sides. In closing, Turner got Randall down, and
also undermost.
16.—A considerable pause before a blow was made.
Turner at length let fly with his left hand on
the body; but Randall put in so heavy a blow in
Turner’s mouth as nearly to dislodge his ivory,
and the claret flowed profusely. In closing,
Turner fibbed his opponent, but he fell rather
weak.
17.—In this round, in struggling for the throw,
Turner threw Randall out of the ring, and stood
up, leaning over the ropes.
18.—Turner tried to use his left hand
desperately, but was stopped. Randall rushed in
to finish his man in style, but he missed his
object. At length they both got into work, till
Turner went down exhausted.
19.—In this round Turner put in a sharp bodier,
when Randall’s old forte broke out with fresh
energy. In closing, he peppered the face of his
opponent; it was ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto,
till Turner went down. One hour and thirty-five
minutes.
20.—Turner came to his time undismayed, and hit
left and right, which Randall not only stopped,
but again planted a severe facer that brought
forth the claret in torrents. In closing, both
down.
21.—Turner hit with his left hand on Randall’s
nose, and he also went down from the force of
his own blow. Randall seemed a little exhausted
from the work he had to perform, and was also
bleeding at the mouth. In fact, this blow seemed
to have had more effect than any he had received
during the fight.
22.—Randall run Turner down, after an exchange
of a few blows.
23.—Fibbing and Turner a bad fall. The latter
appeared getting weak, but still full of
courage.
24.—Turner came first to the scratch, with
undiminished confidence, and put in a smart
right-handed hit on Randall’s mug. In the
struggle Turner also surprised the spectators
with the strength that he possessed, throwing
Randall with great violence. Two hours had now
elapsed.
25.—Turner astonished the ring by coming up
so cheerful, and some of the good judges did
not know what to think of it; they said it was
not altogether so safe as many might imagine.
Randall planted a slight hit, and slipped down.
26.—Turner was first at the scratch, and hit
Randall right and left, but the blows were not
heavy. Randall gave a second knock-down blow.
27.—Randall looked at his fallen foe, and
stooped down, winking to his friends, as it
were, that he thought it all right. This was a
well fought round, and Turner put in some good
hits. In going down, Randall was undermost. The
water of life was here given to Randall. At this
stage of the battle, upwards of two hours having
elapsed, it was truly extraordinary to witness
such exertions on both sides. Turner hit Randall
right away from him, but the latter followed
Turner up till a terrible struggle took place in
closing. Turner also stopped a severe blow aimed
at him by Randall, and in return he planted a
sharp hit on the Nonpareil’s jaw.
28.—Turner again nobbed his opponent with his
left hand, but he was floored from a tremendous
body hit.
29.—Notwithstanding the heavy flooring hit
Turner experienced in the last round, he came
up to the scratch as cool as a cucumber. He
commenced fighting, and endeavoured to do some
execution with his left hand, but Randall
stopped him. In a close, both down.
30.—Turner left the knee of his second first,
and quite satisfied the ring that that fight was
not out of him. He made some good exchanges,
till both went down.
31.—The face of Turner was severely punished,
but his eyes were open, and he fought as coolly
as if he had only commenced the fight. (“Take
him away—he’s too game,” was the cry.) Turner
was again floored from a severe hit in the body.
In this round a circumstance occurred which
might have proved the overthrow of Randall,
if it had not been prevented. Baxter offered
to bet £5 upon Turner, when Oliver warmly
observed, that he would lay him £10 to £5 three
times over, and was leaving his man to come
and stake, but he was called upon by Randall’s
patron not to quit him for an instant. Jem
Belcher lost the fight with Cribb, it was
asserted, in consequence of his second staking
the money, thus giving time for Cribb to recover
his wind.
32.—The brave Turner undismayed again met his
man; but went down from a blow. While on his
second’s knee, he was advised to give in, but
his manly heart would not suffer him to say
“No;” his tongue refused its utterance.
33.—The state of Turner now appeared so piteous,
and his bravery so much the praise of the
spectators, that several persons cried out, “Do
not let him fight any more.”—“Don’t say that,
gentlemen,” replied Owen, “he’s worth twenty
beaten men!” Turner, however, went down from a
facer.
34 and last.—The admiration of all present was
expressed at Turner again coming to the scratch;
and although in a state of exhaustion, he was
cool, collected, and as game as a pebble. After
some other hits, a blow on the left side of
Turner’s head floored him, that he could not
come to time. Two hours, nineteen minutes, and
thirty seconds had elapsed.
REMARKS.—The first act of Randall, on being
pronounced the victor, was to push the crowd
away from him, and to clasp the hand of his
brave fallen foe with much zeal and friendship;
while Turner, nobly disdaining animosity, gently
patted Randall on the back, in token that he was
the best man, and had won the battle nobly and
in gallant style. The amateurs applauded both of
them, and pronounced them the two best bits
of stuff, of their weight, in this country.
Turner, it seems, on being repeatedly solicited
to give in, indignantly spurned such advice,
asserting that he could yet win the battle. His
brother, Mr. Baxter, at length insisted that he
should fight no longer, which put an end to the
contest.
On victory being declared in favour of Randall, Turner was immediately
carried from the ground by Sutton, in a distressed state, to a
neighbouring farmhouse, put to bed, and every attention and assistance
administered to his wants that humanity could suggest. It is well known
that, heavy as the blows were, added to the extremity of pain he must
have felt from the severity of punishment he had received, these were
“trifles light as air,” compared to the anguish which his mind suffered
at the recollection, afflicting to a brave man, of defeat. He was very
ill, but complained most of the body blows. Randall, in the course of
the Saturday evening, arrived in town, anxious to meet his better half
and son; the latter was about two years old.
The public interest was so great upon this occasion that hundreds
surrounded the turnpike gates to learn the name of the winner.
Randall at this time announced his retirement from the ring, and his
intention to serve the public as a publican. We find in Monday morning’s
_Morning Chronicle_, after the fight, the following paragraphs headed:—
“REMNANTS OF THE FIGHT.—Daylight on Sunday morning discovered the
remains of several gigs lying along the wayside, which had been floored
by coming in contact with each other from the narrowness and badness of
the roads. Beds could not be procured at any of the inns; and, in
consequence, hundreds were compelled to travel in the dark. The horses
were all dead beat, the long faces not to be described, and the cleaning
out immense. Near the dwelling of Randall, the Cock, in Tottenham Court
road, hundreds were waiting for the result of the event; and, upon the
arrival of Jack, the applause he received rent the air. The mob round
Belcher’s door was beyond all precedent. In the Borough Market, Cribb’s
house was equally besieged, and those of Harmer, Oliver, and Burn,
crowded and surrounded. The sale of newspapers was as great as if some
important victory had been achieved on the continent, so much anxiety
was felt upon this battle. The first news which arrived in London was
that Turner had gained the day. Numerous bets were made upon the
information, and the hoax was not dispelled till ten o’clock on Saturday
night.
“Turner arrived in town last (Sunday) night; and notwithstanding the
numerous blows he has received upon his face, it was astonishing to see
how quickly the appearance of punishment had left it.”
At a sporting dinner at Franklin’s,[154] on December 22, 1818, to
celebrate Randall’s victory, a noble lord, a staunch patron of boxing,
proposed to back Martin against the Nonpareil. Martin, who had just
defeated “the invincible” Jack Scroggins (as Pierce Egan calls him after
four defeats), in the previous week (December 18th), was then in the
height of his fame; yet a backer of Randall not only accepted the
proposal but offered, lest Martin’s friends should draw back, to fight
£150 to £100; so good a thing did he think it; though Martin was a stone
heavier, touching 11st. 5lbs. In a little row with the ponderous Burn,
Randall displayed his skill upon the “big ’un,” and offered to fight him
for £100, before his match with Martin. These were of course mere “wild
and wandering words, my lord.” For the match with Martin, £50 on the
part of Martin, and £75 for Randall, were posted on the last day of the
year 1818, at Burn’s, and the 4th of May was fixed for the meeting, that
it might not interfere with Newmarket.
Randall went into training at Hampstead, and in March, in consequence of
some difference of opinion between his trainer and Martin’s, a foot-race
of 100 yards was proposed for £5 a-side. The men agreed to run, and came
together, when Martin beat Randall cleverly by seven yards. The reporter
adds: “This was the first time Randall’s name was coupled with _defeat_,
but then it was his _feet_ that betrayed him, his _fists_ had no _hand_
in it.” “This was thought,” as “Elia” says in his “Essays,” “smart
writing for newspapers thirty years ago.”
Randall generously volunteered to attend and set-to at Martin’s benefit
at the Fives Court, which took place only a week before their fight, and
did so. This is a little trait that speaks volumes for the manly
character of the Nonpareil. We copy the contemporary report, as a
specimen of the “road to the fight” some sixty years ago.
“The fancy were upon the alert soon after breakfast, on Monday, May 4,
1819, to ascertain the seat of action, and as soon as the important
whisper had gone forth, that Crawley Downs was the place, ‘the toddlers’
were off in a twinkling. Gigs were brushed up, the prads harnessed, and
the ‘boys’ who intended to enjoy themselves on the road were in motion.
Heavy drags and wagons were also to be witnessed creeping along full of
people, with plenty of grub. Between the hours of two and three o’clock
in the afternoon, upwards of 100 gigs were counted passing through
Croydon. The bonifaces chuckled with delight, and screwing was the order
of the day. Long before eight o’clock in the evening, every bed
belonging to the inns and public-houses in Godstone, East Grinstead,
Reigate, Bletchingly, etc., etc., were doubly and some trebly engaged.
The country folks also came in for a snack of the thing, and the simple
Johnny Raws, who felt no hesitation in sitting up all night if they
could turn their beds to account, with much modesty only asked £1 and
15_s._ each for an hour or two’s sleep. The private houses were thus
filled. Five and seven shillings were charged for the stand of a horse
in any wretched hut. But those customers who were ‘fly’ to all the
tricks and fancies of life, and who would not be nailed at any price,
preferred going to roost in a barn; while others, possessing rather more
gaiety, and who set sleep at defiance, blew a cloud over some heavy wet;
devouring the rich points of a flash chaunt, and thought no more of time
hanging heavily than they did of the classics, chaunting and swiping
till many of the young sprigs dropped off their perches; the ould ones
who felt the influence of ‘the Dustman,’ were glad to drop their nobs to
obtain forty winks. Those persons whose blunt enabled them to procure
beds, could not obtain any sleep, for carriages of every description
were passing through the town all night. Things passed in this manner
till daylight began to peep. Then the swells in their barouches and
four, the swift trotting fanciers, hurried from the metropolis; and the
road exhibited the bustle of the great day of Epsom Races. The
‘brilliants’ also left Brighton, Worthing, etc., about the same period,
and thus were the roads thronged in every direction. The ‘pitiless
pelting shower’ commenced furiously at six o’clock on the Tuesday
morning, but it damped nothing but the dust. The ‘fancy’ are too game to
prevent anything like weather interrupting their sports. The ogles of
the turnpike men let not half a chance slip through their fingers, and
those persons who, either from carelessness or accident, had not
preserved their tickets, were physicked by paying twice at the same
gate. The weather at length cleared up, and by twelve o’clock the
amphitheatre on Crawley Downs had a noble effect, thousands of persons
being assembled. It is supposed if the carriages had all been placed in
one line they would have reached from London to Crawley. The amateurs
were of the highest distinction, and several noblemen and foreigners of
rank were upon the ground. The short time previous to the combat taking
place was occupied in betting and descanting upon the merits of the
pugilists. The high condition and strength of Martin made a considerable
impression upon the waverers, and some little hedging occurred, though
seven to four was the current price with Randall’s friends.” Martin
first appeared in the ring, and threw up his hat, accompanied by his
seconds, Burn and Harmer. Randall immediately followed, attended by
Oliver and Jones. The combatants, upon meeting, shook hands with each
other in the most friendly manner. The signal was given for stripping,
and a most extensive ring was immediately beat out. At thirteen minutes
to one the men set-to:—
THE FIGHT.
Round 1.—Upon the combatants meeting at the
scratch, the fine condition of Martin claimed
the peculiar attention of the amateurs. The
human frame could not possibly have attained a
higher degree of perfection. He wore elastic
drawers, and, from his hips downwards, the
symmetry was so complete, that a sculptor could
not have wished for a finer model. Randall was
equally prime; but from comparison of height and
weight the chance appeared against him, if it
had rested upon these points. Reports had gone
abroad that Martin meant to risk his fortune in
the first two or three rounds; also that Randall
could not bear punishment, and the baker was
determined to smash him on the outset. The
confidence of Martin rather alarmed a few of the
amateurs; but the steady calculators were not to
be moved; and the recollection that Randall had
won eleven battles in succession—that he had
never been defeated—and had likewise gained a
victory over the skilful Turner, heightened
their opinion, and induced them to lay it on
thicker. The vast multitude seemed in breathless
suspense on the men making their attitudes.
Martin was cautious, and some time occurred in
sparring for an opportunity to make a hit, when
he at length let fly with his right hand, which
reached his opponent’s body slightly. Randall
made a hit, but the baker’s length of arm
stopped it, when the latter in endeavouring to
make a return, received a one-two on the right
and left side of his face, which instantly
created a pinky appearance. Long sparring
occurred, and both on the look out to obtain a
favourable opportunity. Martin made a hit, but
Randall got away in style, when the latter was
not long in planting a blow on the body. Counter
hits took place, and Martin, rather encouraged
from this circumstance, pursued Randall to the
corner of the ropes. The Nonpareil, as
heretofore, when placed in this perilous
situation, extricated himself with promptness.
He put in two facers; Martin went staggering
away, and the claret was seen issuing from his
mouth. He now raised himself upon his toes, when
Randall, finding that the length of the baker’s
“peel” was not yet practicable to get over,
planted a severe bodier. Martin went a little to
work, and in closing some sharp blows passed,
and both went down, Martin uppermost. (Loud
shouting, and “Well done, Martin.”)
2.—Randall’s left ear was slightly bleeding
from the last encounter. Martin made a hit on
Randall’s shoulder; and he also stopped the
latter in making a return. Randall, however, was
not long in putting in a bodier, that left the
marks of his fingers as strongly imprinted as if
they had been painted with vermilion. In closing
the Nonpareil fibbed Martin severely, but the
baker obtained the throw and was uppermost. (Two
to one was now current upon Randall; and several
took it, relying upon the length and strength of
the baker.)
3.—Martin made a good nobber, and smiled at
the event; but it was only temporary. Randall
put in some bodiers with great dexterity,
these affected the wind of Martin, and, in
closing, Randall not only fibbed his opponent
tremendously, but fell upon him.
4.—Martin’s face was bleeding and flushed all
over; distress was coming fast upon him. He,
however, made a hit which was stopped, when
Randall, like lightning, put in so severe a
facer that Martin’s head went with great force
against the stakes. He appeared quite stunned,
but did not go down, and came up tottering to
fight with his opponent. In closing he again
received terribly, and was undermost.
5.—The “upper crust” of the baker was now
cracked, and Randall went in sharply to gain
another point, adding more punishment, but in
closing he was undermost. (Four to one).
6.—Martin got away from a tremendous hit; and
some long sparring occurred. This was a severe
round; but Martin was punished down, and Randall
fell heavily upon him.
7.—The Nonpareil had now commenced his work, and
satisfied the amateurs that he meant to finish
it at his leisure; he had “got him,” as it is
termed; but yet this safe hero to back thinks
the battle is not over till it is positively
won, and never gives the slightest chance away.
This was a short round; when Randall again
spoiled the upper crust, and got his opponent
down.
8.—The face of Martin was not only red, but his
mouth appeared full of blood. He made a hit, but
Randall got away; he, however, again pursued him
to the ropes, when Randall hit him on the right
eye, and he went staggering away. Some struggle
took place for the throw, but Randall got Martin
down.
9.—Martin sparred a short time, seemed tired,
and endeavoured to pull up his drawers, when
Randall was going in to mill, the baker smiled
and soon prepared for action. In closing Randall
threw his opponent.
10.—Martin slipped from a hit, but he received
such nobbers, and appeared so bothered, that it
was observed, the “Master of the Rolls” had
mistaken his place, and got into the “Court of
Chancery.” Randall fell very heavy upon his
opponent.
11.—It was evident that Martin could not gain
a point to change the tide of battle towards
victory. He received a dreadful blow in the
wind; and Randall got away from nearly all his
blows. The fibbing system was also again renewed
with severity, and Martin was thrown.
12.—Randall put in such tremendous hits, that in
struggling Martin fell down exhausted.
13.—This was a short round, and Martin was hit
as he was going down in the struggle for the
throw. “Foul! foul!” was loudly vociferated; and
it might perhaps have appeared so to those
persons at a distance from the ring; but the
umpires, who were close to the ropes, and
watched every movement, declared it to be fair.
14.—Another dreadful bodier was put in by
Randall, and Martin went in rather furious, but
he was punished down.
15.—The talents for serving out and improving
the chance exhibited by Randall in this round,
electrified the spectators, and astonished the
most experienced and accomplished pugilists on
the ground. In the very short space of time
that Martin was falling to the ground from
struggling, Randall planted three tremendous
blows. (“It’s astonishing,” was the cry; “he
is a phenomenon indeed!”)
16.—Martin still kept fighting, and this was a
sharp round; but he was hit both on the head and
body staggering away. In going down the coolness
of Randall induced him to put up his arm to show
that he did not mean to hit his opponent on the
ground.
17.—Martin determined to try it on, and broke
away from a close. Some exchanges took place,
but he was hit down severely.
18.—It was all up. Martin was hit so severely
that he fell upon his face. (A guinea to a
shilling was offered, but no takers.)
19 and last.—It was doubtful whether Martin
could come again. He did, however, appear at the
scratch, in a terrible state, but it was only to
be floored _sans ceremonie_. The battle occupied
forty-nine minutes and ten seconds.
REMARKS.—Randall never won a battle with more
comparative ease; and, excepting a slight shade
under his left eye, and a scratch upon his ear,
he had no appearance of having been engaged in a
contest. He is a complete master of the art of
war, and his judgment truly conspicuous. He
found the length of arm possessed by the baker
was not to be got over at first; he then, with
great promptitude, found out the vulnerable
part of the body, till the head of his opponent
became at his service, and then he won with all
the coolness and science of playing a game of
draughts.
It was the opinion of the best judges, that Randall ultimately must be
cried down, like the famous “Eclipse,” as regarded fighting any man of
his own weight. Martin was a very game man, and a hard hitter; but he
had no chance with Randall, although it is said he weighed above twelve
stone, and Randall only ten stone ten pounds. In point of civility,
decorous behaviour, and quiet conduct in life, Martin yielded to no
pugilist on the list; and these circumstances were not forgotten by the
amateurs, who made a collection for him of £30 on the ground. He was
taken to a farmhouse and humanely attended upon; while Randall put on
his clothes, and sat down to view the fight between Carter (who styled
himself the Champion of England), and Spring, which took place in the
same ring.
Randall, it appears, received foul play early in the morning of the
above fight; or, in other words, he was “hocussed.”[155] This infamous
scheme, however, had not the desired effect; but the dose operated as a
purgative.
A silly Monday disturbance in Battersea Fields, which led to a not very
creditable turn-up between Randall, who had been dining out, and a
fighting tailor named Jem Wood or Hood, in October, 1819, is seized upon
by Pierce Egan for seven octavo pages of slang and ungrammatical
“patter;” “Fistiana,” too, has booked it as a victory, “four rounds for
love,” to Randall.
Randall was now so popular that the manager of the Regency Theatre
engaged him at a salary to exhibit his milling acquirements in a
pantomime. Turner was his friendly opponent upon this occasion, and
crowded houses were the result.
In June, 1819, Randall being then about to open in business at the Hole
in the Wall, in Chancery Lane, was challenged by the dread-nought Jack
Scroggins, and a backer of Randall put down a £10 note on his behalf,
for a fight for 100 guineas to come off in August. Randall, not having
been consulted, refused to meet Scroggins, and forfeited the £10.
On Tuesday, August 17th, 1819, Randall’s opening dinner was celebrated.
As a specimen we reprint the advertisement from the weekly papers:—
“TO THE PATRONS OF THE NOBLE ART.
“A most interesting match will take place on Tuesday, August 17,
1819, at five o’clock in the afternoon, in which THE NONPAREIL will
exhibit in a new character. The Commander-in-Chief will preside. It
will be a game set-to, and cutting up will prevail, while the claret
will be in full supply. The visitors, if they do not find themselves
in Chancery, will be in the lane that leads to it. The
Hole-in-the-Wall will be the rendezvous on this occasion, where
friendship and harmony will do their best to crown Jack Randall’s
latest hit.”
From this period we do not hear of Jack in the ring, though he
constantly put on the gloves at benefits at the Fives Court, often
donning the mufflers with the scientific Tom Belcher, his brother
boniface and neighbour at the Castle. The following anecdote, headed
“Gallantry of the Nonpareil,” is given on the authority of “Boxiana:”—
“On Thursday evening, June 28, 1821, as the Nonpareil was taking one of
his ‘training’ walks, in company with Josh. Hudson and two amateurs,
near White Conduit Fields, a lady and gentlemen were passing, when some
very indecent and unmanly allusions were made to them by four fellows.
The gentleman endeavoured to turn away from these blackguards, when they
assailed him and the lady more rudely than ever. The Nonpareil
immediately put in a small taste on one of the fellow’s nobs, that
floored him. On his getting up, the Nonpareil took him up to the lady,
and insisted upon his begging her pardon, which the fellow did upon his
knees: the other three refusing to do so, were so severely caned that
they could scarcely walk afterwards. Some brick-makers, who observed the
circumstance, immediately left their work, and came to the assistance of
the blackguards, when Randall floored two of them. Josh. Hudson also
made some play with the ‘men of clay,’ and on some person crying ‘go it,
Jack Randall,’ the name was quite sufficient, and the astonished
brick-makers begged his pardon and bolted, _sans ceremonie_.”
During the two years of Randall’s retirement, Martin had shone as a
bright star in the pugilistic sphere. He had conquered the renowned
Josh. Hudson, the John Bull Fighter; beaten the “hard-hitting” Bristol
hero, Cabbage; disposed of the pretensions of the “slashing” Phil.
Sampson, the Birmingham youth; floored the pretentious Gipsy Cooper at
Lewes races; and finally disposed of Josh. Hudson’s brother David at
Moulsey. This led to a second match with Ned Turner, by whom in his
early career Martin had been defeated. In this affair Randall backed
Turner, and with Tom Belcher seconded him in the battle. Turner’s defeat
at the hands of Martin so vexed Randall that in a moment of irritation
he declared his readiness to fight Martin for £300. This was foolish and
in bad taste, as Randall had formally taken leave of the ring two years
previously, with a public challenge to all England at eleven stone, for
500 guineas. This sudden challenge was not immediately accepted, as the
backers of Martin hesitated at the largeness of the sum; but the friends
of Martin, upon weighing the facts of Randall’s recent illness, his life
as a publican, and the supposed inroads of “blue ruin” upon his
constitution, screwed up their courage and signed articles for the £300.
It is stated in contemporary papers that upwards of £200,000 were
dependent upon the issue of this fight, and that one gentleman had a
book of £5,000, at six and seven to four on Randall.
On Tuesday morning, September 16, 1821, long before daylight, and all
the preceding night, the roads leading to Crawley Downs, Sussex, were
covered with vehicles of every description, so great was the interest
excited throughout the sporting world to witness the Nonpareil once more
display his skill in the art of self-defence. The ring was made in a
field, within a mile of East Grinstead, in which Martin threw up his
hat; but, owing to some misunderstanding between the persons conducting
this business in the absence of the Commander-in-chief, the fight was
removed to Crawley Downs, but not till hundreds had paid a heavy toll
for passing through a gate, which sums of money of course were not
refunded on changing the scene of action. For a long time it was thought
no fight would take place. By this time the multitude had so increased
that it was deemed necessary to enlarge the ring; and about three
o’clock, Randall, in a white “upper Benjamin,” arm-in-arm with his
backers, appeared, and, with much coolness threw his hat into the ropes.
Shortly afterwards, Martin, accompanied by his backers, displaying their
white toppers, also approached the ring, and answered the token of
defiance by sending his castor into the ring. Martin was loudly
applauded by the spectators. Tom Spring and an amateur were seconds for
“the Master of the Rolls;” Paddington Jones and “Cicero” Holt officiated
for Randall. The combatants on meeting each other shook hands in the
most friendly manner. Current betting six to four on Randall.
THE FIGHT.
Round 1.—On stripping, the frame of Randall was
a perfect picture for the anatomist, and every
person was astonished at the very fine condition
he exhibited. The confidence he displayed was
remarkable. His face had no trait of ferocity
about it, but, on the contrary, cheerfulness and
true courage. Martin was lighter in person than
heretofore, but his condition was said to be, by
his backers, equal to the finest racehorse. His
legs, which were covered with striped silk
stockings, were round and elegant, and the _tout
ensemble_ was that of a boxer capable of
performing great execution. He smiled and
appeared confident. On placing themselves in
attitude, Randall was the object of attraction
all over the ring; he stood as firm as a rock.
The position of Martin was good, but he did not
appear to stand so steady as his opponent. A
minute elapsed in looking at each other, but the
eyes of Randall seemed almost to penetrate his
opponent. Both anxious for an opportunity to
make a hit. Martin smiled. Randall made a sort
of feint with his left hand, which was well
stopped by Martin. Manœuvring and dodging each
other for a few steps, which was succeeded by a
pause. Randall endeavoured to put in a
tremendous right-handed blow, but missed his
object. Martin now ventured to take the lead,
and exerted himself to make his right and left
hand tell, but Randall with the utmost dexterity
stopped them both. Martin felt tired and dropped
his arms; but, on perceiving Randall ready to
take advantage of this opening, he hastily
resumed a defensive attitude, when the Nonpareil
immediately went to work, and planted a severe
right-handed hit just above the wind, which made
the Master of the Rolls bite his lips. Another
pause succeeded; but the attitudes of the men
were uncommonly fine. The action of the muscles
was beautiful; and the arms of Martin, and the
shoulders of Randall, were studies for the
artist. The combatants closed on Randall’s
decoying Martin to follow him to his favourite
corner of the ring, and in this situation, often
as the Nonpareil had astonished the amateurs
with his forte for fibbing, he now put forth
such a “bit of good truth” as positively to
terrify the spectators with the terrible
execution he was capable of administering. He
fibbed Martin with his left hand in the most
rapid manner, and then changed him on his arm
like a baby, and repeated four or five blows on
his face and neck, operating so decisively on
the jugular vein that the eyes of Martin turned
up, and he foamed at the mouth. A few drops of
claret followed, which appeared to have been
drawn from his ear, and Randall did not leave
him till he was within four inches of the
ground. Martin was now so stupid that the back
part of his head fell against the stake; but the
mischief had been done before this period. “It’s
all up,” was the cry; and to describe the
consternation of the ring, or to depict the
countenances of the spectators, would defy the
talents of a Lavater. Martin was picked up in a
state of stupor, and remained insensible for a
long period after time was called. He was
carried out of the ring; but in the course of
half an hour, when in bed, and attended by the
P. C. doctor, Mr. Hughes, a gentleman possessing
superior talents as a medical man, he recognized
Spring, and, on opening his eyes, with the
utmost astonishment inquired where he was, and
if he had lost it? Randall had only a slight
mark on the tip of his nose and under his right
eye.
REMARKS.—This fight is without a parallel, it
having been won in one round, occupying nearly
eight minutes. Although so short, yet the
excellence of Randall was so great that no one
could have complained to go fifty miles at any
time to witness such a display of the art. So
finished a boxer as Randall was never seen in
the prize ring. The attitude of Martin attracted
great attention and praise; and the extreme
caution evinced on both sides established the
advantages of coolness and a knowledge of
tactics. Till the closing occurred, the general
opinion seemed to be that Martin had none the
worst of it at out-fighting; but when the
Nonpareil got in (and right truly is Randall
named a Nonpareil, for where is his fellow to be
found among the milling coves of his weight?) he
held Martin as tight in his grasp as if he had
been screwed in a vice. After the fight it was
ascertained that Martin did not weigh more than
two pounds heavier than Randall. The character
of the Master of the Rolls had hitherto stood
very high in the opinion of the sporting world
for his scrupulous attention to training, and
it is true he was never attached to wetting
his neck; but, poor fellow, like our common
ancestor, Adam, it is certain he was not proof
against another temptation.
“Dear creatures, we can’t do without them,
They are all that is sweet and seducing to man;”
and “true ’tis pity,” and “pity ’tis, ’tis
true!” Martin might have lost the fight on the
above account, had the battle come to a long
contest, and stamina been required; but in the
present instance the repeated blows he received
on the jugular vein must have finished him off
hand.
As to Martin he attributed the loss of the fight to an accident, and
issued a challenge for a third contest. Randall replied that he had
declared beforehand that, win or lose, this should be his last battle,
and moreover that his challenge was the result of a promise to Turner,
that if Martin beat that boxer he would fight him himself.
We shall make no apology for transferring a letter from an eyewitness,
who came up from Cambridge, to a university friend, as the best report
of this eventful fight and its accompanying incidents.
“LONDON, _September 12, 1821_.
“DEAR ——
“Agreeably to promise, I sit down to write you some account of the
great pugilistic events of yesterday, such as they appeared to my
inexperienced eyes, and such probably as they would have done to
yours. The intense interest excited in our minds by the sporting
intelligence conveyed by the London press, and the difficulty of
discriminating the plain, simple, unvarnished fact, amidst the
eloquence and metaphorical colouring in which battles are narrated,
renders it necessary that we ourselves should, once at least, see a
prize-fight, in order perfectly to understand the events of the day,
and be able to converse rationally on matters which are the subject
of discussion in every body’s mouth. I was accordingly determined to
see this fight, but it was a matter of tenfold more difficulty than
I had anticipated.
“I had expected that our sporting friend’s letter of introduction to
—— would have made everything easy, as that gentleman is supposed to
be in the secret of all the sporting world. Nothing farther,
however, could be learned, except that it was supposed that it would
be on Crawley Downs, and a reason was given for this selection, that
it would be an accommodation to the Brighton amateurs, who would in
that case contribute £40 or £50 towards the reward of the
performers. Nothing, however, was decided, and the amateurs, who
were determined at all events to see the sports of the day, were
written to by their friends to come up to London to head quarters,
as the only means of making sure of not being disappointed. In fact,
numerous amateurs arrived from Norwich, Canterbury, Cheltenham,
Bristol, and other country towns, and at a tavern kept by Mr. Thomas
Belcher, of fighting notoriety, friends from all these different
places, attracted by kindred feelings, renewed their acquaintance.
“By-the-bye, you would be surprised how successful the fighting men
are when they set up a place of public resort. In the country
places, ale and strong liquors are best sold under the patronage of
the Duke of Wellington; and his head being hung up over the door is
a strong inducement for a genuine Englishman to enter, quench his
thirst, and promote the revenue of his country. In Paris, at their
coffee-houses, we observed they always had an elegant, young, and
handsome female seated in a conspicuous place, as an object of
attraction to the house; but the best painted head of the Duke of
Wellington in the country, or the finest woman in Paris, never drew
so respectable an assemblage as is brought together by the intense
admiration felt for the heroism and manhood of Tom Cribb, Jack
Randall, or Tom Belcher. The other sporting publicans all do well,
and have their coteries of friends who patronise them, and find the
liquors nowhere so genuine and constitutional as in the houses of
these hardy supporters of English glory. It would have astonished
you had you seen what an assemblage was at Belcher’s for some nights
before the battle. You might have stood an hour before you could
have got a seat, and barmaids and waiters were as much fatigued in
serving out the liquors as the combatants after serving out to each
other in the prize ring. The money was all alive. Five, ten, twenty,
and fifty pound notes were common as waste paper, and were staked as
freely on the event. It is wonderful how much the revenue must have
benefited by the stimulus given to business before and after a great
battle. One thing, however, I detest, and that is, that British
amateurs should drink brandy, as many of them do. It is a suspicious
liquor, and tastes of contraband. Let us stick to true brown, or
real British dew; they accord best with the constitution. At
Belcher’s there is a ‘Daffy Club,’ which makes this observance their
leading rule. But to return to the history of the fights.
“A Council of War, as I was told, was held, at which were present a
gallant general and three other amateurs, who had backed the men,
and the historian of the prize ring; and, on comparing intelligence,
and considering the letters from the various parts of the country,
Crawley Downs was decided to be the place least likely to be subject
to interruption. This was known at the sporting houses on Monday
evening; and as it was upwards of thirty miles from town, and only
known that night, it was put out of the power of the walking
amateurs to attend. Here I cannot help regretting that the
interruption given to sports occasionally by parsons and other
ill-advised magistrates, should render it a matter of prudence to
adopt such a course to prevent a numerous assemblage on such
national occasions. It is depriving an immense mass of the lower
orders of the benefits of the lessons of valour, forbearance,
perseverance, and manly spirit, to be learned around the prize ring,
and nowhere else. It is, I conceive, a most aristocratic proceeding,
trenching on the liberties and pleasures of the people, and ought
not to be continued. If we did not know our ‘patriots,’ as they call
themselves, to be often mere humbugs, and to love nothing but what
brings forward themselves in conspicuous characters, they would come
forth and assert in Parliament and public meetings the people’s
rights on such occasions. But, like the methodist and methodistical
parsons, they hate all sport that withdraws attention from
themselves. However, I do allow the assemblage was, in consequence
of the absence of the pedestrian fancy, very select. Nine out of ten
of the men on the ground had the dress and appearance of gentlemen,
and the vehicles and cattle were certainly a show worth coming all
the way from London to see.
“It was long before the business of the day commenced, and the
amateurs walked about and friends from all parts of England met and
exchanged salutations, and communicated intelligence of the state of
science in their respective neighbourhoods.
“The carriages, waggons, and stands erected for viewing the fight,
were arranged in some places three or four behind each other, in an
oval of 200 feet by 250 feet, and were covered with spectators. The
ring was at first of smaller dimensions, but it was necessary to
enlarge it. There was immense trouble to the pugilistic characters
on the ground with their whips in forcing back the multitude, who
were within the enclosure, to the carriages. At last the men
stripped and set-to. They stood before one another, with their eyes
directed forward, watching every move. They changed their ground,
but still their arms kept in parallel, marching and countermarching
to prevent surprise. It reminded military amateurs of the parallel
movements of Wellington and Marmont before the glorious ‘mill’ at
Salamanca. At last they exchanged hits. Randall put in a blow on the
breast, which made it appear red; he had a blow under the eye and on
the nose, but made a most dreadful return, and came in on his man,
caught him in one arm, and his other went to work so fast, it seemed
like the motion of a mill wheel in full speed. Both fell, and were
picked up; but Martin’s head hung down like an apple on its stalk.
The seconds put it in its proper place, but it dropped again. They
moved it backwards and forwards, like a baker rolling about a loaf
in flour; they threw water on him, waved their hats to cool him, but
all was not enough; and when thirty seconds had elapsed, time was
called, but his senses were gone. Thus was the battle lost. The
amateurs were sadly disappointed as to their hopes of a long and
beautiful fight: and from the attitudes of the men, and their known
science and game qualities, it was fairly to be expected. It was
reported Martin was killed; but the feelings of the spectators were
relieved by word that, on being bled he became sensible, and in a
fair way of soon doing well.
“The conqueror walked about on the ground, and enjoyed the
admiration in which he was held by the spectators, and a flight of
pigeons was let off to convey the intelligence to town.
“After the first fight, the multitude inundated the ground, and
there was no order observed afterwards. The commander-in-chief was
absent, and republican government will never do. It was attempted to
clear the ground, but the multitude was not forced half so far back
as the carriages. If the circle had been larger, they might all have
seen; but one half of them saw nothing, and attempted to push
forward, and they partly hid the view from the spectators on the
carriages. Individuals exerted themselves to keep a wider ring, laid
on the whip, but there was no system of acting in concert, and if
such were usually the case, few people would be induced to go to see
a fight. The men hit away well; some beautiful stops of blows were
made, but many told home. Their bodies, which were white at the
commencement, exhibited patches of scarlet at a distance. They often
closed and hugged, and their arms were in motion like two mill
wheels. They threw each other down, and frequently over the ropes.
The seconds applied the water, and rubbed them like the grooms do
horses in the stable, put their men in condition, and made them
respectable in their appearance. The contest was well supported to
the last, and both men were very much punished.
“On a moderate calculation, I presume £10,000 or £12,000 would not
cover the travelling expenses of the amateurs assembled. What a pity
we do not enjoy the glorious liberty of the days of King George II.
We might have had all the sport in a theatre in Oxford Street, or in
Tottenham Court Road; and a fraction of the money now spent in
travelling would reward the men for their exertions. Much valuable
time might also be saved for business. But it is a matter of
infinite regret, that the pretended friends of liberty abandon the
interests of the people, and never defend public meetings, except
those at which they themselves may exhibit. But let us hope for
better times, and there are some promising symptoms, and we may have
sports at once commodious, agreeable, and at a moderate expense. I
shall tell you more when I return, and meanwhile,
“I am, dear sir, etc.
“* * * * *.”
A voluminous correspondence, some of it very angry and vulgar, appeared
in Pierce Egan’s newspaper, in relation to a third fight between Randall
and Martin, together with some “Lines to John Randall,” in the _Morning
Chronicle_, from the pen of Tom Moore, which we must preserve. Of course
the author of “Cash, Corn, and Catholics” adopted Pierce’s Irish origin
for Randall.
“LINES TO JOHN RANDALL,
_On the Subject of Mr. Martin’s Letter in the “Weekly Dispatch” of
November 18_.”
“Come, Randall, my dear! Come, the hodmen entreat thee
To idle no longer in Chancery Lane!
Shall the Baker out-write thee, who never could beat thee!
Come, up with thy beaver, my jewel, again!
The green turf of Crawley is soft to receive thee—
The voice of thy Patlanders never will leave thee,
And Martin, the divil, can’t ‘fib’ thee or ‘weave’ thee
So answer the troublesome cretur, and train!
“Oh! answer the letter, Jack, (Goneril nor Regan
Could ne’er use more hard-hearted words to ould Lear);
And I wonder, I must say I do, that Pierce Egan
Should let the word ‘cur’ be applied to thee, dear!
But answer the letter, in little; thou writest
A good fist at times, Jack—the best when thou fightest,
And settest thy mark on the bravest and brightest;
Write, write!—Mrs. Randall will look to the beer!
“Write, write, Jack! with fist quite as cool and as steady
As when it is raised at the ‘General’s’ call,
That the Randall is willing, the money is ready,
And both of them wait at the Hole in the Wall
For the love of the Holy Land, check this Drawcansir,
For thou art our footguard, our hero, our lancer,
In the _Weekly Dispatch_ of next week print thy answer—
Oh! print it, my jewel, and silence them all.
“AN IRISH GENTLEMAN, BRED AND BORN
“_Somewhere in St. Giles’s, November 23, 1821._
“P.S.—If the money runs short, we will aise us
Of all our spare linen to help thee a bit;
Our stockings will fetch us but little, by Jasus!
But then we can raise a small sum by our wit!
Only say, my dear boy, if the ‘nonsense’ is wanted,
And soon shalt thou have all thy wishes supplanted;
The stuff will drop in these parts, when ’tis chaunted
That Randall is short—Oh! the lad that hath _fit_!”
To this brilliant squib poor Pierce innocently puts it upon record that
he “wrote a poetical reply,” which he forwarded to the editor of the
_Morning Chronicle_, “who did not publish it.” We should have wondered
if John Perry had done so. Accordingly Pierce resolved to “print it, and
shame the fools.” Those who delight in doggrel will find this “rejected
address” at pp. 112 and 113 of the fourth volume of “Boxiana.”
A third match was, however, hastily made on March 11, 1822, after a
dispute; it ended in a wrangle, and a forfeit of Randall’s backers’
money, owing to failure in a deposit, fixed to be made good at Spring’s;
Martin received the £200 down.
“More last words” appear from time to time in the papers, in the shape
of challenges, acceptances, replies, and rejoinders, signed by Randall,
Martin, and a host of pseudonymous friends, backers, “Impartial
Observers,” “Justitias,” and the like, till the public became sick of
this vamped up “literature of the ring,” as the historian innocently
calls it. Pages of this rubbish are stuffed into the volumes of
“Boxiana.” The “third great match between Randall and Martin,” was made
for 1,000 guineas, and “the money all made good over a sporting dinner
at Randall’s, November 5, 1822.” On the 15th of the same month, however
(we condense from “Boxiana”), at Jackson’s rooms, Bond Street, it was
announced that Mr. J. had received a letter from Mr. Elliot, the backer
of Martin, requesting that he would send him a cheque for the £500,
stating that his man should not fight against nothing, as Martin would
be sued for the £200 forfeit he had received from the backers of
Randall. Randall expressed himself warmly on the subject, declaring he
had been ill-treated. He had lost his time, left his business to go into
training, and spent a considerable sum of money. A benefit was
accordingly organised for Randall, which took place at the Fives Court,
on the 4th of December, 1822, and was overflowingly attended.
In January, 1823, Randall and Josh Hudson wishing to give Jack’s old
Hampstead trainer, the well-known Bob Pilch, a turn, were enjoying
themselves at the Horse and Groom. It is and always has been a penalty
of celebrity in any line of life to be intruded upon by the impertinent,
the curious, and the conceited. Jack Randall and his friend Josh. were
soon objects of vulgar attention, when they went out to take the air in
the village. An elderly man among their followers, who ought to have
known better, and who had been indulging too freely, several times
touched Randall in the back with an umbrella as he was ascending the
steep hill, when the Nonpareil forbearingly asked him to desist; no
further notice would have been taken of the rudeness had it not been for
a brewer’s servant and his companions. This fellow, known as “The Cock
of Hampstead,” six feet in height, and about thirteen stone, had, it
seems, a hankering for a “shy at Randall,” and thought this a fine
opportunity for the experiment. We quote from “Boxiana.” “He put out his
tongue by way of derision, saying, ‘Who cares for Randall or Josh.
Hudson, I wonder? They would be afraid to talk to a younger man so!’
and, without further notice, gave Randall a flip on his nose, by way of
notice of his intentions. Jack returned the compliment with interest,
not wishing to remain long in debt to the man of grains. During the
first and second rounds nothing but sharp work was displayed, the
fighting being all on the side of Randall, and the strength on that of
the Cock. In the third round Jack received so severe a blow on the tip
of his shoulder, added to the tightness of his coat, that he could not
lift up his arm, and immediately tore off his Benjamin. The little
trump, being disencumbered from his togs, then went to work with the big
one in terrific style (something like the slaughtering mill in which he
so dreadfully served out Baruk, the Jew); and in two more rounds the man
of grains was so punished about his nob, that it was pitiable to behold.
Randall, in going down with the Cock, never left him, but tremendously
fibbed his opponent. On Josh picking up Randall, he felt a little
surprised on viewing the face of the latter, which, to all appearance,
looked as bad as his adversary’s; but, on wiping of it, Hudson
laughingly exclaimed, ‘Oh, I perceive you have only fell into the
paint-pot, you are not hurt; but you should not have robbed your
opponent of any of his colour. A novice serve you so, very likely
indeed!’ The sixth round put an end to the crowing of the Cock; he was
quite done up, and was so altered in complexion, as scarcely to be
recognized by his friends. His pal, another big one, also fell foul of
Jack, when Josh was about to tackle him. ‘Never mind,’ said Randall, ‘I
have got a little one for him presently.’ One round completely satisfied
the second hero of the grain fraternity, who received in that small
space of time pepper enough to last him for a twelvemonth. Randall and
Josh now reached the Horse and Groom without any further molestation;
but as they were blowing a cloud, and laughing over the various scenes
which had crossed their career, a third hero of the grain department put
in his appearance, with £100 to fight Randall. On Hudson chaffing this
chap, that ‘he believed Jack could wap the brewery all round,’ he took
fire, and thought he could punish Josh. ‘Well,’ replied Hudson, ‘perhaps
you may; but if you will take a little bit of amusement with me on the
heath, as I would not on any account create a riot in honest Bob’s
house, you will then know a little more about the matter.’ The grain
cove entertained an opinion, ‘the weather was rather too cold for the
sport,’ fobbed up his blunt, and on his ‘better half’ looking into the
room after him, he retired in a whole skin. The Nonpareil and John Bull
fighter then spent the evening pleasantly, returned to London
comfortably, and reached their places of roost in perfect safety.
“The name of Randall was now known in the religious world, for it is
said one of the lower order of ranting preachers, not a hundred miles
from Bolton-in-the-Moors, addressed his auditors in the following
metaphorical language:—‘I dare say you’d all pay to see a boxing-match
between Turner and Randall, and yet you don’t like to pay to see a
pitched battle between me and Beelzebub. Oh, my friends, many a hard
knock, and many a cross-buttock have I given the black bruiser for your
sakes! Pull, do pull off these gay garments of Mammon; strike the devil
a straight blow, and darken his spiritual day-lights! At him manfully,
and I’ll be your bottle-holder. I ask nothing but the money, which I
hope you’ll not forget before you go.’” “Boxiana,” vol. iv., pp.
120‒122.
At Dick Curtis’s benefit (March 27, 1823), Randall asked Gipsy Cooper if
he had challenged him for £200 a-side as was reported. Cooper replied,
“No, I did not, you are too good a fighter for me, Jack.” At Spring’s
benefit, however (May 5th, 1823), the Gipsy challenged Randall for £200
a-side, authorised by Mr. Elliott, his backer, so to do. Randall replied
he would fight for £300 a-side; he was settled in business, and had a
wife and three children to provide for, less would not suit him; indeed
he did not mean to fight any more prize battles. Randall’s challenger
did not persevere, and from this time Randall attended to his business
at the Hole-in-the-Wall, which is frequently named in the progress of
pugilistic matches and deposits for sporting events. One little episode
of Jack’s publican’s life, as we find it reported in the papers for
January, 1826, we will find room for, as it gives us a glimpse of the
character for forbearance which has always marked, in our experience,
the true-bred and courageous pugilist.
“HATTON GARDEN, JANUARY 24TH.—A fashionably dressed man about the middle
age was brought up from the Eagle Street Watchhouse, where he had passed
the previous night, on the introduction of Mr. John Randall, mine host
of the Hole-in-the-Wall, Chancery Lane, the unvanquished hero of the P.
R. Jack’s science, every one knows, does not consist in sophistry,
though his arguments have often been considered forcible, nay,
irresistible. In his own straightforward way, he told Sergeant Sellon a
round unvarnished tale, about ‘this ere bit of business,’ as he called
it. On Monday night, about a quarter after eleven, the Hole-in-the-Wall
was closed up, and Jack was settling the accounts of the day in the bar,
as was his wonted custom, when a loud knocking announced the arrival of
late visitors. ‘You can’t come in,’ cried Jack, ‘I wish to keep my house
regular, and no man comes in here to-night, for it’s after hours, d’ye
see.’ This, however, did not satisfy the thirsty party without, and a
voice demanded instant admittance, in a rather peremptory tone. ‘You
don’t know who I am, Randall,’ quoth the speaker. ‘No, nor I does’nt
care,’ responded the Nonpareil. ‘Why, I am Cooper, the mayor of
Canterbury; don’t you remember meeting me at the races at Doncaster?’
Randall’s reminiscences are often pleasing, but, at all events, without
designing to admit his old acquaintance, he resolved to have the ‘ocular
proof;’ he straightway opened the door, when in bolted the pretended
mayor and his satellites. ‘Do you know me now?’ ‘No, I don’t,’ said
Jack, ‘not a bit of it, neither now nor then; so you’ll please to bundle
off, Mr. Mayor.’ This was not intended, and the latter replied, that as
he was a ‘flash man,’ he had an undoubted right to accommodation in a
‘flash house,’ and stay there he would; and if Jack pleased, he would
have a ‘turn-up’ for it. Jack very good-humouredly hinted, that he would
rather see a ‘turn-out;’ whereupon the Canterbury Mayor struck him in
the face. The hero of the fistic art, though accustomed to return
compliments of this sort with cent. per cent. acknowledgments, very
prudently held back, and calling in the watch to his aid, the mayor was
put _hors de combat_, and found himself eventually in the watch-house.
The defendant pleaded hard that he never did assume the character which
Mr. Randall described. His name was simply John Samuel Powell, that he
was a plain country gentleman, and never had the honour of filling the
civic chair of Canterbury, though he certainly had met Mr. Randall in
company with Mr. Cooper, who held that distinguished station, at the
aforesaid races. With respect to the assault complained of, he would not
deny the charge, though he had no recollection of it, his senses being
steeped in forgetfulness. Having the highest respect for the talents of
Mr. Randall, he was anxious to make the _amende honorable_, if it would
be accepted. ‘There now,’ exclaimed Jack, extending his hand, ‘that’s
enough, man; but if I had treated you as you treated me, you wouldn’t be
standing afore his worship just now.’ The complaint was then dismissed
at Randall’s request.”
Randall’s constitution—he was a persistent drinker of ardent
spirits—gave way under the irregularities of a licensed victualler’s
life; Jack never possessed the moral courage to say “No” to a drop with
every customer who proposed to “wet an eye,” and but rarely with those
who suggested to “wet the other.” He was a martyr to gout, complicated
with a disorganisation of the liver and a fatty degeneration of the
heart. These disorders prostrated him, and finally carried him off at
the early age of 34 years. He died March 12th, 1828, at the Hole-in-the
Wall, Chancery Lane.
A leash of sonnets, from an accomplished pen, which appeared in
_Blackwood’s Magazine_, with a few passages from an obituary notice,
will form an appropriate _finale_ to the biography of Jack Randall, the
Nonpareil
“SONNET.
“‘_None but himself can be his parallel!_’
“With marble coloured shoulders—and keen eyes
Protected by a forehead broad and white,—
And hair cut close, lest it impede the sight,
And clenched hands, firm and of punishing size,
Steadily held, or motion’d wary-wise,
To hit or stop,—and ‘kerchief too drawn tight
O’er the unyielding loins, to keep from flight
The inconstant wind, that all too often flies—
The Nonpareil stands! Fame, whose bright eyes run o’er
With joy to see a chicken of her own:
Dips her rich pen in ‘claret,’ and writes down
Under the letter R, first on the score,
‘Randall, John—Irish parents—age not known—
Good with both hands, and only ten stone four!’”
“TO JOHN RANDALL, THE FAMOUS PUGILIST.”
(_In imitation of Milton’s celebrated Sonnet._)
“Randall, whom now the envious ‘millers’ own
Fighter indeed, cautious, and quick, and true,
Fit to stand up with those who science knew,
The master-spirits ‘grassed’ by death alone;
Big Ben, who made the great Tom Johnson groan,
And Pearce, who dext’rous Belcher overthrew,
Aye, and with him who turns black eyes to blue,
Cribb, negro conqueror,[156] famous champion;
Well hast thou fought thy way to wealth and fame,
Jack Randall; and although there be who think
(For some are careless of the laurell’d brow,)
But little of thy glory or thy game,
Yet when they learn that thou hast touch’d the ‘chink,’
Some value to thy labours must allow.”
“RANDALL’S FAREWELL TO THE RING.
“Farewell to the ring, where my claret-stained glory
Arose and obscured the ‘prime dons’ with my fame,
I abandon her now, but ‘Pancratia’ thy story
Shall render quite fadeless the ‘Nonpareil’s’ name.
Oh, sad is the heart that can say the ‘deuce take her,’
To Fame when she’s backing a blade of the fist;
But Turner I’ve cleaned out, and Martin the baker
I’d very near put on the bankruptcy list.
“Then blame me not kids, swells, or lads of the fancy,
For opening a ‘lush crib’ in Chancery Lane,
An appropriate spot ’tis, you doubtless all can see,
Since ‘heads’ I have placed there, and let out again.
Farewell then, thou ring, whence I first drew my glory,
Farewell to Bill Gibbons—Tom Owen farewell;
And when to green-horns you’re telling some tight milling story,
Then think of Jack Randall, the prime ‘Nonpareil!’”
The “Laureate” of _Bell’s Life_, too, the facetious poetic illustrator
of the Gallery of Comicalities, who so much extended the popularity of
the ablest of sporting journals, penned a “warning” under the title of
“JACK RANDALL’S GHOST.
“‘_I can call spirits from the vasty deep._‘
“When all in midnight gloom was lost,
All silent in the street,
In stalked Jack Randall’s slender ghost,
And stood at Fogo’s feet.
“Pale, wan, and wasted, was his frame,
So muscular of yore,
And thrice he called on Fogo’s name,
Thrice bade him cease to snore.
“‘Wake, Laureate, wake!’ exclaimed the sprite,
‘Start from thy peaceful rug—
Though ’tis an awkward time of night
To sport my dismal mug.
“‘With friendly feeling fraught I come,
For well I know thy merits—
Perhaps you’ll think a visit _rum_
Paid from the land of _spirits_.
“‘Look at this lean and wither’d shape,
These cheeks as white as paper—
Alas! ’twas drinking too much _tape_
That made my system _taper_.
“‘When the past follies I review,
Which hasten’d my undoing—
I often _rue_ with visage _blue_,
My fondness for _blue ruin_.
“‘O Laureate! warning take in time.
And let a ghost exhort,
Think of Jack Randall in his prime
Subdued at _length_ by _short_.
“‘Peace might have reign’d within my breast,
And Time his honours shed—
Alack! from swallowing _Deady’s best_,
I’m number’d with the _dead_.
“‘My pugilistic deeds recal—
His men whoe’er beat quicker?
Successively I floor’d them all,
Till I was _lick’d_ by _liquor_.
“‘Bard of the fancy, seize your lyre,
In solemn warning strike it!’
‘I wish,’ growl’d Fogo, ‘you’d retire;
For blow me if I like it.
“‘To your last home vy can’t you keep,
I do not vant your varning—
I’d like to have a nap of sleep,
For now it’s nearly morning.
“‘Indeed, I vish you’d say farewell,
And hasten under hatches—
I judges by your brimstone smell,
That you’ve been _making matches_.
“‘And can you find no soul but me
To tease about your noggins—
Suppose you go, by vay of spree,
And vorry ould Jack Scroggins.’
“‘Cease,’ cried the ghost, ‘at once desist,
And hold your idle jaw,
Or straightway with my phantom fist
Your frosty face I’ll thaw.
“‘To you I came with kind intent,
Such was my purpose here;
But if on _max_ and _swipes_ you’re bent,
You’ll soon be on your _bier_.
“‘Henceforth you’ll see this mug no more!
A long adieu, my Fogo!’
He said, and vanish’d through the floor,
In clouds of Oronoko.”
Randall’s pugilistic and personal merits are thus summed up by a
contemporary:—In a twenty-four feet ring a better general or a more
consummate tactician was never seen: judgment and decision were manifest
in all his movements. His heart is in the right place; his head cool and
collected, to take advantage in the most prompt style of the disorder of
the opponent before him; his mind looking confidently forward to nothing
but victory. In short, as a pugilist, he is the Nonpareil. Randall’s
style seems the _ne plus ultra_ of the art of self-defence. Out of the
ropes, however, he is one of the most simple of human beings. Yet
Lavater, with all his knowledge of physiognomy, might have looked at his
mug, and looked at it again and again, and not have discovered his real
character from the lineaments of his face. If Randall cannot express
himself in the sentimental manner of Sterne, gammon the tender path of
society with the Platonic taste of a Rousseau, or wind up a tale with
the speciousness of a Joseph Surfage, he can be backed against them all
for the possession of genuine feeling. A common observer might say he
was a rough, illiterate fellow, for he does not attempt to conceal his
deficiencies. He has no affectation about his composition—deception does
not belong to him, and bluntness is his forte. He is indignant at what
he thinks wrong; and is not over nice in his expressions, whenever such
a subject is the theme of argument. He admires truth; and his honesty,
if not Brutus-like, is as staunch and incorruptible. A liar will be sure
to hear of his faults from him. Though education has done little for
him, experience has given him “the time of day.” But, kind reader, if
thou hadst seen him relieve an ould Irish woman, at “peep of day,” with
the only half-crown he was master of, as she was going to market with an
empty pocket and basket, anxious to support two of her orphan
grandchildren to prevent their going to the parish, when she had
solicited him for only two-pence to aid her charitable design;—if you
had seen the effect of her plaintive tale, and the blessings she invoked
upon his head for this real act of benevolence; his turning aside to
weep; and the jeers he experienced from his companions upon the weakness
he had displayed;—if you had also witnessed him pushing the crowd aside
the instant he was proclaimed the conqueror over Turner, to grapple with
the hand of his great rival in friendship, and seen the big tear
stealing down his cheek, in admiration of the bravery of his
opponent;—if you had known, as the writer did, of his refusal to
prosecute a man and his wife, whom he had trusted in the bosom of his
family, and who, under the mask of friendship, had robbed him at various
periods of £300—I don’t know what you might have said of him, but Burns
would have told us, despite his defects, “a man’s a man for a’ that.”
And such a man was Jack Randall.
[Illustration]