After an infinitude of fearful adventures, the history of which would fill many columns of this newspaper, I finally arrived at the Seal Rock Point at a quarter to ten—two hours and a half out from San Francisco, and not less gratified than surprised that I ever got there at all—and anchored my noble Morgan to a boulder on the hillside. I had to swathe his head in blankets also, because, while my back was turned for a single moment, he developed another atrocious trait of his most remarkable character. He tried to eat little Augustus Maltravers Jackson, the "humble" but interesting offspring of Hon. J. Belvidere Jackson, a wealthy barber from San Jose. It would have been a comfort to me to leave the infant to his fate, but I did not feel able to pay for him.
When I reached the battle-ground, the great champions were already stripped and prepared for the "mill." Both were in splendid condition, and displayed a redundancy of muscle about the breast and arms which was delightful to the eye of the sportive connoisseur. They were well matched. Adepts said that Stanford's "heft" and tall stature were fairly offset by Low's superior litheness and activity. From their heads to the Union colors around their waists, their costumes were similar to that of the Greek slave; from thence down they were clad in flesh-colored tights and grenadier boots.
The ring was formed upon the beautiful level sandy beach above the Cliff House, and within twenty paces of the snowy surf of the broad Pacific Ocean, which was spotted here and there with monstrous sea-lions attracted shoreward by curiosity concerning the vast multitude of people collected in the vicinity.
At five minutes past ten, Brigadier-General Wright, the Referee, notified the seconds to bring their men "up to the scratch." They did so, amid the shouts of the populace, the noise whereof rose high above the roar of the sea.
First Round.—The pugilists advanced to the centre of the ring, shook hands, retired to their respective corners, and at the call of the time-keeper, came forward and went at it. Low dashed out handsomely with his left and gave Stanford a paster in the eye, and at the same moment his adversary mashed him in the ear. (These singular phrases are entirely proper, Mr. Editor—I find them in the copy of "Bell's Life in London" now lying before me.) After some beautiful sparring, both parties went down—that is to say, they went down to the bottle-holders, Stewart and Field, and took a drink.
Second Round.—Stanford launched out a well intended plunger, but Low parried it admirably and instantly busted him in the snoot. (Cries of "Bully for the Marysville Infant!") After some lively fibbing (both of them are used to it in political life,) the combatants went to grass. (See "Bell's Life.")
Third Round.—Both came up panting considerably. Low let go a terrific side-winder, but Stanford stopped it handsomely and replied with an earthquake on Low's bread-basket. (Enthusiastic shouts of "Sock it to him, my Sacramento Pet!") More fibbing—both down.
Fourth Round.—The men advanced and sparred warily for a few moments, when Stanford exposed his cocoa-nut an instant, and Low struck out from the shoulder and split him in the mug. (Cries of "Bully for the Fat Boy!")
Fifth Round.—Stanford came up looking wicked, and let drive a heavy blow with his larboard flipper which caved in the side of his adversary's head. (Exclamations of "Hi! at him again Old Rusty!")
From this time until the end of the conflict, there was nothing regular in the proceedings. The two champions got furiously angry, and used up each other thus: