Shaw’s first appearance in the P. R. was on Saturday, July 12, 1812, at Coombe Warren, with Burrows, a sturdy West-countryman, who had fought a good battle of an hour’s length with the tremendous Molineaux, when the athletic powers of the latter hero were undebauched and in full vigour; but, in the hands of Shaw, the West-countryman had not the slightest chance. In the short space of seventeen minutes, in which thirteen rounds were fought, the superior science of Shaw had so nobbed Burrows that he could not see his way, and he was led out of the ring. Burrows never once drew blood from Shaw, who quitted the field without a scratch.
Nearly three years elapsed before Shaw made a second appearance, during which period, it seems, from the considerable practice he had with the gloves, he was materially improved in science. On April 18, 1815, at Hounslow Heath, for a purse of fifty guineas, he entered the lists with one of the bravest of the brave, namely, Ned Painter. Victory again crowned his efforts in twenty-eight minutes, and he retired from the contest little, if any, the worse for wear. See Painter, Vol. II., Chapter III., p. 77.
It is certain Shaw had an eye upon the championship, for he now formally challenged all England. The amateurs were divided in opinion, but Shaw felt confident, in his own mind, that no boxer existed who could conquer him. Six weeks had scarcely elapsed after the above battle, and no time allowed for either Cribb or Oliver (who would not have suffered such a challenge to pass over unnoticed) to have an opportunity of entering the lists with Shaw to decide the point, when the Life-guards were ordered abroad, and Shaw soon found himself, with his comrades, on the plains of Waterloo. His heroism on that memorable occasion has been handed down to posterity in those glowing colours which real courage and love of country merit. Sir Walter Scott has thus sung the fame of Shaw:—
“The work of Death is done, yet still her song
In Britons’ praise the muse would fain prolong,
Would, were her power but equal to her will,
Swell to a mighty stream her slender rill,
Exalt her voice to praise each gallant son,
But chiefest thee, O godlike Wellington!
But who can count the sands? then might he name