Not to cite bygone landlords of “The Castle,” in themselves a tower of strength, we may mention that one pugilist (Mr. John Gully) whose memoir will appear in an early chapter, has risen to senatorial honours; another (Langan, the antagonist of Spring), received a piece of plate (on his retirement from business with a handsome fortune), as a testimonial of the high respect of his neighbours and acquaintance in the town of Liverpool; while the best conducted sporting houses, and those which least frequently figure before magistrates, are—we fearlessly assert it—those kept by ex-pugilists of the higher caste. Teste Belcher’s, Spring’s, Jem Burn’s, Owen Swift’s, in London, and many sporting houses in the provinces. There are exceptions, of course, but if the slanderers of pugilists and fair pugilism will insist on descending to personal or individual libel, to bolster up their cowardly onslaughts on this manly art, we pledge ourselves for every pugilist of note, whose name they produce as having come under the lash of the law for any dishonourable offence, to pick out a parson, a magistrate, or a doctor to match him; and if the highest criminality be the test of class profligacy and brutality, we will go higher and find them Quakers, military officers, aye, even bishops, guilty of capital felony. Truly it is enough to make one’s blood boil to read such canting drivel, such impotent spleen vented on bravery and courageous endurance. For ourselves, some acquaintance with the world has taught us that we had rather trust to the honour and generosity of a soldier than a priest, or a pugilist than a professing puritan. But to return to Belcher.
For several years Tom was a frequent exhibitor at the Tennis Court, where no boxer more decisively established the superiority of art over strength. The following instance may tend, in some degree, to illustrate the above opinion. Ikey Pig, the antagonist of Cribb, who possessed a smattering of the science, was not only knocked about like a child, but ultimately hit clean off the stage. Shaw, the life-guardsman, a Hercules in appearance, a man of undeniable courage, and with strength to match his mighty heart, was dead-beat with the gloves by Tom; although this son of Mars, but a day or two before, in a bout with Captain Barclay, had put the captain’s upper works to much confusion, and made his teeth chatter again. Gully, whose knowledge of boxing was far above mediocrity, appeared considerably inferior in his sets-to with Tom. Molineaux, too, when in his prime, was milled in all directions over the stage, and ultimately floored by Belcher. During the time Tom was in training at Norwich to fight with Farnborough, in an exhibition of sparring at the above place, he levelled the Champion Cribb, to the no small surprise of the spectators. The memorable disposal of Shock Jem (a lad of most determined spirit, and who had made the art of self-defence his study, under the tuition of the scientific George Head), was so complete and satisfactory upon the point in question by Belcher, as to need no further comment. Shock was “hit to pieces.” In competition with Cribb or any of the “big ones,” Tom’s excellence as a sparrer was never in the slightest degree doubtful; and of this a marked demonstration took place on the occasion of Cribb’s benefit, May 31, 1814. The massive bulky appearance of the champion standing over the compact elegant form of Belcher, reminded the spectator not inaptly of the difference between a small frigate contending with a first-rate man-of-war; and that however the former might, from its compact size and high state of discipline, perform its movements with greater celerity, and even create considerable annoyance by superiority of tactics, yet ultimately, in a decisive engagement, where there was no room for manœuvring, it must strike to heavier metal. So with these combatants. The ponderosity of Cribb, when in close quarters with his opponent, or he bored in upon him, was manifest; but when at arm’s length, and while there remained room for a display of adroitness and skill, Belcher appeared the greater man. The exclamations, which made the court resound again, with “well done, little Tom,” decided this point. Belcher put in some neat touches upon the nob of the Champion, on his resolutely boring in, and stopped, in several instances, the well-meant heavy blows of Cribb in the return, with considerable dexterity and judgment. True, when the Champion did get in, he drove Belcher to the corner of the stage, and the strength and resolution of Cribb prevailed.
In concluding our remarks on Belcher’s sparring, the following circumstance is worthy of note. It occurred on the 26th of February, 1817, at the benefit of Cribb. Upon Belcher ascending the stage with H. Lancaster, they were interrupted from all parts of the court, with the cry of “Scroggins.” Mr. Jackson also requested it, for the satisfaction of several amateurs of rank present. Upon this, that hardy little hero appeared, and Lancaster retired. The spectators were uncommonly anxious to witness this set-to, which might be denominated first-rate science against the most determined ruffianism. Scroggins, immediately on shaking hands with his opponent, rushed at him with all the impetuosity of an English bull-dog, and, for three rounds, it was a downright mill with the gloves. Belcher, from the fury of his antagonist, was driven more than once against the rails, and from want of room his science seemed somewhat at a discount. In the fourth, however, Tom began to feel his way with more certainty, faced his opponent sharply with his one-two, on his boring in, and had the best of the round, when Scroggins bowed and took off the gloves; and, although loudly and repeatedly solicited by the spectators to have another round, and particularly by Belcher, he immediately quitted the stage. A slight tint of the claret appeared on both their mugs, but was first visible from the mouth of Scroggins.
This little episode, with a man of Scroggins’s character, might reasonably be expected to result in something like a trial without the mufflers, and so it eventually proved. For on the 10th April, 1822, a sporting dinner having taken place at the Castle, Scroggins, who was bacchi plenis, got into a “skrimmage” with Belcher. The little hero would not be denied, and Tom feeling his character for courage touched, cast aside the counsel of discretion, and a mill took place. Twenty minutes ruffianing, boring in, and hard fighting on one side, and scientific administration of punishment on the other, settled the question, and Scroggins was forced to give in. This was a gratuitous and somewhat ill-advised exhibition on the part of Belcher, who needed no such triumph, yet it showed the spirit of the “old war-horse ready for the fray,” was still within him.
Tom Belcher was in height about five feet nine inches, weighing nearly eleven stone. His appearance was gentlemanly, and his manners and deportment of the most mild and inoffensive nature, well calculated to prepossess the stranger in his favour; who also found in his company the perfection of the pugilist, unmingled with the coarseness which the ignorant and the prejudiced are too apt to associate with their ideal of every brave boxer.
Belcher died at Bristol on the 9th of December, 1854, aged 71 years, universally respected.
CHAPTER III.
HEN. (OR HENRY) PEARCE, “THE GAME CHICKEN” (CHAMPION)—1803–1805.
Brilliant as a meteor Hen. Pearce shot across the pugilistic horizon, as quickly to fall extinguished. When Jem Belcher had reached the zenith of his fame, he cast his eyes toward Bristol for a successor, and the early reputation of Pearce pointed him out as a likely holder of the belt of championship on behalf of his own native city.