Pugilistica: The History of British Boxing, Volume 2 (of 3) / 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, 1719-1740, to the Last Championship Battle Between King and Heenan, in December 1863

by Henry Downes Miles

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.

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 2s. 6d. to 5s. 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.”

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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 1s. 9d. 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!”

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 19s. 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.

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.

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 3s. 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 13s. 6d.

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.”

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.

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—

.tb

“’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.”

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.