As a record of times and manners, and modes of travel, we shall give a sketch of how and in what company the representative of Bell’s Life in London, then, quâ the Ring, the only sporting “oracle,” was wont to make his way to distant battlefields, ere the steam steed had rendered the mail coach, the “Highflyer,” the “Red Rover,” the “Age,” et hoc genus omne, obsolete as public conveyances:—

As “Sheffield, or within 100 miles thereof,” was the mysterious “fixture” for the big tourney, on Saturday evening, at half-past seven, we threw ourselves into the Glasgow mail, on our route to Doncaster, between which town and Selby we had the “office” the affair was to be decided. Adventures in stage-coaches have often afforded topics for amusing detail; but we confess, from the laborious duties which fall to our lot to perform, private as well as public, every week of our lives, the last day, or rather the last night, of the week is not the one we should select as that most propitious to collect materials (if such materials were wanting) for filling a column in our ensuing publication. In taking our place in the mail, therefore, we looked forward rather to the enjoyment of an occasional snooze than to the hope that we should discover any subject on which to dilate at a future period, whether as to the character of our fellow-travellers, the general appointments of the “drag,” or the peculiarities of the coachmen or guards—​of the former we had four, and of the latter two, in the course of the journey—​and these we will at once dismiss, by stating, at the outset, that they did their duty admirably—​taking care, as “in duty bound,” to seek the usual mark of approbation by farewell hints in the common-place terms of “I leave you here, gentlemen”—​in other words, “tip” and “go”—​a laconic mode of address which by all travellers is well understood, however coolly appreciated when spoken at an open door on a cold frosty night, as that night of Saturday was, and at a moment when you may perhaps have been dreaming of the “joys you left behind you.” Quietness and repose being our first study, we soon placed our hat in the suspending-straps at the top of the mail, and our travelling-cap over head, and then, quietly reclining in the corner with our back to the horses, waited for the “start” from the yard of the “Bull and Mouth.” We found one old gentleman had taken his seat before us, who subsequently followed our example in taking the same side of the coach with ourselves, and was not less careful in guarding himself against the chilling influence of a hard frost. A third gentleman soon after joined us, and thus, “trio juncta in uno,” we were whirled round to the Post Office, St. Martin’s-le-Grand, whence we shortly commenced our journey at a slapping pace. On reaching Islington, a fourth passenger, of colossal size, filled up the vacant seat. Few words, if any, were spoken; and the only interruption to the monotony of the night’s travel was the frequent popping out and in of the last-mentioned gentleman to comfort his “inward man” with “drops of brandy,” with which he so perfumed our “leathern convenience” on his return that if we were as sensitive as some Frenchman of whom we have heard (who dined upon the effluvia of the good things he could not otherwise enjoy) we should certainly have been “pretty jolly” before he took his leave of us at peep of day. His departure gave occasion for the first indication that our companions were gifted with the power of speech. Their words were few, and these only had reference to the “spirited” propensities of the gentleman who had just vacated his seat. On this there could be no difference of opinion, and consequently no argument—​so that we soon relapsed into the appearance at least of sleep, which we maintained with great perseverance till a brilliant sun shining through the ice-covered windows called forth a remark on the fineness of the morning. This, to our surprise, for we thought ourselves incog., was followed by a remark of recognition from the third gentleman who had entered the coach at the “Bull and Mouth,” and who, alluding to quick travelling, recalled to our mind some feats of this sort in which we had been engaged in the course of a twenty years’ connection with the Press. The ice once broken, conversation commenced, with apparent satisfaction to us all, the venerable gentleman on my right joining, and contributing as well as exacting his proportion of information on all manner of topics—​public men and public measures, and the public Press, forming prominent subjects of remark, upon all of which our friend on the right seemed agreeably conversant. We soon discovered that our opposite neighbour was going to Leeds, to and from which town he was a frequent traveller; but respecting the other we could form no opinion. Regarding ourselves our secret had been divulged, and we stood forward the confessed “representative of Bell’s Life in London.” Sporting of various descriptions opened new sources of gossip, and here we found “the unknown” as much at home as ourselves. It came out, in fact, that he had been a breeder of racehorses, and a patron of the Turf for pleasure, but not for profit—​that he had been steward at Newmarket, and that, in fact, he knew all the leading Turfites of the age, and was familiar with all the recent important events on the Turf. All this led us to surmise that he was “somebody,” but who, we confess, we did not attempt to speculate. We found him a most pleasant associate, and with that we were content. Upon the subject of our own trip to Doncaster we were silent, for we considered that was “nothing to nobody.” The Ring as connected with our British sports was but slightly alluded to—​and against the objections that were made arising out of the late fatal issue of the combat between Swift and Brighton Bill, we argued it was a casualty purely the result of an accident, which might have occurred on any other athletic competition in which no personal animosity existed, and wound up by saying that there was one unanswerable argument even to the opponents of prizefighting, that as by them the principals were invariably considered worthless and deserving of punishment, in becoming the instrument of punishing each other, they were only fulfilling the ends of justice, without the necessity of legal interference. We referred, of course, to the recent painful exhibition of the frequent use of the knife, and the strong remarks which the increasing extent of this treacherous mode of revenge had called from the judges; but upon these points our unknown friend, as we take the liberty of calling him, did not seem disposed to break a lance, and the subject dropped. At last we reached Grantham, where our fellow-travellers forewarned us we should have an excellent breakfast, and certainly one served in better taste or in greater profusion we never enjoyed. Here we met in the same room the Quaker member for Durham (Mr. Pease), on his way to the north, between whom and “the unknown” there was a friendly recognition, but we still made no effort to lift the veil by which he was enshrouded. On again taking our seats in the mail, we were alone with the old gentleman, our Leeds friend having mounted the roof, so that we had it all to ourselves. The chat was as pleasant to us as before—​new topics were broached, and the description of the localities through which we passed—​the “Dukery” (a sort of concentration of ducal seats), &c.—​afforded us both amusement and information. Now, for the first time, when conversation flagged, on watching the physiognomy of “the unknown,” we imagined there was a meaning smile on his countenance, which seemed to say, “This fellow does not know to whom he is talking,” and we confess we began to try back and see whether we had said anything to which exception could be taken; and more especially whether anything had dropped from us whence the intent of our journey could be collected; for we began to suspect we had been talking to a beak, who was going down expressly to spoil sport, and who was chuckling within himself at the disappointment we were sure to incur. But all was safe—​we had kept our secret, and from anything that had dropped from us everything was as “right as the day;” indeed we dismissed the thought of treachery from our mind, and we are now glad we did so, for it would have been most unjustly adopted; for, although a beak of the first magnitude was in truth before us, we are persuaded he had no sinister feeling towards us or the sport we anticipated. But we have spun our yarn longer than we had intended, and will come to the dénouement at once. We now rattled into the clean and quiet town of Doncaster with the customary flourish of the horn, and reached the “Angel” safe and sound. As we had collected that our companion was going no further, we were satisfied our doubts as to his real character would soon be removed; they were, sooner than we expected; for scarcely had he stepped forth when “My lord!” was congratulated on his safe arrival. My lord! thought we, and following his example, our first effort on stretching our cramped limbs was by a respectful touch of our tile to acknowledge the honour we had enjoyed—​an honour, by-the-bye, which confirmed us in the good old maxim, “Where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise.” An answer to a simple question soon put us in possession of the “great secret.” It was to a noble Baron who was about to preside at the Pontefract sessions we were indebted for a pleasing relief to a tedious journey; and while we acknowledge his lordship’s kindness and urbanity, permit us to add that there was not a sentiment uttered by him in our presence to which we do not heartily respond. We are sure it will be gratifying to our milling readers to hear that although the fight which has given occasion for this episode was announced to take place in the district of Pontefract, formerly represented by a milling member,[12] neither our noble companion nor any of his sessional coadjutors offered any interference.

At Doncaster we had our “tout” (we hope he will excuse the use of a professional title), for whom we immediately sent, but he was profoundly ignorant of the all-important place of rendezvous—​a fact at which we rejoiced, as it was clear the necessary secrecy had been observed. However quiet at Doncaster, at Sheffield, Nottingham, and all the surrounding towns, even to Manchester and Liverpool, all was bustle and commotion. The Fancy, of all degrees, were on the alert, and the roads, on Sunday evening, leading to Doncaster, were thronged, not only with pedestrians, including no small proportion of “hard-ups,” but with vehicles of every imaginable description—​flies, phaetons, gigs, and fish-carts, all laden to dangerous excess, and with a perfect disregard to the qualities of the horses engaged in the service; it seeming to be an admitted principle that on such occasions the tits were not only “warranted sound and free from vice,” but masters of any indefinite proportion of weight. As Doncaster was the grand débouche through which the cavalcade must necessarily pass towards the “fixture,” the innocent inhabitants were soon enlightened respecting the approach of some extraordinary event, the character of which was quickly divulged. The whole night long the rattle of wheels, the pattering of horses’ feet, and the shouts of the anxious throng, proclaimed the interest which was felt, and the wild spirit which was abroad. “The Selby road!” was the cry; and on crossing the Don, at the foot of the town, a short turn to the right threw the nags into the right direction, to the no small gratification of the collector at the turnpike gate, although rather to the discomfiture of many who had the “bobs” to “fork out;” but fights are of rare occurrence nowadays, and for such a luxury expense is no object.

Askerne, or Askeron, a neat little village seven miles from Doncaster, on the Selby road, celebrated for its sulphurous spring—​which rises from a fine piece of water called Askerne Pool, and which is much visited by patients afflicted with rheumatism and other diseases—​was the first grand halting-place, and here, at the “White Swan,” had Bendigo, under the surveillance of Peter Taylor, of Liverpool, taken up his abode. In and about this house an immense multitude had assembled. Caunt had travelled further afield, and at the “Hawke Arms,” a new inn about two miles further, had pitched his tent, attended by young Molyneaux, the black, his honoured parent, and divers other staunch and sturdy friends. The ring was formed in a field a short distance from the road, about half way between the “Swan” and the “Hawke,” by the Liverpool Commissary, and all looked well. Soon after ten o’clock we made our appearance at the “Swan” in a post-chaise, and drove up to the motley group in front of the house. Our appearance was no doubt suspicious, and from the scowling looks of some of the “hard-ups” with whose private signs we were unacquainted, we were evidently regarded with more fear than affection. At last, recollecting that we had seen Izzy Lazarus down the road, and knowing that he is regularly installed as a publican in Sheffield, we asked for him, in order that he might be our cicerone to his friends. The “poy” soon made his appearance, being a full stone heavier than when he left town, and recognising us, he made known the agreeable intelligence that “’twas t’editor of Bell’s Loife in Lunnon”—​an announcement so unexpected, and apparently so agreeable, that when we descended from our trap we verily believe the sudden appearance of a hippopotamus would not have excited more astonishment. “What,” cried one, “is that t’editor of Bell’s Loife? Well, I’m dom’d if I didn’t take un for a gentleman!”—​while another declared he “thought it were summat worse, for he took un for a beak, or summat o’ that koind.” Our opinion was not asked as to our notions of these critics; but certainly had we been put to our oath we should have said they were some of the “unwashed from the Hardware Country,” who had come thus far to perform their ablutions in the Pool of Askerne—​a ceremony which the dust of the roads, and the hasty manner in which they had performed their toilets preparatory to their “stopping up all night to be up early in the morning,” rendered requisite.

We did not wait to bandy civilities, but proceeded direct to the dormitory of Bendigo, whom we found, like a bacon sandwich, comfortably encased between two slices of flannel, vulgarly called blankets. It was the first time we had the honour of an interview, and we made our salaam with due reverence, while the object of our embassy was duly announced by Peter Taylor. Bendigo appeared uncommonly well, and was in high spirits. He is a rough, handy-looking fellow, very muscular, and as we were informed weighed but 11st. 10lb. His seconds, we were informed, were to be Taylor and Nick Ward, and, judging from his manner, he seemed to have booked victory as already secure. To all present we enjoined the expediency of getting early into the ring, as there was a gentle whisper before we left Doncaster that the constables were on the alert. From the “Swan” we proceeded to the “Hawke,” where our presence was not less a matter of surprise. We soon obtained an introduction to Caunt, who was assuming his fighting costume. He expressed his joy at seeing us, but proceeded sans cérémonie with the adornment of his person. His father sat by his side, and if having a gigantic son is a source of pride he has sufficient to render him doubly so, for the hero of the day proved to be a fine young fellow, two-and-twenty years of age, standing six feet three inches in height, and weighing fifteen stone and a half, apparently active, strong, and full of confidence. Comparing him with Bendigo, it was a camelopard to a nylghau; and yet Bendigo was the favourite at five and six to four—​a state of odds which seemed unaccountable when the disparity in size was considered. Having here also urged the wisdom of taking time by the forelock, we returned towards the ring, which by this time was surrounded by a most numerous and heterogeneous crowd, many of whom carried sticks of enormous size, and presented aspects which to eyes polite would have been far from inviting. We knew, however, that “rough cases often cover good cutlery,” and we were not disposed to form our opinion from the outside alone, and more especially when we were aware that many of these hardy ones had toddled the whole way from Sheffield or Nottingham, or places equally distant, to witness the prowess of their favourite champion.

The adage of “the cup and the lip” was in this case, as in many others before, again illustrated, for just as we were about to enter the field some half-dozen horsemen rode up, and in an authoritative manner forbade, not the banns, but the fight, in terms, however, so persuasive and agreeable that it was impossible to be angry: in fact, there were so many doubtful-looking sticks performing evolutions in the air, and so many grim visages watching those evolutions, that their worships (and they proved to be veritable J.P.’s, attended by a posse of constables well mounted) evidently thought that the suaviter in modo was the safest game, and therefore, while they indicated their determination to preserve the peace, they assured the mobocracy they would not do more, provided the combatants “mizzled out of the West Riding.” Some were for bidding defiance to legal authority so weakly supported, but Jem Ward, who now came up, assured their beakships that due respect should be paid to their behests, and with this assurance a mutual feeling of confidence was established.

The men were now in their respective carriages in the main road, waiting for the “office,” when Jem Ward, who assumed the friendly character of director, after consulting with persons well acquainted with the localities, determined that the next move should be to Hatfield, about seven miles distant, and within a short run of Lincolnshire. This he publicly declared to be the final resolve, and, sending a horseman to the Commissary and the men, started forthwith for his destination, to prepare a suitable and unobjectionable spot. He was attended by Young Langan, who carried Bendigo’s fighting-shoes, Hackett, who was to have been Caunt’s second, and a numerous cavalcade of charioteers and horsemen, who reached the “Bell” at Hatfield in quick time. Had his arrangement been adopted all would have gone off well, but unfortunately there were too many masters and too little of system. A new leader sprang up in the person of Grear, the sporting sweep of Selby, who, being perfectly well acquainted with the localities of the country, as well as anxious to take the fight nearer his own quarters, led the way towards Selby, followed by a prodigious crowd, and, from some misunderstanding, by the combatants in their carriages. The new commander gave hopes that the ring might be formed before they reached the Ouse, which divides the West from the East Riding, but although several attempts were made it was no go, for the constables kept up with the vanguard, and the passage across the Ouse became indispensable, many of the company in the rear—​horse and foot as well as charioteers—​falling off dead beat. Those who were able to keep up their steam, however, crossed the bridge over the Ouse into Selby pell-mell, to the no small astonishment of the inhabitants, and the crowds of market people who were assembled with their wares. One old lady, almost petrified at such a sudden incursion, in great agitation inquired what had brought so many “gentlemen” into the East Riding. “Oh,” said a wag, “there’s a rebellion in the West, and we’re all driven over the river.” “Lord help me,” cried the old lady, “I live at Ricall, and ye’ll eat us all up!”

Grear, undismayed, pushed on, and knowing every inch of the country, did not halt till he got nearly four miles beyond Selby, when he turned down a romantic lane to the left, opposite Skipworth Common, and in a large field a few removes from the main road, near the bank of the river, the ring was, with great labour, formed; and the crowd, which had received fresh accessions from the town of Selby and surrounding country, collected round it. There were but few of the original followers able to reach this distant point, and thousands were thus deprived of the object of their long and wearisome journey, as well as dissatisfied with a move which, had Ward’s directions been obeyed, would have brought them nearer home, with a more certain chance of proceeding to business without interruption.

“What cannot be cured must be endured;” and Ward, as well as his unfortunate companions, had only to console themselves with the cold consolation of having been made “April fools.” Among others to whom the change was productive of unforeseen enjoyment were several members of the Badsworth Hunt, who came up in scarlet, headed by Captain B., one of the right sort, who backed Bendigo at six to four, with a well-known sporting whip, “wot drives the London mail,” and whose mackintosh cape formed no disagreeable recommendation to the Captain, by whom it was borrowed at “shent. per shent.” interest. Having taken breath, all prepared for action, and the ring was beaten out with as much effect as so sudden and unceremonious an assemblage would permit. The men entered the ring about half-past four o’clock, Bendigo taking the lead, attended by Peter Taylor and Nick Ward; he was in high spirits, but on calling for his spiked shoes, it was “all my eye,” for they had unfortunately been sent on to Hatfield, and thus he had the disadvantage of adopting less suitable “crab-shells,” a circumstance which did not seem, however, to disturb his equanimity. Caunt then came forward, waited upon by Young Molyneaux and Gregson. On peeling, as we have before stated, their condition seemed admirable, and the flush of expected victory animated their “dials.” Two umpires and a referee having been chosen, all was ready, and then commenced

THE FIGHT.