“Not long after Stephenson began to work as brakesman at Black Callerton (near Newcastle), he had a quarrel with a pitman named Ned Nelson, a roystering bully, who was the terror of the village. Nelson was a great fighter, and it was therefore considered dangerous to quarrel with him. Stephenson was so unfortunate as not to be able to please this pitman by the way in which he landed him when drawing him out of the pit; and Nelson swore at him grossly for the alleged clumsiness of his ‘brakeing.’ George defended himself, and appealed to the testimony of his fellow-workmen. But Nelson had not been accustomed to George’s style of self-assertion, and, after a torrent of abuse, he threatened to kick the brakesman, who defied him to do so. Nelson ended by challenging Stephenson to fight a pitched battle. The latter coolly accepted the challenge, and a day was fixed on which the fight was to come off.
“Great was the excitement in Black Callerton when it was known that Geordie Stephenson had accepted Nelson’s challenge. Everybody said Nelson would ‘kill him.’ The villagers, the young men, and especially the boys of the village, with whom George was a great favourite, all wished he might beat Nelson, but they scarcely dared to say so. They came about him while he was at work in the engine-house to inquire if it was really true that he was going to fight Nelson? ‘Ay, ay; never fear for me, I’ll fight him,’ replied George coolly. And fight him he did. For some days previous to the appointed day, Nelson went entirely off work for the purpose of training, whereas Stephenson attended to his daily work as usual, for he was always temperate and in good condition, and did not seem in the least disconcerted by the prospect of the battle. So, on the day appointed George went into the Dolly Field, where his already exulting opponent was ready to meet him. George stripped, and went in like a practised pugilist, though it was his first and his last pitched battle. After a few rounds, George’s wiry muscles, sound wind, cool self-possession, and practised strength enabled him so severely to punish his opponent as to secure an easy victory. This circumstance,” concludes Mr. Smiles, “is related in illustration of Stephenson’s pluck and courage; and it was thoroughly characteristic of the man. Yet he was the very reverse of quarrelsome. But he would not be put down by the bully of the colliery, and he fought him. There his pugilism ended. They shook hands, and continued good friends. In after life Stephenson’s mettle was hardly tried, but in a different way; and he did not fail to exhibit the same resolute courage in contending with the bullies of the railway world that he showed in his encounter with Ned Nelson, the ‘fighting pitman,’ of Callerton.”
JOHN SHAW, THE LIFE-GUARDSMAN.
ONE OF THE HEROES WHO FELL ON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
This stalwart soldier, whose martial exploits and honourable death are recorded in the pages of Sir Walter Scott, Sir W. Napier, and the military annals of his country, bade fair to become a bright star in the pugilistic sphere, had not his career been so speedily terminated in the field of glory.
John Shaw was a native of Woolaston, in Nottinghamshire, and brought up as a farmer until eighteen years of age, when, tired of leading a dull, inglorious life, he enlisted, on the 16th of October, 1807, as a private in the Life-guards. Europe, we need hardly tell the reader, was then involved in the flames of war by the martial spirit and aggressive designs of the French nation and its military Emperor, and young Shaw—
“Had heard of battles, and had long’d
To follow to the field some warlike lord.”
When Shaw was a mere stripling, during the time he was fighting with a man three stone heavier than himself, at Woolaston, and in danger of being defeated, Jem Belcher, who was at Nottingham, suddenly made his appearance in the ring. That experienced hero went up to Shaw, and advised him how to alter his tactics so as to secure success. Shaw, learning that it was the renowned Jem Belcher who thus stepped forward to direct his efforts, felt inspired with fresh courage, acted promptly on the advice given him, and, in the course of a round or two, so turned the battle in his favour that he ultimately gained the victory in great style, and earned the praise of Jem Belcher. From this incident he attached himself to scientific pugilism.
Shaw possessed, in an eminent degree, many requisites for a first-rate pugilist. He was in height six feet and half an inch, weighing, when stripped, close upon fifteen stone; and he derived great advantages from repeated exercise with the dumb-bells, as a part of his military discipline; his continual practice of the broadsword also gave increased strength and elasticity to his wrists and shoulders. Discipline, too, had taught him coolness, in addition to a most excellent natural temper. He was introduced to the Fives Court under the patronage of Colonel Barton. In his first exhibitions he was considered rather slow; but from the frequent use of the gloves, in competition with the most experienced and scientific boxers, he rapidly improved. His height, length, weight, and strength, united with a heart which knew no fear, rendered Shaw a truly formidable antagonist. His public displays were considered far above mediocrity, and he felt great pride in getting the best of the then terrific Molineaux. In a trial set-to at Mr. Jackson’s rooms with Captain Barclay—who never shrunk from punishment, or hesitated in milling his adversary, scorning anything like the delicacy of “light play,”—the latter received such a convincing blow, that a dentist was called in to replace matters in statu quo. The best critics were satisfied he was a thorough-bred one, and it was proved to be very difficult to hit him without being returned on. In retreating he made use of his left hand with much effect, and was thought to fight something after the deliberate manner of Cribb.
In the neighbourhood of Portman Square our hero milled three big fellows in the course of a few minutes with comparative ease, for insulting him on the “stay at home” character of his regiment, at that time a favourite taunt of the vulgar. They were compelled to acknowledge their misconduct, and glad to cry for quarter.