in the style of Curtis, stepped
  backwards, by which means Brown, in returning, did not reach his
  opponent. (“Well done, Sampson!”) The Birmingham blade again tried
  on the manœuvre with increased effect, and planted a heavy blow just
  under the temple of Brown. The latter now attempted to fight first,
  but his movements were slow, and his right hand did little more than
  touch the side of Sampson’s nob. Some sharp exchanges occurred, but
  the hitting of the “big one” was round, while Sampson planted his
  straight facers with electrifying effect, and had the best of the
  rally. Brown, by his superior strength, bored his adversary to the
  ropes, where he held Sampson, and endeavoured to fib him with his
  right hand but not _à la_ Randall. The “big one” kept pegging at
  Phil everywhere until he was down. (Great disapprobation, and loud
  cries of “Foul,” “Fair,” &c.) It was the general opinion that a foul
  blow had been given by the hero of Bridgnorth, but perhaps not
  intentionally; therefore the umpires did not notice the transaction.
  (“First blood!” said Curtis; “that’s an event worth summut to me.”)

  2.—The skill of Sampson again was the admiration of the ring. He, as
  in the previous round, coolly measured his distance so correctly as
  to plant two facers, and stepped back out of trouble. Sampson
  repeated the offence without delay by another left-hander on the mug
  of the “big one,” when the latter returned a blow on the side of
  Phil’s head. Sampson kept a good look-out; when, at length, he saw
  an opening, he planted a precious teaser on the left peeper of
  Brown, which not only damaged it, but placed it on the winking
  system. (“Go in,” cried the friends of Brown; “don’t stand out to be
  punished.”) The Bridgnorth hero rushed to a close, laid hold of Phil
  at the ropes, and would have made mincemeat of him if Sampson had
  not got down cleverly.

  3.—Of no importance. Sparring for a short period, when Brown
  endeavoured to plant a right-handed hit on the upper works of
  Sampson, but Phil got away from mischief, and Brown, with the force
  of the blow, fell on his knees. The “big one” jumped up, ready to
  renew the contest; Sampson was also on the alert to hit; but Spring,
  considering the round at an end, drew Brown back, who immediately
  seated himself on the knee of his second.

  4.—Phil took the lead, like a master of the art; his left hand told
  twice successively on the mug of his adversary, and he retreated
  from mischief. Sampson put in a tremendous blow with his right on
  the left cheek of Brown, the claret following profusely. (“He’s
  winning it nicely,” said the Brums.) The hero of Bridgnorth, rather
  wild at such unexpected rough treatment, went to work desperately;
  but Sampson kept milling on the retreat—jobbing Brown, as he
  followed, with both his hands, until the “big one” closed, got the
  fall, and dropped on Sampson.

  5.—The nob of Brown was considerably damaged; he was also piping.
  The “big one” made a good stop, but Sampson, undismayed, went to
  work, and had the best of a short rally. Phil, with a sneer of
  derision and ill-nature, observed, “You Champion of England!” then,
  planting a heavy blow on Brown’s left eye, exclaimed, “There’s a
  small taste for your Championship!” The hero of Bridgnorth,
  irritated at the taunts, went in to do mischief, but Sampson met his
  rush with two heavy blows in the front of his head, which floored
  the _soi-disant_ Champion. (The applause was deafening. “Sampson for
  ever!” “Sampson for choice!” “He can’t fight at all!” “Send him back
  to Bridgnorth!”)

  6.—Sampson, quick as lightning, went to work, and Brown fought with
  him; but the former took the lead and had the best of it. Brown, in
  his anxiety to punish his opponent, stumbled, and his head went
  against a stake.

  7.—The weight of the “big one,” enabled him to drive Sampson against
  the ropes. The situation was rather dangerous. Brown held him as if
  he had been screwed in a vice, and kept milling his ribs with his
  right hand. (The row was immense—applause by the friends of the “big
  one,” and the Sampsonites hissing and hooting beyond description.)
  Phil shifted his arm, and changed his position, but still it was
  most distressing. (“Don’t hang the man, Brown!”) The struggle was
  terrible on both sides. Phil at length got down, Holt sticking to
  him closely, and giving him advice how to get out of the clutches of
  his powerful adversary.

  8.—Sampson came to the scratch much better than could be expected
  after the severe hugging at the ropes in the last round. Phil put in
  two facers, but received in return a heavy blow on the side of his
  head. Brown closed, but, failing in a cross-buttock, he dragged
  Sampson off his legs and fell by the side of him.

  9.—The left ogle of Brown was almost in darkness, and one of his
  listeners and his nasal organ much swelled and out of shape.
  Sampson, on the sharp look-out, planted another facer with his left.
  Brown bored in, and caught Phil at the ropes; here the latter not
  only got out of danger well, but faced his opponent suddenly, and
  sent in a couple of blows as he went down. (“Well done, Sampson; you
  are sure to win.”)

  10.—Short. Brown was again met in his rush in the middle of his nob;
  he nevertheless bored in and got Sampson down.

  11.—Sampson commenced fighting, and took great liberties with the
  pimple of Brown, using it for a drum by repeated hits upon the face
  of the Bridgnorth hero; the latter rallied in the most decisive
  manner, until they were both down. (Here the outer ring was broken,
  and thousands of persons rushed forward to the ropes, which were
  trodden down, in spite of all the opposition of whips, sticks,
  blows, &c. It was “dangerous to be safe,” and the combatants were
  compelled to fight in the midst of a mob. Sticks and whips were at
  work, even to get for the men the space of a yard. No description
  can be given of the confusion; the heat was intolerable, and the
  spectators jammed together almost to suffocation.)

  12.—Brown could not protect his face from the repeated visits of
  Sampson’s fists, and went in to bustle him, until they both went
  down.

  13.—The right hand of the Bridgnorth hero told on Sampson’s pimple,
  but not until the latter had planted two facers. In closing, Sampson
  down.

  14.—Brown was of little use in this round. Sampson hit his nob as if
  he had a sack of flour before him. It was first a facer—ditto,
  ditto, and ditto. The hero of Bridgnorth went down covered with
  claret. (“Sampson for a thousand!” and rounds of applause.)

  15.—Brown was distressed beyond measure when he appeared at the
  scratch, but he recovered and went to work. Sampson again nobbed
  him, but the strength of Brown obtained him the fall.

  16.—The confusion within the ring was dreadful; in fact, it was a
  mob of persons pushing and hitting each other to keep out of the way
  of the combatants. The men were suffering severely under the
  deprivation of air, violent perspiration streaming down their faces.
  Sampson took the lead as to blows, but he was fought down by his
  opponent.

  17.—The coolness displayed by Tom Spring in this round was the
  admiration of the spectators, and showed his desire that the battle
  should be fought out fairly. In all probability, had he returned a
  blow for the one given to him by Phil, the battle might have been
  prematurely ended, or at all events brought to a wrangle. In
  bringing Brown up to the scratch, Spring got before his man,
  observing Sampson was on the wrong side of the mark. Phil considered
  the conduct of Spring wrong, and without hesitation gave him a
  facer, pushed Spring out of his way, and suddenly floored the
  Bridgnorth hero like a shot.

  18.—The “big one” showed game, and came up like a man. But he was of
  “no use to himself,” and reduced to a bad lot for his friends. He
  napped it in every way, and a floorer finished the round.

  19.—Sampson lost no time, but went to work as soon as he had got his
  adversary before him. Brown fought wildly, till the punishment was
  too much for him, when he drew back, and Sampson, catching him with
  an upright hit, dropped him on his knees, giving him a facer as he
  was going down. (“If that ain’t doing him brown, I never saw
  anything like it before,” said a Brum who had taken the long odds.)

  20.—The heat of the weather and pressure of the crowd operated
  terribly on Sampson; so much so that froth came from his lips, and
  he seemed nearly exhausted; nevertheless he came to his work like a
  man determined to conquer. Phil only wanted room for the display of
  his milling capabilities. The Championship was completely out of the
  grasp of Brown, and he might now be registered as Receiver-General.
  He was hit to a stand-still, and then dropped. (“It’s all over!” was
  the cry.)

  21.—The customers from Bridgnorth now began to look all manner of
  colours; the secret was told—Brown was beaten against his will.
  Sampson sent his adversary down like winking.

  22–23.—The weight of Brown, in close quarters, enabled him, in
  closing, to roll Sampson down in both of these rounds.

  24.—It was now clear to every spectator that Sampson must prove the
  hero of the tale. Brown, as a last effort, exerted himself to
  overwhelm his adversary, but he napped it right and left as he went
  in, and was sent down like a sack of sand.

  25–28.—Brown down. Ditto. Repeated by Sampson. Of a similar
  description.

  29.—Brown staggering like a drunken sailor three sheets in the wind
  until Sampson hit him down. (“Take him home—take him away; he’s of
  no use!”)

  30–31.—It is true Brown answered the call of “Time,” yet his
  appearance at the scratch was only to receive additional unnecessary
  punishment. Sampson sent him down almost as soon as placed before
  him.

  32–42, and last.—The calls of “time” were obeyed by the “big one” in
  the whole of these rounds, but he had not the slightest chance in
  his favour. Indeed, it was a pity he was permitted to contest them.
  At the conclusion of the forty-second round, when he was down, he
  complained of his shoulder, and was not able to come again. The
  battle was over in forty-nine minutes. The “big one” was reduced to
  a complete state of distress—his left peeper completely in darkness,
  his right severely damaged, and his face fearfully cut. His left
  shoulder was afterwards found to have been dislocated. His feelings,
  we have no doubt, were equally cut up, for he had flattered himself
  that the Championship was within his grasp. He displayed game of the
  first quality, and after a short period walked out of the ring to
  his carriage, assisted by Spring and Richmond. Sampson had scarcely
  a mark upon his face, except a touch under his left eye; but the
  same side of his nob was peppered a little, and several other
  contusions were visible. Sampson left the ring amidst loud and
  repeated shouts in honour of his victory.

  REMARKS.—No person could dispute the bravery and game exhibited by
  Brown throughout the fight; he was out-fought by the superior skill
  and tactics of Sampson. The latter entered the ring with a
  confidence which surprised the oldest ring-goers; his conduct was
  decisive in every round, and he never lost sight of the idea of
  conquest during the battle. The broken state of the ring and the
  very confined space for the men to fight in were certainly great
  drawbacks to Sampson against so powerful an opponent as Brown. It
  was evident that Sampson had improved in strength, and he altogether
  appeared a better man than in any of his former battles; his
  right-hand blows were tremendous. The hero of Bridgnorth must have
  suffered severely from the injury to his shoulder, and none but a
  brave man would have contested the battle after so severe an
  accident against such precision and straight hitting as met Brown’s
  repeated efforts to get on to his opponent.


The return was full of bustle and incident. Sampson’s colours were
flying in all directions, out of the windows of houses on the road, on
the tops of the coaches, and “Sampson for ever!” to the end of the
chapter. The roadside houses never experienced such a day for the return
of the ready; and “success to milling” was on the tip of the tongue of
every landlord in the county.

Sampson left the ground under the patronage of Mr. Beardsworth in style,
and during part of his journey on his victorious return to Birmingham
the carriage which conveyed Phil and his friend was drawn by eight
horses. Through the streets of Birmingham his reception was
enthusiastic; Sampson was loudly cheered by crowds, and drawn by six
fresh horses, until he reached the house of Arthur Matthewson. Every
room in Arthur’s crib was crowded to excess, and the anxiety of the
persons in the street to gain admittance, to get a peep at the conqueror
of “Big Brown,” defied description.

The Shropshire folks looked upon their champion as invincible, and
accordingly dropped their money heavily. In no previous instance of a
big fight was there such an unanimity on the side of the “talent” and
the “professionals.” Careful betting men laid rash odds and suffered the
proper penalty, as the “knowing ones” were thrown out. This battle was
followed by an epidemic of letter-writing in the newspapers, provincial
and metropolitan. First came our old friend Thomas Winter Spring, who,
favoured by the ablest writer who ever devoted his talents to ring
reporting (we mean Vincent George Dowling, Esq., Editor of _Bell’s Life_
for upwards of thirty years), gave a graphic account of poor Brown’s
dislocated shoulder, which took place in the _fourth round_, and which
fully accounts for Brown’s incapacity to ward off Sampson’s “nobbers.”
Spring was justly indignant at Sampson’s blow, and thus, after
commenting warmly on the “ruffianism” of Sampson’s friends, he wound up
with a formal challenge to Sampson to meet him for £200 a-side, “as it
is not my principle to submit to a blow without wishing, like a man, to
return it.” Sampson’s reply was characteristic of the man and his wordy
amanuensis—full of boasting, bombast, and scurrility. Spring was taunted
with “not daring to fight Ward,” beating “stale old men,” Oliver and
Painter to wit, &c., &c. Attack, reply, and rejoinder stuffed the
columns of the _Dispatch_, Pierce Egan’s short-lived weekly paper, _Life
in London_, and _Bell’s Life_. Spring was at last provoked by the
repeated threats of Sampson, who boasted in all company how he would
serve the “old woman,” to retort with a promise of chastisement. He
says:—


  “Sampson accuses me of acting wrong in the ring, but he forgets to
  say in what respect. I defy him or any person to say I did wrong. He
  also says I wanted to bring it to a wrangle. If that had been my
  object, I had a very good chance when he struck me—not once nor
  twice, but thrice; had I returned the blows, it must have put a stop
  to the fight.

  “I think, Mr. Editor, I have answered quite enough of Mr. Sampson’s
  scurrilous language; but when he speaks of chastising me I pity his
  weakness, and would have him take care that chastisement does not
  fall upon himself; for, the first time I meet him, I will put the
  toe of my boot against his seat—not of honour, Mr. Editor, he has
  none about him—but where his sense of feeling may be readily
  reached.

  “I hope, Mr. Editor, you will pardon me for taking up so much room
  in your valuable paper, but unless Mr. Sampson chooses to come
  forward with his money I shall not condescend to take the least
  notice of anything he may say after this.

                                            “I am, Sir, your obliged,
                                                “THOMAS WINTER SPRING.

  “Hereford, April 24th, 1828.”


All this gasconading, so foreign to Spring’s character, came to a “most
lame and impotent conclusion.” Sampson could not get backed, and the
affair fell through. Spring, meeting Sampson soon after at Epsom races,
in Merryweather’s booth, declared his intention to fulfil his promise,
made under sore provocation, to have satisfaction or an apology for the
blow received by him at the fight with Brown. Sampson began to argue the
matter, but Spring threw off his coat and called upon Sampson to defend
himself. Sampson set to with his coat and hat on. “The crowd and
confusion,” says _Bell’s Life_, “were so great that we have not been
able to learn who gave the first blow.” The rally was, however, a
determined one, and after being separated the belligerents got together
again and fought four sharp rounds. Spring, it is well known, required
room to show off his fine fighting, and thus Sampson had the best of the
tussle, for such it was. The combatants were of course soon parted by
their friends, neither having fulfilled his intent of giving the other
“the value of a bating.” Spring, it was stated, was struck by other
persons besides Sampson. It ought to be mentioned that Spring proposed
to Sampson to come out of the booth and meet him on the course in the
open, but the latter declined the offer. The next evening, at the Castle
Tavern, Holborn, Sampson declared himself ready to fight Spring for £300
a-side, half-way between London and Bridgnorth. Spring accepted the
challenge at Tom Cannon’s benefit, at the Tennis Court, the very next
day.

A meeting was appointed to take place at Harry Holt’s, where the
battle-money in Neale’s fight with Baldwin was to be given up. Here,
after some argument, mutual explanations took place. Sampson said that
when he “challenged Spring for £300 he was rather fresh; that he would
retract it, and declare he had no animosity against Spring.” The latter
said he would have an apology for the blows he had received, and
Sampson, persuaded by his friends, expressed his regret. Finally Spring
offered his hand to Sampson, who accepted it; and over a cheerful glass
it was agreed to bury the past in oblivion.

Phil’s next encounter was with Simon Byrne, the Irish champion, for £200
a-side. The battle was fought on a stage at Albrighton, on the 30th
June, 1829, when Sampson succumbed after a severe fight of forty-five
rounds, occupying one hour forty-three and a half minutes. This, with
the disgraceful draw with Big Brown, at Doncaster, in 1831, the details
of which will be found in our memoir of BROWN (Chapter XII., p. 451),
closed the chequered pugilistic career of Phil Sampson, “the Birmingham
Youth.”

APPENDIX TO PERIOD VI.

TOM REYNOLDS—1817–1825.

As a connecting link of two generations of pugilists and of the Irish
and English P.R., Tom Reynolds deserves a niche in our gallery. He was
best known in his latter days as the mentor of Jack Langan and Simon
Byrne, as a sound adviser, a professor of the _ars pugnandi_, a patron
of aspiring talent, and a jolly Boniface in the “swate city of Dublin,”
where he died on the 15th of May, 1832, much respected.

Tom was born on the 20th of January, 1792, at Middleton, in the county
of Armagh, and early in life came to London as salesman to a relative,
with whom he some time lived in James Street, Covent Garden, until,
being grown to man’s estate, he became a “murphy-dealer” on his own
account.

Tom was decidedly, with the single exception of Henry Josiah Holt, the
most erudite pugilist of his day. He had received a good education,
possessed a strong mind, and could write as good a letter as any of the
“scribes” of the time. Of this he was not a little proud, and the
_cacoethes scribendi_ with which he was occasionally afflicted often led
him into epistolary contentions in the sporting papers, in which he
invariably had the best of his competitors. His “Defence of Pugilism”
proves him to have been a writer of no mean pretensions, and the view
which he takes of his own profession affords the best apology for its
adoption as well as for its encouragement.

About the close of the great Napoleonic wars Reynolds fell into
difficulties and was arrested. Reverses in trade, combined with a love
of company, at length led to his introduction to the once well-known
“College” in what is now Farringdon Street, then called “The Fleet.”
Here he had time and opportunity for study, and, having long had a
predilection for the science of milling, he attended a regular course of
lectures, and became a perfect adept at the practice of fives, tennis,
and the gloves, and a great favourite with his brother “Collegians.”
Being at the top of his class, and rising in fame, it was determined by
some envious opponent to take the shine out of him, and for this purpose
the celebrated George Head, one of the most scientific sparrers of the
day, was introduced as a stranger, and, in a set-to which followed, Head
found it necessary to try his best before he could convince Tom that
there was a superior to himself. The trial ended in a friendly manner,
but both having afterwards partaken rather freely of the “rum puncheon,”
some wag insinuated to Reynolds that Head had spoken contemptuously of
his fistic talents. This roused Tom’s ire, and he at once challenged
Head to combat. Head, nothing loth, accepted the invitation, and a
battle commenced on the “College Green” (so called upon the Horatian
principle of there being nothing _green_ on or around it), in which the
“murphy-dealer” was down in every round. The “janitors,” at length,
interfered, and Head was expelled from the “College,” but not till he
had received a crack on the listener which considerably confused his
senses.

Shortly after his emancipation from the thraldom of “College” duties,
Tom commenced business as a professional pugilist, and on the 23rd of
July, 1817, entered the lists on Moulsey Hurst with Aby Belasco, the
Jew, whom he beat by his determined game in sixty-six rounds and one
hour and twenty minutes. In September in the same year (the 9th) he
fought and beat Church on the same ground; and on the 11th of November
following beat the _Broom-Dasher_ (Johnson), in Lord Cowper’s Park, near
Canterbury. Subsequent to these “slices of good fortune,” he became a
publican in Drury Lane, but having fallen through a trap-door his health
became impaired, and he determined on a sparring tour in the country for
the benefit of his health. He was accompanied by Jack Carter and Sutton
the Black, and was well received in Manchester, Liverpool, and Dublin.
While in the latter city he was matched against John Dunn, a novice, for
£50 a-side, and fought him on the 4th of July, 1820, in Donnelly’s
Valley, on the Curragh of Kildare. In twelve rounds and fifty-four
minutes Dunn was completely done up, being hit to a state of
insensibility, while Reynolds had scarcely a scratch.

In his way back to London our hero took Macclesfield in his course,
where he was matched against Sammons, who had beaten all the Lancashire
pugilists who had been opposed to him. On August 21st, 1820, the match
came off within a mile of Macclesfield, and the Lancashire hero was
disposed of in seven rounds. Tom now proceeded to London, but shortly
after returned to Ireland to fight Cummins, but that fight went off in
consequence of a forfeit.

Tom next took Jack Langan under his tuition and care, and was his mentor
when he fought Tom Spring; acting the part of his secretary, and dipping
his pen in gall, then much used in the composition of ink, in the course
of his correspondence. His next _protégé_ was Simon Byrne, to whom he
afforded the most friendly assistance, and seconded him in his fights
with Sampson, M’Kay, and Jem Ward. Previous to the last affair, which
ended in the defeat of Simon, he opened a public-house in Abbey Street,
Dublin, which he conducted with great regularity until “his sand was run
out.” He was decidedly a brave man and a scientific boxer, and left a
wife and two children to lament his loss.

As a specimen of Tom’s talent in the use of the pen we append his

DEFENCE OF PUGILISM.


  “I must acknowledge the gentlemen of the Press are favourable to the
  cause of pugilism; and it is not surprising when we consider that
  the persons conducting it are men, in general, possessing a liberal
  education, and blessed with a greater share of brains than the
  average of the community. Yet there is no rule without an exception;
  for two or three of the London journalists, imitated by a few
  country flats, occasionally give us a ‘facer;’ though I am confident
  it is not from conviction, but because they think a little
  opposition to generally received opinions may suit their pockets
  better than following the tide, where the brightness of their genius
  would not make them conspicuous. One of these worthies speaks of us
  as monsters that brutalise the country; another describes our poor
  little twenty-four foot ring as the only place in the three kingdoms
  where rogues and blacklegs spring up like mushrooms; a third says a
  pair of boxing-gloves debase the mind, and recommends the use of the
  foils as a preferable exercise; and a fourth, after a most violent
  philippic against the Ring, blames Government for not immediately
  putting an end to pugilism, and recommends, as a substitute, that
  Government should take into their wise consideration the propriety
  of giving greater encouragement to dancing assemblies. This idea is
  ridiculous. Certainly, if the editor does fill up his leisure hours
  as a hop-merchant, I do not blame him for putting in a good word for
  the shop, but what the devil has dancing to do with fighting? Can
  two men decide a mill by ‘tripping on the light fantastic toe’? The
  French dance every night in the week, and all day on Sunday, and
  what are they the better for that? Are they better men? Can they
  boast nobler feelings than Britons? They certainly make graceful
  bows, and there is no doubt dancing has an effect on the heels, for
  Wellington has often scratched his head, and given them a
  left-handed blessing, for their quickness in giving leg-bail.

  “Because the English are not considered a dancing nation, that is no
  reason they are brutalised. The most savage people dance; the
  American Indian dances round his captive while he is roasting him
  alive; the Italians dance, fiddle, and sing; and, if they consider
  themselves offended, employ ruffians to assassinate the offender.
  The dancing Frenchman would shudder with horror at the sight of two
  London porters giving each other a black eye or a bloody nose, and
  say ’twas a brutal practice; yet the same fellow, in his own
  country, would take snuff, grin like a monkey, and cry ‘Bravo!’ at
  seeing two poor devils boring holes in each other’s hide with a yard
  of steel. So much for the consistency of the ‘Grande Nation,’ and
  the sense of the men who recommend dancing as a substitute for
  pugilism.

  “I am no enemy to dancing; in fact, I am passionately fond of music;
  but there is a time for all things. With every inclination in the
  world to let every one ride his own hobby in his own way, I see no
  reason why a poor pugilist should take a facer from the wielder of
  the foil. Two hundred years ago, when the sword was worn, and
  decided quarrels in the streets, fencing was, without doubt, a
  necessary part of every man’s education; but, at the present day,
  though the foils may be very good exercise, I consider it the height
  of folly for any man to throw away his money and time in the
  attainment of an art that can never be of use. But we will suppose
  two pupils taking their lessons, the one with the gloves attaining a
  graceful method of drawing a cork, painting the margin of an ogle
  with some of the most beauteous tints of the rainbow, or directing a
  customer to the victualling-office; the other, with the foil, passes
  away his hours in attaining precision to pierce the centre of the
  heart, or in transfixing the ball of the eye, to cause instant death
  by perforating the brain. Let me ask in this mimic warfare which
  man’s mind was most debased? Blacklegs are not the peculiar growth
  of our Ring. Wherever men will sport on chance events, there Mr.
  Blackshanks will be found walking, and that, too, on shores where
  the fist is never used except by our brave tars, who often make them
  scamper by the mere flourish of their bunch of fives. Thieves may be
  found in the mob that surrounds our Ring; but where are they not to
  be found? A Radical assembly or Bible meeting is not exempt from
  their visits; and they will even be found at a charity sermon,
  praying they may have good luck when the jostling comes on, and may
  be considered as instruments of divine mercy, sent to deliver good
  men from the sinful dross of the earth.

  “The only charge that can be brought against the Ring is crossing
  fights; and though the members of the Press growl, and very justly
  too, whenever a x takes place, yet none of them attempt to point out
  the cause or remedy. Fighting men are not all alike, neither are
  kings; for who would compare the British Sovereign with the
  scoundrel Ferdinand of Spain? There are men in our Ring with
  integrity that would adorn a more elevated situation: men that would
  sooner drop senseless under punishment, though fighting for little
  more than the colours that are tied to the stakes, than receive five
  hundred pounds to lose wilfully. I do deny most positively that
  pugilistic exhibitions debase, demoralise, or brutalise us as a
  nation; on the reverse, I am confident they introduce chivalrous
  (they may be rude) notions of honour, courage, fortitude, and love
  of manly fair play—characteristics so strongly indented in the
  British character that they are known and acknowledged from pole to
  pole. And who will be hardy enough to say the excitement to those
  feelings does not originate in the very same cause which our enemies
  say brutalises the feelings of the country?

  “Even on the score of humanity pugilism ought to be encouraged; for,
  wherever it does not exist, murder, by violence and treachery, more
  frequently takes place. Without going to foreign countries for
  proof, a single glance at home will strike the blindest with the
  necessity of its encouragement. The men of Lancashire, twenty years
  ago, were up-and-down fighters: then murder was almost an every-day
  occurrence. Indeed, some of the old ones of that day took no little
  pride to themselves if they could boast of having stopped the ‘smoke
  of a chimney’ (choked a man), after the manner of Virginius. Since
  pugilism has been introduced, though the population is fourfold, yet
  murder seldom or never takes place. Compare the population of
  Ireland, where the stick has been thrown aside, and the fist used,
  to the other parts: the difference in the number of deaths by
  violence will strike conviction on the dullest. In fact, though
  chivalry did much to smooth down the roughness of the darker ages,
  ’tis only the boxing-gloves can give the true polish of civilisation
  to the world. And, I am confident, if Adam had been a Briton, he
  would have taught his sons to box; then the club would not have been
  used, and the first murder prevented. Cain would have given Abel a
  good milling instead of crushing his skull: and the brothers would
  have been found next morning supping porridge as comfortable as the
  Lord Mayor’s sons on a more recent occasion.

  “Greece, the birthplace of the arts and sciences, encouraged
  pugilism; and the first man of the day considered not only himself,
  but his family, honoured, if lucky enough to mill his man at the
  Olympic Games. Look at the effeminate beings that now parade the
  streets of Rome, once trod by the conquerors of England and the
  world; with them a boxing or a milling match would have had more
  charms than the finest strains of a Rossini. The Government knew the
  advantage of exhibitions that would excite an admiration of courage
  and fortitude. ’Twas this reason induced the Athenian General to
  stop his army, that they might look at a cock-fight—’tis this that
  has secured our Ring the patronage of the noblest blood, rank, and
  talent in the country; and long may we deserve the support of men
  that soar above the braying of asses or the cant of hypocrites!

  “With all due submission and thanks to the ancients, as the
  inventors of boxing, I cannot help feeling pride at the vast
  superiority our Ring possesses over theirs; for death was too
  frequently the result, in consequence of the metal braced to their
  arms. When our Ring is formed the combatants are left to themselves
  without fear of interruption from a third person. Temperate, manly
  courage is loudly applauded—passion, cowardice or foul play as
  loudly blamed; and should either of the men display any little act
  of humanity to his sinking opponent (of which I could state
  numberless instances), his gallantry is cordially praised; but the
  moment the dreadful word “ENOUGH” is uttered, hostilities cease and
  the conqueror, shaking hands with his fallen antagonist, wishes him
  better luck next time, and, in a kindly voice, expresses a wish that
  he may soon recover.

  “Man is the creature of habit, and of the force of example; and, I
  again repeat, exhibitions of this kind have their good effects,
  which can be traced to us as a nation, and, independent of fighting,
  influence other actions of life. Show me the man completely opposed
  to pugilism, and you will find his character to be a bad neighbour
  and a tyrant under his own roof. The immortal Wyndham was the
  staunch advocate and patron of our Ring, and champion for the
  abolition of the slave trade. Have dealings with any other
  country—will you find them, in the mass, so honest or so honourable
  as Britons? In every part of the known world, who are more welcome
  than our merchants? What flag more respected or feared? Quarrel in
  the streets of any other country, you will have more than one to
  contend with. If an object of distress is pointed out, who is more
  ready to assist than a Briton? In other countries murder and robbery
  go hand-in-hand; in ours the most desperate men never dip their
  hands in blood, unless to protect themselves from ill-judged
  resistance. And who can boast an army or a navy so gallantly brave,
  or so ready to extend the hand to save, as Britons? Tell me a nation
  that could meet our brave sons on equal terms in the field or on the
  wave; yet, if conquered, which of them but would sooner become a
  prisoner to a British sailor or soldier than any other? Theirs is
  not the frenzied courage like that inspired by fanaticism, ferocity,
  or brandy, which, after the first gust of passion, leaves its
  helpless, hopeless, panting possessor; no, ’tis that kind of
  round-after-round courage which will admit of thinking and command,
  and knows no abatement till wearied nature or death closes the
  scene. Fair play is a Briton’s motto; we would extend it to the
  extremities of the earth, no consequence what country, religion, or
  colour. The sable African, throwing aside the chains that levelled
  him with the beast, now walks erect, in the majesty of freedom and
  liberty, calling down blessings on the country that, in spite of all
  the world, burst his bonds asunder. If these are the symptoms that
  the country is brutalised by pugilism, long may she continue so!
  Long may she be the home for the exile—the defender of the
  oppressed—the best boxer—and the fairest arbiter of the world!

                                                       “TOM REYNOLDS.”


With hearty approval we commend “Old Tom’s” spirited “defence” to the
careful perusal of Sir Wilfrid Lawson, Messrs. Bright, Agnew, Richard,
the Stigginses, the saints and sinners of Exeter and St. James’s Halls,
and the Peace (at-any-price) Preservation Society.

DICK CURTIS (“THE PET”)—1820–1828.

For skill, neatness, finish, straight, and therefore swift, hitting, no
such boxer as Dick Curtis has appeared in the present century. His
weight, nine stone, and his height, five foot six, as a matter of course
precluded his appearance among the Champions; but, as Champion of the
Light Weights, Richard Curtis has had no superior, if any equal, in the
annals of pugilism.

He was decidedly the most perfect specimen of a miniature fighting man
of modern times. His science was, we might almost say, intuitive, his
judgment of time and distance extraordinary, his readiness in difficulty
most remarkable, his change from a position of defence to that of attack
instantaneous and astonishing, and his power of punishment, for so light
a man, unparalleled. Curtis was patronised by the most distinguished
admirers of pugilism of the period in which he lived, and throughout his
long career was never defeated, with the single exception of his last
battle, when with Perkins, of Oxford, to whom he was inferior by a stone
and two pounds in weight, as well as in length and height, he fell
before youth and stamina.

Richard Curtis was born in Southwark, on the 1st of February, 1802. He
came of a fighting family, his brothers John and George having both
figured in the ring. Young Dick’s first public appearance was at the age
of eighteen, on the well-known battle-field of Moulsey Hurst, where on
Tuesday, June 27th, 1820, in the same ring in which George Cooper had
just defeated Shelton, he entered the lists with Watson, a Westminster
boxer, of about ten stone. Watson was game, and fought desperately for
twenty-five minutes, when he cried “Enough!” and Curtis was hailed the
conqueror, almost without a mark. Curtis’s skill was so remarkable in
this _rencontre_ that two months afterwards some Corinthians, previously
to leaving town for the shooting season—which was then September—as
railroads had not brought grouse and the Scottish moors within hail of
the Metropolis, determined to see the smart young Bermondsey lad again
show his prowess. A match for £40 was accordingly made for him with a
well-known light weight, Ned Brown (the Sprig of Myrtle); and on Monday,
the 28th of August, 1820, Brown, waited on by Jack Martin and Paddington
Jones, tried to throw his hat into the ring on Wimbledon Common, in such
a smart gale that it blew it over, and away across the heath. Shortly
after, Curtis, attended by Josh Hudson and Tom Belcher, approached the
ropes; but his lily-white beaver shared the same fate, so that the omen
was negative. Both men were in good condition. The colours—a canary
yellow for Curtis, and a blue bird’s-eye for Brown—being tied to the
stakes, the men shook hands and began


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Brown, full of confidence, made an offer to hit, but Curtis
  was awake, and nothing was done. A long pause took place, each
  endeavouring to get an opening, when Brown rushed in to work; a
  change took place in the struggle to fib each other, when both went
  down, Brown undermost. (Great shouting; and Curtis for a trifle.)

  2.—This round occupied thirteen minutes, and the amateurs were
  delighted with the science and manliness displayed on both sides.
  Curtis hit at a longer distance, and nobbed Brown in great style.
  Both of these little ones displayed as much caution as if a million
  of money depended upon the event. To describe the stop-hits and
  getting away would occupy a page: suffice it to say that Brown’s
  right eye was nearly closed, and, after some desperate milling,
  Brown went down undermost. The great length of this round showed the
  good condition of both the combatants. Curtis appeared the weaker
  man.

  3.—Brown proved himself a fine and game fighter, but Curtis
  out-fought him, put in nobbers with the utmost dexterity, and also
  damaged his other eye. (Tom Owen sung out, “Go it, my white topper;
  it’s as right as the day.”) Both went down, Brown undermost. Two to
  one on Curtis.

  4.—This was a short round; in closing, Brown endeavoured to fib his
  opponent, but Curtis got down. (Any odds upon the latter.)

  5.—Brown displayed good tactics, and at in-fighting was quite
  clever. Curtis made some good nobbing hits, and Brown went
  staggering away; but the latter returned to the charge, and, in
  struggling for the throw, Brown dragged Curtis over the ring and
  downed him. (Brown for £20. Curtis seemed weak.)

  6.—This was rather a long round. Fibbing on both sides. Both down,
  Brown undermost.

[Illustration:

  DICK CURTIS (“THE PET”).
]

  7.—Curtis not only stopped in good style, but nobbed Brown away.
  After some exchanges at the ropes, Curtis dropped Brown by a blow on
  the side of the latter’s head.

  8.—This was a famous round; and, in closing, Brown broke away twice
  with great activity. The punishment was severe on both sides. Brown
  was ultimately hit down, as if shot, from a tremendous blow on his
  forehead. (Great shouting. The “Sprigs of Myrtle” all drooping, and
  the denizens of Caleb Baldwin’s dominions upon the fret. “It’s all
  over.”)

  9.—Brown, however, came first to the scratch. A severe struggle took
  place at the ropes, each too game to go down. (“Go down, Curtis,”
  from all parts of the ring.) Both at length fell, but Brown was
  undermost. (Here a near relative of Brown came close to the ropes,
  and told the seconds they were not doing right in not letting Brown
  “go in.”)

  10.—Brown recovered a little, made a rush, and the change was
  considered in his favour. Curtis got down cleverly.

  11, 12.—Both combatants excited the admiration of the ring by their
  fine fighting. In the last round Brown was hit down from a severe
  hit in the ribs. (Two and three to one.)

  13 to 15, and last.—Brown was floored in all these rounds on coming
  to the scratch; he was terribly punished, but the game he displayed
  was of the first quality. Here the patron of Brown stepped forward
  (a more gentlemanly, liberal, or distinguished character for
  humanity of disposition does not exist, nor a greater admirer of
  true courage is not to be found) and said, “My man shall not fight
  any more.”

  REMARKS.—A better battle has not been seen for many years; 57
  minutes of complete good fighting. Brown has fought eight prize
  battles, and proved the conqueror in the majority of them. Curtis,
  although a mere boy, bids fair to prove a teaser to any of his
  weight; he is a cautious boxer and a severe hitter. The amateurs
  never expressed greater satisfaction at any fight. It was the
  general opinion that although Curtis appeared weak two or three
  times in the conflict, yet the scale of victory was always on his
  side. It is true that Brown had no other chance to win but “going
  in;” yet the clever defence of Curtis rendered that plan equally
  dangerous.


Curtis’s next match was with Lenney, at Moulsey Hurst, on the 24th of
October, 1821. “At one o’clock,” says the reporter, “young Curtis, in a
white upper-benjamin, which would have set off a Regent-street ‘pink,’ a
brilliant canary round his throat, and a white beaver of the most
fashionable mould, showed arm-in-arm with the President of the Daffy
Club,[55] and threw his natty castor into the ring.” Lenney soon after
appeared, with the Gas-light man and Curtis’s old opponent, the Sprig of
Myrtle, and replied to the signal of defiance. Spring and Hickman
seconded Lenney; Tom Belcher and Harry Harmer officiated for Curtis. The
odds, within the previous two or three days, had changed in favour of
Lenney, on whom five to four was laid. The colours were tied to the
stakes by Spring and the President, who observed to the former, “I’ll
bet you a trifle that I take them down.”


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The condition of Curtis was that of the finest racehorse;
  blood and bone were conspicuous, and he appeared as confident as if
  the battle were over. Lenney was equally fine; he commenced the
  fight with the most determined resolution of being declared the
  conqueror. Curtis was in no hurry to make play: Lenney was also on
  his guard. After some little manœuvring, Curtis let fly on the nob
  of his opponent, without return. This hit operated as a sort of
  stopper, and some little sparring occurred. Lenney endeavoured to go
  to work, and some blows were exchanged. The science displayed by
  Curtis was fine in the extreme, and he planted two sharp facers,
  right and left, that floored Lenney on his face, and the claret
  trickled down his cheek. (Loud shouting, and two to one all round
  the ring.)

  2.—Lenney came to the scratch with a severe cut under his right eye.
  Curtis planted a severe body hit without a return; he also put in
  two severe facers. It was evident that Lenney could not protect his
  face from the out-fighting of his opponent, and to go in seemed
  equally dangerous. Curtis kept nobbing his man, and getting away
  with the utmost ease. In closing, Lenney was fibbed down, and Curtis
  fell upon him. (Thunders of applause, and “You’re a pretty boy,
  Curtis.”)

  3.—This was a short round; a close took place, and the fibbing
  tactics went on till Lenney went down.

  4.—The coolness of Curtis was the theme of the ring. He measured his
  distances with the accuracy of a mathematician, and nobbed his
  opponent with the severity of a hammer-man at an anvil. Lenney could
  make no impression on the mode adopted by Curtis. The latter
  followed Lenney up to the ropes, and, with his right hand, planted
  such a tremendous facer that it was heard all over the ring. In the
  struggle for the throw both combatants were hanging on the ropes;
  Curtis’s nose touched them, as they both came to the ground; but
  previous to this he put in some heavy blows on his opponent’s loins.

  5.—Lenney came like a gamecock to the scratch; but his nob had
  undergone a strange alteration. Some exchanges occurred. Curtis, by
  a dreadful right-handed blow, sent down his adversary like a shot.
  (Three to one. “What a beautiful fighter!” exclaimed Randall.)

  6, 7, 8.—Lenney stopped several blows with considerable skill; but
  his head was completely at the service of his opponent. Oliver made
  so sure of the event that he asked if any gentleman would oblige him
  by taking ten to two.

  9, 10.—The fine fighting of Curtis now rendered the battle quite
  safe to him; so much so, that he could take his time about it
  without danger. Curtis astonished the ring with his execution as
  well as his science: he put such a tremendous blow on Lenney’s mouth
  that his ivories were on the chatter like dice in a box, and he felt
  it so seriously that his left arm dropped for an instant. (“It’s all
  safe now—it’s the Bank of England to a screen,” was the chaffing
  throughout the crowd.)

  11, 12.—Lenney received so much punishment about the nob that he was
  quite groggy. Twenty to one was offered.

  13, 14, 15, 16, 17.—All these rounds were nearly similar to the
  preceding ones. Any odds.

  18 to 29, and last.—Lenney was game to the backbone, but he had not
  a shadow of chance. He ought to have been taken away several rounds
  previous to the last. He was hit out of time; and remained in a
  state of stupor for a short period. The battle occupied thirty-eight
  minutes and a half.

  REMARKS.—A more elegant or scientific fighter than Curtis was never
  seen in the Prize Ring. He could have won in half the time if he had
  wished, but he was determined not to give half a chance away,
  consequently no long rally took place in the battle. Curtis also
  proved the stronger man, and left the ring without a scratch upon
  his face; but his hands were much bruised from the severe punishment
  he had administered to his opponent. Lenney was carried out of the
  ring and put to bed. The attitude of the latter was not a judicious
  one; he leaned too far back, not only to do execution, but such a
  position must have distressed him much: in fact, Lenney could not
  reach Curtis with any degree of certainty. It seemed to be the
  general opinion of the Fancy that no one on the list of Curtis’s
  weight can beat him.


DICK AT EPSOM RACES.—Although it was nearly five o’clock before the last
race—the Maiden Stakes—was over, on Thursday, May 26th, 1822, and most
excellent sport had been afforded, yet numbers of the sporting
fraternity seemed to think the day was not exactly complete—that it
wanted a sort of finish. As some of the lads from the Metropolis were
upon the look-out for a little job, a mill was proposed by way of
dessert, and a subscription purse of £16 was collected in a very short
time. Little Dick Curtis, with as much blood as any horse upon the
course, made his bow to the amateurs, and said he had not the least
objection to peel, more especially as he had been cleaned out of all his
loose rag by backing Deaf Davis on the previous Tuesday. “You’re a good
lad,” replied a swell; “and it is a thousand pities you should be
suffered to remain idle.” A gipsy pricked up his ears upon hearing these
remarks, and offered himself to the notice of the “Pink of Society,”
just to have a small taste, for the amusement of the company, if his
honour had no objection. “Why,” said the pink, “you seem to have been a
little bit about the hedges lately. By your looks you are a gipsy. What
set do you belong to?” The brown-visaged hero, with pride, answered,
“The Coopers.” “That will do,” replied the swell; “show yourself at the
scratch without delay.” Dick Curtis was seconded by Ould Tom Jones and
Harry Holt; and Cooper was handled by Gipsy Cooper and another
“traveller.” Seven to four on Dick.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The Gipsy stripped well, and was what the fair sex term
  rather a handsome young man. He seemed, by the attitude he placed
  himself in, to meet his opponent as if he knew something about
  milling. Dick measured the Gipsy from head to foot with much
  confidence; but he was in no hurry to go to work. The Gipsy at
  length let fly, and missed, when Dick, lively as a dancing-master,
  put in some telling hits, and in the struggle the Bohemian went down
  amidst thunders of applause. (“Two to one!” lustily roared out.)

  2.—Dick came laughing to the scratch, as keen as a stockbroker and
  cunning as a fox, giving the wink to his friends it was all right.
  Still he would not hit first. The Gipsy was again gammoned to make
  play, when his domino box got as much slashing as if seven had been
  the main. The rattling of the ivories was repeated, and the Gipsy
  floored. (Five to one, and no takers.)

  3.—This round took the conceit out of the Gipsy, who ran furiously
  at Curtis, but the latter, with the utmost ease, stopped him, by
  giving him the pepper-box on his sensitive plant. Dick now commenced
  fighting, and put in four such complete facers that they made the
  Gipsy all abroad; he went down like a log. (Ten to one, and the
  multitude chevying from one end of the ring to the other, “What a
  prime little fellow Dick is!”)

  4.—This was short and sweet to Curtis; he sent the Gipsy down to
  cool himself on the turf for half a minute. (Any odds, but no
  takers.)

  5.—It was clear to the judges that it must be soon over, and that
  the Gipsy must be milled off-hand. Curtis again drew his cork, and
  the hero of the bush once more embraced his mother earth. It was all
  stuff to offer odds, for no person seemed inclined to take ten to
  one.

  6.—The pepper-box and vinegar cruet were again made use of by Dick,
  till the Gipsy had nearly let it escape out of his mouth that it was
  no go. Gipsy down.

  7, and last.—The Gipsy napped a rum one on his canister, and he went
  down immediately, saying “he would not fight any more, as he had not
  room enough for his strength.” Curtis gave a jump, and pocketed the
  purse almost without receiving a hit, exclaiming, “Success to Epsom
  Races!”

  REMARKS.—It is true it was a very bad ring, owing to the vast
  multitude that pressed in upon the boxers from all sides; but if the
  Gipsy had had the whole of Epsom Downs to shift in he would never
  have been able to defeat Curtis. The latter is decidedly one of the
  best boxers of the day; no commoners must think of having a turn
  with him, and first-rate fighters must make a pause before they
  enter the lists with Dick. Two bystanders gave Dick a sovereign each
  for winning, which he generously made a present of to the Gipsy.


It would unnecessarily swell the bulk of the present volume to reproduce
the numerous ring encounters in which Curtis was engaged during the
succeeding years, in which time he fought with Peter Warren no less than
five times, defeating that boxer on four occasions, and on the second
the contest terminating in a drawn battle. The dates and duration of
these are here given:—

1. Beat Peter Warren, 20 min., 10 rounds, £30 a-side, at Colnbrook, July
23rd, 1822.

2. Draw with Peter Warren, £25 a-side, 16 min., Moulsey, April 16th,
1823. On this occasion a wrangle and riot ended in the stakeholder
returning the stakes to each party’s backers. A third contest was
therefore arranged, for £50 a-side.

3. The third battle was decided at Crawley Hurst, July 8th, 1823. On
this occasion Warren was defeated in one round, occupying nine minutes
only, having sprained his kneecap so severely as to put him at once
_hors de combat_.

4. After defeating Dick Hares, as we shall presently detail, Curtis beat
Warren (£20 a-side) on Epsom Downs, in six sharp rounds, occupying eight
minutes only, and finally—

5. Defeated his pertinacious opponent at Warwick, in 7 rounds, time 16
minutes, for a stake of £100 to £90, on July 19th, 1825.

Dick Hares was in the interim matched with Curtis, for £50 a-side, to
come off April 13th, 1824, but the affair was prevented by an
information laid at Bow Street, and two officers were sent down to
Moulsey to stop the fight. It will perhaps raise a smile if we state the
“reason” assigned for this prompting of the magisterial energy. The
information of the “impending breach of the peace” was laid by a
theatrical manager, who, his house being shut up because it was “Passion
week,” did not see “why other public amusements should be tolerated”!
_Hinc illæ lachrymæ_, the laying of the information, and the
disappointment of the Fancy.

A new match was accordingly made, as neither party desired a “draw;” and
on Tuesday, July 8th, 1823, on Moulsey Hurst, on the ring being cleared
after Ned Neale had defeated Gaynor (see _ante_, Life of NEALE, PERIOD
IV., CHAP. V.), Hares, attended by Peter Crawley and Tom Shelton, threw
his hat within the ropes. Curtis followed, waited on by Josh Hudson and
Tom Owen, the Sage of the East, whose admiration of Curtis as a boxer
had been long loudly expressed. Curtis’s hat was about to go over the
ropes with the wind, when Bill Moss caught it cleverly in both hands,
and dropped it within the enclosure. Curtis fought under a yellowman,
and Hares sported an emerald green flag. Six to four on Curtis.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On stripping, the condition of Hares was the admiration of
  every amateur present. He looked like a new man, instead of an old
  one. Such are the advantages of training, if an athlete is not
  absolutely used up. “Curtis must be licked to-day; he has not
  stamina enough to get rid of Hares,” was the cry. We also heard Jack
  Randall express the same opinion. On setting-to, Curtis appeared
  well in health; but he looked thin, boyish, and little compared to
  his opponent. The attitudes of both men were pretty, and the anxiety
  of Curtis to get the first advantage remarkable. Hares too was eager
  to let fly, but he could not get an opening. Not so with the Pet; he
  embraced the first opportunity that presented itself, and his left
  hand alighted very heavily on the nose of Hares. An exchange of
  blows followed, in which Curtis received a small grain of pepper on
  his left cheek; but Hares napped a full dose. Standing still for a
  minute, nothing to be done. Curtis again let fly his left hand,
  which nearly sent Hares’s teeth on a journey down his throat. The
  men closed soon afterwards at the ropes, when the fibbing of Curtis
  was terrific—he spoiled the look of his man, got Hares down, and
  fell upon him. A deafening shout for Curtis, the “Bermondseys”
  nearly out of their senses with joy. Two to one on the Pet.

  2.—Hares was bleeding at the nose, his face much disfigured, and
  Curtis a little distressed and winking. Hares made an excellent
  stop. (“Well done, Hares!”) Dick put in another nobber, the claret
  following. Counter-hits, and Curtis received a heavy blow on his
  cheek. An exchange of blows, and no light play. Hares made another
  good stop. Curtis slipped a little near the ropes, when Hares ran up
  to him, and planted a heavy body hit; the Pet endeavoured to
  retreat, when his opponent stuck close to him, and put in another
  blow. Curtis recovered himself, and let fly his left hand in the
  middle of his opponent’s head. Counter-hits. Two more terrific,
  stupefying facers by Curtis, and no return. In closing, the fibbing
  administered by the Pet was tremendous, and Hares went down, Curtis
  uppermost. (“What an extraordinary little fellow! He hits as hard as
  Cribb. The other man has no chance; take him away.”)

  3, and last.—Hares came up game as a pebble; but his head was
  quite altered; and his seconds, with all their industry and
  attention, could not keep his face clean. Both offering, but
  nothing done. Hares stopped a tremendous nobber. Rather a long
  pause. “Go to work, Hares.” The latter made a second and also a
  third attempt with great skill; but after this time the execution
  was so decisive on the part of Curtis that it was positively one
  hundred pounds to a farthing. The left hand of Curtis went flush
  into the middle of Hares’s head; a profusion of claret followed.
  (“What a limner this Pet is!” said the Sage of the East to Josh.
  “I never saw such a painter before. Why, he is a master of colour!
  What an artist!”) The succession of hits planted by Curtis in the
  middle of Hares’s head, without return, was surprising. It was a
  nobber, and claret—ditto—ditto—ditto. “Take the brave fellow
  away,” said his backer—“I will not suffer him to fight any more.
  He has no chance.” But Hares, regardless of the humane entreaties
  of his friends, stood up to receive punishment till Nature
  deserted him, when he fell in a state of stupor. Curtis jumped for
  joy, but immediately ran up to shake the hand of the fainting
  Hares. He was at once carried off the ground, and medical advice
  procured. It is but justice to say that Shelton and Crawley
  deserve great praise for the humanity and attention they paid to
  the brave but fallen little man.

  REMARKS.—We have no hesitation in pronouncing the execution of
  Curtis the most decisive thing we ever witnessed in the Prize Ring.
  He won the fight with his left hand only, as he never made but two
  blows with his right hand during the battle. The Pet is the very
  first of boxers, and we think all pugilists will accede to the
  remark. He won the fight in twenty minutes, but did not prove the
  conqueror without receiving some heavy blows. Three or four
  tremendous hits were made by Hares. Although Curtis won the fight in
  such superior style he was certainly overmatched in weight and
  strength. The position of Curtis was so extremely fine that he was
  guarded at all points. Curtis dressed himself immediately, and
  walked about the ring receiving compliments from his friends. His
  left hand, however, if not quite gone, was terribly damaged.


Barney Aaron, whose weight was 10st., and who had beaten in succession
Ned Stockman, Lenney, Frank Redmond, and Peter Warren, now challenged
Curtis, and articles were signed for £100 a-side. The battle was to have
been decided on Tuesday, November 23rd, 1824, on the stage at Warwick,
after Josh Hudson and Cannon had settled their differences; but on this
occasion Curtis received forfeit of the battle-money, under very
suspicious circumstances as regarded some of the Israelitish
speculators, who had calculated on “getting at Curtis” in such a way as
to secure what was then called “a slice of ready-made luck.”

Soon after the match was made, Curtis being the favourite, such
eagerness was shown in certain quarters to take the odds, and
subsequently to lay even as much as six to four on the Jew “rather than
not do bishnesh,” that strong suspicions were excited, and a x, in which
Curtis was to “chuck the fight,” was publicly talked of. Alarm spread at
the sporting houses, and on inquiry Curtis came forward and declared
“that he had rather lose his life than his fame.” Upon this declaration
the odds veered about, and Curtis was the favourite at five to four,
giving chance, at any rate, of hedging. Then the assertions of dishonest
intentions became stronger, and Barney was declared a safe winner. Thus
matters stood when, some days previous to the big fight, Barney Aaron
and his backers left London for Leamington, and made their headquarters
at the “Crown.” In due time, also, Curtis and his friends arrived at
Warwick. Still such doubts existed that betting was at an end, until
some heavy stakes were sported on the night before the fight, at the
“George,” at Warwick, and Barney again taken for choice. At an early
hour in the day a report was circulated through the Race Stand that “the
fight was off.” This circumstance created regret among the true sporting
men. However, in a few minutes after Hudson and Cannon had left the
stage, Curtis appeared, attended by Tom Belcher and his backers, and
threw up his hat amidst loud cheers. Aaron was called for, but not
showing himself, Curtis addressed the multitude. He said, “I attended
here according to the articles, and I call upon Barney Aaron to face me
according to articles.” He repeated the challenge twice without reply
being made. Curtis then declared that “he would wait one quarter of an
hour, and if Aaron did not appear, he should claim the stakes, £100, as
a forfeit.” Previous to the quarter of an hour having elapsed, Curtis
wished it to be known that he would fight any man of his weight in the
world, for £200 a-side, and give half a stone.

Tom Belcher said he was the stakeholder, and the forfeit being claimed,
he considered it his duty to give the £100 to Curtis, according to the
rules of sporting. (“Perfectly correct, Tom,” from the spectators.)
Belcher then presented Curtis with a new £100 Bank of England note,
which the Pet smilingly deposited in his pocket. Belcher then took the
nattily shaped “Pet” on his back, and lightly carried him, amidst
laughter and applause, through the mud to the Grand Stand, where his
health was drunk in sparkling “cham” by his friends, backers, and the
admirers of straight-forward honesty.

At Ned Neale’s benefit at the Fives Court, two days after this fiasco,
Curtis and Aaron met in the most friendly manner. Curtis said: “I would
rather have fought for the money; but I am sure, Barney, it was not your
fault.”

Aaron then proceeded to explain. He said he was told the place was
Oxford, and there he was taken by his backers in a post-chaise, contrary
to his intention, which had been to meet Curtis. He had with him his
drawers and shoes. “Had I been licked,” said he, “which I don’t think I
should have been” (a laugh from Curtis), “I should have got some blunt;
but I have been regularly dished.” “I hope you will get backed,” replied
Curtis; “I know you’re a brave man, and I hope next time we shall have a
_comfortable_ fight!”

Some chaffering about the amount of stakes followed this interview;
Curtis proposing to fight for £200, and Aaron’s backers modestly
suggesting that Curtis (in consideration of the forfeit of £100—the
forfeit was only £50) should fight Barney £200 to £100. The subjoined
stanzas, conveying the challenge, seem of sufficient merit to deserve
snatching from oblivion:—

                   THE PET’S INVITATION.

         _Richard Curtis to Barney Aaron—Greeting._

       Come, Barney, ’tis Curtis, the Pet, who invites thee;
         No longer to fight for two hundred refuse;
       For while all the pride of “the Peoplesh” excites thee,
         You can’t need the needful, my star of the Jews!

       Remember the glories of ancient Mendoza,
         And hard-drinking, hard-hitting, shifting Dutch Sam;
       Think on old Ikey Pig, and Big Bittoon, who knows thee,
         With the rush of a lion, yet mild as a lamb.

       What though Mrs. Aaron thy mug may delight in,
         And thinking of black eyes, turns fretful and wan?
       She’ll say, when convinced that you really mean fighting,
        “Mine husband, Cot plesh him, ’s a brave little man.”

       I’ll own that as good as e’er pulled off a shirt is
         The lad I now call to the old milling game;
       And remember, friend Barney, though challenged by Curtis,
         No _Cur_-’tis invites to combat for fame.

       Then try all the good ones who live in the Minories,
         Kick the shins of the dwellers in Petticoat Lane—
       Get blunt, which of all sorts of milling the sinew is;
         Drop chaffing, and take to fair fighting again.

       _August 28th, 1825._

                        THE STAR’S ANSWER.

                _Barney Aaron to Richard Curtis—Greeting._

            I come, Mr. _Cur_-’tis the Star of the Sheenies
              Who advances to pluck from thy brow the high crest,
            With a _sufficit quantum_ of courage—and guineas—
              To lower thy _caput_, my Flower of the West.

            You fought Peter Warren a hundred to ninety,
              Then why not fight me for the first-mention’d name?
            But being all bounce you the scratch will not come to,
              To show your much-vaunted pretensions to fame.

            You say that the ochre—the metal—the rhino,
              Is flush ’mong the Sheenies of Petticoat Lane;
            ’Tish more scarsh nor you think—I vish it vash mine, oh!
              I’d fight for my losht reputation again.

            Now hear! For one hundred, I’m ready to fight you,
              Surely, out of mere fairness, you cannot refuse;
            You’ll have to contend with no Warren, my _Cur_-tis,
              But with brave Barney Aaron, the Star of the Jews!

    DUKE’S PLACE,
        _September 3rd, 1825_.

These poetic effusions, with a dozen prosy letters to boot, failed to
bring the men to terms.

Curtis was now indeed “the Pet of the Fancy;” no sparring exhibition of
any pretension was perfect in its programme without the Light weight
Champion displayed his skill in the art of which he was such a
consummate master; and as Dick never hesitated to put on the gloves, and
give away a stone or two and a few inches, the disparity of his
opponents added a keener interest than usual to his demonstrations. The
newspapers of the period are full of them. Curtis was now perforce idle,
for there was no boxer near his weight who could get matched against
him. Of course he was the object of envy to many of the fraternity, and
as

             “Envy doth merit like its shade pursue,
             And by the shadow proves the substance true,”

so with one Mister Edward Savage, whose anger at the want of
appreciation of his own merits, and the favour lavished on “the Pet,”
carried him beyond all bounds of common civility. Edward Savage, an
eleven stone man, was one of three Savages, the others named William and
Cab. (or Jack) Savage, who were professed boxers. Ned Savage, on the
evening of the 5th of August, 1825, entered the parlour of Tom
Belcher’s, the “Castle,” Holborn, where Curtis and other friends were
taking their whiff and their wet. The conversation turning upon
pugilistic affairs, Mister Savage made some most insulting remarks upon
the diminutive size of Curtis, coupled with regrets that he (Savage)
could not get himself down to ten stone (Dick had challenged all comers
and to give a stone), and concluded with a ruffianly threat of what he
would do if Curtis would “give him a chance.” The Pet was about to leave
when Savage, true to his name, struck him severely in the eye. The
return on Mister Savage’s optic was made with lightning celerity, and
the next instant the little one had his man round the neck, and
delivered a succession of left-handers of such cutting severity that
when Savage got down his head was a piteous spectacle. The company now
interfered, but Curtis declared that he “must teach this Savage a
lesson.” Savage rushed in blind with rage, and it is charity to suppose
somewhat upset by liquor, when he was met by one, two, three steadiers
in the head, his returns being parried, until he fairly staggered down.
The affair now became a regular battle. Curtis threw off his upper
garments, and Savage did the same. Savage rushed at his man so fiercely
that Dick, stepping aside, delivered his blow on the ear of a bystander,
to the man’s great astonishment and the amusement of the company, while
Curtis simultaneously delivered alternately with both hands in such
style that Savage turned away from the punishment. He was, however,
game, if nothing else, and came up as receiver-general until the
sixteenth round, when he was so completely cut up and beaten that he
cried, “Enough!” Not more than sixteen minutes elapsed from the first
assault to the close of this unexpected performance, the description of
which by a few of the scientific spectators raised the fame of Curtis to
a height hardly exceeded by that attained by his victories in the
twenty-four foot. Tom Belcher’s concluding remark when narrating this
little episode used to be—“It wouldn’t be lucky for some of us if Dick
was twelve stone. There wouldn’t be much chaff about who would be
Champion then”—a remark in which the heavy weights present usually
coincided, some of them perhaps with a slight mental reservation in
favour of his own brave self.

A ridiculous encounter with Ned Stockman, on the day of the fight
between Gaynor and Bishop Sharpe (Tuesday, May 16th, 1826) is recorded.
In this affair Stockman, after challenging Curtis and offering to fight
him, laid down like a cur after a single round, as recorded in the
reports of the time.

This brings us to the match at length arranged, by the concession of
Curtis, for £100 a-side, with Barney Aaron. The battle came off on
Tuesday, February 27th, 1827, at Andover, Hants, upon a stage erected in
a field at the back of the “Queen Charlotte” public-house, opposite that
where Spring defeated Neale, in 1823, one mile from the town. The stage
was erected by the townspeople free of expense, and upwards of forty
wagons were sent to form an outer ring by the jolly Hampshire farmers of
the neighbourhood. The pugilistic division from London was in great
force. Jem Ward, Tom Oliver, Ben Burn, Young Gas (Jonathan Bissell),
Harry Holt, Ned Neale, with Fogo the Laureate and Joe Fishwick the
Commissary, had joined the wagon-train. Curtis, valeted by Young Dutch
Sam, took up his quarters at the “White Hart,” and Barney Aaron and
Gipsy Cooper at the “Catherine Wheel,” opposite. Curtis was the
favourite, at five to four. At one o’clock Barney, accompanied by Mr.
Nathan and Jem Ward, ascended the stage amidst loud cheering. Curtis,
attended by his backer, and Josh Hudson with Ben Burn, soon followed,
and were welcomed with acclamation. The men then shook hands, and the
colours were tied to the stakes; a bright yellow for Curtis and a deep
red with yellow spots for the Israelite; and the battle commenced.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The Pet, as he exhibited in buff, gave great delight and
  satisfaction to his numerous friends. His condition was acknowledged
  to be quite tip-top. He might have been compared to the finest
  racehorse for blood, game, and bone; in fact, the _tout ensemble_ of
  the Pet was the picture of a fine-framed man in miniature. His arms
  were beautiful. The Star of the East was equally bright; he had done
  everything to improve his strength during his preparation, and he
  appeared at the scratch a robust, vigorous, athletic young man. In
  elegance, ease, and grace, Angelo, O’Shaughnessy, or Roland, with
  the foils, could not have exhibited more taste in the polite
  accomplishment of fencing than did the attitudes and arms of Curtis
  and Aaron exhibit in the art of self-defence. Both combatants were
  armed _cap-à-pie_; it was an eye against an eye, toe for toe, arm
  opposed to arm, caution matched with caution; if one was “down” the
  other was “up”—it was, “I won’t have it!” on both sides; in short,
  it was diamond cut diamond. Such were the boxers opposed to each
  other in this great trial of skill. Barney, unlike the character of
  his milling in his previous battles, preferred the “look-out” to the
  rush; he being well aware of the great talent, judgment, and
  finishing qualities of his opponent, and determined not to give the
  slightest chance away. The Pet, like an accomplished general, soon
  perceived that his adversary was nothing else but a difficult one,
  and not to be gammoned upon old suits: indeed, that nothing but the
  utmost skill was necessary to be with him upon any point. For
  several minutes the spectators were delighted with the extreme
  caution displayed on both sides, and at the same time the readiness
  which Curtis and Aaron displayed should any opening offer for the
  exercise of their fists. Curtis looked as it were into the “very
  soul” of his adversary, and the richness of the “Jew’s eye” was of
  an equally penetrating description. Barney waited for the Pet to
  commence offensive operations, but Curtis, finding that nothing
  could be done without great danger to himself, retreated slowly
  towards the corner of the stage, the Star of the East following him
  leisurely. The interest of the scene was intense, and every peeper
  on the stretch to witness mischief. Barney, with great spirit and
  tact, went in, and gave Dick pepper with his right and left hands on
  his face. (“Beautiful!” from the Sheenies.) The Pet countered
  slightly. Barney, in closing, endeavoured to fib his opponent, but
  Dick bolted (“Hallo! what’s the matter?”) and cleverly got out of
  trouble. The Pet turned quickly, and again met his man; an exchange
  of blows followed, and in closing they tried each other’s strength
  severely, when both went down, Curtis undermost. (Loud shouting for
  Barney, and “Where’s your two to one?”) The claret was seen on
  Dick’s mouth. “First blood” was declared in favour of Aaron.

  2.—Curtis had always entertained a good opinion of the milling
  qualities of his opponent, but he was now completely satisfied that
  he was not only a troublesome customer, but a better man than any
  who had previously stood before him. Slow and sure appeared the
  order of the day on both sides. Aaron was not to be had by any
  stratagem practised by Curtis. The latter, however, gradually
  retired to the end of the stage, Barney in attendance upon him.
  Counter-hits were given, and both told. The Jew went to work in the
  most manly style, and the counter-hits were admirable. In closing
  Barney endeavoured to fib his opponent, but the Pet returned hard
  and fast, and it was difficult to say which had the best of it.
  Barney was ultimately thrown, but Dick also went down. The Pet-ites
  now began to let loose their red rags, and Curtis was hailed with
  shouts of applause.

  3.—This round was “as long as Paterson’s Road Book.” Each of their
  mugs exhibited the handiwork of the other, and Barney’s peepers had
  been measured for a “suit of mourning.” The Pet was cautious, and
  his face bespoke that he had all his work to do to change the battle
  in his favour. Barney was equally shy, and kept a good look-out.
  Curtis, finding that he could not make an impression, tried once
  more the retreating system, but Barney was after him, though his
  blows were skilfully stopped by the Pet. Counter-hitting, and Jack
  as good as his master. Curtis’s right eye received a sharp taste,
  but the Jew had the favour returned with interest. A pause, and
  nothing like mischief for a short period. Barney at length let fly
  on the Pet’s chaffing-box, and the claret followed, which appeared
  rather troublesome to Curtis. The admirers of scientific fighting
  had a perfect treat, both men being prepared at every point. Curtis
  seemed rather fatigued, put down his hands for an instant, and the
  Jew followed his example. The truth is, the conduct of Barney in not
  availing himself of his weight and length not only surprised all his
  friends, but astonished the backers of Curtis. The disinterested
  part of the audience viewed it as a doubtful thing. Barney at last
  went to work, and planted two successful hits. Some sharp exchanges.
  In closing, fibbing was the order of the day, and the pepper-box
  changed hands in rapid succession. The men broke ground, and Dick
  adopted his skilful mode of retreating. The Star of the East went
  after him, and in the corner of the stage planted a severe blow on
  his throat, which made Dick gulp again. In closing, after a severe
  struggle, Curtis went down undermost, and Barney upon one knee.
  (“Vell done, Barney!” from the Sheenies.) The backers of Curtis,
  although not positively afraid, yet candidly acknowledged they had
  hitherto thought too little of Aaron.

  4.—The face of Dick did not exhibit his usual gaiety of expression.
  His mind was at work to attack his opponent upon a new system. In
  short, we never saw him so puzzled before in any of his contests.
  The pause was long, and nothing done. Jem Ward, who had hitherto
  been silent, now exclaimed, “It will be—‘who’d ha’ thought it?’ We
  shall win!” Barney cleverly hit the Pet away, and some little
  workmanship took place between them, when the left mauly of Dick
  caught Barney’s nob, and he went down partly on his knees. It could
  scarcely be considered a knock-down blow. The Pet-ites were again
  liberal with their applause, and seven to four offered.

  5.—Those persons who had witnessed the severity of execution done by
  Dick in his fights with gloves expected that he would have nobbed
  the Jew off-hand. But the science and caution of Barney astonished
  the ring-goers. Sharp counter-hits. The fighting was good on both
  sides, and both nobs were damaged. The right cheek of the Star of
  the East napped a severe cut. In closing the struggle was great to
  obtain the throw, when the Pet, by a sudden impulse, gave Barney a
  hoist between the ropes. He would have fallen at least six feet to
  the ground, but fortunately for the Star of the East a wagon had
  been placed near the stage for the accommodation of the reporters,
  umpires, and referee. Pierce Egan and another scribbler caught hold
  of Barney by the arm and his leg, and rescued the Jew from his
  perilous situation. Like one of the gamest of the game Barney jumped
  up and exclaimed, “I am not hurt, it’s all right,” and reascended
  the stage amidst thunders of applause.

  6.—Of course the agitation and shock sustained by the above
  accident, added to the shortness of the time, only half a minute, to
  return to the scratch, were considerably against him. Yet he set to
  in the most manly way, and gave Dick not a very light one on his
  pimple. The latter countered as quick as lightning. Milling on both
  sides for a short period, until they separated. Both careful, and
  upon the look-out for an opening. A rally occurred, in which Dick
  rather took the lead, and Barney’s head received severe punishment.
  The Jew at length went down upon his hands. (“You have got him now,
  Curtis, only go to work!” said the boys of the Borough. “He knows
  better,” answered a Sheeny; “Curtis will be in trouble if he does!”)

  7.—The countenance of Curtis now became cheerful, and he gave the
  “office” to his friends that the fight was his own. Dick was
  evidently improved, but Barney, game as a pebble, commenced
  fighting. The Pet retreated with advantage, and as Barney followed
  him he planted one, two, and a third facer in succession. The Jew,
  good as gold, would not be denied, went in to work, caught hold of
  Dick, and fibbed with all his strength; Curtis was not behindhand.
  In struggling for the throw Curtis went down easy, but was
  undermost. Two to one on Curtis, and lots of shouting.

  8.—The Pet was decidedly getting the best of it, yet the strength of
  Barney was by no means so reduced as to indicate that the fight
  would soon be over. Barney went to work, and a sharp rally was the
  result. Some hard hits passed between them, and Curtis received a
  teaser on his jaw. In closing both went down. The Sheenies did not
  desert their man, and cheered him with applause.

  9, and last.—Dick, though quite satisfied in his own mind he was now
  winning the fight, was as cautious as if he had yet all his work to
  do. The head of Barney was rather out of shape, and the nob of
  Curtis was a little changed. Sparring for a short time, when Dick
  made himself up for mischief, and mischievous he certainly was. With
  his left he put in a tremendous blow upon his opponent’s throat.
  Barney went down like a shot—flat upon his back—his heels up, and
  was utterly insensible when time was called. Curtis so well knew
  that he had settled the business that he went up immediately to the
  time-keepers to wait for their decision. The Pet jumped for joy, and
  was proclaimed the victor, amidst the shouts of the surrounding
  populace. Josh Hudson hoisted the Pet upon his shoulders and carried
  him to his post-chaise, huzzaing all the way. The fight lasted fifty
  minutes.

  REMARKS.—Such a real, scientific battle on both sides has not been
  seen for many a long day: indeed, no lover of the Fancy would have
  thought two hundred miles any distance to have witnessed the
  superior tactics displayed by Curtis and Aaron. The Pet, high as he
  stood before on the roll of pugilists, raised himself to the top of
  the tree by this victory. Curtis has now proved the conqueror in
  eleven prize battles. As we have already said, we never saw Dick so
  puzzled before, and until he had reduced the Jew to his weight the
  first four rounds were of a doubtful character. Without exception
  the Pet must be pronounced the most efficient boxer in the
  pugilistic world. We cannot say more. At the same time it is equally
  true that Barney Aaron, if not exactly at the top of the tree, is
  very near to it. That is to say, if Curtis ranks as number one,
  number two of the light weights belongs to the brave little Sheeny.
  He is still the Star of the East, and instead of having fallen in
  the estimation of his friends by this defeat, his fine fighting,
  manly conduct, and fair play must raise him in the eyes of the
  sporting world. Curtis did not weigh nine stone, and Barney just
  drew ten. The severity of the blow which Aaron received on his
  throat operated so strongly that he did not come to himself for
  nearly an hour. To use Barney’s own words, he said, “I do not know
  that I could have won the battle, but had I not received that blow
  on my throat, which fairly hit me out of time, I am certain I could
  have fought for half an hour longer.” Curtis, before he left
  Andover, called upon his fallen and brave opponent and presented him
  with a guinea, and acknowledged that he was the best man he had ever
  fought with. A subscription of six pounds was also made on the
  ground, collected by one of the backers of Curtis.


Curtis was next backed to fight Jack Tisdale for £120 to £100.

Staines, on the Windsor road, was the great rallying point, and
Shirley’s, the “New Inn,” the house of call upon the above occasion.
Every room was full of milling visitors. In the stables, although
extensive, the prads were riding over one another, the yard filled with
drags of all sorts, and lots of customers could not find the slightest
accommodation. Such were the attractions of the two heroes, the Pet of
the Fancy and Jack Tisdale.

Between nine and ten in the morning of Tuesday, October 9th, 1827, the
men met according to appointment to ascertain their weight, as required
by the articles. Curtis proved to be no more than eight stone nine
pounds and three-quarters, and Tisdale eight stone eight pounds. Curtis,
in the most confident style, betted two sovereigns to one with Tisdale,
after which the men retired to their inns, Curtis to Shirley’s and
Tisdale to the Swan Inn, near the bridge, at Staines.

Curtis was decidedly the favourite throughout the whole of the match, at
seven to four, two to one, and higher odds. Tisdale was always viewed as
a good little man, but it was considered he had entirely left the ring,
five years having elapsed since his last battle with Lenney. Tisdale was
highly respected by his numerous friends. He had made up his mind to win
and nothing else, and assured his backers that if he could but get at
Dick, and he thought he could, victory would crown his efforts.

The heavy rain did not damp the ardour of the visitors, and the ring was
surrounded by thousands of spectators. Within a mile and a half of the
town of Staines, in a meadow in the county of Bucks, almost opposite the
race-course at Egham, was the spot of ground selected for action.

At the appointed time Tisdale made his appearance, and threw his castor
into the ring, followed by two good ould ones, Jack Randall and Bill
Cropley, as his seconds. He was well received. In a few minutes
afterwards the Pet, in a military cloak, repeated the token of defiance,
waited upon by the John Bull Fighter and Young Dutch Sam. Lots of
applause for Curtis. Tisdale and Curtis shook hands together in the most
hearty style. The colours, yellow for Curtis and blue for Tisdale, had
been tied to the stakes by Hudson and Cropley. The hands were crossed
together by all parties and the battle commenced.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—On peeling Curtis looked extremely thin, nevertheless he
  was quite well. He had reduced himself during his training nearly
  fourteen pounds, but he was lively, strong, and well to all intents
  and purposes. It was a dangerous experiment for a light man like
  Curtis, but to use his own words, he assured his friends he was
  never better in the whole course of his life. Tisdale was as good as
  he could be made by the wholesome effects of training, and also
  inspired with the highest confidence that success would crown his
  efforts. In point of youth the Pet had the best of it. The attitude
  of Curtis was a picture, and he appeared to the spectators a master
  of the art of boxing. The style of Tisdale was not so imposing as
  his accomplished fistic rival, but it was firm, calculated to
  receive the attack, and formed an excellent outline of a scientific
  pugilist. Dick measured his opponent from head to foot, keeping a
  good look-out for squalls, anxious to give, but not to receive.
  Tisdale was also leary, but his guard was low. The Pet viewed his
  rival as a dangerous customer, and like a skilful general was
  determined not to give half a chance away; he not only worked hard
  with his hands, but he was likewise perpetually on the move with his
  feet. Plenty of caution was exhibited on both sides. “Do not be
  gammoned,” was the advice of Randall and Cropley to Tisdale. The
  interest was intense amongst the spectators to witness the lead
  taken on either side. Tisdale attempted to plant a blow, but Dick
  got away like a dancing-master. Tisdale repeated the attempt twice,
  when ditto, ditto, on the part of the Pet was the time of day. A
  sort of stand-still followed, both keeping prime lookouts, like
  experienced pilots. Curtis made an offer, but Tisdale was awake. The
  Pet, after manœuvring in his best style, at length let fly his right
  and left, when Tisdale, with admirable skill, parried both hits,
  amidst loud applause from the surrounding crowd. A short pause. “It
  will be a long fight,” said the amateurs. Tisdale made another neat
  parry. Dick, as if it appeared to his mind he had got his opponent,
  hit out one, two, reached the canister of Tisdale, then rushed in to
  his work and fibbed away. Tisdale endeavoured to return the
  compliment, but without effect, was ultimately thrown, and
  undermost. (It might be said not much was the matter, but the
  Bermondsey boys let loose their red rags, and odds to any amount
  were offered. This round occupied nearly nine minutes.)

  2.—Tisdale wished to go to work, but Dick would not have it. Curtis
  with great force put in a facer without return. (“Beautiful!” from
  his friends.) Tisdale slightly touched the body of his adversary.
  Both made themselves up for mischief, and two prime counter-hits
  were the result. The Pet planted a ribber, which made Tisdale blow
  for breath. Both on the look-out. Curtis hit out right and left with
  effect, but in return he napped a rum one on his ear. Some exchanges
  occurred, when Dick, with great impetuosity, planted two blows that
  were heard all over the ring, and Tisdale went down. The effect was
  so heavy that Tisdale for the instant scarcely knew where he was,
  and he put up his hand to keep Dick off.

  3.—The handiwork of the Pet was visible to all the ring—a lump on
  Tisdale’s forehead, and his left eye damaged. Dick soon planted a
  nobber. A pause. Dick got away from mischief. Tisdale endeavoured to
  plant some hits, but Dick retreated in the most masterly style.
  Tisdale again missed several hits, owing to the retreating jumps of
  Curtis. Dick also made some beautiful stops. Tisdale satisfied his
  friends that he was a brave little man, although he could not get
  the lead. The skill evinced by Curtis was much admired. He gammoned
  his opponent to come and fight, and then punished him for his
  temerity. Dick again made his one, two, good, which produced some
  severe in-fighting, decidedly in favour of the Pet. In closing, both
  down, Tisdale undermost. (“Odds?” cried Josh; “why, you may bet
  anything, and no mistake! It’s one hundred to a rump steak, and I’ll
  lay the hundred pounds.”)

  4.—The Bermondseys were all in high spirits. Tisdale made play
  without effect, Dick being ready for his opponent at all points.
  Tisdale, rather wild from the one, two, of his opponent, hit at
  random. In closing Dick got the best of the fibbing, and Tisdale was
  again thrown. (“Meat in Newgate Market must rise to-morrow,” said
  the John Bull Fighter, “to cover the losses of the kill-bulls.”)

  5.—Upwards of a minute elapsed before anything was attempted between
  the combatants, so much caution was observed on both sides. Tisdale
  was on the alert to effect a turn, but Dick was up to his movements.
  The latter also neatly, and with great force, planted two hits
  without return. Tisdale at length got into work, and some sharp
  blows were exchanged. Tisdale showed “first blood,” from the mouth,
  which was announced to the ring by Josh Hudson. In closing Tisdale
  went down.

  6.—The steadiness displayed by Tisdale was much admired. He came
  cheerfully to the scratch, and tried to punish the Pet, but the
  latter stopped him with ease. The right hand of Curtis made a
  smashing hit on Tisdale’s left ogle, but the Newgate Market hero
  quick as lightning countered, and produced the claret from Dick’s
  ear. (“My eye,” said Cropley to Randall, “that was a teaser!”) Dick
  tried all his skill to draw Tisdale again into his clutches, but
  Jack was not to be had, and a long pause ensued. Curtis jobbed with
  his left hand, nevertheless Tisdale returned the charge like nothing
  but a good one. The men fought their way into a rally, and pepper on
  both sides was the order of the day, until they broke away. This
  round was decidedly the best that had taken place; and although it
  was the general opinion that Dick would prove the conqueror, it was
  admitted at the same time that he would have his work to do. Tisdale
  could not plant his hits effectually, the Pet was so good upon his
  legs. Curtis in great style stopped a rib-roaster, and patted his
  arm, laughing at Tisdale. A rally was the tie-up of this round, to
  the advantage of Curtis, and Tisdale fell with his back upon the
  ropes. Several bets were now lost that Dick won the battle in half
  an hour.

  7.—This round was a touch of the polish. Dick had it all his own
  way. He jobbed and jobbed again, without any return, and closed the
  round by throwing the hero of Newgate Market.

  8.—Dick, although so much in his favour, was still cautious,
  determined to make his conquest complete. The left hand of the Pet
  in numerous instances operated like the kick of a horse on the nob
  of Tisdale. The latter retreated to the ropes, followed by Curtis,
  when Dick took the lead in weaving, and a severe struggle for the
  throw took place. During the time Tisdale was balancing upon the
  ropes, and apprehensive of the punishment he was about to receive
  from Curtis, he said, “Dick, don’t hit me now.” “I will not,”
  replied Dick, and laying hold of Tisdale’s hand he pulled him up,
  and led him into the middle of the ring, amidst tumultuous applause.
  The battle was now severe indeed, and Tisdale hit wide and wild; the
  Pet planted a facer, when they both went to work like
  out-and-outers. Give and take, and summat the matter on both sides;
  the nose of Curtis appeared as if it had been scraped with a knife.
  The face of Tisdale had now assumed an altered aspect, and,
  according to the phrase of the Ring, his uncles and aunts would have
  doubted his relationship, his frontispiece was so completely
  altered. To add to Tisdale’s already damaged head, Dick again
  planted two jobbers, and Tisdale was floored. (Hats were thrown up,
  the Bermondsey coves shouting and dancing, and odds as extravagant
  as St. Paul’s to a cockle-shell offered.)

  9.—Short. Tisdale suffering under the severity of punishment hit at
  random. This sort of conduct suited Curtis; he took advantage of the
  mistake, and by a hit on the domino box sent Tisdale to his mother
  earth.

  10.—A brave man will always claim admiration, and a braver or better
  little man was never seen in the twenty-four foot than Jack Tisdale.
  But his superior in tactics stood before him. The coolness which had
  previously distinguished the conduct of Tisdale was gone by, and the
  repeated irritating blows had excited his passion; at all events, he
  threw several blows away. He would not be denied, and he bored Dick
  nearly to the ropes. In stopping a sort of kill-bull blow Dick
  slipped down on his latter end. This circumstance gave a little bit
  of new life to his friends, and Tisdale was loudly cheered.

  11.—A few persons seemed to think that Dick was weak, but he soon
  convinced his partisans to the contrary. Dick got away from
  mischief, but was exceedingly mischievous in the return, and the
  nose of the hero of Newgate Market received a hit enough to have
  satisfied any common glutton. Tisdale, undismayed, never flinched,
  and returned sharply on Curtis’s chin. (“Hallo!” cried Cropley,
  “Master Dick, you have napped it.”) Dick, waiting for a turn, tried
  every move on the board to have the best of it; he planted a facer,
  repeated the dose, then tried it a third time with success. (“Blow
  my dickey!” said Josh; “why, I never saw a footman knock at a door
  half so stylish as Dick is paying his respects to Mr. Tisdale!”) The
  hero of Newgate Market stood up with the firmness of a brick,
  counter-hitting, and exerting himself to win, until Dick punished
  him in all directions at the ropes. In struggling for the throw Dick
  had the best of it, and Tisdale was undermost. (Curtis, during the
  time he was sitting upon the knee of his second, informed his backer
  he could put on the polish and win it in a canter. “No,” was the
  reply, “take your time; it is all your own; win at your leisure.”)

  12.—This round had hardly commenced when a facer was planted by
  Curtis. Tisdale, quite wild, followed Dick over the ring, but Curtis
  put on another opera step, and nothing was the matter. Tisdale again
  went to work, but the skipping back of Curtis made him all right.
  The Pet put in a jobber, ditto, and ditto, repeated. The gluttony
  displayed by Tisdale called forth not only admiration, but pity. The
  Newgate Market hero made himself up for mischief, tremendous
  counter-hits occurred, and the claret was seen from the nose of
  Curtis. Yet nothing could take the fight out of the Pet. Tisdale
  wildly following him received punishment at every step. In closing
  Tisdale underwent fibbing, and was also thrown.

  13.—This round had nearly proved a _finale_. Tisdale now became
  desperate, and plunged headlong to work, regardless of consequences.
  Dick stopped him, got away with ease, and punished his opponent
  severely. A pause ensued, Dick as cautious as when he commenced the
  battle. The appearance of Tisdale was really piteous, but he still
  kept the game alive, and did his best for himself and friends to
  obtain victory. The Pet soon got an opening, and hit poor Tisdale to
  a perfect stand-still; his hands dropped, he staggered, and fell
  down. (“Take him away,” said Josh; “it is a shame to let such a
  brave fellow be punished without the shadow of a chance to win.”)

  14.—When time was called Tisdale answered it, but he was as groggy
  as a sailor three sheets in the wind—“yes, and worse than that
  ’ere,” as the John Bull Fighter observed, Tisdale scarcely knowing
  what he was about—in fact, he was quite abroad, dealing his blows at
  random. Dick hopped out of the way of mischief, then planted a
  facer, which gave his opponent the staggers. Tisdale fell on his
  hand and knee, but being too game to consider the round at end,
  immediately got up to renew the fight, when the Pet ran up to him
  and sent him down. “Foul!” and “Fair!” were the cries—the umpires
  disagreed, but the referee considered it fair. The conduct of Curtis
  might have been censured as not exactly polite or gentlemanly, as
  Scroggins said, nevertheless it was perfectly fair, as Tisdale rose
  upon his legs to renew the battle. In the first instance Tisdale was
  about leaving the ring, but upon hearing the referee’s decision he
  returned to renew the fight.

  15.—The time gained by the wrangle was good for Tisdale. He put up
  his hands at the scratch, then recollecting himself said it was
  “foul conduct,” left Curtis, went up to the umpires, and asked “what
  he was to do?” “Why, fight on,” replied the referee, “if you do not
  mean to lose the fight.” It is worthy of remark that Curtis never
  took any advantage of Tisdale’s movements, which he might have done.
  Some of the spectators had now left their places in the outer ring,
  and all was glorious confusion.

  16.—This round was all upon the bustle, and whips and sticks were at
  work to keep the ring clear. The battle was now reduced a horse to a
  hen; Tisdale was of no use, and Curtis hit him down. (“Don’t leave
  the ring, Dick, till you finish the fight properly,” observed his
  friends.)

  17, and last.—Tisdale again appeared at the scratch, but it was only
  to receive additional punishment. Dick was at him without delay, and
  Tisdale was again down at the ropes. On time being called Tisdale
  did not appear at the scratch. Curtis went up to him, when Randall
  said, “It is all over,” and Tisdale also added that “he would not
  fight any more.” The John Bull Fighter, after putting the colours,
  the fruits of victory, round the neck of the Pet, hoisted him on his
  shoulders, and carried him in triumph to his drag, amidst loud
  shouting. The fight was over in fifty-eight minutes.

  REMARKS.—From the beginning to the end of the mill it never appeared
  to us that Tisdale had a chance of winning. In observing thus much
  it is not meant to convey an opinion to our readers that Tisdale is
  not a good boxer—the contrary is the fact. He is one of the best
  little men of his weight in the kingdom; he stands well upon his
  legs; he can stop like a tactician, hits hard, and possesses a
  capital knowledge of boxing. His courage is of the highest order,
  and his game unquestionable. He is not disgraced in surrendering to
  Curtis, the irresistible Champion of the Light Weights. Many
  spectators felt disappointed that Curtis did not do more with
  Tisdale at the beginning of the battle, as the friends of Curtis
  declared that Tisdale would be polished off _sans cérémonie_. But
  Curtis was not to be led away by the high praises of his backers,
  and like a skilful general he treated his adversary as a dangerous
  opponent. Curtis did not escape without some sharp punishment about
  the head, but in comparison with Tisdale’s it was trifling in the
  extreme.


Curtis, from his unbroken career of conquest in the Prize Ring, might
now be compared to the celebrated Eclipse, who, having won all the
King’s Plates he went for, was “cried down;” for the Pet was so
decidedly excellent in his tactics that he was left without an opponent.

Some injudicious persons at this period began an idle newspaper
controversy on the comparative merits of Curtis and Jack Randall, full
of vulgar personalities; and the latter boxer, in the month of October,
1827, allowed a letter to appear with his signature in _Pierce Egan’s
Life in London_, in which he offered to fight Curtis “in _four months_
from the time of making the match, for £300 to £1,000 (!) either on a
stage or the turf,” “money always ready at the Hole in the Wall,
Chancery Lane.” To which Curtis replied that “his weight was nine
stone,” but he would “give half a stone, and fight Mr. Randall, or any
other man, for £100 to £300.” This buncombe of course meant nothing.
Indeed, poor Jack was already doing battle with the universal conqueror,
who gave him the finishing blow within six months of this ridiculous
challenge.

Curtis took his leave of the Prize Ring at a benefit at the Fives Court,
in November, 1827, by an open challenge for a month to any man in
England, half a stone above his weight. No boxer had the temerity to
come forward and “pick up the glove;” and Curtis in consequence retired
from the scene of active pugilism. But although the Pet had given up
prize milling, he had not given up the use of his hands to protect
himself from insult. On Wednesday afternoon, January 2nd, 1828, as the
Pet and his pal, Young Dutch Sam, were walking along Blackfriars Road,
they passed a couple of sturdy coalheavers, one of whom, in swinging his
whip round, struck Dick. The latter asked Coaly what he meant by
striking him. The exact reply we must not mention—suffice it to say that
Dick threatened to kick the offender on that part of his person to which
he was referred for an explanation. Coaly, not knowing the Pet, threw a
brave defiance in his teeth, and a set-to commenced, Sam seconding the
Pet, and Coaly having his own companion to pick him up. Dick found
himself engaged with a very strong fellow, who knew a little about
fighting, and was moreover fully a stone and a half the heavier man.
Coaly rushed in to bring his strength to bear, and Dick, as his custom
was, broke ground—jobbing and retreating. One of the black diamond’s
eyes was soon in darkness, but he did not take without giving; almost at
the very commencement of the fight, he planted a nobber that severely
damaged the Pet’s neat countenance, besides sending him back against a
cart, with a force that raised a peal of bells in Dick’s cranium. The
spectators of all sorts were, of course, numerous, and some of them
expressed considerable disapprobation at Dick’s mode of getting away.
Encouraged by this, the second coalheaver went behind Curtis and stopped
him as he retreated; Young Dutch Sam instantly floored him, which at
once took all conceit of either fighting or interfering out of that
gentleman. A bystander soon after received a topper from Sam for placing
his carcass where it ought not to be; he soon after came up behind the
young Dutchman, returned the hit on the sly, and retreated among the
mob; but Sam quickly pulled him forth and gave him three or four facers,
whereupon he cried for quarter. During these proceedings the Pet was
still engaged with his first antagonist, who proved himself a game man,
and though told that he was fighting with the celebrated Dick Curtis, he
refused to give in, but declared that he knew he could beat his man,
saying, “let him be Dick or Devil, he’d sarve him out.” At length a
gentleman, not liking to see a good man cut up where he had little or no
chance, took Coaly by the arm, and after literally begging him to leave
off, strengthened his counsel by a _douceur_ of half-a-crown, upon sight
of which the brave, though saucy, coalheaver consented to say “enough.”
He was severely punished about the head—nor did Curtis escape scot-free;
his nob was visibly marked.

A long letter professing to come from the coalheaver and signed “George
Phillips” appeared the following week in the _Dispatch_, in which the
writer, denying his defeat, and offering to fight Curtis for £5 (!),
hoped that the Pet would meet him “for love, and the £5 as a sweetener.”
Mr. Whittaker, an oilman and ex-pugilist, its supposed writer, also went
about offering to back “his man” against “the Pet.”

Curtis now went on a sparring tour to Manchester and Liverpool; at the
latter place, at the Circus, he was enthusiastically received. Young
Sam, Jem Ward, and Ned Stockman were also of the party.

All doubts respecting the milling capabilities of Coaly were completely
put to rest at Joe Fishwick’s benefit at the Tennis Court, on Monday,
March 17th, 1828. The sturdy black diamond having declared, in
opposition to all the statements published of that affair, that he had
the “best of it,” Curtis chivalrously volunteered to put on the gloves
with him. He had not the slightest chance with Curtis, who nobbed him at
pleasure, drew blood from his razor-shaped nose, and knocked him down no
less than six times. All he could do was, when not hit off his legs, to
bore Dick against the rail by superior weight and strength; but in
everything that belongs to fighting it was “all the world to nothing” on
the Pet. The latter seemed at length ashamed to hit the man, and offered
to cut it, but Coaly was foolhardy enough to wish for more, saying “he
was not hurt.” Curtis therefore accommodated him with additional
punishment. On pulling off the gloves the coalheaver appeared quite
chapfallen. Dick was so completely armed at all points that the violent
attacks of Coaly were utterly frustrated, and it might almost be said
that Curtis left the stage without receiving a hit.

Though retired as a principal, Dick’s talents as a second were in
constant requisition, and his name will be found, in that capacity, in
many pages of our volumes. It would have been well indeed for Curtis had
he adhered to his resolution of retirement; but it was not to be. A ten
stone man, Perkins, of Oxford, who had received the title of “the Oxford
Pet,” had so raised his name by rapid victories over Wakelin, Jem
Raines, and Dick Price, in one year (1827), that a battle for £100 was
proposed and accepted. In this overmatched contest Curtis was defeated
on December 30th, 1828, at Hurley Bottom, Berks, as detailed under our
notice of Perkins in an after-page of this Appendix.

From the period of his first and only defeat Curtis did not enter the
Prize Ring again as a principal. As a second he was constantly called
upon to exercise his talents, as our pages will show. On these occasions
he displayed incomparable tact and judgment, often winning fights “out
of the fire,” where all hope of success had been abandoned. He was
second to Owen Swift in the unfortunate battle between that accomplished
master of the art and Brighton Bill, as is fully set forth in the memoir
of YOUNG DUTCH SAM. For this he was tried at the Hertford Assizes on
July 14th, 1838, and was sentenced to three months’ imprisonment. In the
later period of his life he was a martyr to the rheumatic gout, and was
frequently laid up for weeks together. The life of the Pet shows no
exception to that of other public favourites, theatrical or
otherwise—chequered by vicissitudes, at one time in “full feather and
fine song,” and at another penniless—a state of things to be ascribed to
his propensity to “a hand at crib,” and other gambling practices. For a
short period he was a publican, keeping the “Star,” in Blackman Street,
Borough; but he had not then “sown his wild oats,” and the eccentricity
of his disposition soon caused him to “retire from the business,” or
more correctly the business retired from him. Notwithstanding his
temporary acquaintance with the interior of Hertford Gaol, he continued
to be sought as a “trump card” at all fights, and those who succeeded in
securing his services had never any reason to regret their confidence. A
contemporary, the late Vincent George Dowling, Esq., thus bore testimony
to his worth in an editorial obituary notice in _Bell’s Life_, and the
writer, from personal knowledge, can well endorse that testimony: “Long
as we have known Curtis, we never heard of his having deceived a friend,
and he was one of the few of his class upon whom reliance in matters of
opinion could be implicitly placed. He was always grateful for
obligations conferred, and in the hour of need had never-failing sources
of relief, when his pride would permit him to confess his necessities.
His last and fatal illness is attributable to having burst a
blood-vessel, from which he never thoroughly rallied, and it has been
our lot to hear him speak in terms of deep gratitude for the kindnesses
he experienced whilst an inmate of Guy’s Hospital, as well from his
medical attendants as from those numerous old acquaintances who
sympathised in his sufferings, among whom we may rank his early pupil
and _protégé_, Owen Swift, who was enabled to raise and contribute to
his wants within the last six weeks upwards of eighteen pounds, while we
know from other sources that sum was doubled during the same period.
This is the best refutation of a tissue of gross falsehoods foisted upon
the editor of the _Morning Herald_, unfortunately but too ready to adopt
any statement, however absurd, which he deems calculated to throw
discredit on the manly art of boxing or its professors. Young Dutch Sam,
who was also introduced to the Ring by the deceased, contributed his
mite, and we can say, from the best authority, that the expiring ‘King
Richard,’ while he died in peace with all mankind, was surrounded with
every comfort his situation required, and in homely terms testified his
perfect satisfaction with all that had been done for him. ’Tis true he
left no ‘stock purse’ behind, but that circumstance did not restrain
those who knew and respected him in life from taking the necessary steps
to secure a becoming attention to the last sad ceremonies of the grave.”

To this spontaneous testimony of the “Nestor of the Ring,” we may add
that Curtis breathed his last at his own house in Dover Street,
Southwark, on Saturday, September 16th, 1843. We have been more precise
on this point because an eminent sporting writer, misled by the paper
once known as “My Grandmother,” has left it on record, “And the once
caressed Pet of the Fancy breathed his last unfriended and unattended,
save by the hireling servitors of a public hospital.” “King Dick,” as
his companions were wont to call him, was sensible to the last, and
perfectly conscious of the approaching close of his career.

His memory and his widow he bequeathed to his friends, feelingly
deploring the reduced state of his exchequer, and hoping that his old
“pals” would liberally come forward to contribute something towards
alleviating the sorrows and distresses of his widow, who had been to him
a careful and kindly nurse throughout a long and painful illness. For
some days previous to the final flicker of the vital spark, Dick had
been occasionally wandering, and the scenes of his former pursuits
seemed to pass before his mental vision. He talked of battles won and
lost, of the merits of his compeers, and of the qualifications requisite
for his profession. When visited by Owen Swift, and others his
“companions in arms,” he was cheerful, although he occasionally mistook
one for another, and on reference to coming events gave his opinion
pretty freely about those modern pretenders who stickled for half a
stone. Turning to a friend, he observed, “My last round is come!” and
sinking into a state of insensibility, shortly afterwards expired.

The remains of the departed pugilist were carried to their “narrow home”
in St. George’s Churchyard, Southwark, on the Thursday next after his
decease, in a manner suitable to the respect felt by his family and
friends. Among the mourners who followed were his brother, a well-known
veterinary surgeon, the Champion of England, Peter Crawley, Jem Burn,
Owen Swift, Alec Reid, Young Reed, Ned Turner, Johnny Hannan, Johnny
Walker, Reidie, Deaf Burke, _cum multis aliis_. His friend Young Dutch
Sam was absent from illness (he died in six weeks afterwards), and such
was the sympathy and public curiosity on the occasion that quite ten
thousand persons lined the route of the funeral procession. While upon
this subject, we may add that the proceeds of a sparring benefit at Jem
Burn’s, £25, were handed over to the widow by the editor of _Bell’s Life
in London_, with more than £50 of subscriptions from other sources, with
which she was placed in a humble but profitable business in Fetter Lane,
and where the factory was known as that of “Curtis’s Premier Blacking.”
We therefore consider the rhetorical flourish of “Nimrod” as completely
“polished off” as “King Richard” during his reign himself polished off
those who disputed his “fistic” supremacy.

           MONODY ON THE DEATH OF DICK CURTIS.

       FAREWELL! a long farewell! renowned King Dick!
       Well may we mourn that thou hast cut thy stick;
       Victorious still in many a sharp attack,
       Stern Champion, Death, hath laid thee on thy back;
       Exhausted all thy bottom and thy pluck,
       Thine arm lies powerless, and thy colours struck;
       Rigid thine elasticity of limb,
       Deaf are thy listeners, and thine ogles dim;
       Pale are those lips from which rich humour rush’d;
       Spun are thy spicy yarns, thy tongue is hush’d;
       Stripped are the laurels bright that girt thy brow
       And dust to dust is all that waits thee now.

       Yet long the Fancy’s tears thy grave shall wet,
       Star of the Light Weights, all-accomplished Pet!
       For thy bold spirit soared on eagle’s wing,
       And shed a halo round the fighting Ring—
       Acknowledged there the bravest and the best,
       For craven fear ne’er harboured in thy breast;
       Conquest, proud conquest, was thine only aim,
       Unrivall’d still in gallantry and game.
       As lightning quick to dart upon thy foe,
       And in the dust to lay his glories low,
       The palm of victory forcing him to yield,
       And sing “Peccavi” on the battle-field;
       Adieu, thou pride and wonder of the age,
       The brightest star on Fistiana’s page,
       Where records of your manly deeds are stor’d,
       The pinks you’ve pepper’d, and the trumps you’ve floored!
       Why should we mourn of Perkins the sad tale,
       O’er which sad memory fain would draw a veil,
       And while unfading thy brave deeds shall bloom,
       Consign thine errors with thee to the tomb!

       Well may we weep for these degenerate days,
       As a sad trophy to thy fame we raise,
       And mourn, since boxing hath become a trade,
       Its honour tarnished and its flowers decay’d!
       No hardy Cribb now throws the gauntlet down,
       Nor brave Tom Spring, of unalloyed renown;
       No brawny Belcher now for victory strives,
       Nor tough Game Chicken flourishes his fives;
       No Molyneux now rears his sable nob,
       Nor rough-and-ready stout White-headed Bob.
       Well may we grieve, as we thy fate deplore,
       The golden days of milling are no more,
       Exclaiming, as fresh candidates appear,
       “Oh, what a woeful falling-off is here!”

       But Curtis prov’d a trump, and no mistake,        }
       To every move upon the board awake,               }
       And staunch as e’er tied colours to a stake!      }
       When a mere boy, by two good men assail’d,
       Beneath his prowess Brown and Watson quail’d;
       And after combat resolute and tough,
       Lenney and Cooper, sorrowing, cried, “Enough!”
       Thrice Peter Warren tried to do the trick,
       But found his master in triumphant Dick;
       In a turn-up, from momentary heat,
       Ned Savage was made savage by defeat;
       And bouncing Barney Aaron, Hebrew stout,
       Look’d all abroad when Richard sarv’d him out;
       Tisdale our Monarch ventur’d to attack,
       But all the shine was taken out of Jack;
       And lastly Dick, urg’d on by insult’s goad,
       Whack’d a coalheaver in the Surrey Road.

       But his last fight is fought, and clos’d his reign,
       And time is call’d to poor King Dick in vain;
       For Death, that ruthless monarch, gaunt and grim,     }
       Hath cruelly hit out and finished him,                }
       Sent him to earth, and stiffened every limb.          }
       Flower of the Fancy, yet one more adieu!
       Where shall we look to find a “Pet” like you?
       Sound be thy sleep, receive my last good night,
       And may the turf upon thy breast be light,
       For though in manhood’s prime by fate unshipp’d,
       Thou wert a boy as brave as ever stripp’d;
       Time shall fly forward, years shall wax and wane,
       Ere “we shall look upon thy like again.”

                                                         =M.=




            BARNEY AARON (“THE STAR OF THE EAST”)—1819–1834.


The subject of this biography first opened his eyes on the bustling
world in the populous Goshen of Duke’s Place, Aldgate, on the 21st of
November, 1800.

At an early age, as we are told by “Boxiana,” Master Barney
distinguished himself by taking his own part, and milling with the
utmost impartiality either Jew or Christian boy who might forget the law
of _meum_ and _tuum_ in the matter of marbles, tops, kites, balls, or
such other personal property as to boyhood appertaineth.

In the year 1819 one Bill Connelly (whose nationality we may suspect to
be Hibernian), having assumed the title of the Rosemary Lane Champion,
we presume in virtue of his talent, promised the young Israelite a
thrashing. To the execution of this promise the juvenile Maccabeus put
in a demurrer, and to sustain it hurled defiance in the teeth of Paddy.
They met, and after sixteen rounds occupying thirty-three minutes the
Philistine was routed, and the children of Israel sang “See the
Conquering Hero Comes” in honour of the youthful Jewish warrior.

Aaron next laid hands very heavily on one of “the tribesh,” Manny Lyons,
a heavier man by two stone, and superior in length. It was a hard battle
for an hour and a quarter, when Barney, worn out by his own exertions
rather than the hitting of his adversary, lost the battle from
exhaustion, but not his character as a pugilist of high pretensions.

In a second battle with Lyons, Barney in half an hour got his opponent
“down to his own weight,” beat him in fifty minutes, and refreshed his
laurels, scarcely tarnished by his first defeat.

[Illustration:

  BARNEY AARON (“THE STAR OF THE EAST”).
]

Ely Bendon, a good fighter and a game man, challenged Barney, and they
met on Bow Common. As the P.C. ropes and stakes were not there the fight
is not reported. Barney defeated Bendon in three-quarters of an hour.

Samuel Belasco, a brother of Aby and of Israel Belasco, and therefore of
the family of “the fighting Belascos,” tried the quality of young Barney
at the cost of defeat, as did Angel Hyams, a nephew of the celebrated
Dan Mendoza. But the latter affair being interrupted by a magistrate at
the seventh round was never brought to a conclusion.

Barney was now “somebody,” and anxious to earn a name, fame, and
“monish,” so he went down to see the fights between Arthur Matthewson,
of Birmingham, and Israel Belasco, and of Phil Sampson and Birmingham
Hall, which took place on Moulsey Hurst on Wednesday, March 19th, 1823.

A purse was announced for a third battle, when Tom Collins (a 10st.
7lbs. pugilist, who afterwards fought Harry Jones) offered himself.
There was a pause, when young Barney modestly stepped into the ropes as
a candidate. The fighting was all in favour of Barney, who took
astonishing liberties with the nob of Collins, so much so as to turn the
odds from six to four against him to five to four in his favour. After
half an hour’s sharp work Barney’s left hand was injured, and he was
reluctantly compelled to discontinue the fight.

The exhibition however gained him immediate friends, and he was at once
matched against Ned Stockman for £25 a-side. The battle was decided on
the 6th of May, 1823, at Blindlow Heath, Sussex, after Peter Crawley had
conquered Dick Acton. Stockman had for his seconds Eales and Dick
Curtis; Barney was attended by Jem Ward and Rogers. The battle was
gallantly contested for forty minutes and as many rounds, when Stockman
gave in severely punished. He could not resist the resolute and heavy
hitting of the Jew, and declared he had never met so good a man of his
weight. This victory at once stamped Barney as a boxer of talent.

He was now backed against Lenney, who had seen some service in the P.R.,
and was known as a good and game trial horse, for £50. Their difference
of opinion was decided on the 5th of August, 1823, on Harpenden Common,
near St. Albans. Barney threw his castor into the ring under the care of
Josh Hudson and Peter Crawley, for he had already gained the favour of
the big ’uns. Lenney was advised by the learned and eloquent Harry Holt,
while Davy Hudson followed on the same side.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The attitude of Lenney was interesting; and he displayed
  himself to better advantage than usual. The Jew was in a great hurry
  to feel for his opponent’s nob; but Lenney said, “Wait a bit!”
  However, they soon went to work; Lenney had the worst of the
  milling, and also went down. (Six to four on Barney.)

  2.—Lenney put in two such severe blows on the Jew’s head that for an
  instant he was quite abroad, and turned round; but he recovered
  himself before the end of the round, and Lenney again went down.

  3.—It was a horse to a hen, in this early stage of the fight. Lenney
  received six distinct nobbers on the middle of his head, and went
  down helpless.

  4.—Lenney succeeded in drawing the Jew after him, by which means he
  was enabled to give Aaron two or three sharp facers. Lenney at the
  conclusion of the round was on the turf. Ten to one.

  5.—The Jew slipped, and went down from a slight blow.

  6.—Lenney put in a couple of facers; but nothing could stop the
  Jew’s eagerness to be milling. (“Stand still,” said Josh; “do not
  give your opponent an opportunity by drawing you off your ground.”)
  Both down.

  7.—The nob of Lenney was a complete drum for his adversary to beat.
  Three successive facers were got in, and Lenney floored.

  8.—Nothing could be more decisive; Lenney received three facers, and
  was hit down.

  9.—“Take him away; he has no chance.” The Jew boy had it all his own
  way. Lenney, it is true, did not want for courage, and now and then
  put in some good blows; but the stamina and courage of the Jew were
  too good for him. The jobbing of Aaron spoiled Lenney till he went
  down. Any odds.

  10.—It was a pity to see Lenney continue the battle. He was punished
  all over the ring, and ultimately measured his length on the turf.
  (“Take him away; it is too bad to let him fight any longer.”)

  11, and last.—It was ditto and ditto, repeated till poor Lenney was
  again on the grass. His backer, we are informed, who betted fifty
  pounds that he would not be defeated in half an hour, urged him to
  continue the battle for a few more rounds, as the chance might turn
  in his favour; but the answer of Lenney was, “I will not fight
  longer for any man.” It was over in fifteen minutes.


Lenney was not exactly satisfied in his own mind as to his defeat,
therefore another match was made, for £20 a-side. This was decided on
Moulsey Hurst, on Tuesday, November 11th, 1823, after Josh Hudson had
defeated Jem Ward. Aaron, followed by Aby Belasco and Bill Gibbons,
threw his hat into the ring; but a quarter of an hour elapsed before
Lenney appeared, attended by Harry Holt and Peter Crawley as his
seconds. Aaron five and six to four the favourite.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Both the “little ones” appeared to have too much pride in
  their composition to throw away any time in stopping, so went to
  work like blacksmiths, till Lenney found himself hanging on the
  ropes, where he was milled down. Seven to four on Aaron.

  2.—Full of pluck, and both pelting away _sans cérémonie_. At this
  instant, the outer ring was broken, and the confusion was so great
  that the battle was stopped until order was restored. The Jew napped
  a heavy hit on the head, but in return Lenney was punished down.

  3–8.—Lenney was not deficient in pluck or science, but was evidently
  overmatched. He was severely milled in all these rounds. (“Foul,
  foul!” frequently occurred, during the time Lenney was balancing on
  the ropes, but the latter kept fighting all the while he was in such
  situations.)

  9–11.—These were all fighting rounds, but Lenney had so much the
  worst of it that ten pounds to one were offered on the Jew.

  12–18.—Aaron was so full of gaiety that he bored his man down with
  the utmost ease. Here some words occurred between Belasco and
  Lenney. The latter kicked Belasco violently on his leg, and also
  gave him a blow on his mouth, and said loud enough to be heard by
  the spectators, “I will not fight any more.” Belasco, with much
  propriety and forbearance, did not meddle with Lenney, which
  otherwise might have produced a wrangle. Aaron left the ring
  instantly, thinking he had won the battle. A great disturbance
  arose, and the umpire considered the battle at an end; but in
  consequence of Lenney’s asserting “that what he had said was from
  passion, declaring that he would not fight any more if Belasco
  remained in the ring, who acted foul towards him,” the umpire
  consented the battle should go on again. Aaron observed he did not
  wish to take advantage of a slip of the tongue made by his opponent,
  and would most readily fight it out. Order being restored, the
  boxers recommenced.

  19.—It was all up with Lenney; after being milled all over the ring,
  and his face covered with claret, he was ultimately floored. Any
  odds.

  20.—Aaron punished his adversary in all directions; and in closing
  at the ropes Barney fibbed Lenney till he went down quite exhausted.
  (“Take him away; he has no chance.”)

  21, and last.—Lenney had scarcely put up his hands at the scratch
  when Barney floored him like a shot. This was a finisher; and Lenney
  found it was of no use to continue the contest any longer. Making
  deductions for the loss of time, the battle occupied about twenty
  minutes.

  REMARKS.—The remarks we have to make on this fight are short, but we
  are compelled to be severe. Great praise is due to the Jew for not
  throwing his “own people” over, and likewise in firmly refusing to
  sell those who had laid money upon him. Thirty pounds, he asserted,
  were offered him at Hampton to lose the battle, on the morning of
  fighting, and his backers were well assured of the fact.


Frank Redmond, a brave little man (see note on Redmond, Life of EVANS,
_ante_, page 392) under the patronage of Dick Curtis, was backed against
Barney Aaron for £25 a-side. The battle was decided on Moulsey Hurst, on
Tuesday, December 30th, 1823.

The amateurs were not so numerous as usual (in consequence of the fight
between Abraham Belasco and Neale being postponed till the 7th of
January); however, those out-and-outers who never miss anything in the
shape of a fight were present. At two o’clock Barney, attended by “one
of his own peoplesh” and Maurice Delay, threw his hat into the ring;
about five minutes afterwards Redmond, genteelly dressed, arm-in-arm
with Curtis and Harry Holt, threw his hat out of the ring. The president
of the Daffy Club was the stakeholder; and in order to make “all right,”
fresh articles were drawn up at Lawrence’s, the “Red Lion,” at Hampton,
to obviate the difficulty of fighting in the same ring with Belasco and
Neale, as expressed in the original agreement.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Redmond, a tight, well-made man, weighing ten stone, when
  stripped and in attitude, looked as if he could “do something,” more
  especially under the guidance of the Pet of the Fancy and the
  eloquent and elegant _aide-de-camp_ of the Commissary-General, by
  which he had the advantage of the combined knowledge of the West and
  East Ends. He was the favourite, five to four. Mister Barney came
  out of the scale nine stone twelve pounds, as lively as an eel and
  as spirited as a young colt; with a face full of confidence, in rare
  condition, with sparkling ogles (each “worth a Jew’s eye”), and with
  a firm step, he was eager to commence the attack. Redmond faced him
  smilingly, fresh as a daisy and gay as a lark. Barney surveyed his
  opponent from head to foot with coolness, and Redmond likewise took
  measure of Aaron. At length Mister Barney, by way of the compliments
  of the season, a kind of late Christmas-box, sent his right fist
  very near Redmond’s head, but Master Frank declined to accept it,
  and got away. After a short pause, Barney rushed in, caught hold of
  Redmond, and began the weaving system with some success. Frank
  endeavoured to fib too, and in the struggle and hammering both went
  down, Barney undermost. (“Go it, Redmond, never leave him!”)

  2–6.—These rounds were full of fibbing, and no lies. Barney the hero
  in all of them. In the latter round the claret appeared on Redmond’s
  nose. (Six to four on the Jew.)

  7–10.—Redmond proved himself nothing else but a good little man; but
  he had little chance as yet to win; that is to say, he had not
  changed the battle in his favour, and the odds had left him. In the
  last round Barney planted two good nobbing hits, right and left.

  11.—Redmond had a little turn here, and gave Mister Barney two
  out-and-outers upon his Mosaic index. These made his eloquent second
  exclaim, in Chesterfieldian style: “Elegant! beautiful! and so
  handsomely done, too. Those were immense hits, ’pon honour. Be so
  good as to repeat them, Mr. Redmond. About four more such elegant
  blows will win you the battle. That circumstance accomplished, I
  will take you under my wing, among the heavy ones, on Sunday next,
  in Hyde Park.” (“Yes,” said Barney, “so you shall; but I must dress
  him well before you take him out, Harry.”) The Jew tried the fibbing
  system, but ultimately was undermost when down.

  12.—This was a sharp round altogether; and the finish of it was,
  Barney down. (“Reddy, my boy,” said the Pet, “he can’t hurt you now;
  his hands are gone; and if you are only half as game as your dog,
  you’ll win it in a canter. Why, it’s Bermondsey tan-pits to a
  leather apron in your favour!”)

  13–17.—Barney had decidedly the best of all these rounds. He fibbed
  his opponent with the nimbleness of a drummer practising the
  roll-call. The Jew behaved very manly in the last round; he let
  Redmond down, holding up both his hands, when he might have dealt
  out punishment. (“Bravo, Barney!” from Christians and Jews; and lots
  of applause.)

  18.—The fight was now drawing to the finish, from the execution done
  by the Jew. He put in four desperate jobbers on Redmond’s nob, and
  sent him down. (Seven to four and two to one.)

  19–21.—Redmond’s nose was clareted, and his face and right eye
  exhibited sharp punishment. Barney had it all his own way, driving
  his man over the ring till down.

  22–24.—Redmond fought like a man, but was getting groggy. Both down.
  (“Vat a peautiful hitter!” said a Sheeny; “it’s as shafe as the
  Bank. I shall vin my monish to-day. Look, Israel, look how he nicks
  him, as the man shaid about the jackdaw. Moses, Levy, Benjamin,
  Ikey, Sholomons, and David, only look at him—so help me, it’s Dutch
  Sam come to life again!”)

  25.—It was three to one against Redmond. Poor Frank had no chance,
  and was sent down. (“Take him away.”)

  26.—Redmond would not listen to surrender, and endeavoured to fight,
  till he went down.

  27.—Barney did as he liked, till Redmond measured his length on the
  ground. (“Take him away!” was now vociferated from all parts of the
  ring.)

  28.—Redmond down in no time. (Twenty to one. It was now Fonthill
  Abbey to a cowshed.)

  29, and last.—The game of Redmond was so good that he came
  staggering to the scratch to have another shy, but was floored in a
  twinkling. It was over in thirty-two minutes.

  REMARKS.—Barney did not win without napping it sharply. In the
  twenty-second round, he exhibited the finishing traits of Randall.
  Barney, when tired of administering punishment to Redmond with his
  left hand, changed his adversary in his arms, and fibbed him down
  with his right. We hope Barney will listen to advice which has been
  often given to other pugilists who laughed at all cautions in
  prosperity, but who have had to lament their neglect in the day of
  trouble. Barney, remember to keep good company, take care of your
  health, but above all things never show yourself a fighting man,
  except in the P.R. Let not Mr. Lushington scrape acquaintance with
  you. Bear the above things in your mind, and if you do not make your
  fortune by following them you are sure to be respected, and never
  want a friend.


Mister Barney returned to town in first-rate style, and showed with all
the honours of conquest at Howard’s Coffee House, St. James’s Place,
Houndsditch. It was crowded to excess, and many West End swells were
present. On the Thursday after the fight Frank Redmond, in true English
style, offered his hand to Barney as the best man at Howard’s, and they
drank to each other’s health, when Barney put his hand into his pocket
and presented his brave opponent with a sovereign for “expenses.”

Peter Warren having expressed his anxiety to try his luck with Aaron, a
match was made between them for £50 a-side. This trial of skill was
decided on Tuesday, April 6th, 1824, at Colnbrook, seventeen miles from
London.

The road was rather thin of company; but the Sheenies, who were numerous
and full of fun, gave a life to the scene which otherwise it would not
have possessed. Barney and his backers got over the ground in gay style,
under the patronage of the president of the Daffy Club. An open barouche
conveyed the “little Dutch Sam” to the scene of action. When time was
called Peter Warren, attended by his backers, showed, and followed by
Maurice Delay and Jem Ward as his seconds, in the most polite way
introduced his castor within the ropes. Barney in a minute afterwards
threw his beaver up, waited upon by Nathan and Aby Belasco. The
colours—yellow for Barney and green for Peter—were tied to the stakes.
“Let us have a quiet fight,” said Warren to the seconds of Barney.
“Certainly,” was the reply. “I shall be as good friends as ever with
you, Peter, after the fight is over,” remarked Aaron.

It would be waste of space to report _in extenso_ this and some other
battles of the clever light weight, whose claim to a page in the history
of pugilism is nevertheless undeniable. The battle was simply a struggle
of game, endurance, strength, and obstinacy against skill, straight—and
therefore swift—hitting, and a ready recourse to those changes of
tactics on the spur of the moment which mark the skilful boxer, and
almost reduce such contests to a question of time. On this occasion
twenty-three minutes and twenty-nine rounds sufficed to render poor
Peter Warren deaf to the call of “time.”

Barney was driven off the ground in style, and arrived at an early hour
in London. Warren was brought back to the “Magpies,” at Colnbrook, and
put to bed for a few hours. Peter exhibited much punishment about the
head. A naval officer, who had lost an arm in the defence of his
country, stepped forward, and in the most generous manner ordered a
post-chaise at his own expense from Cranford Bridge, in which he had
Peter conveyed to his residence in Whitechapel. The gallant tar also
visited Warren the next morning and administered a golden solatium to
his sores.

A “chant of victory,” indited by “A Singer of Israel,” deserves to be
rescued from oblivion:—

                       BARNEY AARON.

           TUNE.—_Rose of Sharon, Rose of Sharon._

           HOUNDSDITCH and the Lanes rejoice,
             Where the mart for clothes is;
           Hebrew science lifts its voice,
             Aaron proves a Moses.

           Barney Aaron! Barney Aaron!
             Through the Sin-a-gog and streets,
           Rabbis, with their oily air on,
             Shout his name and praise his feats—
                     Milling—fibbing—
                     Muzzling—cribbing—
           Blood-letting like a doctor’s lance—
                     Setting teeth chattering,
                     Christianity shattering,
           And, Joshua-like, making the moon-eyes dance.

           Cutler Street is like a fair;
             Barney Aaron! Barney Aaron!
           All the little Jews declare,
             Rows his keel like Charon.
           Old Mendoza—Young Mendoza—
             Both are known and famed in fight;
           But Aaron is a priest-like poser,
             A sacrificing Israelite.
                     Science—defiance—
                     Attitude—latitude—
           In the _sanctum sanctorum_ he marks the “points;”
                     In sackcloth and ashes,
                     The shewbread he slashes,
           And to Pentecost sends their uncircumcised joints.

           Shibboleth among the tribes
             Is Barney Aaron! Barney Aaron!
           Some to bet have taken bribes,
             And even’d odds to share on:
           Barney fights _against_ “the Cross,”
             Like ancient unbelievers;
           “Flats” are “naturals” by the loss;
             “Sharps” are gainers and receivers:
                     And sweet Miss Sharon!
                     And nishe Miss Aaron!
           Eat veal so white in the fistic cause,
                     And with Seager’s Daffy
                     Their tongues are chaffy,
           For Aceldama’s victory brings monish and applause.

Barney, by his conquests, had made way both in the opinions of the
Christians and the Jews, and ranked high in the lists of pugilistic
fame, as one of the best “light-weights.” Aaron was matched for £100
a-side against Arthur Matthewson, from Birmingham, a boxer of
well-earned provincial celebrity, and no little London fame, from his
victory over Israel Belasco. Matthewson had never been defeated.[56] The
tourney came off on Monday, June 21st, 1824; Aaron being seconded by a
well-known Israelitish sporting man, Mr. Nathan, and Aby Belasco, while
Matthewson was seconded by the two Harrys, Holt and Harmer, the host of
the “Plough,” in Smithfield. Although the battle was waged with varying
success until the fifty-sixth round, and ten to one was several times
offered on Aaron, in the fifty-seventh and last round a desperate
straight hit in the throat floored poor Barney like a shot, and he was
picked up deaf to the call of “time,” at the end of one hour and ten
minutes from the first round. In a few minutes Aaron recovered, and
could hardly be persuaded he had lost the fight. But, “who can control
the uncertain chance of war?” beaten he was, but not disgraced. On his
arrival in town he addressed a letter to the editor of _Life in London_,
in which, after a quantity of Eganian balderdash, he challenged Arthur
Matthewson to meet him “for two hundred sovereigns, to fight on a stage,
as I am determined,” he said, “never to subject myself to a repetition
of such treatment” (?), &c., &c. A business-sort of P.S. adds, “I shall
be happy to meet the friends of Richard Curtis at my benefit on the 6th
of July, to make an agreement to fight.”

Nothing came of this at that time, as has been seen already in the Life
of CURTIS. However, the gallant Dick Hares determined to try the mettle
of Barney Aaron; £50 a-side was posted. On Tuesday, March 21st, 1826, No
Man’s Land, near St. Albans, was the chosen battleground, whereon the
Israelites mustered strongly in favour of the Star of the East. Hares
too was not neglected by his patrons. Hares in all his battles had
proved himself a brave man, but the youth of Barney made him the
favourite at six and seven to four.

It was nearly two o’clock before the men entered the ropes, in
consequence of a mistaken “tip” that the battle would take place on
Colney Heath, where several persons had assembled to witness the
contest. Barney first threw his hat into the ring, followed by the John
Bull Fighter and his friend and patron, Mr. Nathan. Hares was seconded
by Peter Crawley and Paddington Jones.

The fight was a one-sided affair. Youth, science, activity, were on the
side of the Jew, and after forty-three rounds of lively fighting, in
which poor Hares was receiver-general, a claim of a “foul blow” was
raised on the part of Hares, who was taken from the ring, but the claim
disallowed, and the referee accordingly awarded the stakes to Aaron.

A _jeu d’esprit_ which appeared in the _Morning Chronicle_ bears marks
of being the production of a scholar. It is in the form of “An Epistle
from Mynheer Van Haagen in London to Mynheer Van Kloppen in Amsterdam,”
and shall here find a place:—


                                            “London, March 22nd, 1826.

  “DEAR COUSIN,—Agreeably to my promise to write to you whenever I met
  with anything worth recording, I proceed to give you a description
  of an English fight, or, as it is here termed, a ‘prize battle,’ I
  witnessed on Tuesday last; and in order that you may the better
  understand it, I present you with a few remarks on the system of
  pugilism as practised here, for which I am indebted to our mutual
  friend Mr. Boxer. The English are naturally a brave and courageous
  people, but less sanguinary in its fullest extent than their
  Continental neighbours; hence nothing is more common than fights
  between boys of from ten to twelve years of age, and similar
  exhibitions in the public streets by men of the lower orders. The
  boy or the man who, from the want of sufficient physical strength,
  or lacking the appetite for a good beating, is obliged to succumb,
  soon gets tired of the sport; but he who, possessing a strong,
  muscular frame, and the courage of a bull-dog, frequently beats his
  man, becomes vain of his powers, and probably for the want of better
  or more honourable employment, determines to exhibit himself at a
  sparring match. Here then we have him in the university pugilistic;
  and as in a National school boys are taught to mark in sand before
  they write with a pen, so here the neophytes thump each other with
  gloves well stuffed before they exercise with their naked fists. It
  is here where the Fancy (_i.e._, those who have a gusto for smashed
  faces and broken ribs) judge of their qualifications, and if found
  worthy some of the Fancy make a match—that is, subscribe a sum of
  money for the pugilists to contend for. This, Mr. Boxer assures me,
  is the origin of most of the pugilistic heroes. Having thus prepared
  you, I shall briefly state the manner of the last fight. The
  combatants were a Christian and a Jew—the Jew about twenty-six years
  of age, and the Christian some ten years older. I shall not here
  trouble you with the art of betting on fights, but bring you at once
  to the ring, which is a square space kept clear by stakes and ropes
  for the combatants to engage in. The men appear stripped to their
  waists, attended each by seconds or assistants, whose business is to
  encourage the men, and pick them up when they fall; for here, when a
  man falls in fighting, his adversary immediately leaves him till he
  rises and puts himself in an attitude of defence, the time allowed
  for which is half a minute, at the expiration of which, if the man
  be not ready, he loses the fight. The Jew from the commencement had
  the decided advantage; it was also evident he felt confident of
  success; he hit his man with amazing force, and absolutely spoilt
  (for the time) every feature of his countenance, while he himself
  escaped with scarce a mark. My greatest surprise is how it was
  possible for a man to receive so much beating and still be inclined
  to renew the combat. Such was, however, the case; and after fighting
  three-quarters of an hour, a cry was raised of ‘foul,’ meaning that
  the Jew had struck his man when he was on the ground. The ring was
  immediately broken into; the combatants moved from the arena, each
  party claiming the victory; an appeal was, however, made to the
  judges, who decided the Jew was entitled to the stakes—viz., fifty
  pounds. Having thus given you a narrative of the fight, I shall, at
  my earliest leisure, send you my reflections thereon, and whether,
  in a moral point of view as well as national, these contests ought
  to be tolerated or suppressed.

                             “Believe me to be, dear Cousin,
                                                 “Sincerely yours,
                                                     “JAN VAN HAAGEN.”


A match, at length arranged for £100 a-side, was made between Barney
Aaron and Dick Curtis. This scientific battle was decided upon a stage,
at Andover, on Tuesday, February 27th, 1827. Curtis was declared the
winner in fifty minutes, Barney, by a blow in his throat, being again
hit out of “time,” for the details of which we refer our readers to the
Memoir of CURTIS, _ante_, p. 492.

The friends of Barney after this defeat rallied round him, and his
benefit, at the Coburg Theatre, on Saturday, March 18th, 1827, was a
bumper. The set-to between Curtis and Barney was pronounced one of the
finest things ever witnessed in the art of self-defence.

Frank Redmond was not satisfied as to his former defeat, and solicited
another trial with Barney Aaron. This battle, for £50 a-side, was to
have been decided on Tuesday, August 21st, 1827. It however turned out
no fight. Chertsey, twenty miles from London, was named as the rallying
point. At Moulsey Hurst the “beaks” were in sight, and prudence
suggested it would be unwise to form a ring. The ring was made in a
field near Fordwater Bridge, about a mile from Chertsey. About half-past
twelve o’clock a violent storm of thunder and lightning, accompanied by
sheets of water, compelled the people round the ring to seek shelter
from the effects of the “pitiless pelting shower.” The storm having
abated, and the time of peeling arrived, Barney, followed by Mr. Nathan
and Josh Hudson as his seconds, threw his hat into the ring. After
waiting about ten minutes, and Mr. Redmond having been called for
several times, Barney claimed the blunt, and retired from the ropes.
Dick Curtis now came galloping up out of breath, and informed the
disappointed assemblage that Redmond had been stopped by an officer with
a warrant. The lads who had got over twenty miles of ground, and many of
them received a precious wetting into the bargain, felt themselves not a
little vexed at such treatment, but there was no help for it. The lads
however would not be disappointed.

Redmond’s friends refused to forfeit, on the plea that an officer, by
the order of a magistrate, had prevented Redmond meeting Barney Aaron in
the ring, which in the absence of evidence of collusion was a valid
objection to forfeiture.

The stakes however were given up to Barney Aaron, which so displeased
Redmond that he threw up his hat and offered Barney to fight upon the
spot.

To put the question of mastery to rest, a third match for £50 a-side was
made. This battle was decided on Tuesday, October 23rd, 1827, at No
Man’s Land. Redmond entered the ring amidst loud applause. Barney was
the favourite, at five to four; but Redmond was considered altogether a
better man than at the period mentioned, and several of his friends not
only took him for choice, but laid the odds upon him. Barney was
attended by Josh Hudson and Nathan, and Redmond by Dick Curtis and Ned
Neale.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Both combatants appeared in excellent condition, and
  determined not to give half a chance away. The attitudes of the men
  were interesting—the _tout ensemble_ of Redmond capital, and his
  friends strongly anticipated victory. Redmond tried to draw the Jew
  to work, but the Star of the East was not to be had. Barney at
  length perceived an opening, and hit out, but Redmond stopped him
  cleverly. (“Bravo!”) The Jew went to work in right earnest, and
  planted some nobbers in excellent style. Redmond with the most
  determined courage fought his way into a rally; and give and take
  was the criterion, until they both went down, Barney undermost.

  2.—Barney’s frontispiece showed punishment. (“First blood!”
  exclaimed Jack Randall.) The nob of Redmond looked flushed and
  peppered. Cautious, but both ready to administer mischief. Redmond
  with considerable science stopped the efforts of Barney, and also
  put in a tremendous nozzler. The Jew never flinched, but returned
  like a good one. Hit for hit for a short period. In struggling at
  the ropes, Barney endeavoured to fib his adversary. Both down.

  3.—A long pause. Dangerous customers to each other, therefore a
  look-out necessary. (“You hold your arms too low,” said Josh to
  Barney.) Each made offers in turn, and then retreated. Redmond
  stopped a rum one in capital style. Barney crept in, as it were, and
  put in a noser. Barney took the lead, and bored Redmond to the
  ropes, and tried to fib, until his adversary went down on his knees.

  4.—A pause. Barney went to work, but received a precious stopper on
  his dial. (“That’s the way to do it,” said Neale.) A short rally
  against the ropes, until both down.

  5.—Redmond’s face was red, and he was rather on the piping system.
  Barney went in on the bustle; but Redmond jobbed and jobbed again
  with great success. (“Frank will win!” was the cry.) Barney, on his
  mettle, did not seem “to like it at the price,” and went resolutely
  in to his work; smashing on both sides, until the combatants were
  down.

  6.—Redmond had now a little the best of it; at all events Jack was
  as good as his master. Redmond with his left hand planted a bodier.
  Barney careful; and Redmond put down his hands. (“To set the thing
  a-going,” said Josh, “I’ll bet £20 to £10.”) The fight had now
  become extremely interesting—the attitudes of the men pretty, and
  both confident of success. A long pause, counter-hits. Barney caught
  hold of Redmond and fibbed him down. Redmond, with great gaiety,
  jumped up again as if nothing was the matter, receiving great
  applause from Curtis and his friends.

  7.—Two minutes nearly elapsed, and no blow, so great was the caution
  on both sides. Redmond’s left hand touched the body of Barney, but
  the latter returned it with interest on the left peeper of Redmond.
  Frank planted two heavy blows right and left on Barney’s face
  (immense applause by the boys from Bermondsey), and got away in
  style. Barney did not like this treatment, and went in to do
  mischief, but again napped it on the dial. In closing Barney was
  undermost. This round was decidedly in favour of Redmond, and six to
  four was betted on his winning.

  8.—Frank was a little out of wind by his exertions in the last
  round. Barney made an excellent stop. Redmond, not to be denied, was
  as active as a dancing-master, hopping all over the ring, and
  putting his antagonist a little on the fret, until he planted a
  severe facer. The Jew rather severely felt for Redmond’s listener in
  return. Barney kept close to his work, and paid Redmond on his
  canister as he was going down. (The Sheenies began now to open their
  chaffing-boxes, and sing out, “Vat a peautiful hitter! Barney’s ash
  good ash gold!”)

  9.—This was a short round, but peppery, both giving and receiving
  punishment. In struggling both were down.

  10.—Frank was the hero of the round. He jobbed his opponent, and got
  away like a first-rate miller. (“The Jew’s napping it in style,”
  said the friends of Curtis.) Both went down.

  11.—The Jew’s head showed the handiwork of Redmond, but in
  this round the Star of the East took the lead. Some sharp
  counter-hitting; Redmond napped it in his ear, and the round
  was finished by Franky finding himself on the grass.

  12.—Good fighting on both sides. Redmond went down to avoid
  punishment.

  13.—The Sheenies were now all alive, and began to sport their blunt.
  Barney took great liberties with the head of his opponent, and
  followed Redmond close to the ropes, the latter fighting at points
  like a clever little fellow, but nevertheless he had the worst of
  it, until he was thrown.

  14.—Barney now showed himself to advantage, as Redmond was a little
  bit winded. The Jew planted his blows right and left, yet Frank was
  determined to be with him. At the finish of the round Redmond became
  weak, and went down.

  15.—Cut away, hit for hit, give and take, as fast as any brave
  fellows could, on both sides. Barney at length got the turn, put in
  a teaser, and also hit Franky down.

  16.—The Jew, gay as a lark, commenced offensive operations, and cut
  away. Redmond, equally gay, was not behindhand. Barney napped one on
  his canister, but he still kept to his work, until Redmond got down
  at the ropes.

  17.—Frank endeavoured to get out of mischief, but the Star of the
  East would not be denied. Fighting like fun, until Redmond was sent
  on the grass.

  18.—This was a fine fighting round; and if Barney showed pluck, the
  courage displayed by Redmond was equal to his adversary.
  Counter-hits. In closing Redmond broke away. Milling was soon
  afterwards resumed, and Frank was hit down.

  19.—Barney kept the lead. He planted his blows successfully, and
  also bored Redmond to the ropes. Here Frank caught it severely, but
  the Jew did not get off without summat. Redmond down.

  20.—Weakness on both sides; in fact, the pepper-box had been handed
  from one to the other without any mistake. Barney had been
  considerably punished, and Redmond had taken lots of milling. Barney
  appeared the stronger man of the two, and Redmond retreated before
  his opponent to the ropes. In a struggle both were down.

  21–37.—Merry milling, with varying success. The hitting in favour of
  Aaron, the throws occasionally to Redmond, making the superiority
  doubtful. In the 31st round, and again in the 35th, Aaron fought
  Redmond down on to his knees. In the 36th Redmond sent down Aaron.
  In the 37th Redmond, exhausted by his exertions, went down weak.

  38.—Aaron was deliberate and cautious, although Frank was evidently
  on the totter. Redmond was ultimately sent down.

  39.—(Frank would not allow his seconds to give in for him. Mr.
  Nathan crossed the ring to Redmond, as the latter was sitting on
  Josh Hudson’s knee, and advised Redmond to leave off—a most improper
  proceeding. Frank rose indignantly to his feet and pushed him
  aside.) Exchanges, and Redmond down, amid great confusion.

  40, 41.—Redmond game, but unable to stop his adversary or return
  with precision; was down.

  42, and last.—Frank would not say “No!” There was a short bustle,
  and Redmond was pushed rather than hit down. Time, one hour and ten
  minutes.

  REMARKS.—This was not only a game, but in several rounds a
  scientific mill; and in the opinion of most of the admirers of
  boxing present, Redmond had profited much by his lessons from
  Curtis. His style of fighting was evidently improved, and for a long
  time the contest was considered doubtful; indeed, by several persons
  Redmond was chosen as the conqueror. Barney is a cool and determined
  boxer; and after Curtis we place him next on the list of light
  weights. Barney exhibited terrible marks of punishment about his
  head—much more than when he fought Curtis. Redmond received several
  heavy body blows, and was carried out of the ring; but Barney did
  not quit the ropes in a very lively state. Upon the whole, we never
  witnessed a more manly fight. Aaron’s forbearance when his man was
  helpless, and Redmond’s game, were alike conspicuous.


Aaron’s next subsequent battles were with Marsh Bateman, for £40, whom
he beat on Landsdowne Racecourse, July 4th, 1828, and with Harry Jones,
by whom he was beaten, November 21st, 1828, at the “Old Barge House,”
Woolwich, in fifteen minutes, eighteen rounds, being much overmatched.
He afterwards, May 26th, 1829, beat Jem Raines, at Navestock Green,
Essex, in thirteen rounds, occupying twenty-eight minutes. His last
battle was with Tom Smith, the East End Sailor Boy, by whom he was
defeated, at Greenstreet Green, Kent, April 1st, 1834, in twenty rounds,
twenty-six minutes—youth against age, Smith being twenty-seven, Aaron
thirty-four.

From this period Aaron retired from the arena, but for many years was an
attendant at the ring-side. He followed his trade of an East End dealer
in fish, and was a frequent purveyor of edibles to the voyagers down the
river on the then frequent pugilistic excursions. Barney died in
Whitechapel, in 1850, being up to his last days an authority in all
fistic matters among “the peoplesh” of Houndsditch.

HARRY JONES (“THE SAILOR BOY”). 1822–1834.

The claim of Harry Jones to a niche in our gallery of pugilistic
celebrities is in a great degree of a negative character, from the
eminence of some of the men whom he contended with and did _not_ beat,
rather than the number of second-raters whose pretensions he disposed
of. Ned Stockman (three times), Young Dutch Sam, Barney Aaron, Frank
Redmond, and Perkins (the last three of whom he beat), entitle him to a
place; we shall not, however, occupy space by the reports of his minor
battles.

Harry Jones was born on the 4th of April, 1804, in Meadow Street,
Bristol, a city eminent in fistic annals for the boxers it has given
birth to. At an early age Harry chose a sea life, and was apprenticed on
board the “Staunton,” East-Indiaman, Captain Harris, with whom he made
three voyages. The traditions of his birthplace, and the fame and profit
which had been achieved by the Belchers, Pearce, and other champions,
were among the Sailor Boy’s early memories, and he determined to try his
fortune in the P.R. This was in his eighteenth year, and bidding adieu
to the service of the Hon. E. I. C., he made his way to Moulsey Hurst,
on the day when Oliver and Abbot settled their differences, November
6th, 1821. Jones had already shown his skill with the gloves at the
Fives Court, and when a subscription purse had been made for a second
fight, the Sailor Boy threw in his hat, and was opposed by Latham, also
known as a sparrer in the schools. Belasco and Tom Jones picked up the
Sailor Boy; Dolly Smith and Phil Sampson did the like for Latham. It was
an interesting battle for twenty-six rounds, occupying thirty-three
minutes, when Latham floored Jones by a hit in the short ribs. Jones
tried three more rounds, but he was unable to recover his wind, and gave
in.

Undeterred by this stumble on the threshold, the Sailor Boy went in for
a purse against Ned Stockman, then called “Bill Eales’s Chicken.” The
fight was at Rutledge Common, Edgeware Road, on 29th January, 1822. It
was a remarkable battle on the part of Stockman, who, in thirty-eight
rounds and forty minutes, compelled the Sailor Boy to haul down his
colours.

Harry Jones could not consider that his defeat by Stockman was a real
trial of his quality, and, on June 12th, 1822, after Jem Ward had
defeated Acton at Moulsey, he entered the ring for a new trial. Peter
Crawley and Ned Turner were counsel for Stockman, and Jones’s interests
were looked after by Jack O’Donnel and Abbot. After a few minutes’
sparring Jones rushed in and endeavoured to fib his opponent, but in the
struggle to obtain the throw Jones sprained his ankle so severely as to
be unable to continue the fight.

After these unfortunate ring exhibitions Jones fought several by-battles
with commoners. Watts (a butcher) and Riley (a Westminster boxer) were
beaten by him, and Peter Brookery, the Fishmonger, beat him in
three-quarters of an hour.

In consequence of some chaffing at Tom Cribb’s benefit at the Fives
Court, on Tuesday, June 1st, 1824, a match was made between Jones and
Brown (the Sprig of Myrtle). A patron of boxing having offered a purse
for the winner, Jones proposed, and Brown snapped at the offer, to fight
it out that day. Accordingly, with Jack Randall as time-keeper, Dick
Acton and Gipsy Cooper as seconds for Harry, and Tom Oliver and Tisdale
for the Sprig, the party started for Paddington Fields, where, in
nineteen rounds, lasting thirty-three minutes, the Sailor Boy achieved
his first ring victory. This raised the reputation of Jones
considerably.

About this time an amusing anecdote of Jones appeared in the newspapers.
One Jem Aldridge, known as “the fighting typo,” backed himself for £5
against Jones. The Sailor Boy at this time, as “most people fall in love
some time or other,” was engaged to a Miss Evans, and not keeping an
exact “note of time,” his diary was in such confusion that he had fixed
June 28th, 1824, for both matches. Not seeing how he could honourably
put off either his bride or his challenger, he met both; and soon after
he had sworn eternal fidelity, and the etceteras connected with the
ceremony of “taking this woman to be thy wedded wife,” Harry started off
to fulfil the other engagement. It is said that so lightly did he value
his opponent that he merely consigned the lady to the gent who had given
her away, with the remark, “Take care of my wife, like a good fellow,
till I come back,” and bolted off to the field of battle, in Copenhagen
Fields, near Pentonville. Arriving on the ground somewhat flushed and
out of breath, the Sailor Boy shook hands with the typo, and to work
they went. In twelve minutes Mr. Aldridge declined any further favours
at the hands of Harry, who, pocketing the fiver, returned to the wedding
party, and spent the evening in fun and merriment until “the throwing of
the stocking, O!”—thus bringing off the “double event.”

Dick Price, a well-known butcher at Oxford, weighing upwards of eleven
stone, and five feet eight inches in height, had given so much offence
among his brother kill-bulls by his boasting and quarrelsomeness that
they determined to give him a turn. A Mr. Parker, of Oxford, brought
down Jones in butcher’s garb, and Price insulting him in the market,
“Mr. Parker’s plant,” as he was called, proposed a fight. To this Price,
with an expression of pity and contempt for the “Lunnon boy,” consented.
At six o’clock in the evening of Wednesday, July 28th, 1824, the ring
was pitched in Picksey Meadow, near Oxford. The combatants met first in
Port Meadow, but an authority of the University city showed his awful
phiz, and the crowd was put to the rout. Jones, after “kidding” his man
to come in, played his part so well that in the ninth round he had him
down to his own weight, and ten to one was offered by the undergrads and
others, but no takers. At the end of the fifteenth round poor Price was
at no price, when lo! after turning to avoid, he slung himself round
again, and with a chance backhander caught Jones such an almighty whack
on the left ear that down he went, and was deaf to time! The affair
lasted in all twenty-one minutes. Jones felt immensely mortified, and
challenged Price to a second meeting, but the latter had discovered his
customer, and refused any further dealings. “I insist upon your giving
me another chance,” urged the Sailor Boy. “I will,” said Price, “before
the beaks;” so he applied to the Bench for a summons for a threatened
assault, and the Sailor Boy was held to bail to keep the peace towards
the complainant for twelve calendar months. “It’s lucky,” said the
Sailor Boy, “that the bond only extends to Dicky Price. I must bid
farewell to Oxford and look elsewhere for a job.”

Tom Reidie, so well known as “the Colonel” for many years afterwards,
among the frequenters of the Leicester Square and Coventry Street
“hells,” as the gaming-houses were then entitled, was hastily matched
with Jones. The men met in the fields at the back of the “Red House,”
Battersea (now Battersea Park), on the 4th August, 1824. The affair was
a tiresome exhibition. Reidie, nimble as a harlequin, retreated, whereon
his man advanced, and would not be forced to a rally, getting down so
provokingly that Harry was several times well-nigh irritated into a foul
blow. The bystanders, too—many of them West End swells—pulled up the
stakes, and the ropes were soon missing. Accordingly, as a reporter
says, “the men were fighting out of one field into another, and Jones
could not get a chance of planting a successful hit.” “Only stand
still,” said the Sailor Boy, “and see what will be the matter.” “I’m not
such a fool, although I may look one,” replied the Colonel, and then
with his thumb to his nose he executed a backward double shuffle, nobbed
Harry slightly, and slipped his heels from under his hams, dropping on
his South Pole with a grin. After two hours and three-quarters, in which
both men were but slightly punished, Reidie’s tactics triumphed, and
Jones was so exhausted and baffled that he resigned the contest!

On September 21st, 1824, Jones, for the third time, entered the lists
with Ned Stockman, at the “Old May Pole,” Epping Forest, for £25 a-side.
After seventeen rounds, twenty-three minutes, Jones was again defeated.

A week only after this defeat, after the bull-baiting on Old Oak Common,
on Tuesday, September 28th, 1824, Frederick Edwards, a coachman, of some
pretensions to boxing, offered to meet Jones for a purse that had been
subscribed. Stockman seconded Jones, Reuben Martin united upon Edwards.
Jones’s skill, combined with caution, enabled him to get over the ground
in style, and in an hour and a half the coachman gave in, confessing
that even a good amateur must knock under to a professional.

Mike Curtain was matched against Jones for a trifling stake, and in
October, 1824, Battersea Fields being again the scene of action, Jones
defeated him in seventy-five minutes.

After the disappointment with Young Dutch Sam and Lenney, at the “Old
Barge House,” March 25th, 1825, Harry Jones fought a horse-keeper,
nicknamed Captain Corduroy. The battle, which is fully reported in
“Boxiana,” lasted twenty minutes, when the Sailor Boy was hailed as
victor.

The following report, from the pen of a distinguished _littérateur_,
then on the staff of the _Morning Chronicle_, gives a lively picture of
an extemporised fight of the period:—

“Old Oak Common, six miles from London, on the Harrow Road, and formerly
the scene of many a sturdy battle between men of high pugilistic
character, was, on Thursday, September 8th, 1825, honoured by the
presence of a select assemblage of the mobocracy, to witness a
subscription mill between Harry Jones, the Sailor Boy, and a Westminster
champion, well known by the poetical appellation of ‘Tommy O’Lynn,’ but
whose name in the parish books stands as Jemmy Wilson. Jemmy, it seems,
had long been the drake of the walk in Duck Lane; and in the various
_rencontres_ in which he happened to be engaged with the heroic youths
of that neighbourhood he invariably came off with _éclat_. This
circumstance rendered him a great favourite among the ‘donkey dragoons,’
of which he is a member; and they determined, when an opportunity
offered, to afford him the means of distinguishing himself in a way
which might do honour to the school from which he sprang. This
opportunity happily occurred at the ‘Coopers’ Arms,’ in Strutton Ground.
A large party being assembled over their ‘pots of heavy’ in that place
of social resort, some remarks were made on the want of diversion among
the operative classes of society, while the nobs were pickling their
carcasses on the seashore. Various proposals were made for a day’s fun.
Some were for ‘grabbing a bull,’ and taking him out for an airing, a
recreation not then obsolete; others were for a dog-fight, and more for
a duck-hunt; but to all these there were objections; and Mr. Martin’s
Act was mentioned as an ugly bar to such exhilarating amusements. At
last a mill was suggested, as more congenial to all their feelings; and
the Sailor Boy being present, it was resolved that he and Tommy O’Lynn
should have a ‘shy’ for a subscription purse. Both men were agreeable,
and Thursday was fixed for the outing. The hat went round at the moment,
and about five pounds were collected, which, with what might be
contributed on the ground, was considered a tolerably fair prize. At an
early hour on Thursday morning the lads were on the move, and the
avenues leading to the Harrow Road presented a lively succession of
donkey equipages, while the banks of the Paddington Canal, and the
fields from the Uxbridge Road, were covered with groups of motley
characters, all directing their steps towards the appointed spot. At one
o’clock the assemblage was very numerous. Among the throng we noticed
many Westminster celebrities, particularly Bill Gibbons and Caleb
Baldwin. The former was present merely as an amateur, while the latter,
with a jar of ‘blue ruin’ (copiously diluted from the neighbouring
canal), endeavoured to enliven the spirits of his patrons, and to
furnish the pockets of his own inexpressibles. A long list of the Boxing
School was likewise on the ground, Tom Oliver acting as master of the
ceremonies, stakeholder, and otherwise dictator of the day.

“The Sailor Boy was early on the ground, having been brought in prime
style by Tom Callas and a couple of his friends in a ‘one-horse shay.’
He looked well, and was confident of winning. Tommy O’Lynn was said to
be at a public-house on the Harrow Road, under the care of a ‘gemman’
whose delicacy was such that he did not wish his name to be mentioned,
and was therefore described as the ‘Great Unknown.’ At two o’clock
notice was sent to the ‘Great Unknown’ to bring his man, and in a short
time he arrived with his shay-cart, drawn by his celebrated trotter, and
was received with as cordial a cheer as if he were Sir Walter Scott or
the Right Honourable George Canning, of which honour he seemed deeply
sensible, and ‘blushed like a bone-boiler’—which, we believe, is the
profession to which he belongs.

“All being in readiness the ring was beaten out and a commodious area
formed.” The men soon made their appearance on opposite sides of the
ring, throwing in their ‘castors’ with mutual good humour. On stripping,
the Sailor Boy was evidently the heavier and stronger of the two, and
the odds were announced at seven to four in his favour. Tommy O’Lynn was
regularly got up for the occasion. Unlike his great ancestor, Brian
O’Lynn, who, as history informs us, ‘had no breeches to wear,’ he
advanced in all the pride of a new pair of tape-bound flannel drawers,
high-low shoes, and new cotton ‘calf-covers.’ On pulling down his
knowledge-box by the forelock of its thatch, he was rapturously welcomed
by the cry of ‘Tommy for ever!’ while the ‘Great Unknown’ whispered in
his ear the words of the favourite Scotch song—

                  ‘Now’s the time and now’s the hour,
                  See the front of battle lour.’

Tommy grinned a grin, and prepared for action. He was attended by
Charlsy Brennan and Young Gas, while the Sailor Boy claimed the kind
offices of Alec Reid, and that bright ornament to gymnastics and lyrics
Frosty-faced Fogo.”


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The positions of both men were good. Tommy especially threw
  himself into a studied attitude. The Sailor Boy tried to bring him
  out, and made two feints with his right. Tommy was steady, but at
  last Jones let fly with his right and caught him on the nob. Tommy
  was awake, and returned on the cheek, when after a short rally they
  closed, and went down together, Tommy undermost.

  2.—Jones, anxious to begin, made a feint, and then hit out with his
  left, but was well stopped. Jones, still busy, rattled in, and
  caught Tommy on the ivories; a spirited rally followed, in which
  Jones caught his man round the neck, and pegged at his belly with
  great effect. He at last closed and threw him. (“Vait,” cried a
  costermonger, “only let Tommy give him a touch of his own, and
  you’ll see!” “Ve’ll vait,” cried another, “but I’m blowed if I don’t
  think ve’ll vait long enough!”)

  3.—Tommy came up active, but received a jobber in the dexter ogle,
  and in getting away dropped. The Great Unknown began to look
  serious, and was seen to scratch his block in a most significant
  manner.

  4.—Jones was now perfectly acquainted with his man, and resolved to
  finish him without delay. He went in boldly with his left, but was
  stopped by Tommy throwing up his right and pitching back his head.
  Jones, however, followed him with his right, and hit him severely
  over his left guard. A desperate rally followed, in which Jones
  administered severe punishment, and Tommy went down piping and
  bleeding. It was now a donkey to a tom-tit in Jones’s favour, but
  nobody would take the odds.

  5, and last.—Tommy planted a body blow, but with little force. Jones
  returned on his smeller, and another desperate rally followed, in
  which Tommy had it in all directions, and was at last hit down
  senseless by a straight right-hander, Jones winning without a
  scratch in six minutes.

  REMARKS.—Tommy may shine among the street heroes in the back slums,
  but won’t do in the Ring. He was too light, and not sufficiently
  fed, for Jones. Gibbons recommended, from his greyhound condition,
  that he should go into training for what he called a “natommy
  vivante,” and travel the country as “own brother to the living
  skeleton.”


Jones, who had been gaining ground in the sparring world, and also in
the estimation of his friends, was backed against Young Dutch Sam for
£25 a-side. This battle was decided at Shere Mere, on the borders of
Bedfordshire, on Tuesday, the 18th of October, 1825. Sam was seconded by
Dick and George Curtis, and Jones by Alec Reid and Goodman. Jones was
signally defeated in eighteen rounds, occupying fifty-three minutes. See
Life of YOUNG DUTCH SAM, _ante_, p. 358.

At No Man’s Land, four miles beyond St. Albans, on Tuesday, March 14th,
1826, after Donovan had defeated Jennings, a subscription purse of five
pounds was collected, when a man of the name of Knowlan, known as the
Tumbler, entered the ring against Harry Jones. Knowlan, as a specimen of
his professional agility, threw two summersaults before he began to
peel. The Tumbler had also the advantage of Harry Holt for his second.
In the course of fifteen minutes the activity of the Tumbler was reduced
to a stand-still, Jones proclaimed the winner, and the five pounds in
his pocket.

After Barney Aaron had defeated Dick Hares, at No Man’s Land, on
Tuesday, March 21st, 1826, a subscription purse of five pounds was
collected for Mike Curtain and Harry Jones; and although only seven days
had elapsed since his fight with Knowlan, Harry was determined not to
let a chance go by him. Curtain was anxious for another shy with the
Sailor Boy, having been defeated by him, after a severe struggle of one
hour and three-quarters, as stated in a preceding page. Jones, upon this
occasion, was seconded by Fogo, and the battle was considered above
mediocrity; but at the expiration of half an hour “the Curtain was let
down” a second time, and Jones pronounced the conqueror.

After Young Dutch Sam had defeated Tom Cooper, the Gipsy, at Grays, in
Essex, on Tuesday, April 25th, 1826, a subscription purse was collected
for a second fight, when Jones and Tom Collins entered the ring. Collins
was the man who defeated Barney Aaron when the latter boxer was a
novice, and was considered a scientific, sharp boxer. He was soon
reduced to a mere nobody in the hands of Harry Jones. In the short space
of four rounds, occupying only six minutes, Collins was severely
punished and defeated, while Jones left the ground with hardly a
scratch.

On Tuesday, September 5th, 1826, after Bishop Sharpe had defeated Alec
Reid, at No Man’s Land, in Hertfordshire, to make up a third battle, for
a subscription purse, Jones, always ready to earn a pound or two, and
Pick, a Bristol lad, equally anxious to obtain a small slice, stood up
on the shortest notice. Dick Curtis and Young Dutch Sam seconded Harry
Jones, and Bayley and Gipsy Cooper acted as seconds for Pick.
Twenty-seven rounds were contested. In every round Jones took the lead,
and ultimately he was declared the conqueror. Pick had not the slightest
chance, and was severely punished. The Sailor Boy had scarcely a mark
upon him. Jones won the battle in thirty minutes.

The Sailor Boy at this period was hardly ever out of “action.” At
Fidgett Hall, one mile and a half from Newmarket, after Larkins had
defeated Abbot, a second fight took place for a purse of five pounds,
between Harry Jones and Reuben Howe, on Tuesday, November 28th, 1826—the
former well known in the London circles, the latter a bustling, boasting
yokel, weighing a stone and a half more than Jones. Howe was seconded by
two of his own pals, and Jones by Oliver and Fogo. Thirty-one rounds
were fought in thirty-four minutes, during the whole of which Jones took
the lead both in hitting and throwing, and won the fight almost without
a scratch. No man could have polished off a customer in a more
workman-like manner. The defeat of Howe was much relished by the
chawbacons, as he was a complete bully among his companions, and being
thus “taken down a peg” probably tended to improve his manners.

After Peter Crawley had defeated Jem Ward, at Royston Heath,
Cambridgeshire, on Tuesday, January 2nd, 1827, Harry Jones entered the
ring with Gybletts for a subscription purse. In the course of ten
minutes Jones was defeated. It was considered no match. The blunt was
divided between them. Gipsy Cooper seconded Gybletts, and Ned Stockman
and a pupil of Israel Belasco’s attended upon the Sailor Boy.

The second battle between Larkins and Abbot, for fifty pounds a-side,
according to the articles, was to have been decided on Tuesday, March
13th, 1827, within sixty miles of London; but as many things happen
between the “cup and the lip,” the “authorities” interfered, and Larkins
and Abbot slept in whole skins that night. After some little murmurings
by the disappointed crowd “that there is no certainty in this here
life,” Peter Crawley arrived, and added to their discomfiture by avowing
it was the intention of Larkins to forfeit on account of illness.

The little fight, as it was termed, now became the interesting topic of
the day; and Jones and Raines started for a new piece of ground,
followed by a string of vehicles of every description, hundreds of
horsemen, and toddlers out of number. The road had a pleasing
appearance, by the bustle, life, and activity, for several miles; the
turnpikes napped lots of blunt by the change; and the pot-houses met
with a variety of unexpected customers. But the principal part of the
toddlers who were compelled to ride Shanks’s mare were beaten to a
stand-still long before the grand halt took place at Chesterford. During
the rapid motion of the “gay throng” several upsets occurred; but the
Fancy were too game to complain of broken panels, or being canted over
the necks of their horses, contenting themselves with the old saying
that “worse accidents occur at sea.” At Chesterford a parley ensued
about making the ring, and “Haydon Grange” was named as a place beyond
the possibility of an interruption. But the crowd, who had already been
over twenty miles of ground, were too much fatigued to undertake another
of ten, and preferred chancing it; accordingly the stakes were knocked
into the ground without delay, in the parish of Chesterford. An outer
ring was immediately formed by the carriages, and the combatants called
for. Raines appeared first, and threw up his nob-cover, waited upon by
Stockman and a hackney dragsman nicknamed Whipaway, while Peter Crawley
and the Poet Laureate officiated as seconds for the Sailor Boy. This
time Fogo did not show himself habited as a collegian, although his
toggery bespoke the outline of a “Fellow Commoner” who had not decidedly
taken his terms, although he was upon “terms” with the ancient tribe of
costermongers. He wore his “beaver up” when he was recognised by the
M.A.’s, and received the nod from them as a student of _Brasen-nose_.
The colours were tied to the stakes—the Sailor Boy the favourite.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The Sailor Boy was in prime twig; in fact, he never was, in
  any of his preceding mills, anything like in such good condition.
  His arms were peculiarly fine, and attracted the general notice of
  the spectators. Raines did not appear so muscular a man as his
  opponent, but nevertheless his frame was manly, and he exhibited
  great strength. The Sailor Boy was in no hurry to commence the
  attack, and some minutes elapsed before any attempt at hitting was
  made. Jones made play, but Raines stopped well. A pause. The Sailor
  Boy, rather furious, was going to work, but was again well parried
  by Raines. It was observed by the London amateurs that Raines had
  evidently improved in his knowledge of the science. In setting-to
  with the gloves the Sailor Boy had always had the best of it.
  Several minutes passed, and the stopping system was adopted by
  Raines, until the Sailor Boy went in, and slashed away like a new
  one. In closing fibbing was attempted on both sides. Jones broke
  away cleverly, and milled his opponent down. “First blood!” from the
  friends of Jones. Raines was piping a little, and the Sailor Boy
  received shouts of applause from his “larned” friends belonging to
  the “Univarsity.”

  2.—The claret appeared slightly on Jones’s lips when he arrived at
  the scratch. The Sailor Boy fought well—that is to say, cautiously.
  Raines he looked upon as an ugly customer, although a tolerably
  good-looking fellow in person. The latter made several good parries,
  but did not try to plant any hits. Jones put in a heavy bodier with
  his left hand. A pause, “Go to work,” was the cry, and “Why don’t
  you, Mr. Poet Laureate (Fogo), put them together?” Jones planted a
  facer. (“Bravo!”) Raines made a blow, but the Sailor Boy was on the
  alert, and nothing was the matter. Exchange of blows passed between
  them, and the fighting was rather sharp, until they closed. In
  struggling for the throw Jones got his man down, but Raines threw
  him over, and the Sailor Boy rolled out of the ring. The Sailor Boy
  was decidedly the favourite with the Euclids, the Virgils, and the
  Homers. But the “drag and tumbler” sort of folk rather fancied
  Raines, and the odds were offered upon him by a few of them.

  3.—The lads were just now upon their mettle, and the fight had
  become interesting to the whole assembly of Greeks, Latins, and
  yokels; in fact, all classes of society were in high glee. Raines
  got away from mischief, but not out of trouble. At this instant a
  gent stepped into the ring and made his way up to Peter, saying: “If
  you are the director of this sort of thing, I must insist that you
  desist. It is a breach of the peace!” Peter, mild as a lamb and
  polite as a Chesterfield, observed, touching his tile to the man in
  authority, “I hope, sir, you do not mean to stop the sport? You do
  not intend to be so cruel? But if it is your wish, why, why, ——. The
  second degree is now made out,” said Peter; “this interruption,
  after the fight has commenced, is harder than the first baulk! Such
  an occurrence has not happened for the last twenty years.” A noble
  lord, upon a fine prad, in the shape of a beak, in an agitated tone
  of voice, added: “Do not come into Essex; I will not permit it. You
  will therefore do it at your peril!” In this dilemma the Greeks, the
  Roman-y’s, the mathematical admirers of the angle hitting of Harry,
  put forth all their lexicon of gammon to the unrelenting beaks, not
  to make three or four thousand gentlemen look like fools; but it was
  all U-P. “The Fancy,” exclaimed the hero of the _Brasen-nose_, “have
  now acquired the third degree,” on hearing the member of the Upper
  House say, “Beware of pitching your tents in Essex.” “It is the
  hardest thing I ever heard, in my whole history of prose and poetry,
  not to let the mill be finished anywhere to-day. I shall remember
  him in my next epic.” Singing psalms to a dead neddy would have been
  of the same service! The gents belonging to the Bench retired
  outside of the crowd, and a ring court-martial was held for twelve
  minutes, upon the propriety of “to mill or not to mill,” when it was
  unanimously determined “that the fight between Harry Jones and
  Raines was no go.” Thus, after the “bubble, bubble, toil and
  trouble,” in the words of Shakespeare, it proved to be “Much Ado
  about Nothing”—the spectators out of humour and ill-natured, the
  nags tired, “Home, Sweet Home,” a long way off, and the rain coming
  down nicely.


The ground was cleared in a few minutes. The stakes were drawn on the
part of Raines, but his backer offered to increase the sum to £25 a
side, so satisfied was he that Raines would have proved the conqueror.

On Saturday, the 14th of April, 1827, at Bulpham Fenn, Essex, about
twenty-two miles from London, in an angle on the right of Brentwood and
Romford, Harry Jones and Bob Simmonds, a well-known sporting “clergyman”
(_anglicè_, a sweep), entered a twenty-four foot roped ring at one
o’clock. Jones was attended by Peter Crawley and Fogo; Simmonds was
seconded by Dav Hudson and Gybletts. Crawley won the toss. On
setting-to, Simmonds, with great eagerness, attacked the Sailor Boy, but
the steadiness of the latter soon gave him the advantage. Jones, cool
and collected, waited for an opening, when he planted a rum one on the
right eye of Mr. Simmonds, which not only produced confusion of vision,
but floored the man of soot. Simmonds wished to appear cheerful on
commencing the second round, but the spectators found out that he was of
“no service” against a fine young man like Harry Jones. In the sixth
round, the poor fellow received so severe a cross-buttock that he puffed
like a pair of asthmatic bellows, after this shaking he fell down almost
without a blow in every succeeding round. At the expiration of
thirty-five minutes, and seventeen rounds, Simmonds acknowledged he was
“up the flue.” Jones, he said, was too good for him, and that he could
not get at the Sailor Boy. Jones won the battle without a scratch.
Crawley and Fogo were extremely attentive to Harry. It was so hollow a
thing on the side of Jones that not a sov. was sported upon the event.
Upwards of a thousand persons were present.

In consequence of the interruption of the battle between Raines and
Jones, a second match was made for £25 a-side, which was decided on
Monday, the 4th of June, 1827. Watford, the rallying point, was gained
without meeting with any particular objects worthy of note. At this
place the office was given for Chipperfield Common, a distance of
twenty-two miles from London; thither the disappointed Fancy repaired,
but not without “lots of grumbling” at the long trot. However, the ride
was delightful, and upon the whole it was pronounced a pleasant journey,
and a tidy day’s sport. At ten minutes to two o’clock the Sailor Boy,
habited as one of the true blue fraternity, threw his hat into the ring,
accompanied by the Poet Laureate Fogo and Jack Clarke; Raines was not
long behind him, attended by his seconds, Ned Stockman and a dragsman of
the name of Woolley.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The Sailor Boy could not have been better as to condition,
  and Raines was also in good trim as to his training. It seemed as if
  the combatants were aware they had a long day before them, as
  neither Jones nor Raines were in a hurry to go to work. Ten minutes
  had elapsed in looking and dodging each other about, when Jones let
  fly with his left hand, whilst Raines cleverly put on the stopper.
  The latter boxer never commenced offensive operations, but always
  waited for the attack. Jones also well knew that great danger was to
  be apprehended by the countering of Raines, and therefore he was
  extremely cautious, and thus are we enabled to account for this
  precious long round. The seconds were at the four corners of the
  ring like hackney coachmen upon a stand waiting for a fare. Several
  of the spectators proposed to them to accept a cigar, smoke a pipe,
  take a hand of cards, &c. At length a slight rally, or rather
  exchanges, occurred, when stopping, dodging, offering, again took
  place. Jones let fly, but Raines would not have it at any price.
  Good stopping on both sides. “Go to work,” from all parts of the
  ring, had not the slightest effect. The Sailor Boy made a hit with
  his left hand, which was sharply returned by Raines; a little
  milling took place, and both of them cried out “First blood,” but it
  was a dead heat in this respect, a slight tinge of the claret
  appearing on both of their mugs at the same instant. It would be a
  waste of time to repeat all the stops, &c. The Sailor Boy at length
  went in like a jolly fellow, and the fibbing system was resorted to,
  hard and fast, on both sides, until they both went down, Raines
  undermost. Forty minutes had now passed in sparring.

  2.—This round was altogether as short. Some little stopping
  occurred, until Jones went in as before, and finished the round by
  tipping it to Raines and placing him undermost.

  3.—Little bumps were observed upon the foreheads of both combatants,
  but nothing like mischief had passed between them. The ear of Raines
  had napped a little pepper. The latter endeavoured to put in a
  right-handed blow, and, if it had told, summat might have been the
  matter. Raines stopped well; but he did not fight until he was
  compelled to defend himself. In closing, smart hitting on both sides
  was administered, and the Sailor Boy was thrown out of the ropes.
  (“Well done, Jem!” and lots of applause.)

  4.—The nose of Raines looked red. For why? Jones’s left had given it
  a sharp tap; he was also a little on the piping suit. At the ropes
  Raines was fibbed by his opponent, and ultimately thrown.

  5.—This was a tidy round, but the wind of Raines was rather
  troubled; and both cautious in the extreme. Jones planted cleverly a
  conker without any return, and repeated the dose. Parrying on both
  sides, until Raines received a slight hit in the body, when he
  staggered backwards and fell out of the ropes. (Two to one on
  Jones.)

  6.—The Sailor Boy always commenced milling, although cautious. He
  gave Raines another nose-ender which sent him rather backwards;
  Jones then went in, and had the best of it until Raines was thrown.

  7.—It was clear to the spectators that Jones was now taking the
  lead; he cleverly put in a jobber that made the nose of Raines not
  only swell, but spoilt the shape of it. In closing Raines
  endeavoured to be busy, but the Sailor Boy was the quicker; Raines
  received the most punishment, and in going down was undermost.
  (Jones for a trifle; in fact, the friends of Raines began to
  perceive something was the matter.)

  8.—Raines put in a sharp blow on the ear of Jones. (“Well done,
  Jem!”) The Sailor Boy, however, returned the favour with interest—he
  nosed his opponent, ditto and ditto. (Laughing by the crowd, and “It
  is not fair to hit a man twice in one place.”) Raines in the
  struggle was again down.

  9.—This round was decidedly in favour of Jones. All his blows told.
  The nose of Raines again caught it, and he was ultimately hit down.
  (The Jonesites had now booked it that the Sailor Boy could win
  without a scratch upon his face.)

  10.—Not last; but interrupted. Jem made play, and slightly touched
  the cheek of Jones; but the Sailor Boy returned another noser. They
  closed, when some blows were exchanged; and the Sailor Boy broke
  away. A long pause—both on the look-out. Counter-hits. Jones was
  going to repeat the dose, when a gentleman on horseback rode up to
  the ropes, followed by a constable with a staff in his hand, and
  proclaimed, “In the same of the King I command you to desist.” The
  assemblage immediately bowed submission and the combatants instantly
  “cut their lucky.” The fight had lasted one hour and a quarter, but
  the yokels were sadly disappointed, and expressed their anger by
  loud hisses and groans. The motley group were soon in motion, and in
  less than ten minutes the ground was summat like the “baseless
  fabric of a vision;” not a cove was left behind. The nags soon felt
  the persuaders, and the toddlers, puffing and blowing, were
  compelled to put their best feet foremost in order to keep up with
  the drags. Watford was once more the rallying point; and after a few
  minutes’ conversation as to finishing the thing, a gentleman offered
  his meadow near Bushey Lodge, within a mile and a half of the town,
  which was gladly accepted. Here the Commissary-General and his pal
  knocked up the ring almost before you could say “Jack Robinson,” and
  at a quarter to six the men were again in attitude.


                         THE FIGHT (PART II.).

  Round 1.—The Sailor Boy looked as fresh as a daisy, while Raines
  appeared none the better for the delay. He was rather stiff, and his
  right hand was a little swelled. Raines made some good stops; but
  Jones now seemed determined to finish the thing well, and went up to
  his man, fought with Raines, had the best of it, and downed him.

  2.—The left eye of Raines had napped pepper in the last round; and
  Jones lost no time in polishing off his opponent. He closed, and
  fibbed Raines severely until he got him down; but the Sailor Boy
  held up his hand to show he would not do anything wrong. (“Bravo!”
  and Jones three to one.)

  3.—Short; but all in favour of Jones. Raines down.

  4.—The mug of Raines was covered with claret, and Jones again fibbed
  him off his pins.

  5.—Jem was getting abroad, and he hit at random; however, it was a
  milling round on both sides, and Jones did not get off without some
  clumsy thumps. Both down, Raines undermost.

  6.—Sharp work at the ropes. The Sailor Boy held his antagonist and
  tipped it him until he went down.

  7.—This round decided the fight. Raines was punished all over the
  ring until he was down.

  8–12.—It was as nice as ninepence to Jones. In the ninth round
  Raines was done, and time was called three times before he was
  brought to the scratch, and even then he was quite stupid; he,
  however, recovered, and fought the remaining rounds—or rather stood
  up to be punished—until Jones was declared the conqueror in twenty
  minutes.

  REMARKS.—Raines never attempted to fight—that is to say, he always
  waited for the attack. He countered at times well, but showed
  himself more of a sparrer than a milling cove. The Sailor Boy did
  everything in his power to win; he fought with capital science, and
  likewise bravely. By the above battle he has risen in the estimation
  of his friends. Jones will not stand still for backers; and no doubt
  the Sailor Boy will soon throw up his hat again in the P.R.


After Reuben Martin had defeated “the Gas,” on Tuesday, October 16th,
1827, at Westbourn Common, Sussex, Harry Jones and Ike Dodd entered the
ring. To detail the rounds of this fight would be not only a waste of
time but of paper. Dodd stood like a chopping-block, and was completely
at the service of the Sailor Boy during thirty-four minutes and eighteen
rounds. Jones took the lead, kept it, and finished off Dodd with the
utmost ease. He won the battle without a scratch upon his face; while,
on the contrary, the mug of Dodd exhibited divers blows in sundry
places. Jones was seconded by Curtis and Stockman, and Ike Dodd by Joe
Fishwick and Lewellin. The above battle was for only £10 a-side and a
trifling subscription purse.

After considerable chaffing, letter-writing, and even blows upon the
subject, a match for £25 a-side was made with Bill Savage and Harry
Jones. The latter went into training at Shirley’s, New Inn, Staines, and
conducted himself like a man desirous to do credit to himself, and
likewise to satisfy his backers. This match was decided on Tuesday,
March 20th, 1828, in the same field, near Chertsey, in which Barney
Aaron and Redmond were to have fought. A few minutes before one o’clock
Jones entered the ring, attended by Young Sam and Ned Stockman. Some
trifling delay occurred before Savage put in an appearance, during which
time Dick Curtis, owing to some misunderstanding with the backer of
Jones, turned round and took five to four for a good stake. This
circumstance rather alarmed the betting men, it being previously
understood that Curtis was to have acted as second to Jones. Savage
threw his castor into the ropes, and Curtis and Alec Reid entered as his
seconds.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—Jones was in tip-top condition, and armed at all points for
  his antagonist. The appearance of Savage did not indicate so much
  muscle and strength; nevertheless, he was considered up to the mark.
  He had also the advantage of a stone in weight and two inches in
  height. Some little time occurred in sparring, when Jones
  endeavoured to plant a facer with his left hand, but Savage stopped
  it skilfully, and got away. The latter retreated to a corner of the
  ring, and hit out; but it was “no go,” Harry being too cunning. The
  science on both sides was admired, and the parries were excellent.
  Jones, eager to go to work, touched Mr. Savage’s _os frontis_ rather
  “nasty,” when a close took place, and both combatants endeavoured to
  serve it out, until both were down.

  2.—The Sailor Boy was too fast for Savage; the latter retreated, but
  napped two nobbers. In closing, Savage was bored to the ropes, and
  Jones tried on the fibbing system with success, until both went
  down.

  3.—The Sailor Boy made good use of his science, but Savage stopped
  several hits like a pugilist. Jones went in, pelting away, and
  caught hold of Savage by the neck with one hand, and made some blows
  tell with the other. Savage was not idle in returning upon the body
  of Jones. Savage was thrown, and “First blood” called out by Young
  Sam, which was discovered upon the lip of Savage.

  4.—Jones seemed quite confident that he had nothing to fear from his
  opponent, and commenced milling without delay, but Savage made
  several good parries. The Sailor Boy slipped down, but jumped up
  with so much gaiety as to floor his opponent, (“Harry, go it; that’s
  the time of day—it is winning, and nothing else.”)

  5.—Jones, without ceremony, planted two nobbers; he also caught hold
  of his adversary and gave him a severe cross-buttock, shaking
  Savage, his nob coming on the grass and his pins in the air.
  (“There’s a burster!” said the Lively Kid; and the friends of Jones
  were loud in their marks of approbation. Seven to four.)

  6.—Savage showed game to the backbone, and rallying was the result;
  in closing, both were down.

  7.—Jones’s left hand was exceedingly troublesome, but Savage several
  times made skilful stops. In fact, this was a well-fought round on
  both sides, until the combatants were upon the ground.

  8–10.—The gameness of Savage was the admiration of the ring in all
  these rounds; and he also satisfied the spectators that he was not
  deficient in science. Savage’s left eye was in mourning and
  otherwise damaged, and his face exhibited severe marks of
  punishment. Jones took the lead, kept it like a master, and finished
  all the rounds in his favour. The mug of the Sailor Boy was as clear
  from blows as when he commenced the battle. (Two to one and higher
  odds on Jones.)

  11–13.—All these rounds were decidedly in favour of Jones; and the
  latter showed himself also the best man in obtaining the falls.
  Savage was floored by a tremendous hit on his left peeper; and his
  pimple shook again from the violent effects of the blow.

  14.—Savage was under good instruction, having the Pet of the Fancy
  at his elbow, and Bill endeavoured to profit by his advice;
  nevertheless, the Sailor Boy could not be reduced, and he, in
  general, finished the round in his favour.

  15.—Counter-hits, but Savage had the worst of the punishment. (“Long
  bowls,” said Curtis to Savage, “will not answer; you must yard-arm
  it with your adversary.”) Savage endeavoured to do as Curtis wished
  him, and he resolutely went in to work; the Sailor Boy hit him right
  away, enough to floor an ox, but the Welshman was too game to go
  down. Savage continued the round in the highest style of courage,
  until he was thrown cleverly. (“Any odds,” and “Jones, it is all
  your own.”)

  Any further detail of the rounds would be useless; enough has been
  stated to show that the Sailor Boy was completely the hero of the
  tale, and reduced conquest almost to a certainty. Jones had never
  lost the lead for a moment, but he now took it most decidedly. If
  Savage stood out he was jobbed—if he went in he was weaved and
  thrown. The fine fighting of Jones was the admiration of the whole
  ring, and the delight of all who had not risked their money against
  him. But Savage fully supported his character as one of the gamest
  of the game; though he had not the slightest chance of winning he
  refused to give in, and continued to obey the call of time, in spite
  of reiterated cries of “Take him away!” In the twenty-first round
  Harry planted a left-hander on Bill’s nose, and also threw him
  heavily. In the thirty-second round Savage fought with amazing
  spirit, and put in two or three good right-handed bodiers, but Jones
  finished the round by giving him a tremendous cross-buttock. In the
  thirty-fifth round Harry was winded and was troubled with sickness,
  no uncommon occurrence with him in a long fight. Savage, cheered on
  by Curtis, endeavoured to take advantage of this circumstance and
  some little alarm was in fact felt by those who were not well
  acquainted with Harry; but the efforts of Savage were entirely vain.
  Sick as he was, Harry had the best of the round, and in the
  half-minute’s respite that followed Jones brought up the troublesome
  matter, and was soon “all right” again. In the forty-ninth round
  Jones threw Savage and fell on him, but under the able management of
  his seconds he recovered sufficiently to obey the call of “Time.” It
  was clear, however, that Savage could not see his man. Ned Savage
  entered the ring in the fifty-fourth round and threw up his hat,
  declaring that his brother should fight no more. Harry capered about
  the ring for victory, but to the surprise of all present Bill
  declared he would not give in. He fought or rather groped his way
  through a couple more rounds, when his seconds, seeing that he had
  not the “shadow of a shade” of chance took him away, and Harry Jones
  was declared the victor, after a most gallant fight of fifty-six
  rounds, in one hour and thirty-five minutes.

  REMARKS.—Savage showed himself as brave a man as ever pulled off a
  shirt, and as being able to stop with considerable skill. His blows
  did not tell in out-fighting, his distances were incorrect, and when
  he closed he could not punish. He had hitherto been considered a
  good wrestler, but Harry almost always threw him. Indeed, poor Bill
  received more than twenty, perhaps we might say thirty,
  cross-buttocks, each of which was terribly effective. Harry Jones
  showed tactics of the very highest order. It is difficult to say
  which we had most occasion to admire—his out-fighting or
  in-fighting. He was evidently notwithstanding the disparity in size,
  much stronger than Savage, and, in fact, so fine was his science
  that he quitted the ring with hardly a mark on his face, and
  returned to Staines to dine so little “the worse for wear” that a
  stranger could not have discovered from his appearance that he had
  been fighting. His brave but unfortunate antagonist, on the
  contrary, was borne off the ground to the “Cricketers” public-house,
  where he was put to bed. The fight would have been brought to a
  conclusion much sooner had not Jones, in the early part of the
  action, sprained his left arm in one of the falls. The injury
  prevented the use of his left hand throughout the rest of the fight.
  Not the slightest dispute took place during the whole of the fight.
  Jones was often deservedly applauded for his forbearance in
  releasing Savage when he was entirely at his mercy, and, upon the
  whole, it was as fair, clever, and manly a battle as the best
  well-wishers to honest pugilism would desire to witness.


Jones had now given undeniable proofs of more than ordinary boxing
qualifications. In fact by many fanciers he was declared to be the best
ten stone man on the list. Ned Stockman, however, “the Lively Kid,” at
that time a first favourite in sporting circles, strenuously denied this
at all times and places, pointing to his early defeats of Harry, twice
for purses (of course impromptu affairs), and later for £25 in the
regular P.R., at Epping, in 1824. Mr. Stockman, however, had forgotten
that Harry had been improving in bone and stamina (he was only
twenty-one), while “the Lively Kid” had been “going the pace” in very
fast company. Ned soon got on a match for £25 a-side, and, all going
smoothly, articles were signed, and he met Harry Jones at Shere Mere, on
the 16th September, 1828. A clever fight on the part of Stockman, not
without occasional game rallies, almost uniformly to the advantage of
the Sailor Boy, in the forty-third round ended in Stockman’s defeat, his
chances being quite out some time before the finale.

Barney Aaron, whose victorious career we have just given, was the Sailor
Boy’s next opponent. In weight the men were about equal, but the fame of
the “Star of the East” shone so brightly that the £100 staked were
already “as good as won,” and so discounted by the denizens of Duke’s
Place. But the soundness of Mark Twain’s advice, “never to prophesy
unless you know,” received here another illustration. On the 11th of
November, 1828, at the Barge House, Woolwich Marshes, the renowned
Barney struck his colours to the gallant Sailor Boy, after eighteen
sharp fighting rounds, lasting fifteen minutes only.

Tom Reidie, “the Colonel,” conceiting himself upon his shifty
performance among the cabbages at Battersea, already noticed, having
spoken disparagingly of Harry’s victory as “a fluke,” followed it up by
expressing a wish that “somebody” would back him for “half a hundred,”
and let him “stand in a tenner of his own.” A patron of the “silver” or
“copper hell,” whereof the Colonel was for the time being
“groom-porter,” volunteered “the needful,” and, in the short period of
seven weeks from his victory over Aaron, the Sailor Boy was face to face
with Reidie at Hurley Bottom, Berks, on the 30th of December, 1828, for
£15 a-side. This time the Colonel’s “strategic movements to the rear”
entirely failed him. The stakes and ropes enclosed him in the limits of
twenty-four feet, and in less than that number of minutes (the fight
lasted twenty-two, minutes) down went Tom Reidie for the last time, at
the close of the sixteenth round, perfectly satisfied that he had quite
another “boy” to deal with than the lad he had tired out in Battersea
Fields.

Frank Redmond, whose game battles with Barney Aaron we have already
chronicled in these pages, proposed to try conclusions with the Sailor
Boy for a stake of £100 a-side, which Jones had now little difficulty in
getting together. It was a game and, for a few rounds, a tremendous
struggle, but Harry had “a little more left in him” in the last three
rounds (there were only ten in all), and in thirty-six minutes he was
hailed the victor of a well-fought field.

We should unduly extend the bulk of our volumes did we attempt to give
the detailed rounds of all the fights of the minor celebrities to whom
we have given niches in our gallery of pugilistic pen-portraits. We
shall therefore summarise Harry’s other battles by merely enumerating
them.

On the 19th May, 1829, at Harpenden Common, he fought and beat George
Watson for a stake of £50 a-side. Time, thirty-nine minutes; rounds,
thirty.

June 7th, 1831, beat Dick Hill (the Nottingham Champion), for £100
a-side, at Bagthorpe Common, Notts, in sixty-nine rounds, eighty
minutes.

Harry next met “the Oxford Pet,” Perkins, whose victory over Dick Curtis
had placed him on a pinnacle above his real merits as a boxer. On
January 17th, 1832, Harry Jones disposed of “the Pet’s” lofty
pretensions in twenty-two rounds, occupying forty-six minutes only. The
battle was fought at Hurley Bottom.

On April 2nd, 1833, Jones, who had just recovered from a long illness,
fought Gipsy Jack Cooper for £25 a-side, at Chertsey. It was a long and
tedious battle, with heavy punishment on both sides, for two hours and
ten minutes, twenty-six long rounds, when Jones was hailed as conqueror.

For some time Harry, who was suffering from a chronic disease of the
lungs, caused by exposure, earned money by sitting at Somerset House as
an artists’ model; and we can well say a finer bust and arms for an
athlete, or an exemplar of muscular development and symmetry, could
rarely be met with. As poor Harry, too, was a civil-spoken and
good-looking fellow, he had a numerous _clientèle_.

Another “Sailor Boy,” with the prefix of the words “The East End,” hight
Tom Smith, was now in the field. He was ten stone four pounds; and
having disposed of the nine stone lad, Owen Swift, and also Jack Adams
and Aaron, he challenged Harry. The match was made for £50 a-side, and
the two “Sailor Boys” met at Shrubs Hill, Bucks, on the 17th June, 1834.
Harry was no longer the “Gay Sailor Boy.” His heart was sound, but his
breathing apparatus was rapidly going out of repair, and in five rounds,
occupying only fourteen minutes, down went poor Harry for the last time,
and his colours and the £50 were the prize of “the East End Sailor Boy.”

Soon afterwards Jones became an inmate of the Westminster Hospital,
where he died on the 14th April, 1835, at the early age of twenty-eight
years.

JACK PERKINS (“THE OXFORD PET”). 1827–1830.

Among the ten stone boxers who ran a bright but brief career we note
Jack Perkins, “the Oxford Pet,” renowned chiefly for his victory over
the theretofore unconquered Dick Curtis.

Perkins’s first recorded battle, at the age of nineteen, with Bailey
Wakelin, an Oxonian pugilist nearly a stone his superior in weight,
spread his fame among the “gownsmen.” The affair came off at Radley
Common, on the 30th January, 1827, for £25 a-side, “the Pet” polishing
off his opponent in twenty-three active rounds, occupying thirty-two
minutes only.

His next appearance in buff was with Godfrey, an Oxford waterman, at
Henson, near the University City, on the 3rd of July, 1827. In the
seventh round, after twenty-eight minutes’ fighting, the referee awarded
the fight to Godfrey (against whom two and three to one was current), on
the ground that Perkins had got down without a blow. Godfrey refused a
second trial.

Perkins’s next match was with a well-known London man, Jem Raines.[57]
The battle was for £25 a-side, and came off at Penton Hook, near
Staines, on the 21st August, 1828. The Londoner’s skill was completely
outshone by the provincial professor, who out-fought and in-fought,
rallied, and sent down poor Jem for about a dozen of the twenty-five
rounds which comprised the battle, lasting forty-four minutes.

Perkins was now voted a don in the “University of Fives,” and was soon
matched by some of his “undergrad” admirers with Dick Price, of whose
qualifications a slight instance is given in the sketch of Harry Jones,
in a previous page of this Appendix. Perkins’s fight with Dick Price, at
Wantage, Berks, on October 15th, 1828, in which Price had for seconds
Peter Crawley and Dick Curtis, from London, was a one-sided affair, the
Oxford Pet knocking down the eleven stone butcher in the second and
third rounds, and administering punishment _ad lib._ until the sixteenth
and last, when the fight was over. Time sixty-two minutes.

On this occasion some chaffing between Curtis and Perkins produced all
ill feeling, and in the very next issue of _Bell’s Life_ we find “a
friend from Oxford” was commissioned to stake for a match with Curtis
for £100 a side, and articles were signed for a meeting between the two
“Pets.” Curtis forfeited on the second deposit, being matched to fight
Edwards for £200 a-side in the ensuing February. This match also ending
this time in a forfeit to Curtis, the affair with Perkins was resumed.
We may here note that Curtis was at this period suffering from an attack
of rheumatic gout, and that he stated this fact in reply to a challenge
of one Joseph Hudson Gardener to fight for £300, in April, 1829. A
“short-notice” battle was eventually agreed upon for £100 a-side, and
the day fixed for the 30th December, 1828.

In London and its vicinity, Curtis, who had pursued a long career of
glory, and who, in all his battles, had never been beaten, was
considered almost invincible; and few, in the first instance, were
disposed to lay against him, although seven to four and two to one were
repeatedly offered. As the time of fighting approached, however, more
minute inquiries were made respecting the merits of his opponent, and
those who had had opportunities of judging described him as a customer
of no ordinary stamp. He had been, like Dick, successful in all his
contests, and was described by those who knew him best as a scientific
pugilist—active on his legs, a straight and severe hitter with his left,
a good getter away, and distinguished for sound bottom. Independent of
this, it was known that he was at least a stone heavier than Curtis,
weighing when stripped ten stone four pounds, while Dick was booked at
nine stone at most. He was also five years younger than Curtis, being
scarcely twenty, while Dick was twenty-five; and those who knew the
habits of the latter were perfectly aware that they were not such—since
he had been in the habit of “seeing the gas turned off”—as to improve
his stamina or increase his muscular powers.

Both men went immediately into active training—Curtis to Hartley Row,
and Perkins, first in Oxfordshire, and latterly to Mr. Shirley’s, the
New Inn, at Staines, whose system of training and unremitting care of
the men entrusted to his charge placed him deservedly high in the
estimation of the best judges. It was observed that both men were
uncommonly attentive to their exercise, and both were acknowledged to be
in excellent condition. These were points to which particular attention
was paid as the period of the last deposit approached, and the friends
of Perkins exhibited an increasing confidence, many boldly asserting
that Curtis would find himself mistaken in his estimate of the talent of
his opponent, and others boldly asserting that they thought he was
overmatched—a stone being far too much for any man to give away, where
it was accompanied by a corresponding proportion of science and game.
Still, such was the deep-rooted prejudice in favour of Curtis, and such
the confidence in his generalship and cutting severity of punishment,
that the great majority of the Metropolitans considered it next to
treason to harbour a thought of his defeat. There were those, however,
who were not quite so bigoted in their opinions, and who, viewing the
merits of the men dispassionately, were disposed to think that Curtis,
as well as many of his gallant contemporaries, might find an equal, if
not a superior, in the art which he professed. Among this class were
found ready takers of the long odds of two to one, and subsequently of
seven to four—but on the night of the last deposits the odds were taken
to a large amount at six to four.

On the Monday evening the road to Maidenhead, which was appointed
headquarters, was crowded with vehicles of all descriptions, and every
house which would receive such visitors was crowded to excess. Curtis
and his backers cast anchor at the “Sun,” and Perkins, under the
auspices of the Oxford Dragsman, brought to at the “Dumb Bell,” on the
London side of Maidenhead Bridge. Curtis was accompanied by Tom Reidie,
who had trained with him, and Perkins by Harry Jones.

Tuesday morning produced a numerous accession to the multitude, and
countless vehicles continued to pour in as the day advanced, embracing
some of the most distinguished patrons of the Ring, and giving ample
occupation to the postmasters.

At an early hour Tom Oliver and his assistant, Frosty-faced Fogo,
proceeded to form the milling arena in the Parish Meadow, at Hurley
Bottom, Berks, thirty-four miles from London, and close to the banks of
the Thames—in summer no doubt a very desirable spot, but in the winter
season, from the marshy state of the soil, anything but eligible,
especially for those who had to travel in heavy vehicles. Several of
these stuck fast in the yielding soil, and the casualties which followed
were of the most ludicrous description—many of the inmates, who till
then had escaped the miseries of damp feet, being obliged to alight,
and, ankle deep in mud, to scramble to that portion of the turf which
was still capable of bearing their weight. Having encountered these
dangers “by flood and field,” they reached the ring, which was admirably
constructed, and surrounded by an ample supply of wagons, flanked by an
immense number of carriages of every denomination. As a proof of the
interest excited we may state that the crowd assembled was estimated at
more than 5,000 persons.

At one o’clock the men had arrived on the ground, sporting their
respective colours—Curtis a bright orange, Perkins a crimson. The bustle
of preparation was soon visible. The whips were distributed to the men
appointed by the Fair Play Club, and the stragglers were driven back to
the outer ring of rope which had been constructed near to the wagons.
Shortly after Dick Curtis approached the scene of action, accompanied by
Josh Hudson and Young Dutch Sam, and was soon followed by Perkins, under
the guidance of Tom Spring and Harry Holt. On meeting within the ring
they shook hands, and immediately commenced stripping. Both looked well
in health; but it was impossible not to observe that there was a rustic
hardiness in the appearance of Perkins, very different from that of
Curtis, who, nevertheless, had that sleekness and delicacy in his aspect
which one is apt to ascribe to superior breed or higher blood. On
stripping this contrast was still more apparent; for while Curtis showed
that beautiful symmetry of person for which he was so distinguished, and
which would have formed a perfect model for the sculptor, Perkins was
rough, square, and muscular in appearance. His head, too, being stripped
in patches of its hair, from the effect of ringworm in early life, gave
him rather the cut of a ragged colt just caught upon the mountain wilds
than the well-groomed nag coming from the stud of an indulgent master.
Overcoming first impression, however, on seeing both men stripped, it
was impossible not to discover at a glance the great disparity in point
of size between the men. Perkins appeared to us to be at least two
inches taller than Curtis, and every way larger in proportion. He was
well pinned, with substantial thighs, and his shoulders and arms showed
powerful muscle, though his loins were thin. His phiz, too, exhibited
various scars, which were convincing proofs that he had been engaged in
encounters of no trifling character. He evinced a great coolness in his
manner, and, as throughout his training, booked victory as certain.
Curtis looked to us light, but, nevertheless, in high favour with
himself. Many old followers of the stakes did not hesitate on seeing the
men for the first time stripped in fair comparison to exclaim, “Dick is
overmatched,” an opinion which had often been expressed before, but met
with little attention. Everything being in readiness the men were
conducted to the scratch and commenced.


                               THE FIGHT.

  Round 1.—The positions of both men were good. Curtis, his head a
  little advanced, his arms well up, and his eye measuring his man
  with the piercing look of the eagle. Perkins, his head rather on one
  side, and thrown a little back, his right hand well up, to stop
  Dick’s left, and his left ready for a fling. Each manœuvred and
  changed ground. Dick made several feints with his left, but Perkins
  was not to be drawn from his caution. (“He’s not to be kidded!”
  cried one of the Oxonians.) Dick crept in, tried to draw his man
  once or twice, but it would not do. Perkins stood well to his guard.
  Five minutes were occupied in this way, and not a blow struck; at
  last Dick plunged in with his left, which was stopped, but he
  delivered with his right. Good counter-hits were exchanged in a
  rally, Dick catching the left between his eyes, which made them
  twinkle, and the right on the tip of his conk. Perkins instantly
  stepped back and exclaimed. “First blood!” at the same time pointing
  to Dick’s nose, and sure enough the purple fluid came gurgling
  forth. Dick, undismayed, bustled up to his man, and caught him
  heavily on the mouth with his left. Perkins got well away, but no
  time was lost in again getting to a rally; Dick would not be denied,
  and got close to his man. Perkins again put in a left-handed facer,
  but had a tremendous hit in return from Dick’s right, which cut him
  over the corner of the left eye, and drew a copious stream of blood.
  Both again drew back, but Dick suffered no time to elapse, rushed in
  to deliver, and after two or three exchanges Perkins went down from
  a slight hit. The round lasted seven minutes, and the fighting on
  both sides was excellent, and acknowledged by the most sceptical to
  be better than was expected on the part of the Oxford Pet.

  2.—Dick again came up in beautiful position, while Perkins seemed
  perfectly at home, and nowise dismayed by Dick’s “ocular
  demonstration.” Perkins waited; and Dick, after two or three feints
  with his left, made a good hit with his right, but was well
  countered by Perkins. A sharp and active rally followed, in which
  Perkins caught it on the nozzle, and was on a par with his opponent,
  for he too showed abundance of claret. In the end Perkins was down,
  though not a decided knock-down blow.

  3.—Perkins came up fresh as a kitten, while Dick looked deeply
  intent on his work. Dick hit out with his left, but was cleverly
  stopped. Perkins made a similar effort, but was likewise stopped.
  Dick then rushed in to hit, while Perkins retreated and fell back at
  the ropes, half out of the ring. (Shouts for Dick.)

  4.—Dick’s face was now a good deal flushed, and the first hit
  between the ogles began to show its effects, as his right eye became
  discoloured. Dick, after a leary feint, rushed in to hit with his
  left; but Perkins, with great steadiness, parried the compliment,
  and smiled. Dick finding he could not plant his favourite nobbers,
  now tried the body, and popped in two or three pretty hits in the
  bread-basket with his left. Perkins was not idle, and caught him on
  the side of the head with his right. Both were again cautious, and
  Perkins covered his upper works in good style; he was always ready
  to counter with his left as he stopped with his right. Dick saw
  this, and repeated his body blows, leaving pretty obvious marks from
  his knuckles; Perkins did not return. Good counter-hits at the nob
  right and left, and both away. Again to manœuvring, when Dick’s body
  hit was stopped; he then rushed in and hit Perkins open-handed with
  his left. Perkins returned with his left, catching him on the mouth,
  and a few slight exchanges followed. Dick again had him in the body
  with his left. After a short pause a fine slashing rally followed,
  and some jobbing hits were delivered on both sides, but little
  advantage was observable. The punishment received by Dick, however,
  was more obvious; in the end Perkins fell. This was a fine manly
  round, and excited general applause; and from Dick’s steadiness, his
  friends’ confidence increased.

  5.—The symmetry of Dick’s more delicate physog. was a good deal
  altered, while Perkins’s only showed the cut over his right eye, and
  still preserved his coolness and self-possession. Dick again planted
  his left-handed body hit, but was idle with his right; in fact,
  Perkins was so well guarded as to bid defiance to his usual sharp
  and cutting jobs. A short rally, in which hits were exchanged, and
  both went down easy, Perkins under.

  6.—Dick tried to plant his left on Perkins’s nob, but he got well
  away, and succeeded in stopping a second attempt at his body.
  Perkins made two excellent stops right and left at his head, but
  napped it in the ribs; this did not seem to affect him, and he
  preserved his steadiness in a manner little expected from a yokel.
  Good stops on both sides, and an admirable display of science;
  Perkins stopped right and left, but his returns passed beside Dick’s
  head, and were rather at random; hits were interchanged, though not
  of great moment, and in the close Perkins went down.

  7.—Dick fought a little open-mouthed, and seemed somewhat crabbed at
  not being able to reach his man. He took a drop of brandy-and-water
  and again went to action. Perkins still steady and collected, and
  evidently as strong as a horse. Dick resumed his feinting system,
  and caught Perkins cleverly with his left, while he delivered his
  right heavily on his collar-bone. Had this reached his canister, as
  was no doubt intended, it would have told tales, but Perkins’s
  activity on his legs enabled him to step back in time. Dick put in
  three body blows in succession with his left, but they did not seem
  to tell on the iron carcass of Perkins. Dick then rushed in to
  punish, but Perkins, in retreating, fell, and pulled him upon him.
  (Dick’s friends were still satisfied all was right, and booked
  winning as certain. But little betting took place, so intense was
  the interest excited by every move.)

  8.—Dick tried his left-handed job, but was stopped, and with equal
  neatness stopped the counter from Perkins’s left. In a second effort
  Perkins was more successful, and put in his left cleverly on Dick’s
  nob, while Dick countered at his body. Perkins again stopped Dick’s
  left-handed job, and showed great quickness in getting away. A fine
  spirited rally followed, in which mutual exchanges took place, and
  the blood flowed from the smellers of both. It was a fine, manly
  display on both sides, but in the end Perkins hit Dick clean off his
  legs with his right, catching him heavily on the side of the head.
  (Immense cheers from the Oxonians, and the Londoners looking blue.)

  9.—Dick, a little abroad, popped in his left on Perkins’s body, and
  then rushed in to fight. Perkins retreated, and got into the corner
  of the ring, when a desperate rally followed; Perkins jobbed Dick
  several times right and left, catching him heavily under the ear
  with his right, thus showing he could use both hands with equal
  effect. Dick fought with him, but the length of Perkins seemed too
  great to enable him to hit with effect. Finding himself foiled at
  this game, he closed, and catching Perkins’s nob under his arm, was
  about to fib; but Perkins slipped down, by the advice of Spring, and
  evaded the punishment he would otherwise have received. Dick, on
  getting to his second’s knee, was covered with blood, and looked all
  abroad; the right-handed hit under his lug in the last round was
  evidently a stinger.

  10.—Both came up collected, but Dick did not seem disposed to lose
  much time in reflection; he hit with his left, but had it in return
  from Perkins on the nob. A lively rally followed, in which both got
  pepper; Dick rushed in hastily, and Perkins fell, Dick on him.

  11, and last.—Dick now came up evidently resolved to make a
  desperate effort to put aside the coolness of Perkins, but he found
  his man ready at all points; good counter-hits were exchanged, and
  both fought with fury; Perkins threw in a heavy hit with his left on
  Dick’s nob, and then on his body with his right; Dick fought with
  him boldly, but had no advantage, when Perkins again caught him
  heavily under the ear with his right, and he fell “all of a heap.”
  He was immediately picked up, and his seconds tried every expedient
  to bring him to his senses, but he was completely stupefied, and on
  time being called was incapable of standing. The hat was immediately
  thrown up, announcing victory, and Perkins ran out of the ring as
  strong as ever. He was, however, sent back till the battle was
  pronounced won or lost. The decision was given in favour of Perkins,
  and in a short time Dick was conveyed to his carriage, and from the
  ground to Maidenhead. The fight lasted twenty-three minutes and a
  half.

  REMARKS.-At the conclusion of the fight, which was certainly more
  quickly ended than we anticipated, most of the persons close to the
  ring seemed to be satisfied that Curtis had been out-fought, and
  that, in fact, he had been, as was observed in the first instance,
  overmatched. The losers, however, soon began to state a different
  impression, and certain shrugs and twists gave indication of a
  feeling that all was not right “in the state of Denmark.” It is
  certain that Dick did not do as much with Perkins as we have seen
  him do with other men; but then it must be considered that we never
  saw him opposed to so good a man as Perkins was on this day. In
  addition to his superior weight and physique, the Oxford man from
  first to last preserved a coolness and steadiness, and covered his
  points with a scientific precision, which few men of his age and
  experience have displayed in the Ring. This was admitted even by
  those who had most reason to lament his success. In our opinion Dick
  fought too quickly, and lost that presence of mind which with such
  an opponent was his only chance of success. From the undiminished
  strength which Perkins showed at the last, too, we are satisfied he
  could have continued the fight much longer. We agree with Sam (who
  seconded Curtis) that he was more of a match for him than for the
  Pet. It cannot be forgotten that from the first moment the match was
  made we expressed our fears that Dick was giving away too much
  weight, and the result has confirmed our judgment.


In a very few minutes after the fight Perkins entered the ring dressed,
and little the worse for his engagement, beyond the cut over his left
eye and a little puffiness in the mouth and nose; he must, however, have
felt for some time the effects of his body blows, which were both heavy
and numerous. He expressed a strong desire to second Harry Jones in his
fight with Reidie, but this his friends would not permit.

A challenge from Bob Coates procured for that boxer a thrashing in
twenty-five rounds, occupying twenty-eight minutes, near Chipping
Norton, on the 19th of March, 1830.

The defeat of Curtis, as we have already noted in our Memoirs of ALEC
REID and HARRY JONES, rankled in the memory of the London Ring, and
consequently a more equal opponent for the fresh and hardy provincial
was looked out in the person of Alec Reid, “the Chelsea Snob,” the full
details of which may be read in the tenth chapter of this volume, pp.
423–426.

This first defeat took place on the 25th May, 1830, and thenceforward,
until 1832, Perkins remained without a customer. Towards the close of
1831 a negotiation with Harry Jones, the Sailor Boy, was concluded. The
stakes, £50 a-side, were tabled, and on January 17th, 1832, at Hurley
Bottom, the scene of his victory over the London Pet, the Oxford man was
defeated, after a gallant defence, in twenty-two rounds, time forty-six
minutes.

With this defeat closed the Ring career of “the Oxford Pet,” in three
short years.


                            END OF VOL. II.




                          INDEX TO VOLUME II.

[Illustration]


                                   A

 AARON, BARNEY (“the Star of the East”).
   His birthplace, 504
   His early days, 504
   His battles with Connelly, Lyons, Ely Bendon, and Sam Belasco, 504–5
   Beats Tom Collins for a purse, 504
   Beats Ned Stockman, 504
   Beats Tom Lenney (twice), 505–6
   Beats Frank Redmond, 507
   Beats Peter Warren, 508
   A gallant tar’s generosity, 509
   A “chant of victory”, 509
   Beaten by Arthur Matthewson, 510
   Arthur Matthewson (note), 510
   Challenges Matthewson to a second trial, 511
   Battle with Dick Hares, 511
   Mynheer Van Haagen’s letter descriptive of the fight, 511
   Defeated by Dick Curtis, 512
   Set-to with Curtis at the Coburg Theatre, 512
   Second battle with Frank Redmond, 512
   A disappointment, 513
   The stakes awarded to Barney, 513
   Third match with Frank Redmond, 513
   Beats Frank Redmond, 514
   Beats Marsh Bateman, 515
   Beaten by Tom Smith, 515
   Dies in Whitechapel, 515

 ABBOT, BILL.
   His victories, 182
   Beats Dick Hares and Dolly Smith, 183
   Beaten by West Country Dick (see Vol. I.), 184
   Beats a “Johnny Raw”, 185
   Beats a “navvy” at Hampton, 185
   Beats Bennyflood, 186
   Beats Pitman, 186
   Beats Tom Oliver, 186
   Beats Phil Sampson, 189
   Challenges Josh Hudson, 191
   Fights a cross with Jem Ward, 191
   Beaten by Larkins, of Cambridge, 191
   Beats Search, 191

 ACTON, DICK, his battles, note of, 200


                                   B

 BROWN, TOM (“Big Brown,” of Bridgnorth).
   His birthplace, 437
   Aspires to the Championship, 437
   Matched with Tom Shelton, 437
   Patronised by Tom Spring, 437
   Beats Tom Shelton, 438
   Challenges the Championship, 440
   Replies to the challenges by Ward and Sampson, 441
   Match with Jem Ward goes off, 443
   Defeated by Phil Sampson, 445
   Beats Isaac Dobell (first time), 446
   Beats Isaac Dobell (second time), 449
   Announces his retirement from the P.R., 450
   Second match with Sampson, 450
   Beats Phil Sampson, 451
   Disputed result—Mr. Beardsworth gives up the stakes, 452
   Recovers the £200 battle-money of Mr. Beardsworth, 453
   Becomes a Boniface in Bridgnorth, 453

 BALDWIN, EDWARD (“White-headed Bob”).
   His birth, 338
   First appearance in the Ring, 338
   Beats O’Connor, 338
   A pupil of Bill Eales, 338
   A plant with Jem Ward, 388
   Beats Maurice Delay, 339
   His patronage by “Pea-green Hayne”, 341
   Becomes a “man on town”, 341
   Forfeits to Ned Neale £100, 341
   Is beaten by Ned Neale, 341
   Challenges Langan, the Irish Champion, 342
   Beats George Cooper, 342
   Opens “Subscription Rooms”, 344
   Takes a Provincial tour, 344
   Beaten by Jem Burn, 344
   Beats Jem Burn, 345
   Fights a “draw” with Ned Neale, 350
   Beats Ned Neale, 350
   Dies at the “Coach and Horses,” St. Martin’s Lane, Oct., 1831, 352

 BURN, JEM (“My Nevvy”).
   His birth at Darlington, 328
   Apprenticed at Newcastle, 326
   Of a fighting family, 326
   Early exploits, 326
   Beats O’Neil, 327
   Sir Bellingham Graham, 328
   Matched with Jack Martin, 328
   A draw, 329
   Defeated by Ned Neale, 329
   And by Phil Sampson, 329
   Beats Pat Magee, 330
   Marries Miss Watson, of Bristol, 333
   Matched with Ned Baldwin (“White-headed Bob”), 333
   Beats Baldwin, 334
   A second match made, 335
   Is defeated by Baldwin, 336
   Beaten by Neale (second time), 336
   Becomes host of the “Queen’s Head”, 336
   An active second, backer, and professor of the art, 336
   His character and last illness, 336
   A mechanical contrivance, 336
   His death, 336


                                   C

 CANNON, TOM (“the Great Gun of Windsor”).
   Appeared too late in the P.R., 248
   Born at Eton, 248
   Classic associations of youth, 248
   A fisherman, “bargee,” and runaway, 249
   Cannon defeats Tom Anslow, a Grenadier, 249
   Matched with Dolly Smith, 250
   Witnesses the fight of Hudson and Ward, 251
   Offers to fight either combatant, 251
   Matched with Josh Hudson, 251
   Beats Josh Hudson, 252
   Second match with Hudson, 254
   Gamekeeper to Mr. Hayne, 255
   Stage and Grand Stand for the fight, 256
   “The Squire” (Osbaldeston) referee, 256
   Defeats Josh Hudson again, 257
   Becomes a publican at Windsor, 259
   Challenges the Championship for £1,000, 259
   “Pea-green” Hayne’s match at Brighton, 259
   Wrestles with Carney the Gambler, 260
   Sparring at “Ireland’s Ground”, 260
   Is challenged and beaten by Jem Ward, 261
   Exhibits at the Coburg Theatre, 261
   Is beaten by Ned Neale, 261
   Becomes host of the “Castle,” Jermyn Street, 261
   Retires, and is a “swan-watcher” to the City Corporation, 262
   Commits suicide in his 69th year, in July, 1858, 262

 CARTER, JACK (“the Lancashire Hero”).
   His character as a boxer, 161
   His early days, 161
   Works as a “navvy”, 162
   Pierce Egan’s story of the jackass, 162
   Meeting with Bob Gregson, 163
   Appears at the Fives Court, 163
   Beats Boone, the Soldier, 164
   Beaten by Jack Power, 164
   Beaten by Molineaux, 164
   Travels the Provinces and Ireland, 165
   His challenges, 165
   His battle with Stephenson, 165
   His battle with Sam Robinson, 166
   His second battle with Robinson, 168
   Matched with Tom Oliver, 170
   Defeats Tom Oliver, 171
   His pedestrian capabilities, 173
   Again challenges Cribb, 173
   His puffing announcements, 174
   Matched with Spring, 174
   His defeat by Spring, 175
   Returns to Ireland, 176
   And to England, 176
   Challenges Shelton and Jem Ward, 176
   Is beaten by Jem Ward, 176
   Beaten by Deaf Burke, 176
   Died at Manchester, 1844, 176

 CRAWLEY, PETER, 1818–1827.
   His introduction to the Ring, 233
   His birth and parentage, 233
   Apprenticed to a butcher in Clare Market, 233
   Juvenile encounters, 234
   The “Coal-yard” against “Bloomsbury”, 234
   Sundry fistic exploits, 235
   A Westminster election and its consequences, 236
   Beats Ben Sutliffe in the Ring, 237
   Has a severe accident, 237
   Glove-fight with Bully Southerns, 238
   Defeats Dick Acton, 238
   Goes into business as a butcher, 239
   Is engaged as a “special” at the Coronation of George IV., 240
   Mr. Sullivan’s mistake, 240
   Replies to Jem Ward’s challenge, 240
   Matched with Ward, 240
   Two Commissaries and a _contretemps_, 240
   Beats Jem Ward, “the Champion”, 242
   Peter at the Tennis Court, 245
   His modest speech and retirement from the P.R., 245
   Becomes landlord of the “Queen’s Head and French Horn,” Smithfield,
      246
   An insolent customer, 246
   His forbearance and courage, 246
   Acts as referee at the fight of Harry Broome and “the Tipton
      Slasher”, 247
   His death in 1865, aged 66, 247

 CURTIS, DICK (“the Pet of the Fancy”).
   His merits as a pugilist, 481
   His birth, 482
   His first battle with Watson, 482
   Beats Ned Brown (“the Sprig of Myrtle”), 482
   Beats Lenney, 483
   Dick at Epsom Races, 484
   Beats Cooper, a Gipsy, 485
   Defeats Peter Warren four times, 485
   His battle with Hares prevented, 486
   Defeats Dick Hares, 487
   Receives £100 forfeit from Barney Aaron, 487
   Poetical effusions on the match with Aaron, 489
   A “turn-up” with Ned Savage, 490
   Disposes of Stockman in one round, 491
   Matched with Aaron for £100 a-side, 491
   Beats Barney Aaron, 492
   Matched with Tisdale, 492
   An idle controversy with Jack Randall, 498
   Takes leave of the Ring, 498
   A rencontre with a coalheaver, 498
   Goes on a tour in the North, 499
   Disposes of Coaly’s pretensions in a glove-fight, 499
   Is beaten by Perkins, “the Oxford Pet”, 500
   His talent as a second, 500
   Testimony to his integrity by a friend, 501
   His death and funeral, 501
   Monody on Dick Curtis, 501


                                   D

 DONNELLY, DAN (“Champion of Ireland”).
   His birth, 138
   Fight with Isle of Wight Hall, 139
   Defeats George Cooper, 139
   Comes over to Liverpool, 140
   Joins Carter in a sparring exhibition, 141
   Comes to London—opinions of the amateurs, 142
   Appears at the Minor Theatre, Catherine Street, Strand, 142
   Challenged by Sutton, the Black, 143
   Sets-to at the Fives Court, 143
   Challenged by Oliver, 144
   Defeats Tom Oliver, 145
   Other challenges to Donnelly, 149
   His dissipation and loss of money, 149
   His arrest, and subsequent departure for Ireland, 150
   Donnybrook Fair, 151
   Carter’s challenge to Donnelly, 152
   The match goes off, 153
   His house in Pill Lane, 153
   His sudden death, 154
   Dan’s humour and training eccentricities, 154
   Public and literary honours to Dan’s memory, 155
   His funeral, 159
   His epitaph, 160


                                   E

 EVANS, SAMUEL (“Young Dutch Sam”).
   His birth and parentage, 353
   His early days, 354
   Apprenticed as a compositor, 354
   A youthful escapade, 355
   Becomes a “flying newsman”, 355
   Is introduced to Mr. John Jackson, &c., 355
   Receives forfeit from Lenney, 356
   His friendship with Dick Curtis, “the Pet”, 356
   Beats Ned Stockman, 356
   Spars at the theatres, 358
   Beats Harry Jones, “the Sailor Boy”, 358
   Defeats Tom Cooper, “the Gipsy”, 359
   Beats Bill Carroll at Ascot, for “a purse” given by the Duke of
      Wellington, 361
   Beats Jack Cooper, “the Gipsy”, 362
   Defeats Dick Davis, “the Manchester Pet”, 364
   Matched with Bishop Sharpe, 367
   Comparison of the men, 367
   The fight prevented, 368
   Sparring at the Tennis Court, 369
   The stakes given up to Sharpe, 370
   Challenges Peace Inglis, 370
   Receives forfeit from Dan M’Kenzie, 370
   Held to bail for twelve months, 371
   Beats a big carman for striking Dick Curtis, 371
   Challenged by Jack Martin, 372
   Preliminaries of the battle, 373
   Defeats Jack Martin, 374
   Preliminaries of first fight with Ned Neale, 376
   Beats Ned Neale (first battle), 379
   Renewed challenge by Neale, 382
   Contrasted qualifications of the men, 383
   The road to Newmarket, 384
   Defeats Neale a second time, 385
   Sam “a man about town”, 387
   The Haymarket and its “night-houses”, 388
   Challenged by Tom Gaynor, 388
   A drunken constable and a lost “warrant”, 388
   Defeats Tom Gaynor, 389
   Matched with Reuben Martin, 392
   Prevented by the death of “Brighton Bill”, 392
   Absconds to Paris, 392
   Frank Redmond (note), 392
   Adventures in Paris, 393
   Returns, is tried at Hertford, and acquitted, 394
   “Tom-and-Jerryism” rampant 1836–46, 394
   A police fracas and three months’ imprisonment, 395
   “Lament of the Disorderly Gentlemen”, 396
   Becomes a publican, and marries, 397
   Sam’s qualifications as a boxer, 397
   His death, and a “Monody” thereon, 398


                                   G

 GAYNOR, TOM (“the Bath Carpenter”).
   His late _début_ in the Ring, 400
   Birthplace, 400
   Tom’s wonderful uncle “the Zummerzet Champion”, 400
   Early skirmishes of the young carpenter, 401
   Makes his way to the Metropolis, 401
   A glove-bout with Josh Hudson, 402
   Sets-to with Ben Burn, 402
   Defeated by Ned Neale, 402
   Beaten at Epsom Races by “Young Gas”, 402
   Matched with Alec Reid, 402
   Beats Alec Reid, 403
   Matched with “Young Gas”—a draw, 405
   Beaten by Bishop Sharpe, 405
   Matched with Charles Gybletts, 405
   Beats Gybletts, 406
   Second match with Neale proposed, 408
   Both men publicans, 408
   Beats Ned Neale, 409
   Challenged by Young Dutch Sam, 411
   Beaten by Young Dutch Sam, 411
   His death, 411


                                   H

 HICKMAN, THOMAS (“the Gasman”).
   His character as a boxer, 118
   His birth, 118
   Apprenticed to a boiler maker, 119
   Early battles, 120
   His battle with Peter Crawley, 121
   Beats George Cooper, 122
   Receives forfeit from Cooper, 124
   Glove battle with Kendrick the Black, 124
   Second match with George Cooper, 124
   Beats George Cooper second time, 125
   Matched with Tom Oliver, 126
   Scenes on the road, 126
   Defeats Tom Oliver, 127
   Matched with Neat, 128
   Display at the Fives Court with Shelton, 129
   Beaten by Neat, 130
   Hickman’s irritability, 131
   Turn-up with Rawlinson, 131
   Theatrical engagement of Neat and Hickman, by Davidge, 132
   His character, 132
   His melancholy death, 132
   Coroner’s inquest, 133
   Funeral of Hickman and Mr. Rowe, 134
   Sympathy of brother pugilists, and benefit for his widow, 135

 HUDSON, DAVID.
   His victories, 191
   Beats West Country Dick, 192
   Beats Harry Holt, 192
   Beats Jack Scroggins (Palmer) twice, 194, 195
   Beaten by Jack Martin, 195
   Beats Green, “Essex Champion”, 195
   Beats Jack Steadman, 196
   Becomes publican at Chelmsford, 196
   Second victory over Green, 196
   Beaten by Ned Neale, 197
   Beaten by Larkins (the Irishman), 198
   Died Nov. 27th, 1835, 198

 HUDSON, JOSH (“the John Bull Fighter”). 1816–1826.
   His birth at Rotherhithe, 263
   His good humour, 263
   Fight with Jack Payne, the Butcher, 263
   Draw with Aby Belasco, 263
   Defeats Street and Charles Martin, 263
   Beats Thompson, “the Essex Coachman”, 264
   Takes a voyage to India, 264
   Beaten by Bowen, “the Chatham Caulker”, 264
   Beats Williams, “the Waterman”, 264
   Defeats Scroggins at Moulsey, 264
   Beats Phil Sampson, 265
   Beaten by Tom Spring, 267
   Turn-up with Aby Belasco at Norwich, 267
   Beats “Swell” Williams, 267
   Miscalculation of the “knowing ones”, 268
   Beaten by Ned Turner in a “turn-up”, 269
   Second match with Phil Sampson, 269
   Beats Phil Sampson, 270
   Fracas with Jack Ford, 270
   Challenge to Martin and Garrol, 272
   Second match with “the Chatham Caulker”, 272
   A stormy day, a beak, and a move, 273
   Defeats Bowen, 274
   Challenges, 275
   Beats Barlow, “the Nottingham Youth”, 275
   Matched with Tom Shelton, 277
   Receives forfeit from Shelton, 278
   Matched with Jem Ward, 278
   Remarks on the capabilities of the combatants, 279
   Josh’s training costume, 279
   Defeats Jem Ward, 280
   The return from the fight, 283
   A speculation in bandannas, 284
   A silver cup voted to Josh, 284
   At the Fives Court, Hudson and Ward, 285
   Hudson and Sampson, impromptu, 285
   Presentation of a silver cup, 286
   The “no fight” affair with Sampson, 287
   His marriage—the “Half Moon Tap”, 288
   Josh’s gallantry—a ruffian punished, 288
   Josh, “mine uncle,” and the silver cup, 289
   Josh Hudson Junior, 290
   Died Oct. 8th, 1838, in Milton Street, Finsbury, 290


                                   J

 JONES, HARRY (“the Sailor Boy”).
   His many battles, 515
   His birth in Bristol, 516
   Apprenticed on board an Indiaman, 516
   Beaten by Latham, 516
   Beaten by Ned Stockman (twice), 516
   Bye-battles with Watts, Riley, and Peter Brookery, 516
   Beats Brown (“Sprig of Myrtle”), 517
   The Fighting “Typo,” a bride and a challenge, 517
   Beaten by Dick Price, 517
   Held to bail at Oxford, 518
   Beaten by Tom Reidie, 518
   And by Ned Stockman (third time), 518
   Beats Fred Edwards, 519
   Beats Mike Curtain, 519
   Defeats “Captain Corduroy”, 519
   The humours of Westminster in by-past times, 519
   A day’s outing—Harry Jones and Tommy O’Lynn, 520
   Jones defeats Tommy O’Lynn, 521
   Is beaten by Young Dutch Sam, 521
   Beats Knowlan, the Tumbler, 522
   Beats Mike Curtain the second time, 522
   Beats Tom Collins, 522
   Beats Pick, of Bristol, 522
   Beats Reuben Howe, 523
   Beaten by Charley Gybletts, 523
   Interrupted fight with Jem Raines, 524
   Beats Bob Simmonds, 525
   Second match with Jem Raines, 526
   Beats Ike Dodd, 527
   Beats Bill Savage, 528
   Matched with Ned Stockman, 529
   Beats Ned Stockman, 530
   Beats Barney Aaron, 530
   Beats Tom Reidie, 530
   Beats Frank Redmond, 530
   Beats George Watson, 531
   Beats Dick Hill, of Nottingham, 531
   Beats Perkins, of Oxford, 531
   Beats Gipsy Jack Cooper, 531
   Beaten by Tom Smith, 531
   His death, 531


                                   L

 LANGAN, JOHN (the Irish Champion).
   Birth and early days, 53
   Juvenile battles, 53
   Goes to sea, and adventure at Lisbon, 53
   Apprenticed to a sawyer, 53
   Apocryphal battles, 54
   Sir Daniel Donnelly on training, 57
   Fights with Pat Halton, 59
   —— with Carney, 60
   —— with Cummins, 60
   —— with Owen M’Gowran, 61
   Sails for South America as a volunteer in the War of Independence, 62
   Death of Langan’s brother—an old sailor of Nelson’s “Victory”, 63
   Lands at St. Marguerite—sufferings of the “patriots”, 64
   Made Quartermaster-Sergeant, 65
   Returns to Cork, and goes to Dublin, 65
   Becomes publican, 65
   An amatory episode and its consequences, 66
   Arrives in England, 66
   Battle with Vipond (or Weeping), 67
   Returns to Ireland, and imprisoned for damages, 68
   Challenged by Rough Robin, 68
   Challenges the Championship, 69
   Defeated at Worcester by Spring, 69
   Defeated a second time near Chichester, 69
   “The Black Fogle,” an ode, 70
   Langan’s Benefit at the Fives Court, 71
   Challenged by Jem Ward—no result, 71
   Sails for Ireland, 71
   Becomes a publican in Liverpool, 72
   His social character, 72
   His charities, 73
   His death, and eulogy, 73


                                   M

 MATTHEWSON, ARTHUR, of Birmingham.
   Beats Barney Aaron (note), 510


                                   N

 NEALE, NED (“the Streatham Youth”).
   Press penchant for Irish heroes, 291
   Born at Streatham, 291
   Witnesses fight between Martin and Turner, 291
   His patron, Mr. Sant, the brewer, 292
   Defeats Deaf Davis, 292
   Beats Cribb, of Brighton, 292
   Beats Miller, “Pea-soup Gardener”, 293
   Beats Hall, of Birmingham, 293
   Beats David Hudson (brother of Josh), 294
   Beats Tom Gaynor, 296
   Matched with Baldwin (“White-headed Bob”), and receives £100 forfeit,
      297
   Matched a second time, and beats Baldwin, 297
   Beats Jem Burn, 299
   Visits Ireland, 301
   His marriage, 302
   Matched with Phil Sampson, 303
   Death of Mrs. Neale, and postponement of the match, 303
   Second match—defeats Sampson, 303
   Defeats Tom Cannon, “the Great Gun,” of Windsor, 308
   Matched a second time with Jem Burn, 310
   Beats Jem Burn, second time, 311
   Challenges any 12st. man, 313
   A silver cup proposed, 313
   Match with Jem Ward off, 314
   Third match with Baldwin, 314
   Drawn battle with Baldwin, 316
   Beaten by Baldwin, 320
   Presented with a silver cup, 320
   Matched with John Nicholls, 320
   Defeats Nicholls, 321
   Matched with Roche, 322
   Neale’s honesty—a “cross” defeated, 322
   Beats Roche, 323
   Retires from the Ring, 325
   Is challenged by Young Dutch Sam, and twice defeated, 325
   Is beaten by Tom Gaynor, 325
   Dies at the “Rose and Crown,” Norwood, 325

 NEAT, BILL, of Bristol.
   His birth, 104
   His fight with Churchill, 104
   Bristol the pugilistic nursery, 104
   Matched with Tom Oliver, 105
   Defeats Tom Oliver, 106
   Repairs to the Metropolis, 108
   Appears at the Fives Court, 108
   Matched with Spring, Neat breaks his arm, 109
   Challenges Cribb, 109
   Matched with Hickman, “the Gasman”, 109
   Scenes on the road, 110
   Defeats Hickman, 111
   Sensation in London, 114
   Matched a second time with Spring and defeated, 115
   Bristol in mourning, 116
   A Quakeress’ remonstrant, 116
   Letter from Mr. Joseph Fry, 117
   Neat’s character, 117
   Death at Bristol, aged 67, 117


                                   O

 OLIVER, TOM (Commissary of the P.R.).
   Born at Breadlow, Bucks, 89
   His first ring appearance, 89
   Beats Kimber and “Hopping Ned”, 89
   Beats Harry Lancaster, 90
   Beats Jack Ford, 90
   Beats George Cooper, 91
   Beats Ned Painter, 92
   Aspires to the Championship, 94
   Becomes a publican in Westminster, 94
   Beaten by Jack Carter, 94
   Beaten by Neat, of Bristol, 94
   Beats Kendrick, the black, 95
   Defeated by Dan Donnelly, 95
   Beats Tom Shelton, 96
   Beaten by Painter (second fight), 98
   Beaten by Spring, 98
   Beaten by Hickman, 98
   Beaten by Abbott, 99
   Becomes Commissary of the P.R., 99
   Challenge from Old Ben Burn, 99
   Adventures of the Ring-goers, 100
   The battle of the veterans, 102
   Tom’s victory, 103
   His retirement, and death, aged 75, 103


                                   P

 PAINTER, NED.
   His character, 74
   Early days at Stratford, Manchester, 74
   Sets-to with Carter—his strength, 75
   Arrives at Bob Gregson’s, 75
   Fight with Coyne, 75
   Fight with Alexander, “the Gamekeeper”, 75
   Beaten by Tom Oliver, 76
   Beaten by Shaw, the Life-Guardsman, 77
   Matched with Oliver a second time, 78
   Polite pugilistic letter-writing, 78
   Oliver arrested during his training, and proposal to fight at Calais,
      78
   Fight with Sutton, the black, 79
   Second fight with Sutton, 79
   His foot-racing and athletic capabilities, 80
   His defeat by Spring, 82
   Painter defeats Spring, 83
   His farewell to the Ring, 83
   Becomes publican at Norwich, 83
   His character vindicated from current slanders, 84
   Forfeits to Spring, 84
   Matched with Tom Oliver, 85
   Defeat of Oliver, 87
   His retirement and death, 88

 PERKINS, JACK (“the Oxford Pet”).
   His boxing qualifications, 532
   His battles with Wakelin and Godfrey, 532
   Beats Dick Price, 532
   His victory over Dick Curtis, “the Pet”, 536
   Beats Coates, 538
   Is beaten by Harry Jones, “the Sailor Boy”, 538
   And by Alec Reid, 538
   His brief career ended, 538


                                   R

 REID, ALEC (“the Chelsea Snob”).
   Came of a fighting family, 412
   Beats Finch, and opens a sparring school, 412
   Beats Sam Abbott, 413
   Beats Yandell, 413
   Beats O’Rafferty, 413
   Defeated by Dick Defoe, 413
   Beats Harris, the waterman, 414
   Beats Underhill, 414
   Receives forfeit from Gipsy Cooper, 415
   Beats Gipsy Cooper, 415
   A “turn-up” with Maurice Delay, 416
   A draw with Bill Savage, 416
   Matched with Bishop Sharpe, 416
   A suspicious “draw”, 417
   Matched with Jubb, of Cheltenham, 417
   Beats Jubb, 418
   Is defeated by Tom Gaynor, 418
   Beaten by Bishop Sharpe, 419
   Bound in recognisances for twelve months, 419
   Third match with Bishop Sharpe, 419
   Beats Bishop Sharpe, 420
   Matched with Perkins, of Oxford, 423
   Beats “the Oxford Pet”, 424
   Dies in 1875, aged 73, 427

 REDMOND, FRANK (note), 302.

 REYNOLDS, TOM.
   The Mentor of Langan and Byrne, 477
   Of Irish birth, 477
   Comes to London, 477
   His literary ability, 477
   Fails in business, 477
   Becomes a pugilist, 478
   A battle in the “Old Fleet”, 478
   Beats Aby Belasco, 479
   Beats Church, 479
   And Johnson (“the Broom-dasher”), 479
   Becomes a publican in Drury Lane, 479
   An accident and a tour, 479
   Returns to Ireland, 479
   Beats John Dunn on the Curragh, 479
   Returns to England, 479
   Beats Sammons, of Lancashire, 479
   Returns to Ireland, 480
   Takes Langan under his tuition and care, 480
   Becomes patron of Simon Byrne, 480
   A publican in Dublin, 480
   His “Defence of Pugilism”, 480


                                   S

 SAMPSON, PHIL (“the Birmingham Youth”).
   His birth, in Yorkshire, 454
   Migrates in early life to Birmingham, 454
   Gregson in Birmingham, 454
   An impromptu battle with Dolly Smith, 455
   Is beaten by Josh Hudson for “a purse”, 455
   A disputed battle with Aby Belasco, 456
   A “turn-up” with Aby, 457
   A glove-fight at the Tennis Court, 457
   Beaten by Jack Martin, 457
   Beats Tom Dye, the table-lifter, 457
   A second glove-fight with Belasco, 458
   Beaten by Charley Grantham (“Gybletts”), 459
   Beaten by Bill Abbot, 459
   Beaten by Bill Hall, 459
   Leaves London, 459
   Beats Bill Hall, 460
   Matched with Aby Belasco, 460
   Beats Belasco, 461
   Challenges Jem Ward, and is beaten, 462
   Is beaten a second time by Ward, 462
   Matched with Jem Burn, 464
   Beats Jem Burn, 465
   Third match with Hall, 466
   Beats Hall, 467
   A “turn-up” with Josh Hudson, 467
   And a thrashing from Jem Ward, 467
   Challenges “Big Brown”, 467
   Matched with Paul Spencer, 467
   Two fights in one with Spencer, 468
   Buncombe challenges, 470
   Matched again with “Big Brown”, 470
   Beats “Big Brown”, 471
   Triumphant return to Birmingham, 474

 SHARPE, BISHOP (“the Bold Smuggler”).
   A seaman in His Majesty’s service, 428
   His early career, 428
   Beats Jack Cooper, “the Gipsy”, 429
   Defeats Cooper a second and third time, 430
   Beats Ben Warwick, 430
   Draw with Alec Reid, 430
   Beats Alec Reid, 431
   Matched with Tom Gaynor, 433
   Beats Tom Gaynor, 434
   Matched with Young Dutch Sam, 435
   Receives forfeit from Young Dutch Sam, 436
   Is defeated by Alec Reid, 436
   His death, 436

 SPRING, THOMAS WINTER (Champion). 1814–1824.
   His birth and early days, 1, 2
   His battles with—
     Stringer, the Yorkshireman, 2
     Ned Painter, of Norwich, 4
     Ned Painter (second fight), 6
     Jack Carter (Championship), 6
     Ben Burn, 9
     Forfeits to Bob Burn, 9
     Beats Bob Burn, 10
     Josh Hudson, 12
     Tom Oliver, 13
   Tom Cribb’s retirement, Spring claims the Championship, 12
   His marriage, 12
   Forfeits to Neat, 15
   Matched with Neat, 17
   In custody for attending a fight on Brighton Downs, 18
   Fight with Neat, 19
   Revisits his native place, and receives the “Hereford” Cup, 23
   Jack Langan’s challenge, 23
   Matched with Langan, 24
   First fight with Langan, at Worcester, 24
   Accident at the Worcester Grand Stand, 25
   Newspaper correspondence and buncombe, 31
   Again matched with Langan, for £500 a-side, 33
   Fighting on a stage, 33
   Spring’s benefit, and dinner at the “Castle”, 35
   The eve of the fight—scenes in Chichester, 36
   Second fight with Langan, 38
   Spring’s triumph—meeting with Langan, 45
   Takes the “Castle” Tavern, Holborn, 45
   Reminiscences of the “Castle”, 48
   Presentation of “Manchester” Cup (1824), 49
   The “Champion Testimonial”, 49
   His death, 20th August, 1851, 51
   His monument at Norwood Cemetery, 51

 SUTTON, HARRY (“the Black”).
   A native of Baltimore, U.S., 177
   Fight with “Cropley’s Black”, 177
   Fight with Black Robinson, 178
   Beats Ned Painter, 178
   Beaten by Ned Painter, 179
   Beats Kendrick the Black, 181
   Receives forfeit from Larkin, 182
   Becomes a sparring exhibitor, 182


                                   W

 WARD, JEM (Champion). 1822–1831.
   Pugilistic reporters and writers of the Period: V. Dowling, George
      Kent, George Daniels, S. Smith, Pierce Egan, &c., 199
   Candidates for the Championship on the retirement of Tom Spring, 200
   Birth and parentage of “the Black Diamond”, 200
   Beats Dick Acton, 201
   Challenges Jack Martin for £150, 202
   Beats Burke, of Woolwich, 202
   Beaten (?) by Dick Acton, 202
   The stakes drawn and bets off, 203
   Ward’s letter and apology, 204
   Beats Ned Baldwin (“White-headed Bob”), 205
   Beats Rickens, of Bath, at Landsdowne, 205
   Beats Jemmy the Black, 206
   Returns to the London P.R., 206
   Beaten by Josh Hudson, 206
   Beats Phil Sampson, 206
   Challenges Langan, who had retired, 207
   Claims the Championship, 207
   Second fight with Phil Sampson, 207
   Challenges Cannon for £500 a-side, 208
   The challenge accepted, 209
   Excitement at Warwick, 210
   “The Old Squire” (Osbaldeston) referee, 212
   Beats Tom Cannon, 213
   Receives a belt at the Fives Court, 214
   Dispute on giving up the stakes, 215
   Challenges all comers, 216
   Turn-up with Sampson, 217
   Beaten by Peter Crawley, 217
   Challenges Peter Crawley, who declines, 217
   Brown, of Bridgnorth, declines to fight except on a stage, 218
   Accident at the Tennis Court, 219
   Challenged by Carter, 219
   Beats Carter, 220
   Receives forfeit from Simon Byrne, 222
   Matched with Simon Byrne, 223
   Public disappointment and Ward’s forfeit of the stakes, 225
   Renewal of the match with Byrne, 226
   Arrest of Byrne for his fight with Alexander Mackay, 226
   Byrne’s acquittal and new match, 226
   Preliminaries of the fight, 227
   Beats Simon Byrne, 229
   Receives a second belt, 231
   Becomes a publican at Liverpool, 231
   Ward’s talent as a painter, 232
   Returns to London, 232
   Interview with Ward (aged 80 years) in June, 1880, 232

-----

Footnote 1:

  This is an error of the reporter’s. Spring has told us he was thirteen
  stone, nett, when he met Stringer.

Footnote 2:

  This resembled the much-discussed round in Heenan and Sayers’ fight at
  Farnborough, where the Yankees claimed a “foul” because the ropes were
  lowered when Heenan was throttling the English Champion. The
  twenty-eighth rule of the P.R., which governs this case, authorises
  the referee to have the men separated, or the ropes cut, to prevent a
  fatal result. This the American party ignored or were really ignorant
  of.—Ed. PUGILISTICA.

Footnote 3:

  Though this report is mainly from Pierce Egan’s text, it is not his
  writing; these “remarks” are from the pen of Mr. Vincent Dowling, and
  appeared in _Bell’s Life in London_, of January 11, 1824.

Footnote 4:

  “FIGHTING UPON A STAGE.—Some little difference of opinion having
  existed upon the merits of the case between Langan and Spring, the
  majority of the supporters of pugilism assert, according to milling
  precedents, that if Spring intended to retain the title of Champion,
  he could, nay, he ought not to have refused to fight Langan upon a
  stage, as the following circumstances support the claim of Langan. It
  appears that Jack Bartholomew thought he had not fair play in the ring
  when he fought with Jem Belcher; and upon Bartholomew’s soliciting
  Belcher to give him a chance upon a stage, he replied, “Any where; a
  saw-pit, if you like.” Again, when Molineaux entertained an opinion
  that he had not justice done him in a ring with Cribb, the latter
  veteran answered the request of the man of colour, with a smile upon
  his face, “Yes, upon a stage, the top of a house, in a ship, or in any
  place you think proper.” It is likewise insisted upon by the admirers
  of boxing that the advantages are all upon the side of Spring. He is
  the tallest, the heaviest, and the longest man, with the addition of
  his superior science into the bargain. Most of the prize battles
  formerly were fought upon stages—Tom Johnson with Perrins, Big Ben
  with Jacombs, and George the brewer with Pickard; Johnson with Ryan,
  Johnson also with Big Ben, Mendoza with Humphries, Ward with Mendoza,
  Tom Tyne with Earl, etc. It is also worthy of remark, that none of the
  above stages were covered with turf. The only instance that bears upon
  the point respecting “turf,” is the stage which was erected at
  Newbury, upon which Big Ben and Hooper were to have fought. This was
  covered with turf, but the magistrates interfered; the fight was
  removed to some miles distant. Big Ben and Hooper fought on the ground
  in a ring.”—PIERCE EGAN.

Footnote 5:

  See Life of JEM BURN, Period VI., Chapter VI.

Footnote 6:

  Mr. John Jackson.

Footnote 7:

  So says the reporter. It would, however, be fair, even if intentional,
  for any man is entitled to hit another “going down,” but of course,
  not when “down.”—Ed. PUGILISTICA.

Footnote 8:

  The more humane provisions of the “New Rules,” do not allow this
  conduct on the part of the second. By rule 9, the man must rise from
  the knee of his bottle-holder and walk unaided to the scratch to meet
  his opponent.—Ed. PUGILISTICA.

Footnote 9:

  This is negatived by round thirty-eight of the report: see also the
  note.—Ed. PUGILISTICA.

Footnote 10:

  This reminds us of a duel which was fought at Liverpool some years
  since by the light of lamps, between a volunteer colonel and the
  aide-de-camp of a royal duke.

Footnote 11:

  This is most unlikely; Langan was, we should say, never under eleven
  stone seven pounds to ten pounds from the time he was a grown man.—Ed.
  PUGILISTICA.

Footnote 12:

  This sort of balderdash abounds in Pierce Egan’s (or rather, we
  suspect, Tom Reynolds’) Sketches of Irish Boxers in “Boxiana.” We let
  it stand here as something to provoke a smile.—Ed. PUQILISTICA.

Footnote 13:

  The reader should also take the advice of Carney’s second, and “not
  mind such trash.”—Ed. PUGILISTICA.

Footnote 14:

  The place where Tom Belcher defeated Dogherty, and which has ever
  since been called after the former celebrated pugilist. See BELCHER
  (TOM), vol. i., p. 160.

Footnote 15:

  Our friend the historian of “Boxiana,” here makes a sad mess of it.
  The Victory was not at Aboukir Bay at all; Nelson’s ship at the battle
  of the Nile (Aboukir) was the Vanguard. Every schoolboy knows the hero
  died off the coast of Spain, about sixty miles west of Cadiz, October
  21, 1805, after the “crowning victory” off Cape Trafalgar.—Ed.
  PUGILISTICA.

Footnote 16:

  Pierce Egan makes, reason unknown, this man’s name “Cohen.” He was
  afterwards beaten by Davis (the navigator), and is rightly indexed as
  Coyne in “Fistiana.”

Footnote 17:

  Respecting the division of the “gate-money,” Mr. Jackson’s opinion
  was, “that all moneys taken upon the ground, in point of right and
  justice, belong to both of the combatants, who are the primary cause
  of the multitude assembling, and therefore ought to be fairly divided
  between them, without any reservation whatever.”

Footnote 18:

  This, as we have already observed, would not be allowed by modern
  practice, and is forbidden by the new Rules of the Ring, Arts. 7 and
  9.—Ed. PUGILISTICA.

Footnote 19:

  A town once celebrated for cocking, pronounced by the natives
  “Wedgebury.”

Footnote 20:

  Mr. James Soares.

Footnote 21:

  Instruments used in gas-works.

Footnote 22:

  This is the account in “Boxiana,” and _faute de mieux_ we must adopt
  it. We suspect the much-vaunted Sir Daniel was simply a big clumsy
  “rough,” despite his defeat of Old Tom Oliver, who was a game boxer,
  but “slow as a top,” as Spring often in a friendly way described him.
  Cooper, too, had already been beaten by Oliver, and was in anything
  but good condition when he met Donnelly.

Footnote 23:

  By the New Rules Donnelly would here have lost the fight, as Burke did
  in his contest with Bendigo, on February 7, 1839.—ED. PUGILISTICA.

Footnote 24:

  The writer never enters into the private quarrels of pugilists. His
  only anxiety is to represent every circumstance connected with the
  prize ring with accuracy and fidelity. He entertains no prejudices,
  neither has he any partialities to gratify.

Footnote 25:

  Tom Shuffleton, speaking of a female, says, “Oh! I see; she must be
  the sixteenth Mrs. Shuffleton.” We never ascertained whether Mr.
  Donnelly placed his ladies in numerical order; it is, however, certain
  that he was a very gallant Milesian.

Footnote 26:

  Pugilistic Champion of Ireland, we presume.—ED.

Footnote 27:

  In Dublin.

Footnote 28:

  Poor Dan kept a public-house—Lord rest his sowl.

Footnote 29:

  Carter’s ring career really closed on the 4th of May, 1819, when his
  pretensions were disposed of by the science of Tom Spring. See Life of
  SPRING, Vol. II., Chapter I.

Footnote 30:

  Sam Robinson, the Black, was born in 1778, in New York. He was a
  strong and courageous nigger, and after beating Crockey, beat Butcher,
  on March 16, 1810, at Coombe Warren, for a purse of £10. He was then
  beaten by Carter (twice) as here recorded. He beat Stephenson, the
  Black, at Coombe Wood, the 28th of May, 1816, making his third battle
  in three months. A hasty match was again made with Carter, and
  Robinson was a second time defeated, June 20, 1816. Sutton, the Black
  (see Appendix), challenged Robinson at Doncaster Races, and beat him,
  September 26, 1816, for a purse, in thirty-six minutes. In December,
  Robinson beat a big Yorkshireman, named Taylor, at Ferrybridge, in
  nineteen minutes, for a purse of ten guineas. He was next defeated by
  George Cooper (see COOPER, vol. i., p. 365), and quickly polished off.
  Fangill, a Scotch boxer, and a Waterloo man, was matched against
  Robinson, and they fought at Shellock, in Ayrshire, June 25, 1817,
  when Robinson proved the victor in forty minutes, after a gallant
  fight. His last battle was with Dent, a north-countryman, whom he
  beat, December 5, 1817, near the renowned Gretna Green, famed for
  other ring matches. He for some time attended sparring at the Fives
  Court, and when we lose sight of him he had entered the service of a
  sporting nobleman.

Footnote 31:

  Mr. John Jackson.

Footnote 32:

  This Green was an Essex man, who, having defeated one Wyke, at
  Barnsley, in Yorkshire, for a stake of £60 (April 2, 1819), and
  subsequently Harris, a _protégé_ of Josh. Hudson, at Dagenham Breach,
  Essex, March 13, 1820 (in “Fistiana” the date is wrongly given as
  March 1, 1829), had crept into favour with himself. He was snuffed out
  by David as we here find.

Footnote 33:

  Mr. Soares.

Footnote 34:

  There were two other boxers of the name. Sam Larkins, of Cambridge,
  who beat Abbot (see ABBOT), Shadbolt, and John Fuller; and Larkins,
  the Guardsman.

Footnote 35:

  In the fourth volume of Pierce Egan’s “Boxiana,” pp. 473–481, will be
  found a friendly sketch of poor George’s career, as historiographer of
  the ring for the previous twenty years. He was a Berkshire man, born
  August 19, 1778, apprenticed to Varley, the celebrated seal engraver
  in the Strand, subsequently enlisted in the 16th Dragoons, but
  obtained his discharge at the period of the treaty of Amiens. Then an
  usher in a school at Camberwell, a newspaper writer in the _British
  Neptune_, and proprietor of _Kent’s Dispatch_, which died. Pierce
  Egan, who, with Vincent Dowling and George’s two sons, followed him to
  his grave in St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, says he realised in two
  successive years £1700, by sporting reporting. He was a scholar and a
  man of talent.

Footnote 36:

  Dick Acton, a _protégé_ of the scientific sparrer, Bill Eales, was
  like the French general who was compared to a drum, heard of only when
  beaten. He was a shoemaker by trade, and a ring follower by choice.
  His first fight in the P. C. ropes was with one Nash, at Kilburn,
  August 21, 1821, whom he beat, for a purse of 20 guineas, in
  thirty-two rounds. The next week, the love of fight strong within him,
  Dick threw his hat in at Edgeware, for a purse of 20 guineas, and
  polished off a stalwart countryman, hight Evans, in eighteen rounds,
  forty minutes. His next customer was a regular boxer, known as Massa
  Kendrick, the black. He turned the tables on “the Snob,” putting him
  in darkness in seventeen rounds, twenty-five minutes, at Moulsey,
  December 18, 1821. Dick moved for a new trial, and on the 18th of
  March, 1822, at Moulsey, seconded by Eales and Tom Spring, the Black
  by Randall and Josh. Hudson, Acton reversed the verdict, with two to
  one against him, punishing Massa out of time in thirty-two rattling
  rounds, occupying thirty-five minutes. From this time he became a sort
  of “trial horse,” and was beaten successively by Jem Ward, Young Peter
  Crawley, and Jack Nicholls, all good men.

Footnote 37:

  See Memoir of PHIL. SAMPSON, in an after part of this volume.

Footnote 38:

  It may be as well to premise that this was written by one who was far
  from friendly to Ward. The facts, however, speak for themselves.—Ed.
  PUGILISTICA.

Footnote 39:

  See Life of PAINTER, _ante_, p. 82.

Footnote 40:

  See Life of WARD, p. 201, _ante_.

Footnote 41:

  Bill (known as Dolly) Smith was born at Hammersmith, and was well
  thought of by many patrons of the art pugilistic. His principal
  battles were with Cannon, Abbot, Phil. Sampson, Joe Nash, and Jack
  Scroggins, by all of whom he was beaten, so that his name has been
  preserved by the fame of the antagonists who defeated him. His one
  successful battle was with Hares, whom he defeated after a slashing
  fight of fifty-eight minutes, during which forty rounds were fought,
  at Coombe Wood, May 3, 1814. This was for a purse of twenty-five
  guineas, given by the Pugilistic Club.

Footnote 42:

  See Life of JEM WARD, pp. 211–215, _ante_.

Footnote 43:

  The following we find in the _Weekly Dispatch_ of the Sunday which
  announces Tom’s engagement:—

          “So the nobs at the Coburg (forgive me the pun)
          Are about to let off, for six nights, a Great Gun:
          Tom Cannon, whose backer his prowess espouses.
          Is form’d to draw claret, and may draw great houses;
          May he make a good ‘hit,’ for the managers’ sake,
          If they’re liberal in ‘giving,’ Tom doubtless will ‘take.’
          But, jesting apart, may the town aid their plan,
          Nor the whole turn out merely a flash in the pan.

                                              “TIMOTHY TRIGGER,

      “_Gun Tavern_.”

Footnote 44:

  Jack Ford, in his day, fought some of the best men. He was defeated by
  Tom Oliver and Harry Harmer (see Life of OLIVER, vol. ii.); but beat
  Harry Lancaster, George Weston and Josh. Ebbs. His weight was twelve
  stone.

Footnote 45:

  This would now be objected to as an improper interference on the part
  of a second.—EDITOR.

Footnote 46:

  As a sample of what our fathers thought smart writing, we give a
  contemporary specimen or two of _les impromptus fait à loisir_ which
  appeared in the leading papers of the day:

                “IMPROMPTU ON SAMPSON AND HUDSON’S MATCH.

                  “If what the ancients say be true,
                  That Samson many thousands slew,
                      And with a single bone;
                  How can Josh. Hudson’s skill in fight,
                  Avail ’gainst modern Sampson’s might,
                      Who carries two ’tis known?”

  Another, alluding to a rife topic of the day—the treatment of Napoleon
  the Great by the Governor of St. Helena, Sir Hudson Lowe, whom Byron
  has damned to everlasting fame in the lines—

                “Or to some lonely isle of gaolers go,
                With turncoat Hudson for my turnkey Lowe,”

  runs thus; the plagiarism in idea is manifest.

                   “Josh. Hudson now is _high_ in fame;
                     Should this against him go,
                   His glory passes like a dream,
                     He’ll then be—Hudson Low-e.”

Footnote 47:

  Larkins afterwards beat John Fuller, Abbott, and Kelly, and was beaten
  by Keene and Tubbs. He came to London, and his name occurs in the
  Fives and Tennis Courts glove bouts.

Footnote 48:

  See Appendix to Period V., pp. 191–198.

Footnote 49:

  In a reprint in _Bell’s Life_ (May 15th, 1879) this fight is reported
  throughout as “O’Neale and Gaynor,” without a word of allusion to
  Neale’s previous battles.

Footnote 50:

  This is an allusion to a system of exercise adopted by Jem in
  training, and recommended by many, of practising right and left upon a
  sack stuffed with hay, to teach straight delivery.

Footnote 51:

  The original Assembly Rooms in Regent Street, by Argyll Place, not the
  Windmill Street “Argyll,” recently “disestablished” by the Middlesex
  magistrates.

Footnote 52:

  Frank Redmond, although his Ring career was not marked by success, was
  a skilful sparrer and an excellent teacher of the art of self-defence.
  He was born on the 26th of February, 1803, and as a young aspirant was
  so highly thought of that he was matched (at the age of twenty)
  against the renowned “Star of the East,” Barney Aaron, whose recent
  victories over Samuel Belasco, Collins, Ned Stockman, and Lenney
  (twice) had raised him to a proud position among the middle weights.
  Young Frank was soundly beaten in thirty-two minutes, after a game and
  manly battle with an opponent by whom it was no disgrace to be
  defeated.

  Four years afterwards Frank again challenged Aaron, and a match was
  made for £50 a-side, to fight on the 21st August, 1827, but Frank was
  arrested on the day on the road to the appointed place. Strange to
  say, although this was proved, the stakes were given up to the
  Israelite, which so angered Redmond that he threw up his hat in the
  room at the “Castle” and offered to fight for £20 on the spot. A third
  match was then made for £50 a-side. After a high-couraged battle
  (which will be found in the Life of BARNEY AARON, in the Appendix to
  this Period) Redmond was again defeated. Redmond’s other battles were
  a game but unsuccessful combat with Harry Jones (the Sailor Boy), and
  a single victory over Tom Davis, near Leominster, on the 14th of
  November, 1833. Frank soon after married, and went into business as a
  licensed victualler at the “George and Dragon,” Greek Street, Soho,
  which, from Frank’s abilities as a professor of the fistic art, and
  his thorough knowledge of the points of a dog, became a popular
  resort. At an after period, for many years, Frank Redmond was known
  and respected as the proprietor of the “Swiss Cottage,” St. John’s
  Wood. We extract the following from “Walks round London,” published in
  1846:—

  “The ‘Swiss Cottage,’ at the intersection of the London and Finchley
  Roads and Belsize Lane, is a pleasant summer retreat; and it would be
  hard to name a more competent authority on sporting subjects than the
  worthy host, than whom

                     ‘A merrier nor a wiser man
                     To spend a pleasant hour withal’

  is not to be found within the bills of mortality. Well versed in all
  sporting matters is Frank Redmond; and behind a yard of clay, and over
  a glass of the best Cognac, the proprietor of this hostelrie will
  discuss with you the merits of a Derby nag; the pluck, game, bravery,
  and stamina of the aspirant for fistic fame; the construction and
  merits of a prize wherry; the skill of a batsman and cricket-bowler;
  or detail to you the speed and breeding of a crack greyhound. On this
  last theme Frank will become a monopolist; you have touched the chord
  that will vibrate, for on the subject of the canine species he will
  become as learned as England’s ermined Chief Justice on a knotty point
  of law, or as eloquent as Demosthenes himself. A better judge of the
  merits, breeding, and qualities of the dog does not exist. Frank is
  reputed to be the best dog-fancier in the kingdom, and on that point
  is generally consulted by the aristocracy and Corinthians of the first
  water.

  “Such are a few of the many inducements, and we own they are no small
  ones, which prompt us to notice ‘the Cottage.’ We say nothing about
  the accommodation offered to the guests; for it were a libel on
  Frank’s administration to assert that they are not of the first-rate
  order, and he must be an epicure, indeed, who could find fault with
  the _cuisine_ of the establishment. Had the ‘Swiss Cottage’ existed in
  Shakspere’s days, we should have been inclined to assert that it was
  from some such a house as this that the ‘fat-ribbed knight’ first
  acquired his idea of the comfort a man feels in taking ‘mine ease at
  mine inn.’”

  Frank Redmond retired from this life and its business in 1863.

Footnote 53:

  Dick Curtis died September 16th, 1843, aged 41.

Footnote 54:

  This was occasioned by that ancient boxing arena passing into new
  hands, and being leased for a circus, under the title of “Cooke’s
  Gymnasium.”

Footnote 55:

  At this time Tom Belcher bore that title.

Footnote 56:

  Arthur Matthewson, for many years known in fistic circles as a
  sporting publican, was one of the best little men of his day. His
  first reported battle was with David Barnes, whom he defeated in
  fifty-one rounds, for fifty guineas a-side, at Basset’s Pole, near
  Birmingham, July 15th, 1822. He beat Israel Belasco in forty-four
  minutes at Moulsey Hurst, March 19th, 1823, and Barney Aaron as above.
  Matthewson died in his native town, July 13th, 1840, generally
  respected.

Footnote 57:

  Jem Raines, ten stone four pounds, fought a draw with Harry Jones, the
  Sailor Boy, at Chesterfield, March 17th, 1827. He was subsequently
  beaten by Harry Jones (see Life of the SAILOR BOY, page 526), Ned
  Stockman, and Barney Aaron, all, at that period, good men and made in
  most instances a very creditable fight.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. P. 456, changed “fell one knee” to “fell to one knee”.
 2. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
 3. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
 4. Footnotes have been re-indexed using numbers and collected together
      at the end of the last chapter.
 5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.