The flower of the grass-Days of pugili**-The rendezvous-Jews-Bruisers of England-Winter,spring-Well-earned bays-The fight-Huge black cloud-Frame of adamant-The storm-Dukkeripens-The barouche-The rain-gushes.
HOW for everything there is a time and a season,and then how does the glory of a thing pass from it,even like the flower of the grass.This is a truism,but it is one of those which are continually forcing themselves upon the mind.Many years have not passed over my head,yet,during those which I can recall to remembrance,how many things have I seen flourish,pass away,and become forgotten,except by myself,who,in spite of all my endeavours,never can forget anything.I have known the time when a pugilistic encounter between two noted champions was almost considered in the light of a national affair;when tens of thousands of individuals,high and low,meditated and brooded upon it,the first thing in the morning and the last at night,until the great event was decided.But the time is past,and many people will say,thank God that it is;all I have to say is,that the French still live on the other side of the water,and are still casting their eyes hitherward-and that in the days of pugili** it was no vain blast to say that one Englishman was a match for two of t'other race;at present it would be a vain boast to say so,for these are not the days of pugili**.
But those to which the course of my narrative has carried me were the days of pugili**;it was then at its height,and consequently near its decline,for corruption had crept into the ring;and how many things,states and sects among the rest,owe their decline to this cause!But what a bold and vigorous aspect pugili** wore at that time!and the great battle was just then coming off:the day had been decided upon,and the spot-a convenient distance from the old town;and to the old town were now flocking the bruisers of England,men of tremendous renown.Let no one sneer at the bruisers of England-what were the gladiators of Rome,or the bull-fighters of Spain,in its palmiest days,compared to England's bruisers?Pity that ever corruption should have crept in amongst them-but of that I wish not to talk;let us still hope that a spark of the old religion,of which they were the priests,still lingers in the breasts of Englishmen.There they come,the bruisers,from far London,or from wherever else they might chance to be at the time,to the great rendezvous in the old city;some came one way,some another:some of tip-top reputation came with peers in their chariots,for glory and fame are such fair things that even peers are proud to have those invested therewith by their sides;others came in their own gigs,driving their own bits of blood,and I heard one say:'I have driven through at a heat the whole hundred and eleven miles,and only stopped to bait twice.'
Oh,the blood-horses of old England!but they,too,have had their day-for everything beneath the sun there is a season and a time.
But the greater number come just as they can contrive;on the tops of coaches,for example;and amongst these there are fellows with dark sallow faces and sharp shining eyes;and it is these that have planted rottenness in the core of pugili**,for they are Jews,and,true to their kind,have only base lucre in view.
It was fierce old Cobbett,I think,who first said that the Jews first introduced bad faith amongst pugilists.He did not always speak the truth,but at any rate he spoke it when he made that observation.Strange people the Jews-endowed with every gift but one,and that the highest,genius divine-genius which can alone make of men demigods,and elevate them above earth and what is earthy and grovelling;without which a clever nation-and,who more clever than the Jews?-may have Rambams in plenty,but never a Fielding nor a Shakespeare.A Rothschild and a Mendoza,yes-but never a Kean nor a Belcher.
So the bruisers of England are come to be present at the grand fight speedily coming off;there they are met in the precincts of the old town,near the field of the chapel,planted with tender saplings at the restoration of sporting Charles,which are now become venerable elms,as high as many a steeple;there they are met at a fitting rendezvous,where a retired coachman,with one leg,keeps an hotel and a bowling-green.I think I now see them upon the bowling-green,the men of renown,amidst hundreds of people with no renown at all,who gaze upon them with timid wonder.
Fame,after all,is a glorious thing,though it lasts only for a day.There's Cribb,the champion of England,and perhaps the best man in England;there he is,with his huge massive figure,and face wonderfully like that of a lion.There is Belcher,the younger,not the mighty one,who is gone to his place,but the Teucer Belcher,the most scientific pugilist that ever entered a ring,only wanting strength to be,I won't say what.He appears to walk before me now,as he did that evening,with his white hat,white greatcoat,thin genteel figure,springy step,and keen,determined eye.Crosses him,what a contrast!grim,savage Shelton,who has a civil word for nobody,and a hard blow for anybody-hard!one blow,given with the proper play of his athletic arm,will unsense a giant.Yonder individual,who strolls about with his hands behind him,supporting his brown coat lappets,under-sized,and who looks anything but what he is,is the king of the light weights,so called-Randall!the terrible Randall,who has Irish blood in his veins;not the better for that,nor the worse;and not far from him is his last antagonist,Ned Turner,who,though beaten by him,still thinks himself as good a man,in which he is,perhaps,right,for it was a near thing;and 'a better shentleman,'in which he is quite right,for he is a Welshman.But how shall I name them all?
