Another fall, similar in some respects to the one with Peart, occurred at Nentberry sports, about three miles from Alston, with one Thomas Stephenson, a man of considerable stature and bulk, who was accounted a good wrestler in his day and generation. On going into the ring for the final fall, Stephenson repeated again and again, with much confidence: "The little man must go down—the little man must go down, this time!" When hold had been obtained, the big one led off very briskly with the swing, but failing signally, Fawcett at once introduced the buttock, and brought him over so quickly and effectually, that as soon as Stephenson had recovered from his surprise, he burst out into passionate language, exclaiming: "Jemmy Fawcett's nūt a man, at aw! He's a divel—a fair divel! an' neàbody 'ill convince me to th' contrary!"
Jemmy continued to wrestle occasionally till he was nearly fifty years old. Litt speaks of him figuring at Smaledale in Yorkshire, where he resided about 1823.
During a lengthened career, Fawcett continued a great enthusiast in wrestling matters. When lying on his death bed, while wrestling with a foe sure to triumph in the end, the "ruling passion" exercised a strange influence over him. He actually induced his son and daughter to take hold in the room, for a tussle, in order that the son might be benefitted by his instructions, relative to certain favourite chips. This anecdote is well authenticated.
Fawcett died at Nenthall, near Alston, aged fifty-five or fifty-six years, about 1830.
WILLIAM RICHARDSON
OF CALDBECK.
"BELTED WILL."
When Professor Wilson wrote a review of William Litt's popular "Wrestliana," for Blackwood's Magazine, he stated that William Richardson of Caldbeck, the winner of two hundred and forty wrestling trophies or "belts," was "better entitled than old Howard of Castle Dacre himself to the cognomen of 'Belted Will.'" From this sweeping dictum of the presiding spirit of old Maga, we are inclined to dissent. William Richardson doubtless gained his formidable list of prize "belts" mostly in well contested but harmless fields of strife, and is fully entitled to the proud distinction of having his familiar Caldbeck patronymic, "Will Ritson," elevated into "Belted Will." How, however, he is "better entitled" than the grand border chieftain of the Howards—one of the most celebrated heroes that shone in the long and deadly feuds which prevailed for generations between the rival border houses of Scotland and England—we are at a loss to conceive. Besides, they earned a similar designation in such different fields. One is rendered for ever famous as one of the most renowned actors in the fierce border raids that were wont to arise between England and Scotland—a historic celebrity handed down to all time; and whose sword and belt—still preserved amongst the Howard relics—astonish everyone attempting to handle them. It is inconceivable that any one ever existed with sufficient strength to wield such formidable weapons, without we fall back to that giant of a "long time ago," yclept Samson, or to the other strong man of heathen mythology, Hercules. Richardson, holding a high place in the wrestling arenas of the north, and formidable from his overpowering strength, contended only in fields where, it is true, there was keen determined rivalry, but of an entirely harmless description to life or limb—plenty brought to grass in a rough, tumble-down, unwelcome manner, but not ending with the death-struggles of infuriate moss-troopers, hating each other with a savage bitterness almost inconceivable at the present day.