On the roll of fistic heroes to whom Bristol has given birth, the name of Jem Belcher may claim precedence. He came of a good fighting stock, being descended by the mother’s side from the renowned Jem Slack, the conqueror of Broughton, the former being the grandsire of the subject of this memoir.
On his first appearance in the London Ring, he was justly considered a phenomenon in the pugilistic art. Jem’s height was five feet eleven and a half inches; his weight under twelve stone. Though graceful and finely proportioned, he had none of those muscular exaggerations in his form when stripped, and still less when attired, which go, in the artistic as well as the popular notion, to make up a Hercules. Jem was formed more after the sculptor’s Apollo than the not-very-accurate classical idea, derived from bronze and marble, of a gladiator. In horse, as in man, this antique blunder is laughed at by those who have read and seen something more than Greek and Latin books or monuments can teach them. The horses of the Parthenon might do for Pickford’s vans, “a black job,” or a man in armour in my Lord Mayor’s show (and they would not carry him well); while Jem Belcher, Henry Pearce, Tom Spring, Jem Ward, or Tom Sayers, could thrash all your shoulder-tied, muscle-knotted, chairman-calved Milos that ever didn’t do the impossibles which ancient poets and fabulists, called historians, have attributed to them in verse and prose. But this is digression, and we return.
JAMES BELCHER, of Bristol (Champion of England), 1798–1809.
James Belcher struggled into the battle of life in St. James’s Churchyard, Bristol, on the 15th of April, 1781. He there, for some time, followed the occupation of a butcher, and early signalised himself by feats of pugilism and activity at Lansdown Fair.[[80]] At twenty years of age his skill with the gloves was the talk of the town, and he baffled the cleverest professors of the old school on their visits to Bristol, which were then neither few nor far between. His method appeared so peculiarly his own that it looked like intuition, and some of the “ould ’uns” who were sceptical as to his prowess, would not believe in it until they had experienced in their own persons the irresistibility of his attack and the cleverness of his almost invulnerable and ever-varying defence. Gaiety and intrepidity were combined in Jem’s style with curious felicity, and the rapidity with which he “got in” upon his opponent, the skill with which he retreated, armed at all points, and the masterly manner in which he “got out of trouble,” to the surprise of his assailant, were truly astonishing—in two words, Jem Belcher was a “natural fighter,” perfected by the practice of his art.
The first recorded fight of Belcher was with Britton, a pugilist of some notoriety, who afterwards contended with Dutch Sam; the contest took place near Bristol, on the 6th of March, 1798; it was a sharp and severe contest, in which Belcher, the boy of seventeen, disposed of his antagonist in thirty-three minutes, Britton being beaten to a stand-still, to the utter surprise of the spectators.
Our hero now came up to town, where his reputation accompanied him; being introduced to old Bill Warr, who then kept a house in Covent Garden, the “ould ’un” had a mind to judge personally of the merits of the young aspirant for pugilistic fame, and accordingly put on the gloves with him for a little “breathing” in his (Warr’s) own dining-room. The veteran, who in his best days was no Belcher, was so astounded at Jem’s quickness in hitting and recovering guard, that he puffed out, as he reeled against one of his tables, impelled thither by a “Belcherian” tip, “That’ll do; this youngster can go in with any man in the kingdom!” Jem quietly observed, during the discussion after dinner, “I could have done better, sir, but I was afraid I might hit you too hard, and that you would be offended.”—“Oh!” cried the undaunted veteran, “I was never afraid of a crack, my boy, and am not now; we’ll have a round, and you may do your best.” So saying, they instantly set-to, when Jem, almost at the request of his host, quietly hit him down several times, despite of the “ould ’un’s” attempts at stopping or countering. Warr was fully satisfied of Belcher’s talents; they sat down sociably, and Bill offered to back the young Bristolian against anything on the pugilistic list.
Tom Jones, of Paddington, whose career closed the final chapter of the Second Period, was selected as the trial-horse of the new competitor in the race for fame and its more substantial rewards. The battle took place on Wormwood Scrubbs, on the 12th of April, 1799, for 25 guineas aside. The peculiar features of Belcher’s science were well displayed; and although Jones contended for victory with desperate determination, unflinching courage, and no small amount of skill and readiness, he was doomed to “pale his ineffective fires” before the rising luminary of Belcher’s fame. Thirty-three minutes of courageous and determined fighting placed the future champion’s star in the ascendant.
Jack Bartholomew, a pugilist whose victories over the gluttonous Firby (known as the “Young Ruffian”), Tom Owen, and others, had placed him high in the estimation of “the fancy,” was now picked out as a customer very likely to try the mettle of Belcher. Bartholomew was in high favour among the ring-goers, his weight between twelve and thirteen stone, his qualifications considerable, and his game of the first order. The stakes in the first instance were small, being but £20 a-side, owing to the affair arising out of a longing desire on the part of Bartholomew to try his skill with the Bristol “Phenomenon,” he himself feeling no apprehension as to the result. He accordingly challenged Jem for this sum, offering to “fight him for love,” rather than lose the opportunity of a “shy.” The mill came off, almost extemporaneously, August 15, 1799, at George’s Row, on the Uxbridge Road, and was so severely and evenly contested (Belcher was declared to be out of condition), that neither could be declared the conqueror. Towards the end of the fight Bartholomew was so completely exhausted that he fainted away, and could not come to time; and Jem so much done up, that it was with difficulty he was got up to the scratch. In fact, both men were out of time. Bartholomew, in the interval, recovering a little from his weakness, insisted upon renewing the combat, when the ring was again made; but he staggered about without command of himself, and appeared literally stupid. His game was so good, but his state so pitiable, that Cullington,[[81]] feeling for his bravery, exclaimed, “For heaven’s sake, Jem, don’t hit him!” upon which Belcher merely pushed him down; in fact, he was himself so exhausted as to be unable to make an effectual hit. The umpires pronounced it a drawn battle; and the stakes, which were held by Bill Gibbons’s brother, were drawn the same night at Cullington’s.
As Bartholomew possessed pluck of the first order, it was not to be supposed the matter would rest here; accordingly the world pugilistic was soon on the qui vive for another match, which was arranged for 300 guineas. This was fought upon a stage on Finchley Common, on Thursday, May 15, 1800. Bartholomew was at this time 37 years of age, Belcher just turned 20.